Lady Killer

by George Harmon Coxe

  Light from a glittering chandelier which hung suspended from the high ceiling, brightened the immediate area and as Bacon sidled past, glance darting from side to side, Murdock could see Ginny’s eyes more plainly. They were not so wide now but they were not at ease. Her hands, held in front of her, were busy twisting fingers, and though she moistened her lips she did not speak until Bacon asked a question.

  “Is Mr. Arnold in?”

  “No,” she said quickly. “No, he’s not. He went for a walk and—”

  The word trailed off and she made a gesture of futility with one hand, as though seeking some other word that escaped her.

  “I got your message,” Murdock said.

  “You did?”

  Murdock peered at her a moment, unable to understand the vacant cadence of her voice or the pale expressionless look on her face. He felt something cool slide up the backs of his legs, bringing with it an odd tension. He could not explain it but there was sufficient compulsion to the impression to make him glance round.

  There was nothing to be seen. Only the high, gloomy hall with its rich furnishings, the lighted drawing room on the right, the stairs, and the balustrade visible on the landing above. Bacon had his hat in one hand; the other was in his pocket. His neck was as stiff as ever and his face was impassive, except for the narrowed rain-gray eyes which were constantly on the move.

  “The Courier operator gave it to me,” Murdock said.

  “Oh?” Ginny Arnold’s voice was polite but inattentive, her small smile fixed. “What message was that?”

  Murdock opened his mouth, the impatience growing in him but the coolness still moving along his spine. Bacon cleared his throat.

  “Didn’t you send a message to Mr. Murdock?”

  “Why—no,” Ginny said as though this was something quite beyond her capabilities.

  “You didn’t leave word with him that Guy Valliere was here?”

  “Guy Valliere? Why, no, Lieutenant. There must be some mistake.”

  She turned slightly as she spoke and for the first time Murdock got a good look at her eyes. What he saw in their bright depths explained the pale stiffness of her face. She was frightened. She was holding on to herself by will power alone and she was still doing all right; for though her hands trembled as she continued to twist them, her voice did not.

  “Then Guy Valliere is not here?” Bacon said.

  “No. Why, I hardly know him.”

  “You haven’t seen him?”

  “No.”

  Bacon’s jaw tightened. He looked at Murdock, his lips working silently. He clapped on his hat and retained his outward calm. “In that case—” He let the sentence hang there and Murdock, speculating on his judgment of the man, thought he knew what came next.

  Bacon was too good a cop not to sense that something was wrong. Also he was too smart to press an issue blindly under the circumstances. He was not finished; all he wanted to do was give the impression that he was accepting the woman’s word. If Murdock’s hunch was right, Bacon would summon sufficient reinforcements to make sure that no one could enter or leave the place without his knowledge. If Guy Valliere was in this house he would stay here until Bacon could take the necessary legal steps. When everything was ready, the house would be searched from top to bottom.

  “In that case,” he said again. “It seems we owe you an apology.”

  Murdock was watching the girl. He saw her breasts sag as her breath came out, heard the relief in her voice as she said: “Not at all, Lieutenant. I can’t imagine who could have called Kent.”

  What Murdock did then was something he could never explain satisfactorily, even to himself. It may have been his native curiosity, which, over a period of years, had become highly developed. It may have been an instinctive prompting brought about by the knowledge that this girl who stood before him was badly frightened; it may even have been the cool pressure along his back which not only told him there was something wrong but that the threat of danger was close. Whatever it was he found himself stepping past Bacon and reaching for the door of the closet.

  That door had been ajar when they entered. The opening, a four-inch crack, faced him, and he saw nothing at all in the blackness beyond until he pulled at the knob. After that he understood the reason for all that intuitive pressure he had been battling.

  He saw the flat, ugly-looking automatic first because it was closest and pointed right at him. He had time to think that the gun had been pointed at him, and Ginny, and Bacon, ever since they entered. Then the panel was kicked from his hand and Guy Valliere stepped out, big and blond and dangerous looking even though he smiled.

