Yet it seemed to him now that to telephone the police and tell the truth would be equally stupid, all things considered, and what actually stopped him was the missing bottle of Scotch. With the drugged whisky here as evidence he had a story to tell; with it gone he had no chance, for in the eyes of the police the answer would be a drunken party which had ended in a fight and murder, a common occurrence to any homicide man or medical examiner.
The setup was perfect for such a case, and he realized that even in Boston where he had friends in the department it would be a story he would not dare to tell. Not now. Not until he knew where he stood.
Killers had been convicted on less evidence, men and women being what they were when drunk, and he knew there was only one thing to do. Get out. Then, with time to think things over and pull himself together, he could come back, discover the body, and prepare himself for the official investigation.
He looked at his watch and found it had stopped. He set it with the electric desk clock which pointed to 7:10, glanced about once more, and opened the door. Then, about to swing it behind him, he reached out and grabbed it, aghast at what he had been about to do and suddenly weak all over.
He took a breath, swallowed, and moved trembling fingers along the edge of it until he found the lock. Deliberately, and making no mistake about it, he pressed the safety catch on the lock, trying the knob to make sure that he could get in again and be the one who discovered the body. He closed it softly and stepped across the foyer.
A truck went by as he opened the street door. Down at the corner a man was sweeping the sidewalk. When he was sure there was no one else in sight, Murdock slipped out and stepped briskly down the street in the opposite direction, turning left at the intersection.
At the next corner he bought a paper. A half block farther on he turned into a cheap restaurant, found an empty corner table, and ordered orange juice and coffee. When that stayed down he tried a cigarette and ordered more coffee. He took his time over it and made himself read the paper until eight o’clock because he did not want to return to the hotel until the lobby had a chance to fill up and resume its customary bustling air.
He left the taxi two blocks from the hotel entrance and walked the rest of the way, moving directly to the stairs leading to the mezzanine, which he had remembered as being quite close to the revolving doors.
From the mezzanine he reached the service stairs without attracting attention and climbed quickly to the eighth floor, passing no one but a maid who was busy stuffing soiled laundry into a hamper, and she did not even glance round. His luck held as he hurried through the eighth-floor corridor and he reached his room without seeing a soul. Then, breathing hard, he undressed with shaking hands.
He got out his pajamas and wrinkled them with his hands to make sure they would look as if they had been slept in. He took no chances with the bed, either, because he had worked with intelligent detectives too often to take any detail for granted—at least if he could help it. No mere stripping of the bed or casual mussing of the pillows would do now so he climbed in, pulled up the covers, and closed his eyes for a few minutes while he tried to remember each detail of the night before and his awakening.
When he got up a half hour later the bed really looked as if it had been slept in and then, unpacking his bag, he phoned room service and ordered breakfast. He had time to shave and take a cold shower before the waiter came; when he had signed the check he sat down and ate hungrily.
He felt better when he finished and, with a cigarette going, he searched his vest pockets and took out the slip of black paper he had found under Sheila’s coffee table, examining it again, knowing only too well that it had been pulled from a film pack and cast aside by someone with a camera.
Somewhere there was a picture of Murdock and Sheila Vincent on her studio couch, and right now he had no way of knowing whether it had been taken before or after she had been killed.
Sheila Vincent had her office on the second floor of a modernized three-story building that had a swank fur shop on the ground floor and no elevator. The shop was not yet open when Murdock arrived shortly after nine and he hesitated a moment, watching through the plate glass as a porter vacuumed a rug and wondering if he had come too early.
He stood there until the porter glanced up and saw him. Then he was staring at the porter and the porter was staring back, his mildly surprised expression turning finally to a scowl. Murdock grinned and held up one hand, thumb and forefinger forming a circle. The porter shrugged and went back to his vacuuming, and Murdock stepped into the adjacent doorway and climbed the stairs, knowing what he had to do.
“Hello,” Dale Jordan said, opening the door for him. “Did Sheila find her keys last night?”
Murdock walked through a small alcove into a sizable room where bright feminine curtains and chair covers did their best to offset the utilitarian plainness of the flat-topped desk, the typewriter desk, and the steel filing-cabinets in the corner. He said he did not think Sheila had found her keys, and Dale Jordan laughed and said, “I don’t know what’s the matter with her. She had them yesterday afternoon because—”
She stopped short, her glance centering on something beyond him. As he turned to see what it was she stepped past and reached for a desk drawer that was slightly open. She closed it, opened it again. She tried two more drawers, finding both unlocked.
“That’s funny,” she said. “I thought she locked them. She usually does.”
She frowned, tipping her head slightly so that one side of her bobbed hair, curled at the ends and getting long, brushed her shoulder. For a second longer she stood that way, her weight on one leg so her rounded hip was thrust laterally out of shape; then, as she shrugged and started to smile, Murdock remembered why he was here and reluctantly got down to business.
“Hasn’t she been in this morning?”
