“We can work something out, Donald, if you’ll cooperate. We can prove you had a nervous breakdown last spring, and with those three months you spent in the sanitarium to substantiate our claim, we should have enough to convince a jury that your act was committed while of unsound mind and—”
“No.” Caldwell’s voice went up another tone, and there was a savagery in its cadence which shocked Murdock and left the back of his neck prickly and cold. “There’ll be no more sanitariums. You are very clever, Murdock. Very clever indeed to discover how much I hated my father. Perhaps you would like to know why.”
He stood away from the bookcase, the gun poised.
“My mother ran away from him before I was born,” he said in that high, unnatural voice, “but even then he was not a man who would let anyone cross him and get away with it. He found her later, and do you know what he did to her, Murdock? I’ll tell you. He had her committed to a place like I had to go to last spring, and he told me once that that is where she died. He would not tell me where, and I often thought that he was lying, but I do know he brought me back.”
Caldwell gestured with the gun, went on hurriedly. “Years later he told me my mother was not pregnant when she left him, and that he was pretty sure I was not his son. The records say I was. I’ll never know for sure, because he was a man who could fix things like that. I do know he hated my mother, and because of that, me. He divorced her and married again, and George and Evelyn were born. What they did was always all right. I was the oldest, but I got the meanest tasks and the least credit and the smallest share of everything. He brought me up as his son—the Caldwell name was precious to him, and he wanted no scandal—but the man I killed the other night was no father to me. Stand still!” he said when Murdock shifted his feet to ease the tension.
“He broke up my first marriage because he didn’t like my wife. He fought with me about Monica. He put those detectives to watching her so he could show me a report on who she had been seeing and what she had done. He said he’d disinherit me entirely if I married her, and the day he made the new will he made me read the report. He even put young George in as president of the company, and when he made that new will cutting my share, I’d had all I could stand, and I told him so.”
“You threatened him?” Blake said in mild amazement.
“Yes, I did.”
“John was hardly the one to take a threat—from anyone.”
“I know,” said Caldwell. “I told him I’d kill him if he signed that new will, and he laughed at me. He didn’t think I’d dare. He signed it that night to spite me, but I’d already made up my mind what I was going to do.”
He chuckled hollowly, then cut it short as he went on to explain how Larkin had seen him in the hall, and later, discovering the old man was dead, had somehow found the hypodermic with its broken needle and guessed the truth.
“Yes,” he said. “Larkin guessed. He found that little mark on Father’s arm, and he was a shrewd man. He checked back on his supply of adrenalin—I could have fixed that and got a new needle if I’d had more time—and then he knew. But Larkin wouldn’t talk, not because of me, but because of the family and the scandal it would cause. He even suggested the idea of the masquerade and the fake broadcast, just like I said he did. It was clever, wasn’t it? I sometimes think Larkin had a strain of genius in him.”
He went on in the same vein, but Murdock was no longer paying any attention. He was thinking of the statement Captain Alger had made earlier about motives, and how, once the right man had been arrested, it was easy to discover the reasons behind a crime. For now it had been demonstrated again how little one really knew about what went on in people’s minds—even one’s acquaintances—or how they had, been influenced by backgrounds and emotional troubles unknown to the world at large.
There was another thing that came to his mind too, the opinion of the medical examiner when he said that the murder method had been clever. Had it not been for Larkin, such a plan would have been foolproof; it had been made so by a clever man who could scheme craftily and think out details. And wasn’t it Larry Alder-son who had said that Donald Caldwell had been the thinker in the family? The man who made the plans for the company and co-ordinated policy and worked things out in advance?
Caldwell was still talking. He explained his reaction when Murdock came back with his suspicions that other night. He said Murdock’s story was too close to the truth. He said he could no longer trust Larkin’s capacity for silence or count on his ability to keep the secret, and he admitted that he had been panicked into killing the butler.
