Murder with Pictures

by George Harmon Coxe

  “We’re letting him out on bail. We worked him over a bit, but it didn’t add up to anything. That girl that was passed out was the one all right. Her story’s the same as his: he was supposed to call for her. And anyway he’s nothing but a cheap punk. He never was a killer and I can’t find any motive. Right now we can’t score any runs with him, and we can always pick him up if we want him.”

  Bacon rubbed the side of his nose with a bony index finger, pulled at a thick gold chain until a thick gold watch came into view. “We’re waiting for Archer—and Girard. I said I’d give you a break. You can sit in.”

  The uniformed policeman on duty in the anteroom opened the door as though Bacon’s speech was a prearranged signal. Nodding his head briefly, Bacon moved aside and Howard Archer stepped across the threshold, stopped there, and surveyed the room with cold blue eyes and a distasteful expression.

  Murdock stood up, said: “Hello, Archer,” and pushed his camera along to the other end of the table, picked up his plate-case, and moved it beside the chair which was farthest from Bacon.

  Archer nodded and the Lieutenant said: “Sit down, Mr. Archer—over here.” He indicated the chair Murdock had left. Howard Archer strode forward. Keogh moved his chair so that he could lean back against the wall, and propped himself there, his feet dangling.

  Archer sat down, frowned, and said: “Well,” with a bored, patronizing inflection.

  “You had a fight with Redfield last night,” Bacon said.

  “An argument,” Archer corrected coldly.

  “I heard different,” Bacon said, “but let it pass. Anyway, you made a threat.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And the fi—the argument was over Mrs. Redfield. It’s true, isn’t it, that you’ve been pretty friendly?”

  “I’ve known her for years.”

  “But more so than ever lately, particularly while Redfield was busy with Girard’s trial. Maybe more than friendly.”

  Archer’s thin, tanned face flushed and his blue eyes were hostile and narrowed. “I resent that remark and I resent your attitude.”

  “That’s too bad,” said Bacon, unperturbed. “But maybe you’ve forgotten that this is a murder case we’re talking about. I want information and I’m going to get it. We’re not going to bulldoze you or high-pressure you.” He waved his hand to indicate the room at large. “There’s no stenographer. If you want to get your lawyer, that’s all right with me. But if I were you, I’d take it easy and try and help us out. We’re making no formal charge, and we’re not going to arrest you—yet. We may have to if you hold us up.”

  Archer stroked his blond mustache and waited, his eyes still hostile, disdainful.

  Bacon went on in the same level tones. “In fact,” he added, as though there had been no interruption, “I believe you considered the idea of running off with Mrs. Redfield.”

  Archer colored, snapped: “Have you talked with her?” Bacon nodded and Archer added: “Then why bother asking me about it? I’ve been friendly, yes. To be exact, I’m in love with her. She was practically forced into marrying Redfield, and she was sick of her bargain. Redfield was drunk last night, and he ended by making a scene. I left at about three o’clock.”

  “With your sister.”

  Archer hesitated uncertainly, then finally said: “Yes, with my sister.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “She go home with you?”

  “Certainly.” This sharply.

  “Then,” said Bacon wearily, “how come we find your car parked round the corner from Redfield’s place at six-thirty this morning?”

  “I left it there,” Archer said, and Murdock, watching closely, thought that Archer lied very well and very promptly. He liked him for that, the first time he had ever liked anything about him at all.

  “But you didn’t drive it away.”

  “I forgot I left it there. I was thinking about other things.”

  “Then you came to the apartment house and went upstairs. What happened then?”

  “I tried the door and it was locked, so—”

  “So you sneaked out the back way,” Bacon cut in dryly. “You must have or the operator would have seen you come out.”

  Archer took a deep breath, made an obvious effort to control his annoyance. “All right,” he said. “You seem to know more than I thought.”

  “We have to,” Bacon said.

  “I came back,” Archer lipped, “to see Ri—Mrs. Redfield, and to have it out with Mark then and there if necessary. I had been waiting for the chance to tell him how she and I felt about each other. We could have gone away together, but I preferred to tell him first. I was angry enough to want to do it last night and have it over.

