Murder with Pictures

by George Harmon Coxe

  He took off his sweat-stained felt, tried to put a new crease in it, and found the task impossible. Searching the pockets of his old herring-bone suit, he found a crumpled pack of cigarettes. There were three left and he took the one that looked the loosest, straightened it out, and lit it. He dropped into a chair, tilted it back, cocked his heels on the table, and let his eyes wander.

  There was a brown steel locker in the corner. He wondered what the hell it was for and quit wondering when he realized he didn’t give a damn. Murdock. Now, there was a guy with something on the ball. The only thing to do was to stick close to him. He was always running into something, and this Redfield thing—why, he’d even been on the party.

  The conviction grew without much assistance. Murdock got peeved and grouchy and he bawled a guy out sometimes; but he did not do it in a nasty way. And he’d give you a break if you were around. It would be better to stick with him, maybe even follow him around, than go back to the office and have Van Husan stick him on some Ladies’ Debating Society meeting. One good story was all he needed—just one good enough to make Van Husan push up that green eyeshade. A story like that would put him right.

  The thought grew, and the more he considered it, the more delightful it became. The prospect lulled his worries. He yawned and slipped farther down in the chair and pulled the hat down over his eyes. Only he ought to get more sleep nights.…

  “Come on, snap out of it! Hey!”

  Doane groaned, half fell out of the chair as he started to rise. Finally stumbling erect, he blinked into the grinning face of Tyler, the Courier’s regular police reporter.

  Doane said: “What?” stupidly.

  “You gotta cut out the snorin’,” Tyler said, going back to the other room, “you’re spoiling the game. We can’t concentrate.”

  Doane looked out the window, and a sudden chill settled over him, brought with it the weakness of dismay. It was still light out, but it was getting darker; the gloom within the room was thick. Then the return of the thought which had put him to sleep jerked him to sudden action. He slid into the corridor and ran down its length, heels rapping on the tiled flooring, coat-tails flying. At the little information desk just inside the entrance, he flung to the uniformed policeman on duty:

  “You see Kent Murdock? He come out yet?”

  “Murdock?” The policeman scowled. “Sure. He left about fifteen-twenty minutes ago.”

  Doane groaned and his spirits collapsed. He went down the steps and out into the cool shadows of late afternoon, walked down to Boylston Street, and found a public telephone. He counted his change, finally dropped the nickel into the slot with the grudging, desperate manner of a man spending his last penny.

  The Courier-Herald operator informed him Murdock had been there and left, and Doane set out in the direction of Murdock’s apartment, a stocky figure tramping sightlessly down the street, his head down, oblivious of the bustle and rush of the home-going crowds.

  He approached Embankment Arms from the opposite side of the street and stopped there on the curb to light a cigarette and reconsider. As he tossed aside the match, a taxi pulled up in front of the marquee, and the doorman opened the door.

  Doane was half-way across the street before he recognized the smaller of the two men who started through the revolving doors. The effect of this recognition was instantaneous, breath-taking. He stopped motionless and rigid in the middle of the pavement, trying to conquer the panicky excitement which gripped him. Uncertainty held him there until the driver of a speeding taxi which ticked his coat-tails as it passed told him to get out of the street with concise and explicit profanity.

  “Boy!” breathed Doane as he gained the safety of the curb, “Sam Cusick!”

  Murdock remained motionless, a tight fixed smile on his lips, until Cusick gained the center of the room; then he moved forward.

  Hymie continued to lean against the door, and Murdock gave him a quick, searching glance. The glance was sufficient to show the type. A squarish face given over almost entirely to jaw; a flattened nose, and ears that were bent; long arms and a practiced scowl, as though the fellow had learned the routine in the wrestling ring.

  Cusick’s lips twitched in what might have been his conception of a grin. “You see the papers?” Murdock did not answer, but he nodded his head. Cusick bent down and picked up the copy which had been cast aside. “ ‘It had been definitely established’,” he leered, “ ‘that Cusick was at the scene of the crime in the early hours of the morning’.”