Now Murdock thought also of the pictures he had taken, and Ross Neely, and he said, “You knew I took a picture in the hall that night. You couldn’t be sure whether I’d caught you on a film or not, and so you had to search my case. You had to get someone to develop those films, and there was no one but Neely.”
“Yes,” Caldwell said. “Neely.”
“You knew he might guess why you wanted those pictures.”
“I had no choice.”
“And Neely got them,” Murdock said. “But by that time Neely had other ideas. I guess he probably told you that one of those pictures would prove you were guilty if he turned it over to the police. And you couldn’t take a chance on that, either, could you?”
“Neely was a fool.” Caldwell took a new grip on the in, and it never wavered. “Neely put his price too high.”
“And after you’d shot him and found the negatives, you realized how well he had lied.”
Murdock said other things in that next minute, but he never remembered just what they were. He was talking because he could think of nothing better to do, no longer concerned with words but with the glazed, feverish look that had begun to film Caldwell’s merciless eyes.
He did not know if the man was sufficiently insane to be certified but he knew that he was no longer rational. For it was clear now that Caldwell had no idea of ultimate escape. He was obsessed with some other plan that only he could understand, and Murdock knew that time was running out.
He discovered that Blake had edged forward a little. He saw that Nick had moved a couple of steps closer to the center of the room. Nick’s spade-jawed face was tightly set, but his hands hung at his sides, and there was no way of telling whether or not he carried a gun.
“I would have been in the clear if it hadn’t been for you,” Caldwell was saying. “Larkin would have been thought a suicide if I could have left the gun. But you heard the shot. You spoiled it, Murdock. You spoiled everything. But you’ll never get another chance!”
Murdock’s throat was dry, and he was breathing through his mouth. He shifted his weight, no longer seeing the mad, bright gaze, but intent on the gun and trigger finger. The situation had reduced itself to the simplest possible terms. Where once everything had been involved and complicated and impossible to understand, now there was only a climactic and unescapable reality for which there could be but one conclusion. Looking back, it was easy to recognize the mistakes he had made, but somehow they seemed inevitable now, and he knew that whatever happened he had only himself to blame.
He set himself, knowing that when the trigger finger tightened he would have to dive, not hoping that it would do much good, but knowing he would have to try.
This time he was alone, and no one could help him. That is what he thought in those last moments. And once again he was wrong.
For as he made up his mind someone spoke.
“Mr. Caldwell!”
That was all. Two words that came from Nick.
And then it happened as Murdock stood there, seeing each detail but never understanding the sequence until it was all over.
Caldwell’s gaze shifted with the quietly spoken words. Murdock saw this, saw the eyes jerk wide m the chalky face. Instinct told him that this was his chance, and in that same split instant that his mind reacted, the gun swung from him to Nick and the hand tightened.
The two shots came as one, and the room shook. Cal
dwell’s body jerked and spun half around, the gun flying his fingers. Blake yelled, and now there was another sound as Nick’s gun fell, and Murdock saw Caldwell stagger back and throw open the door.
Only then could Murdock begin to understand, and when he found he could move he saw that Nick’s right arm hung limp, that he was reaching for his fallen gun with his left hand.
Murdock beat him to the door, scooping up Caldwell’s gun as he passed. He went into the hall, not hurrying yet, not knowing quite what he expected to find. He heard Nick behind him, and now he saw Caldwell heading for the center hall and stairs, running hard, reeling badly with every second or third step, bouncing along the walls and pushing at them to keep erect.
And so long as he had those walls on either side he did all right. It was when he lurched into the open space at the head of the stairs and found no more support that the final curtain fell.
By that time Murdock had started to run, Nick at his side and cursing viciously. They were perhaps thirty feet behind Caldwell then, and later on neither could be sure just how it happened. It may have been that Caldwell, weakened by shock and the bullet in his chest, had no more strength; it may have been that he was struck unconscious at that moment. Whatever the reason, he plunged forward, off balance like a football lineman whose charge has carried him off his feet, half turning as though to swing down the stairs, and then at the last instant, crashing headlong into the banister.
