Murder with Pictures

by George Harmon Coxe

  “To see if Howard was there.” This simply, a statement of fact.

  “Howard Archer?” Murdock leaned forward, stared.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because”—the girl sighed and her resignation was evident—“because he’s my brother. I’m Joyce.”

  “Oh.” Murdock dragged out the word and leaned back. “I didn’t know he had a sister.”

  Joyce Archer’s shoulders lifted, dropped back. Her tone was slightly bitter. “You wouldn’t, I suppose. I guess I’ve been pretty thoroughly forgotten.” She smiled then, but there was a lack of humor in the effort. “I’ve been abroad for three years. Went to school there. It’s a family complex. An uncle in England gave the idea to Mother. Howard was at Cambridge, you know. But I didn’t mind being away, because I knew how little my friends got out of staying here and—”

  She moved one hand on the chair arm, looked down at it. “But that’s not important. I came back after Father and Mother were killed in the accident. Since then I haven’t been in town at all, there was no reason for staying here. Most of my friends are married, and those who aren’t”—she shrugged again—“bridge and cocktails and dances and a lot of talk about men and sex.”

  She was genuinely bitter now, her voice sullen, a bit contemptuous.

  “And none of them doing anything about it. And the men just as bad—those that are left. But there was a girl in Hartford. We went to Bermuda, to Block Island, to Oyster Harbors, and had a good time doing nothing but swimming and riding and playing golf. Then a week ago I came back and found Howard running around with Rita Redfield. I know her.” Joyce Archer leaned across the chair arm. She could not have put more emphatic disgust into her words if she had shaken her finger at Murdock. “She’s shallow, she’s mercenary, she’s—a nymphomaniac.”

  “You’re pretty positive about it,” Murdock said sardonically. “I understood they were old friends. She never thought much of Redfield, anyway, did she?” He waited for an answer, but when none came, he added: “If you were so disgusted about it, why did you go to her party?”

  “I wouldn’t have,” the girl flared, “if it wasn’t for Howard. I wouldn’t think of going. It was disgusting. A celebration party for an ex-bootlegger that Mark Redfield had kept out of prison. And the people!”

  “Yeh,” Murdock said dryly. “A flashy criminal lawyer, an ex-bootlegger, a newspaper photographer—a button-pusher—”

  “That isn’t what I meant.” The girl colored.

  “Perhaps not, but—”

  “You’re different.”

  “How?”

  “Well, you look like the sort of men I know; your clothes and—well, appearance. But you’re not. You’re different; maybe it’s because you do things. You even talk—”

  “Like a bum, you mean,” Murdock said, grinning.

  “No. I mean you talk to me one way, and you talked differently to that detective. And upstairs—”

  “I’m versatile that way,” Murdock said dryly. “To you, now, I talk in my own natural jargon. If you heard me when I’m out on a job you’d think my antecedents traced back to the slums. And there’s another way—on my dignity—when I get out the tails and white tie. But it never gets me anywhere.”

  He broke off with a sardonic grunt, brought his thoughts back to Joyce Archer’s story. “So you went to the party because he wanted you to.”

  “I went because he didn’t want me to. We had a fight about Rita. I came to cramp his style if I could—anyway to see just how bad it was. Howard’s a beast. It was sickening. Actually fighting over her.”

  “Fighting?” Murdock snapped the word, and his brows came up.

  “Well—” The sharpness of his tone broke the girl’s mood. She continued defensively: “Almost. Mark Redfield was drunk, you saw that much. But I didn’t blame him. The way Howard was fawning over her. I don’t know what he said, but I know the other men almost had to pull them apart. They practically threw us out.” Her scorn was appalling. “And of course Howard got melodramatic about it. He said the thing wasn’t finished—he’d settle it in private—that sort of talk.”

  “I see,” Murdock said. And as his mind fought to reconstruct the facts he had learned from Bacon, he added dryly: “So you tagged along with your brother and brought your grudge and nursed it all the time you were there. You didn’t want to miss anything; that’s why you were alone by choice, huh?”

