He hesitated, grin gone and a twist to his mouth that seemed strangely bitter. “I had a lad writing a soap opera and I talked him into working with Sheila on some new stuff. Not Keith Harding,” he added. “Another boy that had to go into the service. Later I got someone else, and one way or another Sheila got a start. She did pretty well, too, considering what she had to offer, but that’s the way it was. I told her she could take the twenty-percent deal or leave it lay. She took it—for three years.”
Murdock thought it over and was glad he had come. What Bronson had told him he found both interesting and informative, and the manner of telling bore out his earlier estimate of the man’s shrewdness and intelligence. He had an idea Bronson would do all right for Bronson.
“Sob Sister was Sheila’s idea, though?” he said. “I mean until this thing came up about Dale Jordan and her husband.”
“Her idea—or so I thought.” Bronson tipped one hand over, palm up. His laugh was deprecating, his manner suddenly sheepish. “God knows why I believed it,” he said, “knowing how she’d always worked. But, yes, at the time let’s say it was her idea. I’m the guy that talked money and set up the deal for her.”
Murdock thought of one other question as he stood up.
“Did you pick up her checks at Universal, take your cut, and then pay her, or did she—”
“Sure,” Bronson said. “That way an agent is sure of getting his.”
Murdock thanked him and made a new estimate of Bronson as the agent rose and stretched. About five foot eight or nine, a hundred and eighty-five pounds, no gray in the hair, glasses, dark-brown eyes, florid complexion.
“You still don’t know Myron Wortman?”
“Never heard of him,” Bronson said. “Is he important?”
“Sheila thought so.” Murdock stopped at the door. “I don’t know if he is still important to the San Francisco police or not. So long,” he said and went out.
It was only four blocks from Branson’s office to the address Rudy Nagle had given Murdock and he did not bother to telephone but walked along the Square and down three blocks and turned west, finding Nagle’s place a narrow doorway jammed in between a cheap cafeteria and a secondhand bookstore.
There was no lower hall, just a tiny entryway and steps mounting straight ahead toward the gloomy second floor. A black wooden board in the entryway listed Nagle’s office as 206, and he found this to be a plain wooden door with an old-fashioned lock. It was about halfway back in the hall, and he could make out vaguely the lettered inscription which said: Rudolph Nagle.
Murdock knocked. He waited a few seconds, wondering if he had heard a sound inside, and knocked again. Then he reached for the knob, and it turned readily and the latch slid back. He pushed in and stepped into a plainly furnished office with scarred, yellow-oak pieces, a dusty floor, and two threadbare rugs.
There were two desks, the larger one angled across the room in front of the window and the other against a wall. There were three chairs, none of them comfortable-looking, a filing-cabinet, a water cooler and sink, and, over to the right, a doorway leading to some darkened room beyond.
For a second or two Murdock stood there trying to decide whether he should leave or have a look around, now that he was here. Deciding on the latter course he started to shut the door and men he knew why he had thought he had heard a sound when he stood in the hall.
Two men were waiting behind the door, and as it started to swing one gave it an added push, closing it, and both stepped away from the wall.
One was chunky and blunt-jawed, and the other was tall and dark and he had a long, pointed chin. By name they were Nick and Harry and they both grinned, as though they were glad to see him, accepting the immediate task as a routine job, lazily and with superb overconfidence. And because they underestimated Murdock’s reflexes and quick perception, they nearly lost out—in spite of the gun.
It was, in the aggregate, simply a matter of ignorance. In their experience they had not learned that appearances are sometimes deceiving. Here was a well-dressed guy, a little on the smooth side, maybe, with no dirt in his fingernails, no lumps on his jaw, or buds in his ears. A nice guy in short, and certainly not one who would ever be rough until all else failed. That is how it must have stacked up to them because that is how they reacted.
Nick hauled out his gun, and Harry, grinning, his long jaw wagging, reached back to prime his Sunday punch as Murdock moved in, and if it hadn’t been for Rudy Nagle’s untidy habits Murdock would have taken the two of them. Because Murdock was sore and here was something he wanted to do and he was not, in that first moment, particular about the odds.