  “Stand still, Lieutenant!”

  Bacon stood still. He never had a chance. Having already taken his hand from the gun in his pocket as he prepared to leave, and having no warning at all of Murdock’s intention, he was caught flat-footed, as much by surprise in that first instant as by the sight of the gun.

  “Please don’t reach for it!” Valliere said in his accented tones. “You, Murdock. Face the wall and keep your hands in sight, that’s a good lad.… Now, Lieutenant, if you’ll join Murdock and put your hands on the wall I’ll have your gun.”

  Bacon thought it over. You could see the conflicting emotions working behind his face as an angry flush suffused it. But he was no fool. He must have known that with Keogh outside he was not necessarily through. He turned slowly, half raising his hands. He let the gun be taken from his coat pocket but he could not suffer entirely in silence. From the corner of his mouth, not loud but with studied bitterness, he said: “Damn you, Murdock!”

  “Here, here.” Valliere’s voice was easy now. “Ladies present, you know. You may turn around now if you wish.”

  Ginny Arnold had stopped twisting her hands. They hung limply at her sides but something had happened to her pretty face. The fear, some of it at least, had gone and in its place there was an expression of defiance. Presently Murdock began to understand why.

  “Now,” Valliere said, “what’s this about a message?”

  He looked from one to the other and no one answered him. He tried again.

  “From what I overheard it would seem that someone rang you up at the Courier.” He nodded towards Murdock. “The fact that you are here would indicate that the message told you that I was in hiding at this address. Would you say you got that message half an hour ago or more?”

  “All right,” Ginny Arnold said, her voice sharply pitched. “I called him, and I’m glad I did.”

  “Yes.” Valliere nodded. “I was sure it couldn’t have been your husband. What I fail to understand is why, if you felt you had to do it, you didn’t ring the police.”

  “I didn’t know who to call, that’s why. I didn’t know how long it would take and I was afraid I couldn’t make them understand what I meant. I didn’t have much time. I was sure Kent would know what to do.”

  “I see.” Valliere pursed his lips. “You were in a hurry, but Murdock would understand. Then you must have made that call when I was in the pantry fixing that drink. Yes.… Well, I never did trust you much, you know, but I didn’t know you disliked your husband enough to—”

  The click of a key in a lock stopped him and he was instantly tense, not looking at the door but keeping his attention centered on the others, particularly Bacon.

  “All right,” he said quietly. “Easy does it. Stand where you are and say nothing.”

  He moved swiftly then for a man of his size. He backed two soundless steps as the doorknob turned and then he drew against the wall so that the opening door would shield him. He put out a foot to prevent the door from opening too wide and blocking his view of Bacon and Murdock, and there he waited, gun leveled.

  Wilbur Arnold, complete in black coat, Homburg, gold-headed cane and gloves, stepped across the threshold, pausing to withdraw his key before he glanced up. When he did so his thin patrician face stiffened in surprise but he came on, slowly now, his eyes wide open and staring.

  “Well�
�” he began, and started to close the half-open door. Then he saw Valliere and the gun, and his immediate reaction could have been no more startling had someone struck him.

  His face went gray and he caught his breath. He staggered. He put out one hand to support himself, feeling for the door as his gloves fell and the cane clattered to the floor. His free hand clutched at his chest and for that long moment Murdock remembered the man’s heart condition and thought he was having an attack.

  He took a half-step, his movement an involuntary one brought on by his desire to support the older man before he fell. Then Valliere spoke sharply and Murdock stopped. Arnold steadied himself. The hand at his chest dropped limply and he took a deep breath which seemed to help him.

  “I’m sorry,” he said in his cultured tones. “You startled me.” He paused uncertainly, his breathing audible now. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “Why don’t you shove over there with the others,” Valliere said. “Perhaps your wife will be good enough to explain.”