  He threw the paper from him. “Now,” he said grimly, “I wonder how they found that out.”

  Murdock picked his coat and hat from the davenport. Moving diagonally in front of Cusick and ignoring the man, he opened the jade box, took out a cigarette. He flung the coat on the chair arm, still clung to the hat. The movement seemed to anger Cusick.

  “I told you about that over the phone.”

  “I remember,” Murdock said, and struck flame to a match. He sat down on the chair arm on his coat before he lit the cigarette; he inhaled and blew out the match before he spoke. “But I’d already spilled the story and you know it.”

  “You went down to headquarters this afternoon, and you were there two hours. You didn’t go there to take pictures—not that long.”

  Murdock looked at the end of his cigarette, and his face was somber. He could not kid himself about Cusick. He might mean trouble and he might not. He would eventually if the police did not pick him up.

  He looked up at Cusick, spoke flatly. “Why don’t you get wise to yourself? You can’t run around loose forever. They’ll pick you up, and the longer you wait, the tougher it’ll be for you.”

  “It’ll be plenty tough anyway.” Cusick shifted his position, moving slightly away from the door. “I’m in a spot and I know it. They’re gonna try and hang this thing on me. There are two guys who know where I was last night. You’re one of ’em. I’m gonna treat you both alike. Know what I mean?”

  “Not exactly,” Murdock said.

  “With your experience you ought to. Without you two guys I’m clear. I can go down and take my licking for putting the slug on that dick this morning, but that’ll be all. So you’re not gonna talk. If you ever—”

  The knock on the door was startling, so loud it seemed to shake the room. An explosion of hushed silence followed. No one moved. It was as if in a second they had all been struck dumb and immobile. Then Cusick’s gun came out. Hymie sprang away from the door; a gruff voice called:

  “Open up in there!”

  Cusick, now standing about six feet from Murdock, recoiled into a quick crouch and the forty-five automatic bulked enormous in his skinny hand as it swung to cover the photographer.

  Murdock sensed the trend of the man’s reaction. The eyes squinted, widened, and again seemed to look in all directions at once as the irises dilated into whites. Cusick may not have come to kill, but the impulse, like that of a trapped animal, was there now, unmistakably, and Murdock knew it.

  He whipped out: “There’s a back door.”

  Hymie started for the inner hall. Cusick set himself with a shuffling movement of his feet and lipped: “Why, you bastard!”

  Murdock was too far away from the gun to hope to reach it. He did the only thing he could think of in that instant’s respite. He snapped the hat with a quick flip of the wrist, sailed it into Cusick’s face as the trigger finger tensed, then threw himself backwards into the chair.

  He did not see the hat strike, but he did see Cusick’s instinctive duck. The gun roared as he fell. He went clear over, struck the floor on the back of his neck, carrying the chair on top of him. He huddled there until he heard the pound of racing feet, the slam of the back door; then he pushed the chair aside, rolled to his knees, and stood up.

  The knock came again, sharply. Murdock moved to the door. His face was pallid, glistening with sweat; the hand trembled on the knob. And then, curiously enough, he remembered. The door was not locked. Why the hell—He jerked it open.r />
  Doane, white-faced and slack-jawed, stood in the hall. There was no one else, but Murdock had to step out and look down the corridor before he would believe it.

  He went back into the room and straightened the chair without saying a word. By the time he finished, the tremble had gone from his hands. He took out his handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his forehead.

  Doane looked just as scared as ever, and the sight of him relieved Murdock’s tension, brought a grudging smile to his lips. He said: “How come?” thickly.

  “I saw him come in,” Doane said huskily, and color began to seep into his round, youthful face. “I came up the stairs and found he’d stopped the elevator at this floor. I knew I wouldn’t have time to get the police and—well, hell, I had to do something.”

  “Yeh,” Murdock admitted, “and you sure as hell put the pressure on me. But you had an idea and the guts to try it. You were in there swinging, and that counts for plenty.” He went over and picked up his hat and coat. “Come on, I’ll buy a dinner.”

