Fifth Key

by George Harmon Coxe

  “I’ll have to turn the light on over here,” she said, and moved ahead of him.

  Then, as she took her first step, the voice snapped at them from the darkness.

  “Stand still!” it said, a man’s voice, low and threatening.

  Dale Jordan caught her breath and stopped. So did Murdock, his hand still on the door.

  “Close it!”

  Murdock obeyed, deliberately, feeling the pressure expand inside him.

  For another second there was no other sound, no movement. The stiffness climbed up Murdock’s calves and moved along the backs of his thighs. He peered into the blackness, seeing now the pale rectangles on the opposite wall, put there by some reflection of the street lights. When he could see nothing more he began to inch sideways. Then, as the girl gasped, light exploded in his face, and he was staring blindly into the bright cone of a flashlight.

  He kept his hands at his sides and got his weight on both feet and well forward. He pulled his gaze from the center of the beam to its edges. He could see, vaguely, the girl’s figure near the table and lamp, her arms held stiffly at her sides, her head bent against the light. As he waited, the tension holding him immobile, the light moved back and started to circle.

  “Over here,” the man said. “Both of you.”

  Murdock listened for some overtone in the low thick voice that would give him a clue. There had been nothing at all to guide him, and he wanted to hear it again. He pushed his breath out and flexed his shoulders.

  “Why should we?”

  “Maybe you’d rather get shot.”

  “With what?”

  “With this.” And a snub-nosed revolver moved into the rim of light and was withdrawn. “See it?” the man said.

  “I see it.” Murdock moved slowly up to Dale Jordan. “Okay,” he said. “Now where?”

  “Keep moving.”

  The light was backing again, circling to the left toward the hall door. Murdock moved with the girl, cautiously, believing now that the fellow wanted to get out, that the important thing was a little obedience and some respect for the odds.

  “See that door?”

  They were nearly to the wall now, and five feet ahead was a closed door. “So?” Murdock said.

  “So open it. Move in and close it after you.”

  Murdock got the door open. He had the girl’s arm now, and it was slim and taut under his hand. With the light at his back he could see enough to know they were moving into a dressing-room, their shadows bulking hugely before them.

  There was still another door ahead, and a mirror there reflected momentarily the flashlight’s brilliance and told him it was a bathroom. Shutting his lids against the glare, he closed the room door and felt the girl lean against him and start to tremble as the blackness engulfed them.

  “It’s okay,” he said softly and pulled her close so he could whisper in her ear. “The voice,” he said. “Think about it. Did you ever hear it before? Have you any idea who it is?”

  Her whispered “No” came back to him and her hair brushed his face as she shook her head. He held her that way, hands on her arms and her slim body warm and firm-muscled against him, listening now until he thought he heard the outer door open and close.

  When he started to move away, her hand held him back. “Don’t go,” she breathed. “He might—”

  Murdock interrupted her. He said he didn’t think so. He said he thought he heard the man leave. “It’s all right now,” he said. “Is there a light in here?”

  She moved beside him, reaching up and pulling a cord, and the little room was suddenly bright. They blinked against it, then Murdock opened the door and told her to wait.

  He moved into the living-room, the illumination behind him guiding him to the table lamp. He turned it on and, not slowing down, continued to the hall door, opened it, and stepped out. As he started for the stairs he thought he heard a door close somewhere below and stopped to listen. When he realized there was nothing more to be done about the intruder, he returned to the living-room and closed the door, the reason for the episode now clear.

  It was a pleasantly furnished room, nicely decorated in a modern manner and hardly what one would expect on a twenty-five-dollar salary. The rug was good, and there was a bookcase and desk unit along one wall; there was a chest, a couch with a slip cover, three lamps, and two easy chairs. The drawers of the desk stood open, and papers were scattered around the floor near by. The top two drawers of the chest were also open and bulging with clothes where the caller had burrowed.

  He turned to call Dale. Then he saw her sitting on the dressing-room floor beside the open bottom drawer of another chest. He went quickly to her, finding now the half-dozen stenographer’s notebooks beside her, the bulging Manila folder in her lap.

  “Is that it?” he asked.

  “What?”

  She looked at him strangely, as though unable to concentrate on the question.

  “The proof you were going to show me.”

  She nodded. She closed the folder and started to get up, and he reached down and put his hands under her elbows. He felt the tremor in her body as they went into the living-room and knew she was still scared, not so much from the danger that had threatened but from what might have happened had they returned later.

  “I don’t know why he didn’t get them,” she said.

  “He started on the desk,” Murdock said. “He was working on the chest in here when we came in. He hadn’t got around to the right one. Do you want to sit down and tell me about it?”

  9

  DALE JORDAN SHOOK HER HAIR BACK and, for the first time since they entered, managed a smile. She said she was awfully glad he had come home with her, and he said he was glad, too. She said she wished she had a drink to offer him and he said, “I’d rather hear about those folders.”

  She sat down on the couch, and he sat beside her. She opened the folder, and what he saw then had taken a lot of work. The top sheet was page one of a Sob Sister script but it had been torn in six pieces and pasted carefully down on a clean sheet so that every word was legible.