  “I came through the lobby and the operator looked as if he was asleep. I went upstairs and pressed the buzzer. When no one answered, I went in. I found Redfield dead in the library, found Rita in the bedroom. I couldn’t rouse her. I didn’t have any alternative; I had to get away.

  “But I remembered the boy in the lobby. I thought if he was asleep I’d be a fool to take a chance of his waking when I went out. I knew if I was seen I’d be implicated. So I went downstairs and out the back way.”

  “What time did you come back?” Bacon asked.

  “About four-fifteen, I think, but I’m not sure exactly.”

  Murdock had opened his plate-case and camera. As Archer answered, he screwed a flash-bulb into his synchronized flash-gun, adjusted the shutter and focus. When he put the camera to his shoulder and glanced through the metal frame of the finder, he saw Bacon’s eyes shift to him. But for once Murdock was getting one-hundred-percent co-operation from the police. The Lieutenant gave no sign that he saw anything out of the ordinary and, glancing at Archer, said:

  “All right. Thanks very much. You’d better plan to remain in town for a few days; we may need you again.”

  Archer smiled and stood up. As he turned, Murdock pressed the button, and the flash-bulb exploded light into the room. Archer’s facial reaction was instantaneous. Anger flooded his cheeks, and he opened his mouth, closed it, finally spoke contemptuously.

  “That’s just about the sort of cheap trick I’d expect of you, Murdock.”

  Red spots jumped out on Murdock’s cheek-bones. It was the one thing about the job he hated—having to take this sort of thing from fellows like Archer. He reversed his plate-holder to give himself something to do while he got control of his voice; then he said:

  “Would you have given me the shot if I’d asked for it?”

  “I should say not.”

  “That’s what I thought.” Murdock placed the camera on the table. “And it’s my job to take pictures. So for fellows like you who have an exaggerated idea of the importance of their privacy, I get them the best way I can.”

  When Archer went out, Keogh spat out a curse and bounced the front legs of his chair down on the floor. “I hate guys like that. Smart. Throwin’ that high-hat stuff around.” He glared at Bacon. “You were too easy on him. A couple slaps in the mouth would soften him up a bit.”

  “Sure,” Bacon said, sucking his lips. “And then I’d wake up out in the sticks and you’d be back in uniform. You can get rough sometimes; sometimes you can’t—and you do too much thinking with your mouth. Damn it! I don’t even dare hold him but—”

  “He looks good to me,” Keogh snorted, “next to Cusick. If I was going to make a choice between them I’d have to toss a coin. His story’s screwy. Going out the back way. Hell! He was nuts about Redfield’s wife and he came back looking for trouble.”

  Murdock’s resentment still smoldered from Archer’s attitude. But he thought of something in the man’s favor and he spoke his mind.

  “Don’t forget about the telephone flash from Redfield’s apartment at five after four. Archer didn’t come in till fifteen after, the kid downstairs told you that.”

  “It can be figured,” Bacon said, and scratched behind his ear. “
If he went out the back way, he coulda come in that way before.” He twisted in the chair, drummed the table-top with finger-tips. “It’s his sister that’s got me worried. A woman can pull a trigger and—”

  “I doubt like hell,” Murdock sniffed, “if she could bust Redfield’s finger like that.”

  Bacon looked up quickly, caught Murdock’s sardonic gaze. He took a deep breath, blew it out resignedly, seemed about to speak when a knock sounded on the door and Nate Girard came into the room followed by two well-dressed, somber-faced men. One was tall, slightly stooped; the other, thickset and swarthy. The eyes of both were the same: alert, hard, a bit cruel as they swiveled about the room.

  Keogh said: “Well, well,” sarcastically; “you got your cowboys back again, huh?”

  “I’m going to keep them,” Girard said, “until you fellows get on your jobs and round up Sam Cusick.”

  “Yeah?” Keogh said. “Well, leave ’em outside, you won’t need ’em here.”

