Murdock had not been prepared for such frankness but he took it in stride. He grinned back at her, his dark eyes steady.
“You make it sound good,” he said, “but you’re oversimplifying, aren’t you?”
“How do you mean?”
“You say you had fun and nothing more, but divorces have been granted on less evidence than Tom Brady had in those two signature cards. Did Donald know Enders was with you all that time? Did his mother? If you had been sleeping with him, would you be likely to admit it?”
Her smile went away and her voice grew petulant. “If I didn’t know you I’d say this was a prelude to blackmail.”
“Then let me carry it a step further.” Murdock pushed his glass aside. “Because George was a friend of mine I happen to know a little about his father’s will. As you know, he made bequests to all three sons but he showed a lot of favoritism, maybe because George was the one who really put the family business on its feet. George was the one who saw the possibilities of this do-it-yourself movement and he climbed aboard by converting about half the production from the heavy power tools Alderson had always made to smaller and less expensive merchandise.
“Whatever the reason, Donald was left twenty-five thousand outright and Jerry got the same. George got a hundred and fifty thousand. The rest of it went to Harriett, in trust for the sons, but still with some power of veto, so with George gone Donald and Jerry stand to split the remainder—if they keep on the right side of Harriett. That much I know,” he said. “And now I’m going to guess. You can stop me if I’m wrong, but I don’t think there’s much left between you and Donald.… Was there ever?” he asked when she hesitated.
“Yes. There might still be if Donald ever asserted himself and got out from under his mother’s thumb. I married him because I thought I loved him, and for a while we were happy. I know that. I’m not going to tell you that I didn’t know that he came from a well-to-do family or that money didn’t influence me because it wouldn’t be true. I had to marry a man with means. My parents knew it and I knew it.”
She hesitated while she drew a circle on the table with the bottom of her glass. “Luckily I was the only daughter and what money we had for clothes went to me. We had the social position and the name in our town, and all the time I was growing up and going to the right schools the house was falling apart inside because my father was an incompetent gentleman. If I told you how many times I was the belle of the ball at college proms you wouldn’t believe me, and then all of a sudden I discovered it was getting very late. I was twenty-seven when I married Don. I never regretted it, though I must admit that your guess about the present arrangement is close. There’s not much left. He’s afraid of his mother. For myself, I’m getting tired of a semi-platonic marriage. I want something more; I’m still not too old to have a family.” She glanced up. “But my tastes are much too expensive to chuck it all now.”
“What about Enders?”
“What about him? I like him. He has a way of treating women that is flattering. But he tried it with two wives without much success and I’m not sure I could do any better. I’m not in love with him, if that’s what you mean. At least not now.”
“You’re going to stay with Donald until he gets his half of the estate,” Murdock said, “and that’s what makes those hotel cards important.”
“Look,” she said, her exasperation showing. “I don’t follow you, but if there’s going to be much of this I’d like another drink, please.”
Murdock said he was sorry and caught the waiter’s eye.
“Just what is it you’re after?” she said when the man withdrew.
“A motive for murder.”
“And you think I have one?”
“Well, what happens if Donald decides your stay with Enders was something more than fun and games? What if his mother says it’s time for a divorce?”
She watched the waiter put down the drinks. “I suppose things might get rather sticky.”
“You’d hardly be in a position to do much bargaining.”
“Bargaining?”
“About alimony, or a settlement.”
“I wouldn’t know about that.”
Murdock realized that there was not much more he could say. At the moment he did not think she had killed Brady, but he wanted to do something to jar her complacency.
“The police know that a woman was looking for Brady’s office about the time he was killed,” he said.
He watched the trim brows climb, but nothing changed in her manner or in her voice.
“Oh?”
“She was wearing a camel’s-hair coat.”
She glanced down at her own coat. “I’m afraid this is as close as I can come to camel’s-hair,” she said.
“A tallish woman.”
“Well, that much applies.”
“You haven’t any alibi, and neither has Enders. I wonder how much he’d stand to lose if Harriett decided to change lawyers.”
He put his glass down as he spoke and now he saw her glance fix beyond him and quickly brighten with a smile. “Why don’t you ask him?” she said. “Hello, Arthur. We were just talking about you.”
By the time Murdock looked round Arthur Enders had come to a stop beside him, and now he rose and said hello. He asked if Enders would join them and what would he have. Enders had never been more gracious. He was wearing a flannel suit that was a shade lighter than navy, a white Oxford shirt and a regimental-striped tie. His graying hair had been carefully combed, his voice was friendly and his tanned face wore his smile well. Only the eyes seemed wary as he said Scotch would do very nicely.
“Black Label,” he said to the waiter. “With Perrier, if you please.”
“Kent is looking for motives for murder,” Gloria said. “He was just asking about you.”
“Really?” said Enders, sounding as though he could not care less. “Did he make any accusations?”
“He says that Mr. Brady found out we were at the same hotel at the same time,” she said, and then she was repeating some of the things Murdock had told her.
