Fifth Key

by George Harmon Coxe

  “You came in with the woman last night about one, that right? You’re not sure how long you stayed.”

  “Not long,” Murdock said. “I didn’t take my topcoat off. Maybe a half hour.”

  “We figure now she was strangled between two and three. When’d you get back to the hotel?”

  “As a guess, one-thirty.”

  “Without the guess.”

  “One-thirty.”

  “Who saw you?”

  “I wish I knew.” Murdock hesitated, saw Devlin was waiting, and added that he doubted if anyone who saw him would remember him.

  “Didn’t stop to buy a paper from the elevator boy or anything like that?”

  Murdock shook his head.

  Devlin said they’d check. He walked over to the window, turned, came back, and stuck his fist under Murdock’s nose. When he opened the fist there was a piece of black paper in it that had been recently rumpled.

  “Know what that is, Mr. Murdock?”

  Murdock knew all right. He thought, It isn’t bad enough that someone took my picture last night; he had to take two—only you didn’t know it because you didn’t look far enough, because you are a dope.

  “Certainly,” he said. “It’s from a film pack, a two-and-a-quarter by three-and-a-quarter.”

  “Strike you as funny we should find it under the desk?” Devlin smiled with his lips but his eyes were shrewd and steady. “When we can’t find a camera in the place, nor any sign Miss Vincent ever took a picture in her life? Yeah, Charlie,” he said as a door opened and one of his men poked his face in the crack.

  “We got the maid,” Charlie said. “She was due here at nine-thirty but she says some dame called her up this morning and told her she didn’t need to come in.”

  “Some dame, hunh?” Devlin half closed one eye and left the open one on Murdock. “Very interesting. I guess you wouldn’t know about that, either, would you, Mr. Murdock?”

  “Also,” Charlie said, “we got a guy out here that just walked in. Name of Bronson. Says he’s the dame’s agent. Wanna see him?”

  Ira Bronson came in fast. He had a light-gray suit on and a blue coat. He had been freshly shaved and powdered and he looked a little sick.

  “Hello, Mr. Bronson,” Devlin said, wasting no time. “I guess you knew Miss Vincent pretty well.”

  Bronson did not even see the lieutenant. He swallowed and caught his breath and stared at Murdock and Dale Jordan.

  “Murdock,” he said. “Miss Jordan,” he said. “Is it true what they just told me? Sheila is dead? Murdered? Last night?”

  Murdock nodded, and Devlin said, “You know him, Miss Jordan?” and indicated Bronson.

  “Yes.”

  “He was Miss Vincent’s agent?”

  “Of course I was her agent,” Bronson said, not turning round.

  “I’m not asking you.”

  “Yes,” Dale said. “He was her agent.”

  “And you just happened by this morning, Mr. Bronson?”

  Bronson turned and saw Devlin’s rocky face and humorless smile. He seemed to realize now that Devlin was in authority and he seemed also to wilt visibly.

  “Working early this morning, aren’t you?” Devlin pressed. “For an agent.”

  “You bet I am,” Bronson said. “We were signing contracts today. I wanted her to be up and ready.”

  “Oh, yes.” Devlin nodded. “Well, sit down, Mr. Bronson. Right here by the table. Now, you’re an agent. For what?”

  Bronson sat down and told him. He told what Sheila’s business was and why she needed an agent and how long he’d been working for her. Without prodding he also told what he had done for her, and Murdock, leaning against the drainboard of the sink, listened absently and noticed things about Bronson he had not noticed the night before.

  He noticed the gesturing hands, fat hands but strong-looking, too, with hairy backs. He estimated the star sapphire on the left little finger at around eight carats and revised slightly his estimate of the man’s age. Forty-eight, he thought, give or take two years.

  A man with a lot of drive, Bronson, the shrewd eyes indicating he might be a very good agent indeed, at least insofar as making deals was concerned and selling a client. As to his honesty and moral scruples Murdock made no guess, nor did he get far in his evaluation of background or family history, being content to put him in the category of so many others whose uncertain blood and indefinable racial characteristics defied a cursory analysis. He realized that Devlin was telling Bronson the facts of the murder and paid attention.

