“How about suicide?”
The medical examiner closed his bag and reached for his coat. “That type of gunshot wound usually means yes. That bruise says no—unless you can get a good explanation for it and prove it was done some time previous. And I don’t mean two or three minutes previous.”
“You can tell, can’t you?”
“Certainly. It’ll be in my report, Lieutenant. But you asked my opinion. For what it’s worth I think the man was slugged and then shot because that was the only way the murderer could get close enough to make that kind of wound.… You can go through his clothing now if you like. I’ll have the stretcher brought up.”
He went out and Bacon nodded to one of his men who began to make a little pile of the things he found in Graham’s pockets. By the time he had finished two white-coated ambulance men came in with a rolled-up stretcher and a blanket.…
Tim Orcutt, accompanied by two men from his department, arrived a few minutes later and by that time Bacon had pieced together another theory which he passed along to the customs man while Murdock remained in his corner and smoked.
“The key was in the lock and the door was unlocked,” Bacon said. “Chances are it was someone Graham knew pretty well; at any rate he didn’t bother to lock the door again. The radio was playing, but some time afterwards—the guy downstairs wouldn’t know when, of course—the radio got louder. We checked the gun we found with the permit in Graham’s wallet and it was his gun.…”
He went on with his reconstruction of the crime and Murdock began to think about the gun. He wondered if the man he followed had, after all, been unarmed. It made him feel guilty, as though he had funked a job because he hadn’t the courage to tackle it. He spoke of it now, interrupting Bacon, and the lieutenant glared at him disgustedly.
“You’re crazy,” he said. “You were a damn fool to follow him at all. He probably had another gun; maybe he pulled it on Graham and that’s how he got Graham’s gun. It’s a cinch he wouldn’t have come up here to do a job of murder without a gun.”
“Tell him about the paper,” Murdock said.
Bacon handed Orcutt the tissue which had been on the floor and the customs man examined it carefully, eyes narrowing as he tested its texture.
“We don’t make that kind of tissue in this country,” he said finally. “That’s the sort of paper those bracelets would probably be wrapped in. You didn’t find them?”
“We haven’t had a chance to go over anything but this room,” Bacon said. “They weren’t in here.”
Orcutt spoke to his men and they went on into the hall. He turned to the table and examined Graham’s effects. “What about the gun?” he asked finally. “Any prints?”
“None we can use,” Bacon said. “There hardly ever is.”
“That’s fine.” Orcutt’s tone was both resentful and exasperated. “Felton smuggles the bracelets in with Murdock’s help. Graham takes them away from Felton. Now somebody takes them from Graham.” He paused, his glance speculative. “How do you feel about Graham being the one that killed Felton? Still like that angle?”
Bacon was manicuring one of his stogies. He waved it impatiently. “How do I know how I feel? If one guy did both jobs it couldn’t’ve been Graham. But it don’t have to be a one man job. Graham could have killed Felton and got the same treatment here tonight.”
“Valliere may be your boy—if you can find him.”
“I got a man in his hotel now.”
“I still think I’m right,” Orcutt said. “I think Valliere came over on the same boat to hijack those bracelets once Graham got them past customs.”
The telephone rang to end this bit of speculation. Bacon answered it, spoke briefly and profanely, and hung up. “This Tremaine guy checked out of his hotel early this afternoon.”
Murdock considered this bit of information. He recalled his talk with Elsie Russell and wondered if he should tell Bacon about the brass knuckles Tremaine carried and his motive for coming to Boston. He heard the telephone ring as he tried to find some connection between Tremaine and the murder of Graham, and he paid no attention to Bacon’s part in the conversation until the lieutenant began to swear again.
Bacon’s neck got red. He hung up viciously, stalked to the windows and glared out, his back to the room. When he turned his mouth was stiff and he chewed out a word.
“Valliere.”
Orcutt waited five seconds. “What about Valliere?”
“I had a man on him, like I told you I would. Not to tail him but just to make sure he didn’t try to move out of the hotel.” Bacon walked a tight semi-circle, reversed his course, his neck still red. “He came in a little after one this afternoon. My man thought he was still in his room; at least he didn’t see him come out. When I called him awhile back he got an assistant manager and went up to the room. Valliere ain’t there.”
“Oh, fine.” Orcutt eyed the lieutenant disgustedly.
“It would take six men to cover a hotel like that properly,” Bacon said defensively. “He must’ve found out he was being watched.”
“He could have left the place any time after one then.”
“Sure.”
Orcutt started to say something, checked the remark while he got his exasperation in hand. “His things still in the room?”
“He didn’t move out, if that’s what you mean. Bags still there. He wanted to get out and he got out. If he comes back we’ll nail him. My guy’s staying right in the room from now on.”
Murdock stood up. He said he thought he’d get back to the paper.
“You and your pictures,” Bacon said.
“You don’t think you can sit on this now, do you?”
Bacon did not answer this. He still had men covering the neighborhood in an effort to get a line on the man Murdock had seen. He called Sergeant Keogh in and told him to stay around until all reports were in.
“I’m going back to the office,” he said, and glanced at Orcutt. “What about you?”