Enders listened politely as he sipped his drink. For the most part he gave his attention to the woman, and when he did look at Murdock he seemed at ease, hanging on to his smile in spite of the calculating glint in his eyes.
“I wouldn’t worry about it,” he said when she finished. “Harriett’s a practical woman.… Though I admit your information has some nuisance value,” he said to Murdock. “Was there anything else?”
Murdock had already signaled for the check and now he put a bill on the tray. He knew there was no point in continuing to talk to Enders and he wondered if Gloria had telephoned the lawyer to inform him of this appointment. He had an idea Enders’s appearance was planned and now, as he pushed back his chair and made his excuses, he recalled some of the things Frank Kirby had said about the lawyer’s financial status.
Seeing him now and remembering his background and training, he did not look like a candidate for murder and yet the motive was there. For the management of the Alderson estate must provide a tidy income; in addition Enders had been appointed administrator of George Alderson’s estate when it was discovered that George had died intestate. Enders would make his accounting shortly and he alone would say how much would be left for Rita. It was pointless now to speculate as to the possibility of Enders using funds that were not his own, but it seemed to Murdock that such a man might kill if his way of fife was about to be destroyed and his future ruined. Now, as he stood up, Enders rose with him.
“This information of yours,” he said. “Is it something that you got from Brady?”
“Indirectly.”
“The police have the same information?”
“I doubt it.”
“But you propose to tell them.”
“I don’t know,” Murdock said, and at the moment this was the truth.
Then, deciding that he had no obligation to amplify the statement, he nodded to Gloria and heard her thank him for the
drinks. As he glanced back from the doorway he saw that Enders was still on his feet.
13
IT WAS nearly six thirty when Murdock walked into the lobby of the Clay Hotel and angled toward the house telephones. Barry Denham answered almost at once, telling him to come up, and a minute or so later Murdock was in a fourth-floor room that had a disordered look and smelled strongly of shaving lotion and toilet water.
Denham was clad in light-gray slacks and a blue shirt. His head was wet and shiny, and as Murdock closed the door Denham stood in front of a mirror and began the ritual of combing the long black hair. This took quite a while and was done with great care, Denham’s big body hunched a little so he could see what he was doing, his head turned slightly from side to side as the proper effect was achieved.
“What’s new?” he said. “Throw that towel into the bathroom and sit down. Give me a minute and I’ll buy a drink.”
Murdock picked up the wadded bath towel and tossed it through the open door. He sat down on the chair, unbuttoning his jacket and reaching for his cigarettes, fascinated now by Denham’s technique and watching him put the comb down and begin to work on the sides of his head above the close-set ears with delicate strokes of the brush.
“You want to get a couple of glasses?” he said.
“I’ll get one for you,” Murdock said.
“What’s the matter,” Denham said, still studying himself. “You on the wagon or something?”
Murdock brought a glass from the bathroom. He said he had just finished two drinks and that was enough for now.
“I was talking to your sister this afternoon,” he said.
“Yeah? What about?”
“I’ve been trying to find out what Tom Brady was doing in California and why he was interested in two birth certificates. I thought maybe she might know one of the names.”
“What names?”
“Ruth Colby and Benjamin Danton.”
“Did she?”
“No.”
“Neither do I.” Denham, satisfied at last with his handiwork, put down the brush and took a bottle of Bourbon from a drawer. “Sure you won’t change your mind?” he said and poured his drink.
“Did you see much of Rita out there?” Murdock asked.
“Not the past few years. I left home before she did. We kept in touch. You know, maybe I’d get a letter once or twice a year. She got herself married to some crumb and had to get rid of him and I was drifting around here and there.”
“Were you always an actor?”
“Hell, no.” Denham grinned and tasted the whisky. “I was in the army and worked in an aircraft factory for a while. But I was going with this girl, see, and she was a dancer. We used to go to the Palladium two or three times a week and she kept telling me how wonderful I was and why didn’t I take it up seriously. Well, she had a friend who was a teacher; you know, had a studio, and she wouldn’t give up until I went to see him.”
He chuckled and reached for a necktie that reminded Murdock of a bouquet of spring flowers.
“And you know something,” he said. “She was right. I was pretty good. Inside of six months I was getting a little work in the studios. You know, sort of a chorus boy in musicals; things like that. And brother, they’ve got some real cute numbers out there too. I didn’t get interested in the acting part until later. A dress extra first and then a bit here and there. I was in Mexico with a company when Rita wrote and told me about her husband. She said this neck of the woods was lousy with summer theaters, so why didn’t I come and see what I could do.”
“You haven’t found anything, have you?”
“Not definite.”
“Have you looked?”
Denham turned from the mirror, brows bunching. “What do you mean by that?”
“Brady hired Frank Kirby to keep an eye on you. Kirby says you’ve been too busy at the track to look for a job.”
“Wait a minute.” Denham’s mouth tightened and the little mustache seemed to spread. “You mean Kirby’s been tailin’ me?”
“Part of the time.”
“What the hell for?”