  “It’s a cinch,” the lieutenant was saying, “that the body was moved. She was probably killed in the living-room. We’re positive she was dragged into the closet. Who’d want to cover up like that?” he said to Dale Jordan.

  The girl said she had no idea.

  “Got any ideas on that, Bronson?” Devlin asked. “You, Mr. Murdock?”

  He turned back to the girl. He kept prying at her and at Bronson, moving in all the time as one detail led to another until presently not only the story of Sob Sister came to light but also the story of those most interested. Before he finished he knew not only quite a lot about Sheila’s business, but also the business of Owen Faulkner and George Stark and the others.

  “We’ll talk to them,” he said, his manner conversational again. “You’d better stick around, Miss Jordan. You, too, Bronson. For a few minutes.” He cocked a brow at Murdock. “Not figuring on leaving town are you? Where’ll you be?”

  “Wherever you say. You can leave word at the hotel if I’m out.”

  “Okay. There’s just one more thing.” He held out the black paper tab again. “With this here, and you being a photographer—”

  “Sure,” Murdock said. “My camera and plate case are in my room. You can pick up the key at the desk and—”

  “I’ll send someone over,” Devlin cut in. “If you’ve got any exposed film we’ll probably develop it for you.” He gave out with that smile again in which the eyes reneged. “Okay?” He let Murdock get as far as the door and then said, abruptly, “By the way, how many drinks did you have here last night?”

  Murdock stopped, a sudden tingling creeping up his thighs. “One,” he said and concentrated on disciplining his fears and his face.

  “What kind?”

  “Scotch.”

  “Hah,” said Devlin. “You didn’t kill the bottle, did you?”

  “No.”

  “Or take it home with you? Then what happened to it? There’re just two bottles of Scotch in the cupboard and neither has been opened.”

  Murdock waited for the next question, and presently it came.

  “Liquor taste all right?”

  “Tasted fine.”

  “Didn’t bother you any, huh?” Devlin’s eyes were still prying while Murdock shook his head. “What I’m getting at,” the detective said, “is we think she was drugged.”

  “Oh?” Murdock nodded as though he understood. “By someone who wanted to take a picture?”

  “We don’t know.”

  Devlin paused. He gave Bronson an oblique glance, waited to see if he or Dale Jordan had anything to say.

  “A woman that gets strangled fights back,” he said presently. “If she’s conscious. This one didn’t. No fingernails torn or broken, no sign of a struggle. The p.m.’ll tell us for sure, but it looks now as if she was unconscious when she was killed. Funny about that bottle of Scotch, huh?”

  Murdock said it was very funny indeed and got out fast. He did not feel so good any more. The tingling was in his back now and he could feel the perspiration trickle down his sides. For he had known too many detectives not to recognize a good one when he saw him. And Devlin was good. He just hoped Devlin wasn’t too good.

  Sheila Vincent’s office remained unlocked as Murdock had left it, and once inside he wasted no time but went directly to the filing-cabinet.

  Sob Sister had a drawer of its own but there wasn’t much in it now. Six scripts, numbered from 1—6. Number
6, according to Dale Jordan, was for next week’s program and already in Owen Faulkner’s hands. Of scripts 7—9, two copies each, Dale Jordan had said, there was no sign, and when Murdock was sure he closed the cabinet and went to the desk.

  He had no idea what he was looking for but he began to open drawers and glance at letters and bills and advertising folders. A few of the letters were from George Stark. There were others from equally enthusiastic admirers, and all of the type that an infatuated man should never write but does.

  There was a large checkbook in the center drawer, and Murdock examined the entries for the past three months to get a rough idea of Sheila’s financial affairs. Until recently she had been making weekly deposits of a hundred and twenty-odd dollars and he knew this represented an afternoon sustaining program she had been doing. Deposit notations of nearly four hundred dollars that began three weeks ago, allowing for the time lag between the broadcast of the show and getting paid for it, meant an additional three-fifty a week, less deductions.