The customs man went into the bedroom and spoke to his men who were searching it. When he came back he said: “I’m staying until we’ve taken this place apart. I don’t think we’ll find any bracelets here now but I’m damn sure going to make certain.”
16
THE sidewalk outside the house was well filled with reporters and photographers who had been tipped off via the press room at police headquarters. When they saw Murdock come out with Bacon they again set up a howl of protest.
“How,” they demanded, “does Murdock rate special favors? … Raw deal,” they said. “Favoritism.”
For once Bacon was stung to reply. “I’ll tell you how he rates it,” he snapped. “Murdock is around when things happen. There’s no favoritism about it. He was here. Why don’t you guys get on the ball and stop screaming?” He opened the car door. “I’ll talk to you in a half hour—at headquarters.”
Murdock had already moved off towards his coupe, trailed by the Courier man who had come out with the others. Murdock gave him the salient facts so he could telephone in from the corner store.
“Tell the desk I’m on my way,” he said. “I’ll see you later.”
The pictures Murdock had taken of Sidney Graham came out well and when the prints were sufficiently dry he took them upstairs. The bulldog edition was already on the presses with the leg man’s brief account of the murder and now, at the city editor’s request, Murdock went over to a desk with a rewrite man to give him additional color for the follow-up story. He did not relate it all by any means because he wanted to stay in Bacon’s good graces, and it was his own good judgment which told him what to tell and what to withhold pending further investigation by the authorities.
It was after eleven when he returned to the studio and he telephoned at once to Bacon to ask if there had been any word on Valliere or Tremaine. The answer was no in both cases. A pick-up order had been broadcast but so far there had been no results.
By that time Murdock was ready to call it a day. He stop
ped round the corner for a quick nightcap, picked up his coupe and headed for home. Just where along the route he changed his mind he was never quite sure. He was not conscious of making any decision in the matter until he found himself driving out Commonwealth Avenue just as he had done two nights before, and only then did he realize that his destination was the same.
As before Elsie Russell opened her door on the chain latch, but this time there was reserve in her greeting, a moment of restrained silence on her part before she said: “Oh, hello, Kent.”
Through the six-inch opening Murdock could see that she was fully dressed. With the room light behind her, her blond hair had taffy-colored edges, and though her face was in shadow he could tell that her eyes were disturbed.
“I thought I’d stop by a minute,” Murdock said. “I thought if you hadn’t gone to bed we might talk a minute.”
“It’s late,” she said.
“I know. But it’s rather important, Elsie.”
For another second or two she hesitated; then she let her breath come out resignedly and her shoulders sagged. “All right,” she said. “Do you mind waiting a minute?”
The door closed as she spoke and Murdock wondered why she should have thought the step necessary. With just a little of the feeling of an unwanted salesman who had to be tolerated, he found his mind exploring a nebulous idea which had, he realized, been instrumental in guiding him here. Considering further he found the idea less nebulous, though still far from maturity.
It seemed to him a long time before the door swung open, but now as she admitted him there was none of that previous reluctance in her manner. She smiled pleasantly enough and even apologized casually for keeping him waiting.
He said no apology was necessary. He said he guessed she was still annoyed with him because he told the police about Tremaine’s coming to him for the picture.
“Nonsense.”
She walked over to the divan and sat down. She did not offer him a drink but when he brought out cigarettes she accepted one. He studied her profile as she leaned forward to get a light from him and it came to him again how very lovely she was, how well groomed she always looked. She leaned back, crossing her knees, but she was not at ease. Good breeding made her polite and gracious but right now she was not the girl Murdock knew.
“I’m not so sure I shouldn’t have told the lieutenant the rest of it,” he said.
“Rest of what?”
“About how Tremaine felt about Harry Felton and why he came to Boston.”
She gave him a level look and her face grew grave. “Why on earth should you do that?”
“Tremaine checked out of his hotel.”
“Did he?” Her tone was coolly amused. “And what’s so extraordinary about that?”
“I thought you might know where he was.”
“Why should I?”
“You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”
“Yes—that is, I’m very fond of him.”
“Under the circumstances,” Murdock said patiently, “it would seem more extraordinary if you didn’t know where he was.… Look, Elsie,” he said. “If Tremaine ran out it wasn’t very smart. The police are looking for him and—”
“Police?” A paleness grew about the red mouth, but after that first word of surprise her voice became softly defiant. “But why? Louis hasn’t done anything wrong.”
“Maybe not, but I thought I ought to tell you how it was. Because Sidney Graham was killed tonight and the bracelets he brought in are still missing.”
“Killed?” Elsie stared at him, lips parting and wonderment growing in her wide-open eyes. “You mean like Harry? Murdered?”
Murdock nodded and went on hurriedly to give a condensed account of what happened, watching her reaction as he spoke, seeing the traces of shock deep down in her eyes.
“Then—it wasn’t Sidney who killed Harry,” she said when he finished.