  Joyce Archer colored, dropped her eyes. “You don’t like me much, do you?”

  Murdock did not answer. It is doubtful if he heard her, because he was struggling with the time element of the murder. Bacon would learn of this argument and threat easily enough. And with this knowledge he would have a motive sufficient to embroil Archer thoroughly.

  Joyce Archer glanced up, saw that Murdock was looking out the windows. She took the opportunity, denied her before, to study him.

  She wondered if she liked him because he was different. That she liked him she accepted without conscious thought, had accepted it from the moment he played his part in the shower. And this liking increased with association.

  A newspaper photographer? He did not look it, at least not like her conception of a newspaper man, certainly like no reporters she had ever seen. Perhaps the first reason for this attraction was that he was clean, scrupulously so; she had noticed this upstairs. And there was a virile hardness about him that spoke of competence and honesty towards himself.

  And his dress. The brown business suit, the polished oxfords, the knot in his tie and the way it nestled firmly against his collar, the fresh handkerchief in the breast pocket. The keynote of it all was a conservative, careless correctness with no trace of foppishness, without the stiff perfection of a magazine advertisement.

  She had not been able to decide about the color of his eyes, but she liked them because they looked right at her when he spoke. And his peculiar little smile that crinkled the corners of those eyes and lifted two-thirds of his mouth and gave a glimpse of his teeth.

  But perhaps it was not his appearance at all. Perhaps it was just that he seemed dependable, competent. And most of the men she knew did nothing well; they drank too much and talked too much about it and the women they made.…

  “So you went out together? Then what?”

  Joyce Archer’s thoughts jerked back to reality. Not until then did she realize that she had been staring at him and that he had been watching her stare. She looked down at her hand on the chair arm and said:

  “We came downstairs and started to get in the roadster. Then Howard changed his mind and said he was going to walk home and try to think things out. I couldn’t argue with him. He just got stubborn and started off down the street by himself. So I went home. But I couldn’t go to bed; so I sat up for him, and when he didn’t come, I got worried and decided to come back and make sure.”

  “So you came back,” Murdock added, “and went upstairs. The door was unlocked and you went in.”

  “The library door was open and I looked in and—” Joyce Archer broke off as suddenly as though she were rewitnessing the scene.

  “Was there a gun?” pressed Murdock.

  “Yes.”

  “What did you do with it?”

  “Why, I—” she looked startled—“how did you know?”

  Murdock told her to never mind, and she continued: “I picked it up. Don’t ask me why. I don’t know, don’t know anything except that I was terribly afraid. I don’t know how long I stood there. I couldn’t seem to move. I would have been there yet if it hadn’t been for the buzzer. I just ran out then. I got to the foyer, heard a key in the lock, and hid in the closet. Not until then did I know I had the gun.”

  “Couldn’t you get out when—”

  “No. Somebody kept pacing back and forth in the foyer—the manager, I think. And then the police came. Finally things got quiet and I”—she hesitated and a sense of shame settled over her and she avoided Murdock’s eyes as she continued—“I know I shou
ldn’t have tried to run, but—”

  “But you were scared,” Murdock said. “I know.”

  She was grateful for this and looked up at him. The queer little smile was at his lips.

  “So you didn’t find Howard after all?” he said.

  “No.” She sighed with relief. “He’s home. I called him from here. And”—her voice grew soft, hesitant—“will I have to go to the police and tell them about it? I won’t, will I?”

  “Not now, unless—” A knock on the door that continued loudly brought Murdock to his feet. The girl clutched at her robe, a frightened, uncertain gesture. She stood up, her face paling, blue eyes wide. Murdock jerked his head towards the bedroom, whispered: “And stay in there.”

  Joyce Archer whirled, started towards the inner hall. Murdock’s eyes swept the room, found her empty glass. He grabbed her arm, picked up the glass, and handed it to her. Waiting until the bedroom door closed, he felt of his tie; then he stepped to the hall door and opened it.

  A plump, round-faced youth with pale-blue eyes, baggy clothing, and a shapeless hat stood in the hall. Murdock blew out his breath and said: “How’d you get here?”