  “She used to tear them up and throw them in the basket when she finished a script,” Dale said. “I took them out after she’d gone.”

  “Tear what up?” Murdock frowned, not quite following her.

  “Wait a minute,” she said patiently and took all the papers from the folder and sorted them out. What they made were thirteen little piles, two were composed of perhaps thirty pages; the others were much thinner, and not all of them had been torn and pasted together. Selecting one of the two thick ones, she held it up.

  “This is Keith’s first script, the one Sheila used when she rewrote it. This one”—she selected a thinner pile—“is one of the stories he wrote. There were thirteen altogether, including the two complete scripts.”

  Murdock got that part straight. He glanced at what she called a script and found it written in the proper radio technique; what she called a story seemed to him to be a ten-page outline of plot and incident.

  “I get it,” he said. “These stories were what Sheila used to base her scripts on.”

  “Right,” Dale said. “This particular one is the first one she used.”

  Murdock examined the thirteen piles on the floor, seeing now that of the eleven thin ones, three or four were intact and had not been torn. And thinking of the little incident that morning when Dale had been so intently interested in what she found in Sheila’s desk drawer, he said, “And these other outlines that aren’t torn are what you found in Sheila’s living-room desk—the one she always kept locked. I guess they are the rest of your husband’s stories—the ones she hadn’t used yet.”

  She looked at him, wide-eyed. She bobbed her head like a little girl and whispered, “How did you know?”

  He smiled, his dark eyes thoughtful. “Call it a guess,” he said. “With what I know now it seemed to add up. You patched up all the torn ones and now you’ve got the ones she hadn’t yet used. All right.”
He paused, choosing his words. “But I still don’t see how you can prove—”

  “Because,” she said quickly, “because these original stories were written on Keith’s typewriter. It was the only thing he didn’t let Sheila keep for him. He lent it to a friend and”—she turned, a little worried now—“isn’t it true that a typewriter can be identified by an expert, that no two machines write exactly alike?”

  Murdock grunted his affirmation, a note of admiration in his voice. He leaned back and got out cigarettes and thought it over. He was impressed and said so.

  “Very neat,” he said. “You’re good.”

  “It was Keith’s idea.”

  “A low bow to Keith.”

  She liked that and said, “All I had to do was—”

  “Yeah—Well, you did all right. Sure,” he said. “If you can prove the typewriter’s never been out of his friend’s hands it should convince Faulkner and Stark. The stories were written on a certain typewriter, and if the type checks with these stories and you can prove Sheila never had the machine—Sure.”

  He rose and stretched, arching his back, his lean face sobering as he remembered other things.

  “You’re sure you didn’t recognize that voice? Or anything about it?”

  Dale made her mouth round. “No—honestly.” She watched him walk across the room, and back, her eyes concerned. “Do you think,” she began, “I mean, was it the one who killed Sheila?”

  Murdock thought it over, spoke his mind. “It could have been but it doesn’t necessarily follow.”

  “But why should—”

  “It looks as though someone was awfully interested in those scripts.” He mashed his cigarette in an ash tray and watched the smoke curl upward. “It could have been someone who wanted to make sure you couldn’t prove that your husband created Sob Sister.”

  “O-h.”

  “What I’m saying is, it doesn’t have to be the one who killed Sheila. There are too many with motives to be sure of anything right now.”

  He came to the couch again, his glance stopping on the piles of manuscript. “They’re kind of important now,” he said. “What would you think of my taking one along with me—in case something happened to these?”

  “Yes,” the girl said. “I wish you would. Does it make any difference—”

  “No,” Murdock said. “Just give me any one. Maybe a patched-up one; you have more of those than the others.”

  He took the one she handed to him, folded it lengthwise, and tucked it into his inside coat pocket.

  “Take good care of them.” He picked up his hat and topcoat and walked to the door. There was a chain lock hanging here, and he touched it so she could see him. “Keep that fastened, too. Maybe you can get the land-lord to change the lock.”

  The girl came toward him. “Do—do you think he’ll come back?”

  Murdock said he didn’t think so. He sounded a lot more convincing than he felt. He said that with the chain guard on she would be all right tonight; perhaps she could think of a better place to keep the stories in the morning.

  George and Miriam Stark were still at their table in the almost empty dining-room at Armand’s when Murdock returned. They were still talking over coffee and liqueurs and Stark looked a bit annoyed when he glanced up and saw the photographer standing in front of the table.

  There was, however, nothing wrong with his manners, and he stood up, napkin in hand, and introduced his wife. Miriam accepted the introduction pleasantly, taking in many things with her eyes and apparently finding nothing wrong with what she saw. Murdock’s smile was genuine when he said he hoped they’d excuse him.

  “I hoped you’d still be here,” he said. “I ran into something a few minutes ago that I thought might interest you, George,” he said. “Do you mind if I sit down a minute?”

  “I wish you would,” Miriam said, and Stark, a little embarrassed now, said, “Of course not. Oh, waiter.” He motioned for another chair, which was immediately supplied. “You’ll have something with us, won’t you?” he said. “A brandy?”