“It could have been. But if it was it means there are two killers, not one.” He leaned forward to put out his cigarette. As he did so he noticed that the ashtray, a large silver one, was dusty with ashes but held no butts. He put his own there and stood up. He walked idly about the room until he came to the wastebasket by the desk. Here he stooped and examined its contents knowing that one of the things Elsie did while she kept him waiting in the hall was to empty the ashtrays. He heard her talking about Sidney Graham but the words had no meaning for him just then so he came back to the divan, standing in front of her until she looked up at him.
“Tremaine ought to go down and tell his story,” he said.
“Please, Kent.” Elsie stroked her temples with her fingertips. “It’s late; I’m getting a headache. Couldn’t we take this up tomorrow?” She did what she could with a smile. “Or better yet couldn’t we just forget the whole thing?”
“I’m sorry,” Murdock said. “But I’m afraid it’s a little late for that. If Tremaine won’t go down voluntarily, and the police find him here, you’ll be dragged into the—”
“Bosh. How could the police find Louis here?”
“They’ll find him if they search the place, won’t they? He’s here, isn’t he?”
“Certainly not.” Her voice was quickly hostile now but fear was growing in her eyes. “It’s too absurd, Kent. I can’t understand—”
She left the sentence unfinished as he moved to the telephone table near a closed door. She said, her voice a startled gasp: “What are you doing?”
“I’m going to call the police.” Murdock let his voice rise so his words would carry beyond the room. “I think Tremaine has played it wrong from the start. What he does with himself may be his business but when he starts involving you it’s time somebody stopped him. You’ll be better out of it if we have a showdown now than if you wait until you’re in too deep to back out.”
“No, Kent! Please.”
He had a hard time looking at her white, shocked face. Her tortured gaze was that of a woman who had trusted him and been betrayed. He picked up the telephone with his left hand and kept his right one on the instrument bar to keep the connection closed.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Put it down!”
The quick incisive voice came from his left as a door opened. From the corner of his eye he saw the sudden movement and he let his head come round, still holding his hands where they were.
Louis Tremaine’s thin dark face was pale and tight, his lips flat against his teeth. He moved out a step and stopped warily, his eyes hot and bright and dangerous.
“Put it down,” he said again.
Murdock let his breath out slowly, pleased that his plan had been productive but not sure what came next. He did not move but he saw that Tremaine’s right hand was in his pocket and now it came out holding something bright and metallic.
Murdock watched, fascinated, while the object took on shape. He saw it slide over the fingers of Tremaine’s right hand, saw the hand become a fist, and now his mind was busy. He remembered what Elsie had told him that night he had come here after Harry Felton’s death; he could see again the slashed and battered features of the dead man.
A brass knuckle, Elsie had said. And here it was, heavy, dangerous-looking, its outline square-cut and ugly. For a second or two he saw only this and then he forced his eyes up and saw the answer in the man’s face, in the brightness of his gaze. There was, he knew, no calculation here; instead there was excitement and desperation and something else that Murdock could not name.
He saw Tremaine move slowly forward and now he put the telephone down and turned to get his back against the wall. This was not what he had expected. It startled him to realize this; it offended his sense of propriety. This was all wrong. Tremaine was acting the fool and yet—
“Stop it!”
The voice was Elsie’s, high and ragged in its cadence. It came again with Tremaine’s next step, a half-scream demanding attention.
“Stop it, I say!”
This time Tremaine obeyed. He glanc
ed towards the voice. Slowly the tension went out of his back and shoulders. He had been moving in a slight crouch and now he straightened, relaxing. When he looked again at Murdock a flush came to his face. Sanity was working on him now and his eyes were sheepish and resigned. When he remembered the brass knuckle he opened his fist and let it slide from his fingers. He examined it curiously, as though he had never seen it before, and put it into his pocket.
“I’m sorry, darling,” he said to Elsie.
The girl stood stiffly erect in front of the divan, her mouth trembling under the strain of her emotion. She disciplined it and her knees bent; she sank down on the edge of the cushion as relief flooded her gray eyes.
“I’m sorry,” Tremaine said again, this time to Murdock. “You must forgive me. I am afraid I was somewhat hysterical. It is the only excuse I have for acting in such a fashion.”
“What did you expect to prove?” Murdock’s tone was flat. Now that it was all over anger stirred in him and exasperation colored the words that followed. “If you had started anything here you would have wound up in jail for sure.”
“Yes,” Tremaine said. “I cannot explain it. Something happened inside me when I understood that you were to summon the police.” He moved to the divan and sat down beside the girl. He took one of her hands in his. “It was because of her,” he said. “I could not have them find me here.”
“Then why the hell did you come here in the first place?”
Tremaine blinked, his expression that of a man who had been asked a question too obvious to answer. “But I did not think anyone would look here for me.”
“I asked him to come,” Elsie said.
Tremaine regarded her fondly. He pressed her hand. “No,” he said.
“But I did, darling.”
Their eyes met then and for a few seconds there was no one in the world but the two of them. From where Murdock stood he could see the girl’s face and the things that he saw written there when she looked at this man explained clearly why it was that they could forget him in their desire to accept the responsibility and hold each other blameless. Only when he cleared his throat was the spell broken.
Lady Killer Page 14
