Lady Killer

by George Harmon Coxe

  For customs inspectors were schooled in politeness and consideration—until they found something wrong. At that point the technique was much the same as that used by an income tax collector who, having found one slight discrepancy, calls forth his skill and experience to find other discrepancies. In this case, Murdock knew how the dialogue would run:

  “Have you located all your baggage, sir?”

  “Oh, yes. Right over here.”

  “Fine. Now”—holding the declaration out for the passenger’s inspection—“is this your declaration? … Is this your signature?”

  Always giving you a chance to change your mind, these customs men. Easing you into a position where, should anything be found amiss, you could not protest that there had been a mistake and that someone had substituted a phony declaration in place of yours. Once you admitted the signature you were stuck with it, and the next question was:

  “Have you declared everything acquired abroad, either by gift or purchase?”

  Elsie Russell had two trunks and three bags and as Murdock moved towards her Harry Felton intercepted him to ask if he was ready to go. Murdock said not for a few minutes and Felton said to let him know and they could go back to the office together.

  Murdock continued on to where the inspector was going through Elsie’s things. He still felt guilty because he could not help her and he was curious as to what she might do. Standing back just far enough to be able to hear what was said, he saw with some relief that she had declared the brooch, apparently in some last minute addition to her declaration, since the inspector was already turning it over in his fingers.

  “Have you a sales receipt, Miss?” he asked.

  “I have this,” Elsie said and offered a slip of paper.

  The inspector glanced at it and then looked round the enclosure until he caught the eye of an examiner across the way. When he had signaled his colleague he explained to Elsie that he would like someone else to see the piece.

  The examiner, an expert in his line, came over to look at the brooch. He glanced at the slip the inspector handed him, nodded. He took his time louping the brooch and when he was ready he asked where she had purchased it.

  Elsie told him. She said she got it in a tiny, sidestreet shop from a man she did not know.

  “He didn’t give you two receipts, did he?”

  The question seemed to puzzle her and she frowned. “Why no. Why should anyone do that?”

  Murdock had heard the answer to that one but he listened while the examiner explained the principle to Elsie.

  “It’s a dodge that some of the more unscrupulous operators use on gullible customers,” he said. “You buy a brooch for five thousand but you don’t want to pay all that duty. The seller gives you two receipts, one for five thousand and one for two. The five thousand one you keep for future reference, or to show your friends how clever you are.”

  “Oh,” Elsie said. “And the other receipt?”

  “That’s to show us. If you take the little shyster’s word for it you come through customs thinking you’ll only have to pay duty on the lesser amount.”

  The examiner smiled and continued pleasantly, now that he realized she was not trying to outsmart him. “The trouble with that idea, and what the purchaser does not know, is that the receipt means nothing to us. We do our own appraising. All that phony bill-of-sale does is embarrass the owner—and sometimes land him in jail.… I’m afraid I’ll have to give you a custody receipt for this, Miss.”

  “You mean you’re going to take it?”

  “Until we appraise it properly. You’ll have the opportunity to summon your own appraisers if you don’t agree with our figure, but my guess is that if you paid two thousand for this you made an excellent buy. We’ll notify you in a day or two if you’ll tell me where you can be reached.”

  Elsie told him. She said: “And I’ll have to pay duty on your appraisal?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The examiner gave her his receipt and withdrew. The inspector went on with his job and Murdock backed away, feeling like an eavesdropper but just as glad that Elsie had been too busy to notice him.

  There was still a line at the station inspector’s desk when Murdock moved off, and as he looked around for Harry Felton he noticed two inspectors talking to a man not far from the doctor’s office. Even at a distance it seemed that an argument was taking place, for the man was shaking his head and gesturing with one hand and then the other. He was a stranger to Murdock, a tall, straight-standing fellow with sandy-blond hair, bare-headed now, and wearing a belted trenchcoat. Finally all three turned and, flanked by the uniformed inspectors, the stranger disappeared in the doctor’s office and the door closed.

  In the old days when the big liners used to come in from Europe with their loads of immigrants in steerage, the doctor’s office served a real purpose. Here those who had been marked questionable by the quarantine doctor were examined thoroughly and those who could not pass the test were held or deported. More recently the office was used by the customs men to search suspects. It was about the only place on the pier where a person could be stripped by the inspectors—or, if a woman, by inspectresses.

  Now Murdock was wondering about the tall blond man when he saw Tim Orcutt, a special agent working out of the Customs House. Orcutt apparently had witnessed the little scene that Murdock had noticed. At least his attention was centered on the doctor’s office, and although he made no immediate move, he continued to watch the door, his attitude suggesting that there was more to come. All this was sheer speculation on Murdock’s part but because he had the normal curiosity of a newspaper man when he notices something out of the ordinary, he strolled towards the agent.

  “Got some suspects aboard, Tim?”

  Orcutt turned, a solidly built, black-browed man with quick observant eyes and a deceptively easy manner.

  “Hi, Kent,” he said. “What gave you that idea?”