  Arnold looked at her, at Murdock, at Bacon. He stooped to retrieve his cane and gloves before he moved into the hall itself. The others unconsciously shifted their positions slightly as though to make room for him, though this was actually unnecessary. The hall was wide here between the two side rooms, and when Valliere came out of the entryway he faced Arnold on the immediate left, Bacon on the right, with Ginny and Murdock in between.

  “It’s a little awkward, standing up like this while we straighten things out but it’s easier to watch you.” Valliere smiled thinly. “I hope you won’t mind.”

  Bacon cleared his throat. He had been silent long enough and he came directly to the point which interested him most.

  “What is Valliere doing here, Mr. Arnold?” he asked bluntly.

  “He came yesterday afternoon.”

  “With the bracelets?”

  “I don’t know,” Arnold said, his voice sounding as if he meant every word of it. “I didn’t ask him.”

  “You didn’t ask him?” Bacon said, his senses outraged. “But don’t you know what happened to Sidney Graham? Don’t you know—”

  Arnold cut him off. He had his composure in hand now and there was color in his face.

  “If you don’t mind, Lieutenant, I’d like to get some other things cleared up first.… How,” he said, “does it happen that you are here at all? You and Murdock?”

  “I expect Ginny can answer that one,” Valliere replied.

  Ginny Arnold still had her chin up. She was no longer afraid and her dark gaze was steady.

  “I telephoned Kent,” she said. “He wasn’t in so I left a message.”

  Murdock broke in to explain just how he had received the message and what he had done subsequently. Whereupon Ginny repeated her reasons for calling Murdock instead of the police.

  “You’ve harbored a known criminal, Mr. Arnold,” Bacon said. “I want to know why. Did he threaten you?”

  “Not with the gun, if that’s what you mean.”

  Valliere sighed. He was no longer smiling but he was again at ease and if he was at all worried Murdock could see no signs of it in his voice or in his manner.

  “Why don’t you tell the lieutenant, Wilbur,” the big man said. “Go ahead and tell him the whole wretched story.”

  “I might as well.” Arnold finally remembered his hat and took it off. He put it on the refectory table along the wall and tossed his gloves inside; then he looked at his wife and his mouth was stern, his voice disdainful. “You told Murdock about Valliere, knowing what would happen, is that it, my dear? Well, now that you’ve given me no alternative, I suppose it might as well come out right now as any time.” He glanced down at his cane and said: “It’s not a story I’m proud of, Lieutenant. Nor am I proud of sheltering a fugitive.”

  “What he means,” Valliere said, “is that he is somewhat prouder of the Arnold name. Proud enough, certainly, to run the risk of hiding me rather than have any scandal touch that name. You see, my half-brother, now dead, was Arnold’s son.”

  “If you don’t mind, Guy”—Arnold’s voice was stiff now—“I’ll tell it my own way.” He straightened his shoulders, glanced deliberately at Bacon and Murdock. “What he says is true. Until now it has been a rather well-kept secret and I had hoped, after all these years, to keep my indiscretion to myself. It happened during the first World War while I was stationed in France as a second lieutenant.…”

  He went on in his quietly modulated voice and though Kent Murdock heard the words they registered but vaguely as his mind began to assimilate the bits and pieces of rumor he had heard about this man. He remembered again the thoughts that had come to him the other morning after the conference with Arnold—the background that included the training at Plattsburg, the fighting in France, the gossip that said there had been an affair—or marriage—between Arnold and a French girl, an affair that had been broken off in some way by Arnold’s father. All this was verified now as the man went on with his story, telling it straight for once, now that the need for secrecy was past.

  “I had every intention of marrying her,” he said, “but my father was a strict man, he controlled the family purse strings, and I knew it would be foolhardy to attempt to get his consent by mail. I knew he would not understand but I thought that I could persuade him to see things my way once I had a chance to talk with him. As it happened my orders to return came through rather suddenly. I did not know then that there was to be a child. I’m not so sure the girl did at the time. If she did she did not tell me.”

