Lady Killer

by George Harmon Coxe

Murdock joined him and then, not quite sure why he had come, dispensed with further preliminaries.

  “Harry Felton was murdered tonight,” he said. “I thought you’d like to know.”

  For an instant then Carlin’s face was expressionless.

  “For any special reason? I mean, why you thought I’d like to know.”

  “None that I can think of now.”

  Carlin thought it over; then he smiled, a quiet, intense man with a long sad face and a thin, stooped frame. “Yeah, I’m glad you stopped in,” he said. “That’s the best news I’ve heard in years, and I hope they never catch the guy that did it.”

  “They’re looking for Sid Graham.”

  Carlin was making wet circles with the bottom of his glass. “Why would Sid do that?”

  “The police aren’t sure,” Murdock said. “They think Harry double-crossed Sid on something they were in together.”

  Carlin grunted softly, “I didn’t know Sid liked Harry well enough to be in on anything with him.” He brought his eyes up, not looking at Murdock now but at something beyond him, something a long way beyond him and visible only to Carlin. “I might have killed him myself,” he said thoughtfully, “if I could have figured out how to get away with it.”

  Murdock, remembering the things that had happened, knew that this was no idle statement. Carlin had hated Harry Felton for taking Ginny Arnold away from him. That had been a long time ago. There was no way of telling to what period Carlin referred when he made his statement, but if there had been any way Murdock could have tied in the piano-player with Felton and the smuggled bracelets he would have considered him a suspect right now.

  “You still in love with her, Bert?” he asked.

  Carlin shook his head, his tone no longer bitter. “All that’s over. The way I figure it maybe I was lucky to have Ginny for those first two years. She had everything—looks, figure, ambition. With her prodding me we might have gone somewhere together. Without her”—he shrugged—“well, you know how a tired guy like me stacks up against a charmer like Felton. He was always around, kidding at first, but getting little pieces in the paper and sometimes a picture, and then increasing the pace when he saw he was making an impression. I could see what he was doing and I got jealous and that made it worse. I couldn’t handle it, Kent. I didn’t know what to do.”

  He tipped one hand, let it drop. “The day came when she wanted a divorce and by then I knew it was no good arguing. She had her sights on better things, and I guess it’s a break for her Felton went off to Europe instead of marrying her; otherwise she never would have got herself a big-shot like Wilbur Arnold.”

  He chuckled, an unpleasant sound, and said: “But to show you how a guy like Felton works, he damn near got her away from Arnold not so long ago. Would have if Arnold hadn’t been too smart for him. Had you heard about that?”

  “A little,” Murdock said, adding that he didn’t know the details.

  “The way I get it—you know how it is in a place like this: a little inside stuff here, a little there—well, the way it adds up, Ginny is getting along okay with Arnold, stepping in society with her jewels and fine clothes. But you know Arnold. Older, having to take it easy on account of a bum ticker, always with a lot of front but quiet. And Ginny likes a good time.”

  Carlin drained his glass and said: “Anyway, Felton runs into her one day after he comes back from Europe the second time. He sees her again at a party, and he’s still good-looking, with a line and a lot of guff that somehow gets to certain kinds of women, and first thing you know they have lunch on the quiet and talk about old times. She knew he was a louse and yet there was something about him that must have got under her skin. Only this time Arnold finds out what’s going on.”

  He paused and said: “In a way it’s like what happened to me only I’m the kind of guy that blows his top and Arnold’s smart. He thinks the thing out, makes a proposition, and Felton goes for it because he’s probably not really in love with Ginny anyway. Arnold buys him off—ten thousand bucks was how I heard it—and then flashes the canceled check on Ginny to show Felton up for what he was.”

  Murdock saw the girl come out of the curtained doorway next to the bandstand before Carlin did. He had never seen her before but now Carlin had noticed her and was coming to his feet. Murdock joined him as the girl approached and Carlin said he wanted her to meet someone.

  “This is Kent Murdock,” he said. “Rachel Wylie … Kent’s the picture chief over at the Courier-Herald,” he said as the girl smiled and inclined her head.