  “If that’s a promise,” Girard said easily, “okay.” He turned to the two bodyguards and grinned. “You stay outside, boys; it seems the Sergeant objects to your company.”

  Nate Girard was an unusual figure, both in personality and in matter of record. It would have been difficult to convince the average man that during prohibition he was the most successful operator in the illicit liquor traffic in that part of the country. And this difficulty was not hard to understand. Girard had nothing in common with the run-of-the-mill bootlegger except the nature of his business.

  Physically he was a handsome, striking figure, a man who dressed like a banker and whose conversation, manners, and general conduct—when necessary and advisable—were above reproach. In addition he was shrewd, intelligent, well-educated—probably the only college graduate in his line of business.

  Even his police record was innocuous enough. Until the recent murder charge, resulting in his acquittal, he had just two counts against him, both technical liquor charges and both settled with fines. In the past ten years of his operations he had never been accused of murder or hijacking. Perhaps the strangest thing of all was that, among those who had business dealings with him, he had a reputation for honesty, a business word that was scrupulously kept.

  During the recent trial reporters had scoured every available source to uncover facts about his personal life and habits. Always the sort of personality that makes news, he had received much publicity in the past, not all of it unfavorable. But his private life was cloudy, kept under cover. Just one new side of him came to light, unearthed by a sob sister on the Courier. As a human interest yarn, the story had everything: Girard the philanthropist.

  And he had not been cheap or flashy about it either. He did not scatter nickels to poor children nor get his picture taken delivering Christmas baskets to the needy; but he had, for several years, kept a dozen families on his payroll, sending them a weekly check to pay for their food and shelter. There was no ulterior motive or obligation, no grandstanding about it; Girard did this for the satisfaction and enjoyment it gave him.

  Murdock thought of all this as he studied the man and watched him move up alongside the table and sit down in the same chair Archer had used.

  “Well”—Girard smiled at Murdock, glanced at Keogh, turned back to Bacon—“let’s get on with the inquisition.”

  The Lieutenant leaned back, his gray eyes thoughtful. “Where were you last night between three-thirty and five? That’s all the inquisition there is.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want to know. You’ve read the afternoon papers.”

  “In other words, you want to know if I have an alibi.” Girard rubbed his clipped mustache with his thumb. “Well, fortunately I’ve got one. Unfortunately I’m not at liberty to disclose it.”

  “There are ways of making you tell it,” Bacon said sharply. Girard did not answer, and the Lieutenant went on: “Understand, I’m not saying you killed Redfield, but—”

  “There’s no reason why I should.”

  “There could have been.”

  “What is it?”

  “You paid Redfield twenty-five thousand when he took the case; you gave him the other half yesterday. Luckily for you, we found that twenty-five in his apartment safe or there might have been a reason. But we don’t pretend to know everything. You—anyone at that party might’ve had plenty of reason for putting him away. We suspect everybody. I want to know where you were after three-thirty. The man we sent to check on you found you at your place at six o’clock. Did anyone see you come in?”

  “No.”

  “When did you get there?”

  “I don’t believe I want to tell that now, either,” Girard said calmly. “Not until I find out whether I’ve got to tell the rest of the story. It involves a woman and—”

  “Utsnay!” snapped Keogh irritably. “We’ve heard that one before. You got an alibi. Then spill it. We’ve made tougher guys than you talk.”

  Girard was unimpressed. “Maybe. But I don’t have to tell you here, and you know it. If you want to make a pinch, I’ll get hold of a lawyer and—”

  “And you won’t have Redfield to spring you, either.”

  “—and find out where we stand,” Girard finished, ignoring Keogh’s interruption. “I can tell if I have to, but if you make me and can’t justify your arrest—”

  “When did you hire those bodyguards?” Bacon said, giving Keogh an angry sidewise glance.

  “This morning.”

  “Why?”

  “I told you. Cusick and his brother tried to take me for twenty thousand and they got four years. Redfield and I put them away—Redfield because he was really working for me, although the D.A. prosecuted. I didn’t kill Joe Cusick and—”

  “You were acquitted anyway,” Keogh leered.