  Doane’s face cracked wide open in a grin. “With cocktails?”

  “And a liqueur.”

  “Hah!” Doane cried. Then as his face sobered: “But—I mean, how about the story? Couldn’t I make something out of it or—”

  “Call Van Husan when we get out,” Murdock said. “I don’t think he can fire you for this sort of thing.”

  Kent Murdock was reading when Joyce Archer came into the apartment at ten o’clock. A slim blond vision in a suit of brown herring-bone tweed, she stopped just inside the door, her hand on the knob. Murdock put down the magazine and stood up before he noticed the small black overnight case in her other hand.

  Surprise was in his lean face, and when the surprise subsided he became conscious of something else, a definite tingling of his skin and a certain warmth of body as though he were meeting an old friend. This feeling persisted until she drew closer and the light revealed her face more clearly.

  It was not make-up this time; it was a genuine flush. The lips were pressed into a thin line, and the eyes were smoky, as though to give warning of smoldering, hidden fires.

  She said, finally: “Can I stay here?” and her voice was jerky, low.

  Murdock’s warmth died away. His face got impassive and he said: “No,” a bit sharply, because he meant it.

  Joyce Archer paled and seemed to catch her breath, but her eyes met Murdock’s defiantly; she took a new hold on the overnight case and started past him. He took her arm, reaching down with the other hand to grasp the bag. When she let go of it he drew her over to the davenport, eased her down on it.

  “Tell me about it.”

  “There’s nothing to tell. I’m sick of my way of living.”

  “Maybe you are, but you can’t stay here and you know it. You’re too young to be carrying around that kind of a reputation.”

  “Reputation?” The word flared out. “Who cares about it? It’s mine, isn’t it?”

  Murdock moved to the mantelpiece, offered her the red-lacquered cigarette-box, held a light. The first inhale seemed to help her. Her words were less sharp. She had control now, but she went ahead with her idea.

  “What’s the matter with me? I’m as good-looking as the average; I’m supposed to have a reasonably good mind; I’m old enough to know what I want, and I’ve got nice legs.”

  “You’ve got a lot more than that, but there are some things you can’t waste.”

  “You mean you don’t like me well enough.”

  “I mean I’m married, for one thing, and—”

  “Oh. Then I’m the one doing the compromising.”

  The tone was contemptuous now and Murdock, stung by it, flushed darkly. He tried to go on, to speak reasonably.

  “You could at least be consistent. You’re not coming here like a girl offering herself on the altar of love.” The sarcasm crept in in spite of himself. “You came here with a grouch and you want me to—”

  “I came here because I liked you and the decent way you acted today. I thought I could get a little kindness and perhaps some understanding. I’m old enough to know what I’m doing, what I want.”

  “What did they do to you at headquarters?” he digressed.

  “Nothing. They were courteous and—it’s not that. I want a friend, that’s all. It’s been a long time since I’ve had one, and no one can ask me to believe the world is kind and good to everyone. I’m not equipped for an idealist.”

  Murdock said: “Suppose I make a drink. Maybe you can be honest with me then. But whether you can or not, you can’t stay here this way.”

  He saw her color rise and he felt awkward before the hurt look in her eyes. He wanted to help, but he knew there was something behind the girl’s outburst, something that had possessed her temporarily and destroyed reason. He wanted her to stay, hated himself for it so that he became more determined than ever to make her see things as they were.

  He turned towards the kitchenette, but the knock came at the door before he had taken a step. Lifting the startled girl and her overnight case in one stooping movement, he swept her into the bedroom and closed the door.

  The knock sounded again as he went back to the wing chair. He settled himself, called: “Come in.”

  Howard Archer came into the room like a whirlwind, slammed the door, and stopped so quickly his coat curled around his legs. Unmistakable anger suffused his thin face, and he gave Murdock no chance to speak.

  “I suppose you know you’re a dirty swine, Murdock,” he lipped.