  On the outgoing side, he found check stubs covering payments to the gas, electric, and telephone companies, three payments to department stores, three more monthly checks for groceries; that, aside from the rent and one payment to an insurance company, covered about everything, and the resulting disclosures left Murdock singularly dissatisfied.

  He closed the center drawer, leaned back in the chair, and stared sightlessly out the window at the one-way traffic below. He sat there perhaps three minutes, not moving; then he began opening drawers again, pulling them entirely out so he could see the very ends of them.

  Seconds later he was glad he did, for at the very back of the top, right-hand drawer he found an envelope he had not seen before, a legal-sized envelope, on the bulky side, and sealed. When he turned it over he saw a name and address imprinted in the corner. The name was: Rudolph Nagle; the address was in the West Forties, not far from Seventh Avenue.

  There was also a sentence that someone had written in pencil. The words read: Report on Myron Wortman.

  Murdock studied the writing, brows warping as he tried to decide what to do next. He tapped the envelope against his fingers. Then he jumped up and closed the desk drawers, thrusting the envelope into an inside pocket as he stepped across the room near the entrance to the alcove.

  He had not been too preoccupied to hear the steps on the stairs outside and now they stopped at the door. He heard the knob turn as someone tried it. He waited, his back to the wall.

  “Okay, sucker,” he said under his breath. “You knew the cops would get here sooner or later and you had to wait, didn’t you?”

  He was thinking of what to say as the door opened. He heard someone cross the alcove; then a man in a blue coat came swiftly into the office and, not looking round, went directly to the desk. He had a bunch of keys in his hand but he tried a drawer first. When it opened he put the keys away and slid into the chair.

  Murdock felt immeasurably better. The tension evaporated. He even grinned a little as he let out his breath and cleared his throat.

  Ira Bronson stiffened in the chair and his head jerked round. He froze that way in those first moments that his startled gaze found Murdock. He had one hand in a drawer and it stayed there while he got things under control.

  “Hi,” Murdock said.

  Bronson’s puffy face loosened up. He withdrew his hand and leaned back in the chair. He put on a smile. He took off his glasses and found a handkerchief in the breast pocket of his jacket. When he began to polish them he was all right.

  “What’re you doing here?” he asked, his tone suggesting he did not really care.

  “Waiting for Dale Jordan. Is she still at Sheila’s?”

  “Yes. Ah, that is, she was when I left.”

  Bronson stopped, and there was no sound but the muted traffic noises on the street below. Murdock lit a cigarette. He walked over to the desk, dark eyes speculative and grin fixed. Bronson swallowed, and finally it must have occurred to him that some explanation was due on his part.

  “Been worrying about Sheila’s advance scripts,” he said. “Thought I’d better have a look.”

  “The scripts are in the filing-cabinet.”

  “Are they?” Bronson looked as if he thought this was a strange place for scripts. He managed to smile. “Yes, I suppose they would be.”

  He got up and started for the cabinet, and Murdock said, “There aren’t any advance ones. I looked.”

  Bronson pulled out the drawer and spent fifteen seconds examining its contents. When he turned, his gaze was startled and he sounded upset.

  “You’re right,” he said. “But where are they? She must have been writing ahead. She always had three or four shows done in advance.”

  Murdock said he didn’t know. He glanced at his watch. He said he guessed he wouldn’t wait any longer for Dale Jordan.

  “Devlin,” he said, “or some of his leg men, will probably be around. I’d just as soon not be here when they come,” he said, and went out, leaving Bronson standing by the filing-cabinet.

  At his hotel, Murdock asked one of the clerks for a large envelope. He sealed the envelope he had taken from Sheila’s desk inside and wrote his name across the outer envelope. He had not read the report on Myron Wortman and did not want to take the time now because he had other things in mind that seemed more important. But he did not want to carry the envelope either, cops being what they were. There would be a lot of them working with Devlin on the case and they would be questioning him now and then and maybe searching his room, and you never could tell when some zealous character would get a brainstorm and decide to search Murdock as well.