  Murdock said: “How do you do, Miss Wylie,” but there was not much light at the Rendezvous and he could tell very little about her until she turned her head to smile at Carlin. Some of the light from the table struck her then and he could see that she wore a fur-trimmed cloth coat, neat but not expensive, that her hair was a dark chestnut and curled at the ends. Somehow in that brief inspection of her he found that she reminded him of Carlin, not in looks or in the contour of her face but rather in the impression she made.

  She was not young—he thought she might be twenty-eight—and to him it seemed that there was a slackness in the skin, a tiredness about the eyes and mouth that found its counterpart in Carlin’s manner and his easy acceptance of the knocks and bruises that life had given him. He had an idea that this girl had had her share of troubles and disappointments, beating them down each time but losing a little of her resiliency in the process.

  “Miss Wylie is working with me.” There was a discernible lift in Carlin’s voice as he spoke, and then, before Murdock could ask the girl to join them, Carlin said: “I’ll be with you in a couple of minutes.”

  He sat down as the girl went on to stop at the bar, but his attention remained on her until Murdock finished his drink and put his glass down.

  “A singer?”

  “Yeah,” Carlin said. “Plays a little piano too.”

  “Why didn’t you ask her to sit down?”

  “Because I’d like to talk about her a little and I can do it better without her being here.” He found a cigarette, rolling tobacco loose before he tapped it, and now his smile was absent like the look in his eyes. “You asked me about Ginny,” he said when he had a light, “and I got to thinking about Ray—that’s what we call her here—because she came in for a job something like Ginny did.”

  He sighed and said: “We’re all older now, Ginny included, but I remember how she came in that day. She’d been up to see Sid Graham when he had that place up the street, and Sid couldn’t use her because he had a singer at the time, that society doll—what was her name? Elsie something—”

  “Elsie Russell.”

  “That’s the one. Well, Sid had a few dollars in the Rendezvous in those days and he sent Ginny down to see Marty Manton who was running the joint. Ginny was about nineteen at the time and she was a cute number. She had a voice like her figure, cute and small, but with something all her own that Manton liked the minute he heard it. So did I.”

  He smoked in silence for a few seconds, his glance straying again to the girl at the bar.

  “Ray came in about a month ago. A guy in New York gave her my name but otherwise she was on her own. She didn’t have the youth that Ginny had, nor the figure, nor the looks. Yet something about the way she made her pitch for a job—not bragging, quiet-like, maybe a little tired—appealed to me. Maybe because I’m a tired guy myself. She said she sang and played the piano. She said she’d been in the U.S.O. for a couple of years. She mentioned some small-time spots she’d worked and just for the hell of it—this was around six in the evening and I’d been running over some stuff of my own—I asked her what she’d like to sing. She mentioned a couple of old-timers and I asked her the key and gave her an introduction.

  “Well, it wasn’t good and it wasn’t bad. Pleasant but you know, not singing from inside, no bounce, not even good torch. I learned why later. She was down to her last ten bucks and she was plenty discouraged. Anyway, I said why didn’t she try that other
piano and what did she know. So she took off her coat and went over and sat down. She hit a few chords and transposed off into ‘Body and Soul.’ She played a chorus, moved down the keyboard and sang a chorus. This was better because she knew how to blend the voice with her accompaniment. No Joan Edwards, you understand, or that girl that used to play with Whiteman …”

  “Ramona?”

  “That’s the one. No Ramona but nice and easy and all right. And like I say there was something about her I liked, and I said I’d speak to the boss. Well, to make a long story short he heard her and he didn’t want to buy—but he listened. I conned him with a lot of stuff about an idea I had, said I’d rehearse her for a week and write the arrangements if he’d sign her up for a trial. So he did, and I found out she was broke and got her to take an advance from me by saying it was from the boss. Since then we’ve been doing better every week. We may never hit Hollywood, or even Broadway but—”

  He stopped and now his glance came back to Murdock with a narrowed brightness that had not been there before. When he spoke again the easy, reminiscent accent had gone from his tone and there was a quiet hardness underneath, a controlled bitterness that came as a surprise to Murdock.