It was all over before one could think, and yet to Murdock the action was in slow motion, each detail distinct and unforgettable as the banister cracked and Caldwell’s body catapulted over it and, turning limply in the air, fell slowly out of sight.
There was no cry of fear and horror. There was no sound at all until, interminable seconds later, they heard the distant crash of Caldwell’s body two floors below. Then it was over, and silence again moved through the halls.
23
CAPTAIN ALGER, ALREADY ON HIS WAY, arrived five minutes later, and Murdock was glad that Harvey Blake was on hand to do the explaining. When he could play it straight and had nothing to hide, Blake was a convincing and persuasive talker. His legal training stood him in good stead now, and in the end Alger calmed down and decided to co-operate until some reasonable decision could be made.
By the time, the other members of the family had been collected and told the story, Doctor Wright, the medical examiner, was able to state that Donald Caldwell had died of a broken neck, resulting from a fall. And since this was actually the case they decided that there was no need to mention publicly the bullet wound, which was a break for Nick Taylor as well as for the Caldwell name.
The huddle that followed this pronouncement lasted for some time, for the situation was delicate and the position of those involved demanded consideration. It was plain to all who knew the story that the case was closed. Justice had been administered by proxy, and because those in charge of the investigation were not sensation-minded, and no good purpose could be served by the strict administration of the truth, it was decided that no mention would be made of Old John’s murder. The cause of his death was allowed to stand as a cerebral hemorrhage, and the records so stated.
As for Donald Caldwell, the story agreed upon and released to the newspapers made much of the fact that he had spent three months in a sanitarium; it concluded by stating that while of unsound mind, brought on by overwork and the death of his father, Donald Caldwell had shot Larkin and had later fallen to his death while trying to escape the police.
This story was good enough for Murdock. His chief interest was in pictures, and he had all he needed as well as the hour advantage over the other papers promished by Captain Alger. He did not know what was to be done about the Neely murder, and neither, for the present, did Alger. There would be additional huddles with the Boston police and the district attorney’s office, but just what the verdict was to be and how, if at all, it would be tied in with the Larkin murder, no one was ready to say.
Now, having telephoned in the official story so the bulldog edition of the Courier-Herald could carry it first, Murdock was sitting in the pantry with Nick and Fay Kenyon and Arthur Prentice. There was a bottle of Scotch on the table, a bucket of ice, and plenty of soda. There had been a plate of sandwiches, but these were gone now, and when Prentice finished his drink he asked the others if they would excuse him.
“There are a couple of things I’d like to talk over with Mr. Murdock. Do you mind?” he said.
Murdock said not at all, and they went out, moving a short distance down the hall as Nick told Murdock not to forget to come back.
Prentice looked a little embarrassed. He was not quite so carelessly neat as usual. His shirt was open at the throat, and his sandy blond hair was mussed. He looked tired and depressed, but there was no tension in his face, and his eyes were calm and at ease.
“I just wanted to say thanks,” he said. “Considering the way I fouled things up, I don’t deserve the break I’m getting. You could have really made it tough for me if you had told the police all the truth about that Neely business,” he said. “I’m not exactly sure why you didn’t.”
Murdock pretended it wasn’t important. He said he was not sure, either, and then, because he wanted to satisfy his own curiosity on one or two points, he said, “What happens now?”
“You mean about the Quimby report? I think it will be all right,” he said when Murdock nodded. “I had a talk with Blake. He thinks he can persuade Quimby to turn over the third copy; if not, Blake’s going to George Caldwell and lay our cards on the table. George is all right, a good boy, and now that his grandfather and his uncle are dead, he’ll be running the show. I don’t think he would want to make any trouble.” He smiled slowly.
“As a matter of fact, I think George likes me. I wouldn’t be surprised if he asked me to stay on at the plant, even if Evelyn divorces me, which seems likely in any event.”
