Lady Killer

by George Harmon Coxe

  Now, as Murdock explained what he had in mind, Leahy’s eyes sharpened with appreciative interest though his voice remained skeptical, a defensive mechanism arrived at by long experience.

  “You don’t want much,” he scoffed.

  “You could try, couldn’t you?”

  Leahy crossed his ankles on the desk top and twisted his neck to look out the window. He pushed his lips out, sucked them back.

  “You figure Sid Graham is hiding in the city.”

  “He is if he’s smart.”

  “Your idea is that if he is, he’ll sneak out some time to buy a paper.”

  “Wouldn’t you?”

  “If I couldn’t get one delivered, yes.”

  “He’ll want to know what’s going on and how he stands. If he’s alone—and I’m hoping he is—he’ll have to get his own paper. Probably after dark.”

  “How many pictures do I get,” Leahy said, weakening.

  “As many as you want.”

  “Hah. That’s plenty. I’ll have to have one for every district man so he can show it to his carriers. One for each street man so he can flash it on his hustlers. Same for the newsstand men. Ought to have some extras for the dealers who have their own boys.”

  “I know you can’t cover every kid,” Murdock said, “but you can cover a lot of them.”

  “Say fifty pictures.”

  “You’ve got ’em.”

  “It might work,” Leahy said reluctantly, “but don’t expect miracles. Get out your rabbit’s foot, get me the pictures by noon, and tell me what’s in it for the kid—if any—that locates Graham.”

  “How would two ringside seats for next week’s fights go—from me—plus whatever I can wheedle out of the cashier.”

  “That ought to be all right,” Leahy said. “I think I’ll go out and look around myself.…”

  Walt Tracy had thirty prints drying when Murdock got back upstairs and to help things along Murdock lent a hand until the required fifty prints were finished. As they worked in the darkroom Tracy wanted to know who the subject was and Murdock told him.

  “The guy the cops are looking for?” said Tracy who read the paper he worked for.

  Murdock said yes and then, to give the youth a little reward for the work he was doing, he explained his plan after pledging Tracy to secrecy in case the idea proved a bust. Tracy was young enough to be excited over the idea. He thought it was neat and said he’d keep an eye open on his own.

  “I could use two seats to the fights too,” he said. “I could take the old man.”

  Murdock sent him down to Leahy when the prints were ready. He went out for a sandwich and a glass of milk around one o’clock, but from there on the day developed as he had expected that morning—dull, routine, and wholly unexciting from the photographer’s standpoint.

  He went out for about an hour to work with one of his men who was covering an important session at the State House, but other than that he stuck close to the office, hoping that he would get the call he wanted from Max Tyler in Paris.

  He telephoned Bacon twice without learning anything about Graham’s whereabouts. In between times he found it impossible not to speculate about the murder of Harry Felton and the people involved. He thought about Elsie Russell and the Frenchman she liked, Tremaine; he thought about Ginny Arnold and Guy Valliere, but most of all he thought about Rachel Wylie who had disappeared with two men because he had scared her into giving testimony to the police.

  There had been at no time any doubt in his mind that Graham was behind her disappearance. She had left her apartment house with two men, one of them big, and that probably meant Lee Hammond. Guy Valliere was big too but at the moment Murdock could find no connection between the Belgian and Ray Wylie’s disappearance. He considered telling Bacon about the missing girl but he wanted to speak to Bert Carlin first.

  Things were at that sort of standstill in his mind when, at five thirty, Carlin came in portraying all the physical aspects of a man suffering a hangover, including a sheepish expression that was more noticeable than perhaps normal. The reason for the expression came out when Murdock read the post card Carlin offered. It was postmarked 11:30 the night before, was addressed to Carlin’s apartment, and read:

  Bert, darling: I’m all right. Please don’t worry or call the police. I’ll be back in a few days.

  Ray

  Murdock returned the card. “Is that her handwriting?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re sure?” He watched Carlin nod and said: “Then why the hell didn’t you bring it in before, or call me up? I’ve been worrying about her all afternoon.”

  “I didn’t know,” Carlin said. “I mean, I didn’t go home. I slept at Ray’s. I got a little swacked last night and I couldn’t get up until afternoon. I made some coffee there and didn’t get around to going to my place until about an hour ago. I found it in my mail box.”

  Murdock wondered how long the post card would keep the piano player satisfied. Sooner or later Carlin would begin to wonder under what circumstances the card had been written. The fact that it was Ray Wylie’s writing did not mean that she was all right by any means, though Murdock had no intention of saying so.

  “Okay,” he said. “I told you she’d be all right.”

  “I’m still looking for Graham,” Carlin said.

  “Not with that gun, I hope.”

  “I’m not carrying it, if that’s what you mean. But it won’t take long to get it if I need it.”

  Murdock shook his head resignedly, his grin sardonic. “Beat it,” he said. “Go down to the Rendezvous and work out on the 88. It’ll make you feel better.”

  Carlin went out. A little later Murdock asked one of his older men to stay around while he went out for dinner, but when he came back at seven thirty there was no word either from Paris or from Leahy. Finally, at nine o’clock, he was ready to believe that his newsboy detective force was not going to find Sidney Graham that day. Leaving word that he would be home in case anyone wanted him, he put his camera and equipment in his car and drove reluctantly to the building which housed his apartment.