  “I said she reminded me of Ginny in some ways. There’s one thing I forgot, Kent. Harry Felton was in here the night we opened this new routine. He’s been back often.”

  He pushed back his chair and stretched. “So somebody finally caught up with old Harry, huh?” he said, his voice enigmatic now. “Well, I never had any love for Sid Graham—if he’s the guy who did it—but just the same I hope he beats the rap.…”

  7

  THE morning papers all carried an expurgated story of Harry Felton’s murder. The Courier had decided not to print the pictures Murdock had taken, and the information on which the various stories were based—that given out by the police—contained very few specific facts. An arrest was expected shortly, the stories said, but no names were mentioned pending further developments. As for Sid Graham, he was still among the missing, as Murdock found out when he stopped in Bacon’s office in the middle of the morning.

  “No, we haven’t found him,” Bacon said sourly. “But we got his muscle man.”

  “Lee Hammond?”

  “At the airport, trying to get on the eight-o’clock plane.”

  “What’s his story?”

  “He didn’t have any. Just taking a little trip to New York, according to him.”

  “Did you ask him about being in the car I saw on that Charles Street corner last night around the time Felton was killed?”

  “He says he wasn’t there.” Bacon leaned back in his chair and examined the end of the stogie he had been smoking. It was out now and he carefully removed the ash with a match before lighting it again. When he had it drawing to his satisfaction he said: “But we found out Hammond met Graham at the pier yesterday after customs turned him loose. Hammond admits that much. He says Graham called Wilbur Arnold, and after that he doesn’t know what happened because Graham said he wouldn’t need him any more.”

  “Arnold?” Murdock peered at the detective, his frown perplexed. “What would Graham want with Arnold?”

  “That’s what we hope to find out. Orcutt’s on his way over here now.” Bacon allowed himself a small smile. “But first we’re going to have a look at Sid Graham’s office.”

  “You don’t think Graham would have those bracelets there, do you?”

  Bacon’s rain-gray eyes were tolerant, his manner of speaking suggesting that Murdock should know better than to ask questions of this nature. Patiently but with a certain weariness, as though explaining something to a child, he said:

  “In my business we take one thing at a time. We’re not psychic. Some crooks are smarter than we figure and others are dumber. We need facts, evidence, tips when we can get ’em. We can’t find Graham. We haven’t got the bracelets. Graham’s got an office and I’ve got a warrant—”

  “All right, all right.” Murdock tipped his chair back and grinned. He had known Bacon a long time and he knew that the Lieutenant’s success had come from an unending application of the basic principles that he had found most productive throughout his years of experience. “I’m sorry I asked. I consider myself rebuked.”

  Bacon’s smile remained. It was not often that he used it but he seemed now to be in one of his rare moments of good humor. He said he thought Murdock would understand. He said he might even take Murdock along to Sid Graham’s office if he, Murdock, remembered to ask permission before he took any pictures.

  Tim Orcutt came in at the conclusion of the dissertation and the stocky, black-browed special agent’s mood was businesslike and impatient.

  “You got that warrant?” he asked. “Then let’s get going?”

  Sid Graham’s office was located on the third floor of an ancient Boylston Street building, the upper stories of which were served by a creaking elevator. There was nothing on the frosted glass panel of room 310 to indicate who occupied it but the door was unlocked, and when Murdock followed Bacon, Orcutt, and Sergeant Keogh inside he found the anteroom in charge of a blonde of uncertain age who had been reading a lending library novel.

  “Mr. Graham is not in,” she said suspiciously.

  “You got a key to his office?” Bacon asked.

  “No.”

  Bacon flashed his shield on her. He said in that case he guessed they’d have to try to unlock the inner office by other means. He nodded to Keogh as he spoke and the blocky sergeant took out some keys and started to work.