  He felt better with the envelope in the safe and when he went up to his room he knew that someone had indeed gone over it carefully. There were no exposed film holders in his plate case. He tried to remember how many he had. He hoped the police photographer, whoever he was, would develop and print the pictures for contrast so they would show up well on newsprint.

  6

  LOIS EDWARDS LIVED IN AN APARTMENT HOTEL not far from the East River, and when Murdock arrived he saw that the operating force consisted of a uniformed quartet comprising a doorman, two elevator boys, and a major-domo who prowled back and forth in the foyer and who, upon proper application, would send your name up—if he liked you.

  Murdock stood inspection, and the major-domo apparently approved because he stepped to the house telephone, spoke quietly, and gave Murdock the green light. “Four-E,” he said to the first elevator boy and waved Murdock into the car.

  The smart wool dress Lois Edwards wore and the short mink jacket on the chair told Murdock she was on her way out but she received him graciously and answered his apologies by saying she was in no hurry.

  She asked him to sit down, indicating a chair and when she had settled herself on the love seat he sat down, liking her serene auburn-haired loveliness and not liking what he had to do. Reflecting upon the idea for a few moments it seemed to him that this whole assignment consisted chiefly of doing things he did not want to do.

  In his business he had learned to expect a certain amount of unpleasantness and by its very nature he had to do things that did not please him. He had to photograph people who did not want to be photographed and to refuse, directly or by subterfuge, to photograph others who did. He had to get along with people, whether he liked them or not, and he had learned by experience how to establish a common ground with such characters as taxi drivers, news hustlers, headwaiters, and cops. He could talk their language and trade wisecracks with them and, when the occasion demanded, he had the wherewithal to get up to the front row with a camera when the going got tough.

  Over a period of years he had learned also to feel at ease with those of higher stations. He had the necessary poise, and the knack of buying the right clothes and wearing them well. He was impressed neither by money nor social standing but he could get along with those who had it, both the genuine and the spurious. The trouble in this case was that he was no lon
ger on an assignment.

  He had been unlucky enough to take Sheila home and in a moment of weakness had gone in for a drink. From then on, however, luck had nothing to do with it. He was involved in a murder, not because of any element of luck but because someone had framed him. He did not know why but he intended to find out if he could and in any way he could—because he was not sure how much time he had before Devlin discovered the truth.

  He forced his mind back to the job at hand. Lois Edwards was waiting, and he smiled at her. By daylight her skin was radiant, and he added this to the well-boned features and the green eyes and the voice that had so impressed him the night before.

  “I like your perfume,” he said, sniffing for her benefit. “Could it be Piquante?”

  She liked that. “Why, yes. How did you know?” He wanted to say, “Because I spent two hours in Fifth Avenue shops making sure.” What he did say was, “I used to know someone who used it.”

  He leaned back, knowing he should feel triumphant and wondering why he didn’t. The handkerchief in his pocket seemed to take on weight. He asked if she knew about Sheila Vincent.

  She nodded. She did not say the usual things. She did not say how shocked she was, or how awful it must have been for Sheila, or what a frightful thing to have happen. She said, “Owen phoned me.”

  Murdock watched her inspect the sleeve of her dress. When she picked off a piece of lint he asked if it would make any difference to the radio program.

  “Do you know anyone who might be interested in keeping the show off the air?” he said.

  “Why—no.” She shook her head and her surprise seemed genuine. “Why should anyone want to do that?”

  “I don’t know. I just wondered.” He waited to see if she would add anything. “Then it won’t make any difference,” he said, “not having Sheila to do the shows?”

  “I don’t think it will make any difference.”

  “Owen didn’t think so, either?”

  “Why”—she moved one hand in a tentative shrug—“he was upset, naturally. He was very much distressed, as a matter of fact. George Stark said yesterday that he could always get someone to write the scripts,” she added. “Of course, if there was some scandal the sponsor might back out, but he seemed eager to go ahead. Why do you ask?”