“And Miss Sutton?”
“Monica.” The smile remained. “She’ll be all right. She told me yesterday that she had made up her mind about Donald. She decided it would never work out, and she was going to tell him so.” He shrugged. “If she wants to wait until I’m free, I think we might do very well together.”
He pushed away from the wall and held out his hand. “Thanks again,” he said. “And if I can ever be of any help to you, I do hope you’ll let me know.”
Murdock went back to the pantry and found a fresh drink waiting for him. He knew he ought to finish it in a hurry and get back to the office so there would be pictures with the follow-up story. But he did not want to leave. He wanted to sit down and stay a while longer, and maybe get a little drunk so he could forget about what had happened and give his mind a rest; he liked these people, and it was good to be able to relax.
Nick’s rugged face was at ease now. His arm was in a sling, but the bullet fired by Caldwell had missed the bone, and Nick said it didn’t amount to anything so long as he had one good arm for drinking and holding Fay’s hand. He was holding it now as he asked why Murdock had suspected Donald Caldwell before he knew about the fingerprints on the tip of the light bulb.
Murdock eased down on a chair and his laugh was short and sardonic. He said they wouldn’t believe him if he told them.
“I think we’d believe anything now,” Fay Kenyon said.
“I had a dream,” Murdock said.
Nick’s brows warped and his eyes were skeptically amused. When Murdock hesitated he said, “Well, don’t quit now.”
“I told you, you wouldn’t believe me,” Murdock said, and would have stopped right there if the girl had not urged him on.
“Please,” she said. “Of course we’ll believe you.”
“All right,” he said good-naturedly. “But no cracks, understand?” He eyed Nick with simulated severity, and said, “Alger couldn’t understand why anyone should use a hypodermic full of adrenalin to kill John Caldwell when poisoning was so much simpler. I couldn’t figure it, either. It bothered me every time I s
topped to think of it, and I guess that’s why I kept dreaming last night, and waking up, and dreaming some more. Anyway, toward morning, I had a dream that scared me. I dreamed Larkin was waiting in a closet and came out and jabbed me with a hypodermic. And then he told me why. He said he wanted me to know who killed me, and why, before I died.”
He hesitated, his grin sheepish. “Most dreams you forget when you get up. That one stuck with me, and after a while I began to see a possible parallel. I wondered if perhaps the old man had been killed, not to prevent his signing the will, but because he had already signed it, and by someone who hated him and was interested, not only in revenge, but in making sure that revenge was known to his victim.”
He said, “Ordinarily I think a man bent on revenge might kill with a gun or a knife or whatever was handy, but in this case it was important that death be accepted as natural. If the revenge hunch was sound it would explain the hypodermic, and if this happened to be right, then only three people could have done it, because only three people know the will had been signed the night before—Larkin, and Donald Caldwell—”
“And me,” said Fay Kenyon.
“And it couldn’t have been Larkin,” Nick said, “because he was dead. And you knew it wasn’t Fay—yeah,” he said. “Sure. Well, I’ll be damned!” He squinted with one eye and then with both. “Unless you’re making this up.”
Murdock grinned and said it was gospel. “Where’d you get the suit?” he said to change the subject.
“Brooks,” said Nick with some surprise.
“I thought so. ‘A thug in a Brooks suit,’ I said to myself.”
Fay protested. Her smile was radiant and her eyes shone softly as they touched Nick. “He’s not a thug,” she said.
“Sure I am, kitten,” Nick said.
“And fortunately for me,” Murdock said, “real handy with a gun.” He finished his drink and stood up. He put aside his glass. “I’ve got to go.”
Nick argued. He pushed the bottle forward and suggested a final drink for the road. Murdock shook his head. He had films to develop and pictures to finish. He had a story for T. A. Wyman which would never see print but which he felt obliged to tell.
Hollow Needle Page 21