  He hesitated and said: “At any rate I came back alone. I told my father what I wanted to do. I explained that I loved the girl and that she came from a good middle-class family. All I asked was his permission plus enough money to set myself up in some sort of business.” He permitted himself a wry smile. “Even then I had no trade or profession that I could fall back on. There was nothing in my training that would enable me to make a living on my own and my father knew it.”

  He paused again, distance coming in his eyes. He slid his cane absently back and forth through his hands, unaware of what he was doing as his mind grappled with this tragedy which had happened so long ago.

  “Well, I failed,” he said with a quiet sigh. “Utterly. My father insisted it was nothing but an ill-founded war-time romance. To him it was preposterous that I should even consider marrying her. Such things happened in every war and would continue to happen so long as there was a world to live in. He was not an easy man to talk to and there was no point in threatening to leave home and all that sort of thing because he knew I could not support myself, much less support a wife. I knew it too; that was the trouble.”

  For another second or two the distance remained in his gaze; then it was gone and he brought his thoughts back to the moment.

  “I don’t want to bore you,” he said. “It is of small interest now to anyone but me. What happened, of course, is that there was a child, and by the time I knew it—the girl had her pride too and did not tell me until it happened—I had been persuaded that my father was right. He agreed that something should be done for the child and from then on a monthly check was sent for that child’s support—for a few years by my father and later by me—until he was eighteen. I heard that the girl married again in a year or two, that another son was born—”

  “Me,” said Valliere.

  “I learned that the woman died in 1945 and that my son was killed before that. Some bombing raid in 1942, I believe. I thought that was the end of things until Valliere spoke to me when the Kemnora docked and told me who he was.”

  “He had proof?” Bacon asked.

  “Enough for me.” Arnold shrugged. “I was not so sure at first but I asked him to call. What he had to say then convinced me. I thought he intended to blackmail me, and because I am proud of my name I made up my mind to pay if the demands were moderate.”

  Valliere chuckled. “My dear man,” he said, “you misjudged me.”

  “In the firs
t instance”—Arnold regarded him coldly—“yes.… He said he had done some business with Sidney Graham,” he continued to Bacon. “He said he had brought in some loose stones and settings on which he had paid the proper duty, and wondered if I would be interested. Then yesterday afternoon he came and his blackmail took another form. He said he was under some suspicion in the Harry Felton murder and would stay here at my house until, as he put it, things quieted down. I protested, naturally, and then he told me what would happen if I refused.”

  Arnold took a breath and said: “You must understand, Lieutenant, that at that time Graham was alive. You suspected him of murder and the customs man, whatever his name is, was convinced Graham had the bracelets. What I read in the papers this morning put a different light on the matter but by that time”—he gestured with the cane—“I was already committed. I could call you and suffer the consequences of the publicity that would ensue when Valliere publicized my past mistakes, or I could keep quiet. I chose the latter course because the very thought of any scandal was abhorrent to me. Naturally I didn’t expect to be caught this way.”

  He turned to inspect his wife. “I explained to Mrs. Arnold what I had done and asked for her cooperation while Valliere was here. He had a gun. He was dangerous to both of us but he knew his secret was safe with me.… You, apparently,” he said to his wife, “feel no great loyalty to the name you bear.”

  Ginny Arnold said nothing. Her face was paler now, and she was no longer so defiant as she avoided her husband’s glance. To Murdock it seemed that she had begun to regret the step she had taken, as though she realized fully that whatever happened to Guy Valliere now he would eventually be caught, and the story her husband had so successfully kept from the world would come out. Arnold would, in fact, be open to prosecution on a criminal charge and—

  Valliere’s voice stopped this train of thought. “Satisfied, Lieutenant?” he said. “If you are I think I’ll pop off, if you don’t mind.”

  Bacon snorted his disgust. “You won’t pop far, son. Your best chance—and it isn’t much now I’ll admit—is to cooperate with me and the district attorney’s office.”