Murdock gestured with one hand. He said he did not know. He said he was not sure Brady had told Kirby why he wanted Denham followed.
“Kirby says someone else has been keeping an eye on you,” he said.
“Who?”
“Jerry Alderson.” Murdock waited. So did Denham, his eyes mean. “I think he’s in love with your sister,” Murdock said.
Denham turned away and suddenly his voice was indifferent.
“Seems like a nice guy,” he said, and went over to pick up his jacket which lay on the bed.
“But you don’t know any reason why Brady should want you followed?”
Denham put on his coat, which was a brown tweed with a flashy pattern and padded shoulders. When he had fixed the handkerchief in the breast pocket the way he wanted it he said:
“Do you?”
“All I know is that you come from California and that Brady was in California. He must have found out something about you that interested him—or Mrs. Alderson—or he wouldn’t have called long distance to hire Kirby. Just how much Kirby knows I’m not sure.”
“That makes us even.” Denham went over to the chest to take the last swallow of whisky and then glanced at his watch. “Sorry, pal,” he said, “but I’ve got to get going.”
Kent Murdock ate his dinner in the downstairs grill—lamb chops, a baked potato, and a green salad—not because he particularly liked the place but because it was handy. When he sat down he did not think he was hungry but an extra-dry martini helped and he ate everything. It was while he was having coffee that he began to think about Walt Carey, and when he left the hotel he did not bother to telephone but drove directly to the hospital.
Carey was sitting up in bed, scowling unhappily and looking strangely out of place in the white hospital jacket. His face had a scrubbed look and his graying hair was neatly combed and the reason for his current state of melancholia became at once apparent when he saw Murdock.
“My God, am I glad to see you,” he said. “You haven’t got a drink on you, have you?”
Murdock laughed aloud and pulled a chair up to the bed. “No,” he said. “How do you feel?”
“Terrible.”
“Does your head ache?”
“No. Not now. It ain’t that. I just need a drink.… Look,” he said, his glance scheming and his voice a conspirator’s whisper. “You could go out and sneak me in a pint, couldn’t you?”
“No.”
“A half pint?” Hopefully.
“What’s the doctor say? He could prescribe a drink.”
Carey’s opinion of the doctor was profane and somewhat lengthy.
“He says I can go home tomorrow and if I want to drink then it’s okay with him, but while he’s responsible for me, no drink.”
Murdock chuckled again because he could not help it, and Carey bristled.
“What’s so damn funny?”
“You are. I can’t get used to seeing you without that silly cap.”
“Yeah,” said Carey. “The Doc says if it hadn’t been for that silly cap I could’ve got a cracked skull.… Say, I’m sorry about the films.”
“Forget it,” Murdock said. “Did you get a look at the guy? How did it happen?”
The story Carey told was simple enough, his own part in the action completely understandable to anyone who knew him. For over the years Carey had demonstrated a courage that often approached the foolhardy, and he was particularly resentful of anyone who interfered with his work or attempted to meddle with his camera or equipment. That he was on the small side physically had never made any difference. Now he said that he had seen the man who had slugged him.
“You know there’s not much light in that printing room and I don’t think I ever saw him before, but if they’ve got a halfway decent mug shot of him down at Headquarters I can pick it out.… A big guy,” he said. “Sort of blond with a broad fac
e and big ears.”
“Where was he?”
“I was coming out with the films and I saw him standing there in the outer room as I came along the hall. I didn’t pay any attention to him, thought he might be waiting for someone. Before I knew it he was right behind me. I shifted the film clips to my left hand, between the fingers, and asked him what he wanted.
“He said,” ‘Are those the pictures you brought back from Kelleher’s?’ and I said, ‘Yeah. Why?’ ‘I’ll take ’em,’ he said, and I said, ‘Like hell you will.’
“I told him to shove off and not bother me and he reached for the films. When I saw he meant it I swung at him. Hit him pretty good too, but a little high, and he had a head like a rock. He had me by the wrist then, the one that had the films, and all I could do was swing again and I think he must have spun me around. But I don’t know. I don’t remember a thing. Not getting hit, not anything until I wake up here in the sack with a headache.”
Murdock thought it over, his hunch that the attempt had nothing to do with Brady’s murder confirmed. He asked if the police had been here to talk to Carey.
“Lieutenant Walsh was in,” Carey said. “I’m sorry about the films. If I hadn’t—”
“I said forget it,” Murdock said. “You never should have tried to take the fellow.”
“Hell, he probably would have slugged me anyway,” Carey said. “He couldn’t just walk out with them, could he? I’d be tagging along and screaming my head off, wouldn’t I? And anyway those aren’t the films I meant. I mean the ones you told me to put in the envelope when they were dry.”
Murdock sat up slowly, his dark gaze suddenly intent and his interest quickening as his mind began to race.
“What about them?”
“Nothing, except I didn’t get a chance to do what you said. Right after you went out this call came about the holdup in Cambridge and there wasn’t anybody else within five miles of the place. I had to go.”
Murder on Their Minds Page 11