  Murdock eyed him aslant. He had known Orcutt when he was a port patrol officer. He remembered other cases in which Orcutt had been an important figure. He knew that Orcutt was in the enforcement branch, with the same sort of status as an F. B. I. man or secret service agent. In addition Orcutt knew he knew it.

  “A busman’s holiday, maybe,” Murdock said.

  Ordinarily Orcutt’s voice was normally direct and specific; now it was mildly evasive. “Just looking things over.”

  “Who’s the blond guy?”

  “What blond guy?”

  “The one they just escorted into the doctor’s office.”

  Orcutt answered matter-of-factly but his eyes were busy elsewhere; so, it seemed, were his thoughts. “Name of Valliere, I think,” he said.

  “And what makes him a suspect?”

  “Who said he was?”

  “If he’s not he must have cholera or something.”

  Orcutt ignored the sarcasm. “He came aboard at Havre. It’s still what we call a bad area and we sometimes ask more questions from passengers who come from there.”

  “Just routine.”

  “Yeah. Routine.” He looked at Murdock, his gaze enigmatic. “If you’re wondering about pictures, there won’t be any.… Why don’t you stop down and see me some day,” he said, and moved away.

  Murdock watched him, and now he saw that Orcutt was heading towards an inspector and an examiner who were walking another man towards the doctor’s office. He saw the door open and the blond man came out, belting his trenchcoat and followed by the two inspectors who had brought him there. They passed the incoming trio twenty feet from the door and Murdock promptly forgot the blond and gave his attention to the sturdily built, square-faced man in the brown balmacaan who was about to enter the office.

  This was a man Murdock knew, and when he realized that Orcutt was following the others into the office, he felt his interest quicken. For the man’s name was Sidney Graham and his business the past few years had been the buying and selling of jewelry, sometimes out of a tiny, second-floor office o
n Boylston Street, more often out of his pocket. That Graham had been abroad to pick up some new—or used—merchandise seemed likely; but that he would try to smuggle it in himself seemed out of character. For Graham had been around a long time, making money at this and that and always managing to keep out of jail. In fact—and this struck Murdock with something of a jolt—it had been Graham who had given the debutante Elsie Russell her first job as a singer and, had not her father been alert and quick to act, he might even have married her.

  Murdock was already moving as these thoughts went through his brain and now someone was beside him and he heard Harry Felton say: “You ready to shove off?”

  “In a minute.” Murdock stopped and glanced at his watch. “Go ahead if you want. I’ll probably get something to eat before I go back to the office anyway.”

  An inspector came up to them before the reporter could reply. “Mr. Felton, they’d like to see you in the doctor’s office.”

  “Me?” Felton scowled. “What for?”

  The inspector said he did not know. He was still polite but there was a quiet determination in his manner that suggested Felton would be well advised to obey the summons, that he would go, willingly or unwillingly, to the doctor’s office, that if this inspector could not handle the matter he would get someone to help him.

  Felton muttered a curse and blew out his breath. “Okay, okay,” he said. “I’ll be right back,” he said over his shoulder and then he was moving away.

  Murdock followed slowly. He was puzzled by what had happened and he did not notice another uniformed inspector moving towards him until he was stopped fifteen feet from the office door.

  “The boss says if you’re finished here maybe you’d better run along,” this worthy said, and Murdock, glancing at the station inspector’s desk, saw the official pantomime his order by jerking his thumb at one of the gates.

  Murdock had much experience in talking reluctant subjects into posing for his camera; he knew how to argue persuasively with those in authority when he wanted a favor, and he also had a way of knowing when such argument was useless. This, it appeared, was one of those times, since the area inside the enclosure was government property and subject to the dictates of the customs men.

  That something a little out of the ordinary was going on was evidenced by Orcutt’s presence and the teamwork of the inspectors and examiners in conducting the blond man and Sidney Graham to the doctor’s office, apparently for the purpose of being searched. Just why Harry Felton should have been summoned was something Murdock did not understand, and it was obvious now that he was not going to be allowed to wait around and find out the answer. Orcutt had said no pictures, the station inspector was making sure the edict was obeyed, and that meant that if a story broke it was up to Felton to cover it alone.

  “This gate here,” the inspector said. “I’ll tell the guard to let you out.”

  Murdock shrugged and went along, knowing further argument was useless but busy with his thoughts until he saw Ginny Arnold, her husband, and the blond man in that order. They were standing beyond the fringe of the crowd outside the gate, apparently waiting for a car. When Ginny spoke, her husband turned away from the blond man, paying no further attention to him but moving up to his wife.

  The blond man walked off. Murdock spoke to Wilbur Arnold and then, because he had a bulb in the flash unit and an unexposed film in the camera, he put down his case and asked if they minded if he took a picture.

  Arnold smiled down at his wife and she took his arm and stood closer. “Like this?” she said.

  Murdock nodded, and as he focused his camera it occurred to him that Ginny had come a long way since she had come down from that small New Hampshire town to try her luck in the city. For in Wilbur Arnold she had a husband who was not only wealthy but an aristocrat as well. At fifty he was the last of his line, a bon vivant, epicure, and patron of the arts. There was a courtly, old-world air about him that somehow represented the passing of an era and was evident not only in his dress—black Homburg, fitted coat and gold-headed cane—but in his manner and speech.