Dale said, “No,” and laughed. “She never gets up early.” She held her smile, watching him, and must have seen something that sobered her because she was suddenly thoughtful. “At least I don’t think so. I came in at nine and—”
“I had a date with her at the apartment,” Murdock said. “At nine. I rang the bell and nobody answered. I thought maybe she’d come here.” He paused, being deliberately thoughtful. “I wonder if you’d phone her for me.”
“Of course.”
Dale Jordan picked up the telephone and gave Sheila’s number, and as she waited Murdock had time to study approvingly her slenderness and the fresh smooth skin of her face. It made him wonder how one so apparently genuine could work for Sheila, and he was speculating on the subject when he saw that she was hanging up, her frown returning.
“That’s funny,” she said and pinched her lower lip.
Murdock said maybe he’d better go and try again. He said maybe he could find the janitor and get him to open the door. He started for the alcove, stopped, and went into his act.
“Would you go with me?” he asked. “I mean, she might be sick or something.”
“All right.”
Dale opened a closet and took out a gray tweed coat that matched the tailored suit she wore. She flipped her hair out from under her collar, shook it out, and picked up her bag. Murdock let her go out first and as he held the door he had a chance to fix the lock as he had done at Sheila’s—so he could get back in again.
The sun had not pried its way to sidewalk level on Sheila’s street but it was burnishing the building fronts on one side three floors up. A sprinkler had gone by, and part of the pavement was still wet, and down the street two other men were now sweeping the walks as Murdock helped Dale Jordan from the taxi and got himself in hand.
This thing he was about to do was, he knew, a lousy trick to play on a nice kid, and he felt properly guilty. He was, he told himself, strictly a heel but from what he had seen of the girl he knew she was not the hysterical sort and he could think of no other way quite so effective, or so apparently innocent.
“Oh,” Dale said in the foyer. “How are we
going to get in if—”
Murdock said he didn’t know. He said maybe Sheila would answer this time. “I hope I haven’t gotten you down here on a wild-goose chase,” he said as he rang the bell.
And then Dale Jordan demonstrated her practical talents by reaching for the knob and turning it. “Why—it’s open,” she said and started in.
He stayed with her, ready for anything, waiting for that first shock of reaction. Yet when it came he wasn’t quite prepared. He stopped just inside the doorway as the girl went on, his jaw sagging, dark eyes wide, seeing the room just as he had left it except for one thing—Sheila Vincent was no longer on the couch.
Dale Jordan went over to the Venetian blinds and tilted them so light spilled into the room. She turned, brows warping as she saw the dress on the chair. She moved on to examine the beige robe, the glasses on the coffee table, and it was obvious from her expression that she found unmistakable signs that the couch had been slept on.
“Maybe she’s got a hang-over,” she said and started through the doorway to an inner hall.
Murdock sighed softly. He swallowed and rearranged his face. He started after Dale Jordan.
She was in the bedroom, crossing to the bath. He followed, eyes prying and mouth tight, hearing the girl say she couldn’t understand it.
“I thought she had undressed in the living-room,” she said, “but the bed hasn’t been slept in—”
She was reaching for the closet door as she spoke and when she opened it she stiffened and screamed. Not loud. More of a terrified gasp than a scream, stepping back now, her hands pressed tight against her chalky cheeks.
Murdock reached her a second later, and one glance was enough to imprint upon his brain the grotesque angle of the slip-clad body propped against the back wall of the closet and half hidden by the dresses which hung in front of it. Then he was taking the girl’s shoulders in his hands, turning her, guiding her into the living-room, silencing the incoherent words that began to tumble from her lips.
“Take it easy, Dale,” he said. “I know—I’ll find out.” He eased her into a chair, gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “You sit here and wait till I get back, understand?”
He left her there and went back to the bedroom closet, ducking under the dresses so that he could move closer, trying to close off his mind against the grisly picture and think reasonably. The sash was still around the neck but loosened now, and when he saw the dust stains on the heels he knew that Sheila had not been carried here but dragged.
None of it made sense to him yet and he was about to back away when something white beneath the deep pink of the slip caught his eye.
Reaching for it, he found it an embroidered edge of cloth which, almost completely hidden, had been wedged beneath one hip. He pulled, and the cloth remained wedged there and he had to lift a little with one hand to free it. When he finally got it, he saw it was a handkerchief, dainty, feminine, and fragrant with the scent of perfume.
Backing away, he took a quick glance about the room before he walked to the glass-topped vanity with its circular mirror. There were between twenty and thirty bottles and jars here, of all sizes, shapes, and colors. He did not know what half of them were, nor did he bother to inspect the labels. Names and contents meant nothing to him then; what he was interested in was smells and when he finally decided the odor he sought was not there he pocketed the handkerchief and left the room.
Dale Jordan sat perfectly still, her hands on the chair arms, her head back on the cushion. Her eyes were quiet. Her body was relaxed and the color had begun to seep into her cheeks, telling Murdock she would be all right.
“She’s dead, isn’t she?” she said listlessly.
He sat on the edge of the desk, his angular face somber and his gaze remote. He said Sheila had been strangled, apparently by the sash from the robe. He said he would have to call the police now and did she know if there was any liquor about so she could have a drink first.