  The fifth key did the trick and they all went into an inner room, no wider than the first but somewhat longer. Considering Sidney Graham’s sartorial tastes the office was a disappointment. There was nothing plush or fancy about the plain oak desk, the extra chairs; the rug was worn and dusty. There was a steel filing cabinet, a water-cooler, a large safe with a second-hand look about it. There was also an A.D.T. burglar alarm.

  “How come it didn’t go off?” Bacon asked the blonde, who had been hovering in the doorway.

  “I turn it off when I open up in the morning,” she said. “If everything looks all right.”

  Orcutt tried the filing cabinet and found it locked. He tried the desk drawers with the same result. Then a door opened and closed in the outer office and Sid Graham appeared behind the blonde.

  “What goes, Hannah?” he said. “Oh—good morning, gentlemen.” He gave them a guarded smile, looking resplendent in his tweed topcoat, brown hat and polished oxfords. “To what do I owe this unexpected visit?”

  Bacon gave him a disgusted stare. “Where’ve you been?”

  “When?”

  “Now. Last night.”

  Graham moved in, threading his way among the others. He went to a hat rack, hung up his coat and hat. He went round to his desk and sank into the chair.

  “Last night?” He glanced up at Bacon. “I was with a friend.”

  “What’s his name?” Keogh demanded.

  “A lady friend.”

  “Yes, you were.” Keogh started for him, jaw outthrust. “I’ll tell you where you were.”

  “Later,” said Bacon, nudging his assistant. “We’re going to search the place, Sid,” he said.

  “You got a warrant?”

  “Yeah.” Bacon reached for his pocket. “Want to see it?”

  Graham waved a manicured hand. “I’ll take your word for it. Go ahead.”

  “Then open up.”

  “We’ll start with you, Sid,” Orcutt said. “Stand up.”

  Graham glanced from one to the other, nothing showing in his broad face. He waited where he was for five long seconds, his greenish eyes speculative; finally he shrugged faintly and came slowly to his feet.

  Orcutt went through his topcoat and searched his suit. He asked for keys and stood back while Graham unlocked the desk and filing cabinet. This done he ordered the safe opened and the inner compartments unlocked.

  “What’re you looking for?” Graham said when he sat d
own again.

  “A couple of bracelets,” Orcutt said, and described them. “Worth about a quarter of a million.”

  Murdock, watching the special agent, had an idea that Orcutt did not expect to find the bracelets, but there was no indication in the man’s approach to his job to suggest that he expected the search to be a futile one.

  He began on the safe. He made a thorough inventory of all the jewelry Graham had on hand, taking each tray separately and overlooking nothing. While he worked, Bacon questioned Graham about his movements of the evening before.

  “You left the pier around six o’clock,” he said, “and Lee Hammond was waiting with a car.”

  “Right.”

  “What did you do between then and eight o’clock?”

  “Had dinner.”

  “With Hammond?”

  “Sure.”

  “What time did you go to Felton’s place?”

  “I didn’t go at all.”

  Bacon slid a thigh over the corner of the desk, his long face impassive. He did not punch at his words but kept his voice conversational, not arguing when he came up against something that he knew was a lie but going on and then coming back again.

  “What time did you phone Wilbur Arnold?”

  “I didn’t phone him.”

  “Lee Hammond says you did.”

  “What Lee says is his business. I thought you were asking me.”

  “Lee says he left you right after you phoned Arnold. Was that before or after dinner?”

  Graham sighed. He reached for a humidor on the desk and took out a cigar. He chewed off the end, flicked it from his tongue. When he had a light, he glanced lazily at Orcutt.

  “Find what you wanted, Tim?”

  Orcutt said nothing. He was at the files now, going over Graham’s records and correspondence.

  “What did you kill Felton for?” Bacon said. “Beating him up is one thing but I always figured you were too smart to go for murder, Sid.”

  “I am too smart. All I know about Felton is that he got killed last night. There was a thing in this morning’s paper. I hardly knew the guy.” He fashioned a thin-lipped smile. “Look,” he said, “if you could prove I killed Felton, or even that I was there last night, you wouldn’t be wasting my time here. You’d take me down and—”