  Murdock said, “No thanks, George. I’ll only be a minute.” He sat down. He hoped it was going to be a lot longer than a minute. He wasn’t sure how much he could learn or quite how to go about it but he had enough to start with. “I don’t know whether you noticed or not,” he said, “but Dale Jordan had dinner with me here.”

  “I saw you,” Stark said.

  “Well, I took her home around a quarter of nine, and when she unlocked the door we walked smack into a man with a gun.”

  “What?”

  Stark blinked and scowled. He peered at Murdock and then at his wife.

  Murdock nodded and went into his story. He said nothing at all about the indicated reason for the prowler’s visit but related only the physical facts concerning the incident and the man’s escape while he and Dale Jordan were in the dressing-room.

  “But why?” Stark said.

  Murdock shrugged. He had no idea.

  “Do you think it has anything to do with—with what happened to Sheila?” Stark said. Then, as Murdock said he didn’t know, a smile began to stir at the corners of Stark’s mouth.

  “Well,” he said. The smile broadened and he looked relieved. “At least no one can hang that one on me.”

  “Nor me,” his wife added.

  “We haven’t moved from here and—”

  “Why should anyone try to hang it on you?” Murdock asked, his tone suggesting that he was only making conversation.

  “Oh, the police were around today,” Stark said. “A fellow by the name of Devlin had found out about my quarrel with Sheila last night. He tried to find out what was behind it.”

  “And did he? Find out, I mean?” his wife asked.

  “I gave him a story. Did you report this thing that happened tonight to the police?” he said to Murdock.

  Murdock said he hadn’t. He said he had met Devlin and had an idea he would run into him again. When he did he’d mention the matter.

  George Stark seemed awfully pleased that, whatever the reason for the business in Dale Jordan’s place, no blame could attach itself to him. He became expansive.

  “I wish you’d have something, Murdock,” he said. “I’m having another brandy. Might as well make it two.”

  “I should think you’d need one, Mr. Murdock,” Miriam said. “No, no more for me, darling.”

  Murdock said all right. He said that would be very nice and then, wondering what he was going to say next, he got a break. The headwaiter came over and said Mr. Stark was wanted on the telephone.

  He rose and excused himself and Miriam said, “I’ve never known it to fail. Never have we been out that someone didn’t have to talk to you sometime during the evening.”

  Stark patted her hand and grinned. “That’s on account of I’m such an important guy, dear. I shouldn’t be long.”

  Murdock sat down and lit a cigarette for Miriam Stark and took a moment while he rearranged his thoughts to study her. About twenty-five or so he thought, with a willowy figure and those upward-slanting brows which were so much darker than her golden-blond hair. Beneath them her eyes were gray, her nose thin and straight, the mouth large and thickly red, as though the lip rouge had been applied with a brush.

  To Murdock she looked expensive. Someone had said her father had money, and everything about her from the way she wore her clothes and held her head to the throaty voice with its slightly bored cadence, seemed to substantiate this sort of background. He saw she was watching him with a quizzical, half-amused smile in her eyes, so he smiled back.

  “I was in Owen Faulkner’s office when you phoned George,” he said.

  “Oh? How did he take the news?”

  “Like a condemned man taking a reprieve.”

  “It’s nice of you to say so.”

  “It’s true,” Murdock said.

  She tapped ashes in the tray, and a square-cut sapphire rimmed with diamonds glittered on her little finger. “Then you know I wa
s in Reno?”

  Murdock nodded and then, as though the question was nothing but a polite effort to keep the conversation going, he said, “Did you like it?”

  “Loathed it.”

  “Where’d you stay?”

  “At the Mountain Inn.”

  He repeated the name, suggesting that it was familiar. “Is Gene Palmer still the manager there?”

  “I don’t really know.” She twisted her red mouth as she considered this, straightened it. “As a matter of fact I don’t actually remember meeting any manager.”

  Murdock said it didn’t matter; he was just wondering. She seemed to accept his explanation and in the pause that followed regarded him with some speculation which he pretended to ignore. Then, as though deciding that he would be both a sympathetic and an objective listener, she seemed in the next sentence to accept him as a confidant.

  “Do you know why I went?”

  “I knew Sheila Vincent,” he said, and went on to say they had both worked for a Boston newspaper years ago. “It’s on her account that I’m in New York,” he said. “Unfortunately I had the bad luck to take her home and the bad judgment to go in with her for a drink.”

  He watched her as he spoke, his gaze intent, hoping for. some sign or indication that would tell him that she had noticed him on the divan last night at he had noticed her in the hall. He could not see her eyes, for she was examining the tip of her cigarette, and when he saw no change in her expression he said, “I gathered that she made a little play for your husband.”

  “That’s one way of putting it,” Miriam said, “if you’re given to understatement.”

  “She never did have any scruples that way.”

  “Hah,” said Miriam, and was again silent.

  Murdock let the silence build for a few seconds. “Owen Faulkner and Arthur Calvert were talking about it after George left this afternoon.” He waited again and said, “Owen said he thought you had gone for good.”

  “So did I.” Miriam ground out her cigarette, then jammed it up and down in the tray as though giving vent to feelings that had been too long bottled up. “So did George, I think.”