  His quarters were on the second floor and when a glance at the mail box told him it was empty, he climbed wearily upward, lugging the camera and case, then putting them down outside his door as he reached for his key.

  There was a low-watt bulb at the head of each landing but here by his door the light was bad and he often had trouble finding the keyhole. Now, as he turned to get a better look, something caught the corner of his eye, and in the stillness of the hall there was the faint sound of movement.

  It came from the right, where the stairs led upward, and in that instant he stood still, feeling the muscles tighten across his shoulders and the skin prickle on his nape. When he was sure he straightened, turning with breath held, seeing this shadow darker than the rest emerge from the obscurity of the corner and move towards him. Then, in the next second, he heard the voice and was reassured.

  “Hello,” Ginny Arnold said. “Did I startle you?”

  “A little.” Murdock felt his nerves relax but he was not yet able to put down his surprise. “How long have you been waiting?”

  “I just got here.” She smiled up at him, eyes shining in the half-light. “I just finished knocking when I heard someone come in and—I don’t know, I guess I didn’t want to be found standing there. I was going to pretend I was going out if anyone came up, but don’t ask me why.”

  She stopped, sounding a little flustered, and Murdock got the door open. He reached inside and snapped on the light, stepping aside to let her enter.

  “Come in,” he said. “Sit down and tell me the rest of it.”

  14

  GINNY ARNOLD walked into the room, glancing slowly about as Murdock closed the door. She watched him put his things away and then sat down on the davenport, letting her mink cape slide from her shoulders.

  “The rest of what?” she said.

  “The rest of whatever it was that made you stop i
n.” He gave her a slow grin. “I’m deeply honored but I don’t really recall your ever having given me the pleasure before.”

  She made a face at him. “I was out for a walk,” she said like a teacher to a child. “I came past and thought I’d see if you were in.”

  “Fine,” Murdock said. “I approve heartily. Can I get you a drink?”

  Ginny said no. She continued to look about the room. “This is nice,” she said.

  He inspected the familiar surroundings and was inwardly pleased at the compliment. The room had a masculine air but was neither heavy nor cluttered. The rugs were good, so were the prints on the wall. There was a custom-made record player, some comfortable chairs, a nice old Governor Winthrop desk.

  “Thank you,” he said. “You’re sure about the drink?”

  When she said she was he sat down, deciding he would wait until she was ready to talk and give her no help in the meantime. He did not have to wait long. Presently her eyes came back to him and she said, her tone a combination of mild exasperation and reluctant good humor: “All right. I did want to talk to you. I didn’t have a chance yesterday morning because of those men with you when you came to the house.”

  Things began to happen inside Murdock. He did not know why but it seemed now that beneath the girl’s surface composure and casual manner there was real concern. To keep his own thoughts from showing on his face he got up and busied himself offering her a cigarette and a light, asking if she minded a pipe and then filling one. All this gave him a chance to study her covertly and he saw that she wore a black tailored dress with a touch of white at the throat. Between this and the soft shine of her black hair her small face had grown slack and her eyes were troubled.

  She leaned forward to tap the ashes from her cigarette, her movements nervous and jerky, and now Murdock remembered the things Bert Carlin had told him the other night. Ginny had everything, Bert had said. Looks, figure, ambition. Ginny knew what she wanted and, as a rule, knew how to get it. Because ordinarily there was about her a certain pert vivaciousness so often found in small women, there was now a strangely subdued air about her and Murdock, his voice suggesting it was the most natural deduction in the world, took a shot in the dark.

  “Because of the bracelets?”

  “Bracelets?”

  “Yes. The ones you gave Harry Felton. Or didn’t you know what was in that wax-sealed package?”

  That did it. Her lashes opened wide. She caught her breath. She touched her red lips with the tip of her tongue, her eyes mirroring wonderment and then resignation.

  “How did you know?” she asked in a small voice.

  Murdock let his breath out quietly and put aside his pipe. He leaned back in the wing chair, as surprised as she was at the bull’seye he had registered.

  “I didn’t know,” he said. “It was a guess that seemed to add up.”

  She swallowed and shook her head. She said she did not understand and Murdock continued unhurriedly.

  “Graham had the bracelets. Do you know whether he got them from Guy Valliere? … No? Well, Tim Orcutt thinks he did but that’s not important now. I don’t know whether he knew you were going to be aboard the Kemnora or not, but Graham knew you, and he could tell you about the deal he had with your husband, being pretty sure that even if you wouldn’t help him you would at least keep his secret. The idea must have come to him that a newspaper man would make a perfect carrier from ship to shore, an almost certain way of getting those bracelets past the customs. The trouble was he didn’t know any newspaper man well enough to ask him to take the chance. What he did know was that you were once in love with Harry Felton.”

  “Yes,” Ginny said and sighed, her glance averted. “And very nearly twice.”