  Girard’s profile was sharp against the light from the windows, and Murdock saw the jaw stick out, saw the neck redden and bulge with anger that could no longer be controlled. Girard stood up, walked to the door, opened it, and looked out. Closing it softly, he came back and stood spread-legged, looking down at Bacon. Finally he took out a cigar, bit it once or twice, and sat down.

  “No dictograph hooked up here?”

  Bacon shook his head, his thin face puzzled, wary.

  Girard grabbed his chair, spun it about, and straddled it as he sat down, turning slightly so he could see all three men. He crossed his forearms on the chair-back, leaned on them.

  “Here’s something I never told anybody,” he said and it was apparent that he was still angry. “I couldn’t tell it until last year, and I’ve had no reason to make any confidences since. But you fellows are beginning to wear me down and”—he glanced at Bacon. “Oh, you’re all right. I know you’ve got a job to do, and you’re a good copper in your way. If there were more like you it would be different. But this one”—he jerked a thumb at the scowling Keogh without looking at him—“is just a tough mug that with a little different break in environment or circumstances would’ve made a first-class thug. And—”

  Keogh came to his feet with a bound. “Listen, you I” he grated.

  Girard untangled his arms and stood up. “I’m listenin’, smarty,” he said, and he said it insultingly.

  Keogh cursed and his quick temper got the best of him. He struck out with his left. Girard either moved with astonishing speed or he anticipated the blow. In any case he took it on hunched jaw, rolled with it and crossed his right, a clean hard smash that landed on Keogh’s cheek-bone.

  Girard’s punch had timing and power. Keogh bounced back against the wall and sat down. Sheer surprise kept him there a moment; then he was up, eager to continue.

  Bacon yelled: “Lay off!” and jumping in front of the Sergeant, jammed him down on his chair.

  Keogh started to struggle, stopped suddenly as he realized whom he was struggling with. Bacon sat down again and shook his head, his eyes exasperated as they met Murdock’s interested gaze.

  “Jesus!” he groaned, “do I get
co-operation?” He eyed Keogh wrathfully. “Sometimes I wonder why I put up with you.”

  “He can’t pull that stuff with me,” Keogh growled.

  Girard adjusted his cuffs, glanced at Murdock. “You were a witness if anybody wants to make anything of it.”

  “Take it easy,” Bacon begged. “Who wants to make anything out of it?”

  Girard, apparently unruffled now, folded his arms over the chair-back again. The cigar was crushed and broken now, but he did not seem to notice it; he chewed on it and began his story as though nothing had happened.

  “I was brought up on a farm in a part of the country where newspapers are a luxury. We were poor—poor as hell. But I had the luck to have a mother who had ideas. She talked college to me from the time I was old enough to walk four miles to the country school. And she didn’t know anything about college either. It was just an idea. She’d read something about it some place. She worked and slaved and saved her pennies and made me work out summers and bring every cent I made home to her. It got so I hated the idea of college, but her will was stronger than mine. Anyway, I went—to a cheap State affair. And I worked there, and she helped me. She couldn’t come to see me graduate because she didn’t have anything but house dresses. Maybe you can imagine how I felt when I got out. I was old enough then to realize, to appreciate, what she had done. And there was only one thing I wanted: to make some money and repay her. And what happened?”

  Girard broke off with a little grunt, chewed on his cigar. No one spoke, and when he continued, his voice was absent, its keynote a grim bitterness that was unmistakable.

  “I couldn’t get a job, that’s what happened.” He hesitated again and looked out the windows, then went on as though reliving that part of his life.

  “I was broke, and I couldn’t let her know. I washed dishes, and kept furnaces and mowed lawns for my room. I waited on table and ran elevators and mopped out offices; finally I got a job as helper on a truck. For over two years I had just enough cash to keep going. And then I began to get scared. She had taken ten years off her life working for me. I could tell from her letters she was tired out. And I couldn’t do anything about it. I was afraid I couldn’t get that money in time.”