  “Yeh?” Murdock returned easily. “Sit down and tell me about it.”

  Archer ignored the invitation. He strode forward, glancing suspiciously about the room as he moved, and finally stopped directly in front of the chair.

  “Where’s my sister?” he growled.

  “Your sister?” It was the best Murdock could offer then, because he knew now why Joyce had come to him, why she had seemed so overwrought. An accepted sliver of bitterness followed on the heels of his disappointment. He had known she had not come on his account, but—

  “Your innocence amazes me,” leered Archer. “Well, I’ve come to get her.”

  “You’re taking a lot for granted,” Murdock said flatly, “and I’m not sure I like your tone.”

  Archer’s eyes fastened on the doorway to the inner hall. They swung to Murdock, back to the hall. He started forward. Murdock came out of the chair and intercepted him before he reached the doorway. Stubbornness rose within him. He had argued to make the girl leave, now he was arguing with her brother to prevent his taking her.

  He said: “Where did you get the idea you could break in this apartment and search it as you pleased?”

  Archer’s look was angry, contemptuous, so that his upper lip curled as he spoke.

  “I know what happened last night and this morning. That wasn’t enough, I suppose. You had to keep her here all day. And now, when we have a little quarrel, she runs to you like the spoiled kid she is, and you take her in.”

  Murdock kept silent with an effort. It was not his fight. He had to keep his head—accept this because Howard was her brother.

  “Well,” Archer went on, “that part doesn’t surprise me. It’s just the sort of thing you’re looking for, isn’t it? The sort of cheap rotten trick I could expect from a fellow with your background. A newspaper photographer.”

  The words were deliberately insulting and Murdock’s face went gray and stiff.

  “You’re the kind,” Archer flared, “that would take anything he could get and—”

  The bedroom door opened violently. Joyce Archer’s angry face appeared in the opening and her eyes were blazing.

  “Howard, you’re a beast! An obnoxious beast!”

  The effect of this was to rob Archer of further speech. Murdock just turned and stared at the girl for a moment, then a slow grin tugged at his lips.

  “I thought so,” Archer finally muttered, pulling himself together. He stepped towards her, seized her wrist roughl
y. “Well, young lady, you’re going home with me.”

  “I am not!” she tried to pull away.

  “Are you out of your head?”

  She set her lips.

  “I ought to whale hell out of you. You can’t do a thing like this and—”

  “I can’t? Why can’t I? I’m of age. If you can chase around after Rita Redfield—and behind her husband’s back—I can do the same thing. You wouldn’t listen to me; why should I listen to you? Who do you think you are to—”

  “That’s different,” fumed Archer.

  “It’s just that narrow, double-standard mind of yours.” Joyce Archer freed her wrist. She drew back into the doorway. Archer grunted savagely and grabbed for her again. At the same moment Murdock bumped against him, throwing him off balance. Then the door slammed, the lock clicked sharply.

  Archer turned on Murdock, started to speak, then grabbed the door-knob, jerked at it, pounding the panels with his fist. Joyce Archer’s muffled voice came through the panels.

  “Pound! Go ahead and pound! I’m here and I’m going to stay here until you get some of the sense you think I ought to have.”

  Archer began to curse softly and continued to tug at the door until Murdock grabbed him, spun him about. In the shadows of the hall the two men faced each other, Archer furious, breathing hard; Murdock calm, cold.

  “I don’t believe I like you, Archer,” he said, and there was an enigmatic menace in the metallic ring of his words. “I don’t think I ever liked you. And right now you’re intruding. Your sister seems to have something of the same idea, so it goes for both of us.”

  “I—” sputtered Archer.

  “Or if you want it in plain American,” Murdock interrupted, “beat it!”

  Archer met his gaze for a moment, finally turned stiffly away and went into the lighted living-room. By the time he reached the door, his voice was once more bitter, disdainful.

  “If you think you can get away with this, you’re mistaken. I’ll be back with the police. She’d better not be here when—”