  “Tim Orcutt—he’s with customs—checked with the radio operator on the Kemnora and found out that Graham paid for the radiogram to Felton. It was left unsigned on purpose but I think you wrote it. Felton guessed that it was from you and the wording was ambiguous enough to make him curious. That’s why he put in a special pitch for a cutter pass.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Graham told me about his plan the first day out and I refused him. I admitted that Harry would probably do a thing like that for me but I didn’t want to ask favors from a man I’d broken up with.” She hesitated, her eyes inspecting him. “I guess you’re wondering why I changed my mind.… Would you believe I did it for money? Because Sidney Graham said he would give me ten thousand dollars if I could get Harry to get that package ashore?”

  Murdock said he did not know; he said it hadn’t occurred to him. He inspected her calmly, aware of the soft seductiveness of her figure, the full red mouth. He considered her clothes and glanced at her hands.

  “What about those rings you’re wearing? And that fur jacket. Arnold’s rich, isn’t he?”

  “Oh, yes.” Ginny glanced down at her rings. “But these are—well, presents. I can have everything I want, if Wilbur gives it to me or if I charge it. He gives me pocket money when I ask for it, but no allowance.”

  She leaned forward, clasped hands between her knees, tightening the dress across her rounded thighs and no longer looking at him.

  “He does everything the old-fashioned way. You know how he dresses—always with cane, gloves and black hat—well, he’s that way about everything else. He has a bad heart and he’s very careful about what he does. Maybe that’s why he’s so prim and conventional. We’ve quarreled about money before but it never does any good.”

  She crushed out her cigarette and said: “I never had any money as a child—my father was a school teacher—but after I came here and started to work I had money of my own; not much, but some. Bert and I had enough while we were working together and then Harry came along—”

  She paused and her mouth worked silently before she said: “You know about that and it doesn’t matter now, but even after I divorced Bert, and Harry ran off to be a correspondent, I did all right. I sang here and there, and I knew I’d never be any Dinah Shore, but I could always make seventy-five a week and I modeled some on the side. There was never a week that I didn’t collect a hundred dollars, and it was mine to do with as I chose.”

  She laughed unpleasantly. “A hundred dollars. I haven’t seen a hundred dollars all at once in years. Even my European trip was literally prepaid through American Express. And Sidney Graham kept after me. I know it sounds childish but I discovered that I wanted that ten thousand he was offering for my very own. I finally said I’d ask Harry if he came aboard at quarantine, and I did.”

  Murdock found himself believing what she said and, considering the background of this woman, he could understand what motivated her part in the overall scheme. He remembered the studied coolness with which Ginny had treated Felton in Cabin H. He said:

  “That was an act you put on in the cabin, pretending you wanted no part of Harry.”

  “Yes.”

  “You’d met him before that, somewhere on deck, and then you were nice to him when you told him what you wanted him to do.”

  Color touched her cheeks then, though she did not look at him. “Of course I was nice to him. I wanted that money and I did what I had to do. I told him I would pretend to dislike him when he came to the cabin because I didn’t want anyone else to know we had seen each other.”

  “You didn’t know that Harry got scared and hid those bracelets in my equipment case?”

  “Not then. I didn’t see him do it.”

  Murdock went over and sat down beside her. “When did you know?”

  “Not until yesterday morning.” She kept her face averted and her voice was low. “Not until after you and those men left and my husband told me what really happened.”

  “He doesn’t know about your part of it?”

  She shook her head and Murdock sat there a moment, his lean face thoughtful. “Harry had the right idea,” he said finally. “He knew how customs felt about him. He was afraid they’d search him and they did.”

  “And now he’s dead,
” Ginny said. She leaned back, straightening her skirt, her eyes remote as a tightness grew around her mouth. “Because of what I made him do.”

  “I guess you still liked him.”

  “A little,” she said. “In spite of everything he had done.”

  Murdock believed that too because he had known other women who continued to love their men after suffering abuse and indignities that few others could endure.

  “But it’s not your fault he’s dead.” He touched her knee to make her look at him. “If Harry had played it straight he’d be alive today. But he saw a chance to clean up and he took it. He might have gotten away with it if—”

  He stopped abruptly as the telephone shrilled across the room, scowling at the interruption as he crossed to scoop it up. When he spoke the voice of Leahy, the city circulator, came to him.

  “You’re in luck today, kid,” Leahy said. “I think we got a lead.… I’m not promising anything, understand but—”

  Murdock cut across the words with quick impatience. “Did some kid see him?”

  “Not a kid, an old guy who runs a stand out on Columbus Avenue. He’d seen one of your pictures and he thinks Graham came in around eight o’clock or so.”

  “Eight o’clock,” Murdock said. “What took you so long?”

  “The old guy was a little balled up. He had to make a lot of calls before he got me. Do you want to hear about it or not?”

  “I’m sorry,” Murdock said. “Go ahead. What about Graham?”

  “The old guy thinks he came in and bought three papers. One of the guy’s grandsons was hanging around and the old boy sent out the kid to try to tail him.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t say he got it right,” Leahy said, “but here’s the address.” And he read it off. “You going to have some pictures for the final? I’d like to peddle a few extra sheets.”

  “We may if you’re right. Give me the old man’s address. I’ll stop and see him first.”