  “Me?” The youth looked surprised. “I’m tryin’ to get a story.”

  Murdock sighed. Phil Doane was one of his major trials. A cub reporter whose life was a perpetual struggle to hold his job, he was a good-natured, happy-go-lucky fellow who, nervy, persistent, and habitually broke, was afflicted with hero-worship, directed towards Murdock.

  “You weren’t on the story,” Murdock said. “Brady was upstairs with the rest of the gang when I came out in the hall. Nobody assigned you, did they?”

  “Hell, no.”

  “And you’re not on the lobster shift. How come you were prowling around at six o’clock?”

  “I was late,” Doane said, his round face cracking wide in an infectious grin.

  “Late?”

  “Yeah. I didn’t get off till three and there was a poker game and—well, I was goin’ home and I saw two police cars out front, so I—”

  “So you horned in,” Murdock grunted. “And you didn’t get anything.”

  “It’s that Keogh,” mumbled Doane, suddenly grouchy. “Do I hate that guy! Just a thick-headed copper with an ingrown grudge. He wouldn’t let me in.” Doane’s smile returned and his eyes got hopeful. “But you were there. Can’t you give me—”

  “No. Brady’s got the story.”

  “Well—” Doane cocked one brow. “You can at least let me in here.”

  “No,” said Murdock, but he was weakening; he always did before the youth’s guileless assault.

  “Can’t you give me a drink?” pleaded Doane. “Hell, I been up all night and—”

  “All right, all right,” sighed Murdock, standing aside. “But one quick one and out you go. I got things to do.”

  He went out to the kitchenette, poured Scotch and soda, brought the drink to the living-room, and found Doane lying on the davenport, a picture of utter contentment, his knees in the air.

  Murdock grabbed one shoulder, lifted the youth to a sitting position, handed him the drink.

  Doane said: “Thanks,” as he accepted the glass; then: “What, no ice?”

  Murdock reached forward. “Gimme!”

  “No!” Doane recoiled, panicky. “I was only foolin’.”

  Murdock grinned, but he stood there and made Doane pour down the drink, took the glass, and guided him forcibly but gently to the door. When he finally worked the youth into the hall in spite of the fervent protestations, Doane said:

  “Now listen. If you run into anything—”

  “Will you do me a favor?” Murdock asked wearily.

  “Sure, Kent.” Doane was quickly serious. “Anything you say.”

  “That’s swell,” Murdock said. “Then go ’way. Go anywhere—as long as it’s away from here.”

  “But—”

  “You’re wearing me down.” Murdock put one lean hand on Doane’s chest and shoved. The door slammed on Doane’s wail.

  Murdock shook his head for a moment and continued to grin at his thoughts. Then the grin faded. He shrugged, went over to the window and tasted the remainder of his drink. The soda was flat and he crossed to the davenport, picked up Doane’s empty glass, and took them both to the kitchenette, knocking at the bedroom door as he passed.

  Opening the cupboard, he took out the Scotch-bottle, uncorked it. Then, glaring at it, he put the cork back in, replaced the bottle, and muttered a soft curse as he stared at the empty glasses.

  He was in a jam and he knew it. She did not know about Howard. He did not want to tell her—yet. But she ought to go and tell her story to Bacon. He knew it, felt guilty with this knowledge. Never one to kid himself that he was able to do police and detective work on the side, Murdock had been content to help when he could and pay attention to his business—the taking of pictures.

  One reason why he was successful at his job was that he enjoyed the confidence of the headquarters men and most of the precinct commanders he knew. He was holding out now, and he knew it. And let Bacon find out and—He cursed again and went into the bathroom.

  Pink silk shorts and brassière were wadded on the bath-mat; the sodden mass of dress, jacket, and wrap lay in the center of the tub, the slippers on top of them, the stockings draped over the rounded sides. The sight brought an unconscious grin to his face and he stepped into the living-room, saw that Joyce Archer was again in the wing chair.

  She said: “Who was that?”

  “A friend of mine.” Murdock hesitated. “We’d better get some breakfast up here.”