  “I’m afraid your city editor will be hard put to classify that one as newsworthy,” he said as the bulb went off, “but I would like some copies of it, if you can find the time to make them.”

  “I’ll mail you a print,” Murdock said, “and you can see how you like it.”

  “Very good of you, I’m sure.”

  “Don’t mail it, Kent,” Ginny said. “Bring it. I’ll rustle you up a drink or two.”

  Murdock said that would be nice. He tipped his hat and moved along the perimeter of the crowd until he came upon Walt Tracy, a tow-headed, freckled youth who was the youngest and newest member of the photographic staff. Murdock had left him out here to give him some experience and now he asked if Tracy had had any luck.

  When the youth said he’d been able to get a picture of the Senator and another of the Danish actress, Murdock said that was fine and would Walt do him a favor.

  “I think I’ll stop on the way back and get some dinner,” he said. “How about you taking my camera and case in with you?” He handed Tracy the exposed filmholders he took from his pocket and said Tracy could start developing them as soon as he got back to the studio.

  3

  IT WAS after seven when Kent Murdock returned to the Courier-Herald—he had stopped at a restaurant which specialized in sea food and dined on little necks, broiled scrod, and salad—and as soon as he had shucked off his coat he called the city editor, talking at some length and telling him what he could expect in the way of pictures from the Kemnora assignment.

  This done, he pushed back his hat and busied himself with his assignment sheet, checking over the work of the day and making sure that everything had been covered. He found that one man was still out, but other than this the slate was clean and he leaned back, relaxing for a minute before he pulled out a drawer to get some fresh filmholders and flashbulbs. As he did so, Walt Tracy came out of the printing room.

  “How do they look?” Murdock said, referring to the pictures they had taken.

  “Look good,” Tracy said. “Especially yours. They’re all done except for drying.” He walked into the alleyway to the printing room; then stopped to glance back. “Oh, I almost forgot. I left that package in your case.”

  “Okay.” Murdock nodded, started to turn away, checked himself. He twisted back in his seat, puzzled lights gleaming in his dark eyes. “Package,” he said slowly. “What package, Walt?”

  “The one you had in your case. You know—the white one with all those wax seals on it.”

  The frown grew in Murdock’s forehead and Tracy, standing in the doorway and seeing this look on his chief’s face, stepped forward quickly.

  “Here. I’ll show you.” He bent down and opened Murdock’s equipment case. He pawed briefly through its contents. Then he hunkered back, eyes suspicious. He fashioned a grin. “Ah—you’re kidding,” he said. “You took it out already.”

  Murdock peered at the youth, the frown digging in around his eyes. Then, convinced that Tracy was serious, an odd excitement built slowly in his chest. He started to say something, checked himself. He waited five seconds, thinking furiously and getting nowhere; finally he took a breath and started all over.

  “Come here, Walt.”

  Tracy moved round the desk, bewilderment warping his young face.

  “Sit down.”

  Tracy took the designated chair like a boy about to be reprimanded by the principal of his school.

  “Now start at the beginning,” Murdock ordered. “You brought my case and camera back here. Then what?”

  “The phone was ringing. It was the desk saying there’d been a three-car pile-up down the street and hurry up and get down there and get a shot of it.”

  “So?”

  “I beat it.” Tracy hesitated, his glance sheepish. “I guess I was excited because I grabbed my camera—and your case. By mistake. I didn’t know it until—”

  Murd
ock interrupted him. “It happens sometimes … Okay. So you covered the assignment.”

  “Sure. I grabbed two quick ones—it was a swell pile-up—and came back and—”

  “Wait a minute. How long were you gone?”

  “Oh—twenty minutes. Maybe a half hour.”

  “Then what?”

  “Like I said, I came back. I sorted out all the exposed filmholders we’d used this afternoon. To be sure I didn’t miss any I dug down in your case. There were some used bulbs there and I tossed them out and that’s when I saw this package.”

  “Go on.”

  “Well—I picked it up. It wasn’t any of my business but I saw all those seals and knew it must be important so I thought I’d better put it back. After that I went into the darkroom and got busy. That’s all I know.”

  Murdock stood up and moved to the windows, a lean, straight-backed man, taller than most, with thick dark hair and good bones in his face. His eyes were intent under their straight brows and the things he saw were not of the city and its dusk-stained rooftops outside the windows, but in his mind. He turned finally, his normally genial mouth set and expressionless.

  “Describe that package, Walt.”

  “Um—maybe six inches long, two inches wide, and an inch or so thick. Something like that. Felt sort of heavy, and a bit flexible. Had stiff white paper and those red wax seals.” He paused, eyes still filled with wonderment. “You mean, it wasn’t yours?”

  Murdock did not answer this but glanced towards the hall as steps materialized outside the studio. Then he was inspecting with sultry gaze the thin dark man who came into the room.

  “Good evening,” he said pleasantly. “I came to ask you about that picture you took of me.”

  Murdock spoke over his shoulder to Tracy. “Maybe you’d better take a look at those prints, Walt.”