“I don’t need it,” Dale said and sat up. “I’m quite all right now, really.”
Murdock got out cigarettes. “Good girl,” he said, and was impressed again to find such composure in one so young. About twenty-three, he thought when he gave her a light, with some inner strength and understanding that she can call back on when she has to.
“Have you worked for her long?” he said, wanting her to talk a little more so she would be ready for the official questioning.
“About a month. I came on from California. I’d done a little radio work in Hollywood and I had a letter to a man at Columbia and another to Sheila. I told her I wanted to get started in New York radio. I said I didn’t need a big salary.”
“I guess that would be a talking-point with Sheila,” he said. “How much did you get?”
“Twenty-five.”
He nodded, seeing her lean forward, and reached for the telephone. Then, as he put his cigarette down, she stood up and came toward him.
He watched her, puzzled by the sudden brightness in her gaze. There was tension in her young face now, and she came on, not looking at him, not even aware of him, as she stopped beside the desk. Reaching for a double lower drawer which was not quite closed, she pulled it open and, to his amazement, began to paw feverishly through the papers filed there.
He forgot about the telephone then. Not moving, he waited, muscle hardening at the hinge of his jaw. A curious pressure began to build up inside him when he saw the drawer was filled with manuscripts of some sort, and he watched silently as the girl searched on, pulling the drawer farther out as she worked.
Suddenly she caught her breath and stopped.
As though afraid to go on her hand hovered in mid-air, descended slowly, and tightened on a Manila folder. With great care she moved it. She began to examine the typewritten pages inside, perhaps fifty in all, and separated by paper clips into a half-dozen batches.
She sighed, still not aware of him, and looked up. It seemed to take a second for her to remember where she was and then confusion struck at her, and her cheeks grew pink. She put the folder back and closed the drawer. She brushed her hair back from her forehead, and her smile was forced, her eyes avoiding him as she spoke.
“I’ve never seen that drawer open,” she said. “I knew she kept a copy of her scripts here and I thought—”
Whatever it was she thought, she forgot to say, so Murdock prompted her.
“You thought some of them might be missing?”
“Some of them are.”
The inner pressure was still with Murdock. Somehow the simple statement did not seem to fit with the startled intensity of the girl’s reaction. To him it seemed that Dale Jordan had been looking for something special rather than satisfying herself that something was gone.
“How many copies did she make?”
“Three. She sent one to Mr. Faulkner at Universal, kept one in the office file, and one here.”
“And what’s missing?”
She went back to her chair looking utterly spent as she sat down. She learned back and closed her eyes.
“Sheila worked four or five weeks ahead of the program. The script for next week’s show has gone out to Mr. Faulkner for changes and Mimeographing. The scripts she had written for the next three weeks are gone.”
Murdock thought of a lot of things then, but the result was so discouraging that he gave up any idea he had of questioning the girl further and picked up the telephone again. This time he put through his call and spoke his piece.
While they waited, Murdock paced the room and Dale Jordan remained in her chair. Now and then he glanced at her, but always she was exactly as before, her hands on the chair arms, her eyes closed. He did not know what prompted him to open Sheila’s bag, but he noticed it there on the desk as he continued his pacing and finally he picked it up and on impulse yanked back the zipper.
The first thing he saw was keys. A lot of keys. Large keys and small keys, held together by a gold chain. He put his hand in and pushed them with his fingers;
he took them out and weighed them in his palm. Then he sighed and put them back. When he closed the bag he went over and sat down, thinking all sorts of crazy thoughts and wishing he could stop.
5
LIEUTENANT PETER DEVLIN, of the homicide squad, was a medium-sized, solid-looking man with a lot of gray-black hair, a square-cut face, and a terse, laconic way of talking. Arriving a few minutes after the two uniformed men in the patrol car, he got a quick story, examined the premises, and told Murdock and Dale Jordan to wait in the kitchen while his experts and the route man from the examiner’s office got to work. Now, with a plain-clothes man to take notes, he was ready for more detailed information.
Murdock gave a straightforward and carefully edited story designed to fit the facts he wanted the police to accept, and Dale Jordan corroborated him when she could. Devlin nodded, his eyes on the bronze button Murdock wore in his buttonhole.
“Get across?” he asked.
“Italy for a while,” Murdock said.
“Any rank?”
“Captain.”
“Captain Murdock, huh?”
“Mr. Murdock.”
Devlin’s brown eyes were speculative. “From Boston. A camera from the Courier-Herald. Know any cops up there?”
Murdock smiled and was glad he could make a proper answer. He said he knew a few. He said if Devlin had any doubts about him he could phone the paper or Lieutenant Bacon at headquarters.
“He’s on the same detail you are,” he added. “Homicide.”
“Bacon?” Devlin pushed out his lips. He was still taking things easy, not hurrying, making conversation along the lines he had scheduled.
“Tall, gray, stiff-backed?” he said. “I know him. He was down here about a month ago and picked up a guy we were holding on a fugitive warrant.” Then, not changing his voice, he got down to the business at hand.
Fifth Key Page 4