  “I’m not hungry.” She looked at him over her shoulder.

  “You will be before you get out.”

  Her lips went round, like her eyes. “You mean I’m to stay here until—”

  “I mean you’ve got to stay here—today anyway.” Murdock advanced, stood over her, his expression faintly amused. “You’re not counting on wearing that outfit you splashed all over the bathroom, are you?”

  She smiled at him. “I was too comfortable to pick up.”

  Murdock said: “I’ll take them out when I go, get them dried and cleaned for you.”

  “How long will that take?”

  “That’s not the point. The police are looking for you. Fortunately they don’t know you are here—yet. But they’ll watch this building for a while and—”

  “Couldn’t I get out the back way?”

  Murdock jammed his hands in his pockets and looked annoyed.

  “You’ll stay here and do as I say. I’m in this thing, and I want to help; but that isn’t all of it. Ethically, I have no compunction about your being here. But if I didn’t have a few friends on the police force I’d be looking for another job.”

  “You mean you’re afraid—” Joyce Archer stopped uncertainly.

  Murdock grunted impatiently, stepped to the straight-backed chair, and sat down. For a moment he studied the girl and then, hands still in pockets, he stretched out his legs and studied the polished wing-tips of his oxfords.

  “Bacon and some of those fellows have got the idea that I’m a square shooter and on the level with them. Maybe they’re funny that way, but I think they sort of like me. And this is the first time I’ve ever double-crossed them.”

  Joyce Archer said: “Oh.”

  Murdock stood up. “Yeh. So you either stay here and do as I say—until tonight—or you call headquarters and tell them your story. I’ll try and pacify Bacon while I’ve still got a chance.”

  “I’ll do it your way,” Joyce Archer said and smiled at him. “But I’m not hungry.”

  Murdock grinned and moved over to a hall closet, got out a brown felt and a brown tweed topcoat. Tossing them on a chair-back, he went into the bathroom and a moment later Joyce heard him say:

  “What do I do with ’em? Wring ’em out or what?”

  She laughed and got out of the chair. The bathrobe nearly fell off, did slip from the shoulders. She snatch
ed it back, tightened the belt, and went into the bathroom. Five minutes later Murdock had a newspaper-wrapped bundle under his arm.

  “I was going to have breakfast with you,” he said, stopping near the door and taking his little camera from the larger case. “But if you must be difficult about it—”

  “I’d like it,” Joyce Archer said quickly.

  “It’s too late,” Murdock said. “My second thought is better. I’ll get rid of this junk”—he tapped the bundle—“and get down to work.” He turned the door-knob.

  “I’ll have some orange juice and toast and coffee sent up from the corner drug-store—and a sandwich for this noon. What do you like? Chicken? Ham and cheese?”

  “With tomato.”

  “And I’ll pay for it,” Murdock added crisply, “so when the stuff comes you can tell the boy to leave it outside the door. Don’t open up until he leaves.”

  8

  DETECTIVE MAHADY WAS on duty in the lobby when Murdock stepped from the elevator. He nodded to the desk clerk, angled round a potted palm and a stone urn, stopped in front of the detective, a sour-looking man with an expression of acute displeasure.

  “Bacon still up there?”

  “No. Only I got to stay and watch for that dame.”

  “Nothing new?”

  “How would I know?” muttered Mahady. “I’m just one of the boys.”

  Murdock said: “Tough,” and slapped through the revolving door, turned left under the marquee, with a “Good morning” to the doorman.

  The early autumn morning was fresh, crisp under a bright new sun that had thrown off daylight’s muddy screen. Murdock breathed deeply without knowing it and lengthened his stride. He waved a hand at the traffic officer on the Avenue, continued on to Newbury Street, and turned into the drug-store. He ordered tomato juice and coffee, drank unhurriedly, then gave the order for Joyce Archer and paid for it.

  The tailor-shop he sought was near by, a one-room, second-floor shop. Murdock climbed through a dusty-smelling half-light, his feet clicking sharply on the narrow wooden stairs, worn in smooth hollows by a generation or more of use.