As it was he slipped easily inside Harry’s right-hander and, moving in, hooked hard with his right, his fist slamming crisply against Harry’s pointed chin.
Harry’s head jerked back and he started to sag, and Murdock caught him with both hands and pivoted to the right, his idea being to drive him into Nick, who still held the gun but had no chance to use it. With Harry blocking for him, Murdock thought he could pin the chunky Nick against the wall and neutralize the gun and he might have made it had he not caught his heel on a wastebasket which should not have been so far from the desk.
He stumbled and, with Harry’s weight still dragging on him, staggered back. He let go and tried to get clear but Harry, groggy and acting on instinct alone, clinched, and they went down. Before Murdock could slide clear, Nick reached down and clipped him behind the ear with the barrel of the gun.
Murdock steadied himself on one knee, head down as the room started to spin about him. He did not lose consciousness, thanks to his hat, but the pain was bad in that first moment, and a sudden weakness left him helpless.
He got his head up and through the haze before his eyes he saw Harry start to rise. He did not know where Nick was but he pushed with his hands and got his feet under him and then stood there, hands at his side until the room steadied and he could see again.
Nick’s grin was not amused and his eyes were wary. “You almost made it, Mac,” he said. “You do all right.” He waited until Harry got to his feet and said, “You going to behave now or do you want it again?”
Harry felt his jaw, and his mouth was mean. “Hold the rod on him,” he said, and started to circle to one side. “I’m going to knock his teeth in.”
Murdock was still sore and his head ached and he knew what he could expect from Harry. His judgment may have been questionable, but considering his resentment and frame of mind it was understandable. Turning so he could watch Harry, he said to Nick, “If he swings I’m going to let him have it, gun or no gun.”
Harry took a step, hunching one shoulder. Murdock waited, his weight balanced. Nick took a look at the photographer’s hard-eyed expression and was convinced. He said, “Cut it out, Harry!”
The tall youth paused but did not look at his companion.
“Nuts to that. He’s got it coming and—”
“Okay,” Nick cut in. “You heard what I said. Start it now and you can finish it—alone.”
Harry straightened the shoulder. He peered at Nick. He glanced at Murdock and back at Nick, and what he saw must have convinced him. He cursed Nick and then Murdock, but the fight had gone out of him.
“Search him,” Nick said. “Same as before, Mac,” he said to Murdock. “Just take it easy.”
Murdock waited. He lifted his arms as directed and presently Harry found Nagle’s report on Myron Wortman. Nick was immediately interested. He took the report from the envelope, glanced at it.
“Okay,” he said. “That’s enough, Harry. I’m glad you walked in, Mac,” he said to Murdock.
“So that’s what you wanted?” Murdock said.
Nick ignored him. He backed to the door. “Let’s go,” he said to Harry and let the tall youth precede him into the hall. “Don’t crowd us, Mac,” he said. “I’d just as soon get out of here without having to blast you.”
13
MURDOCK DID NOT BOTHER to go to the door. He moved
round the desk and eased himself into the chair. He removed his hat and explored the slight swelling behind his ear, thankful now that the felt had deadened the blow and that the skin was not broken. He got out a cigarette, found a single match in a folder, used it, and then began to roll the folder absently as he reviewed what had happened.
His resentment still smoldered but it was controllable now and did not obscure his recognition of certain facts, the most important being that the loss of the report could make no great difference since he knew what it contained. Once he was sure who Wortman was it would be a simple matter to have Devlin check with the San Francisco police.
The trouble was he could not go to Devlin. He was being forced by circumstances into doing the one thing he had always hated to do. He had to be a detective. He had to hold out on the police and work alone, not knowing whom he could trust but knowing that if and when Devlin did catch up with him, he could expect no favors.
He brooded about this, remembering other times when he had worked with Lieutenant Bacon in Boston. It had been bad enough then, just being mixed up in a homicide and having the police on your side. Now—
He threw the rolled-up match folder aside and stood up. He glanced about the room, thought about searching the desk but could think of no good reason for doing so. Then, his eye stopping on the doorway to the adjacent room, he got up and moved over to it.
He found a switch just inside the doorway and flipped it on, finding himself in a windowless cubicle perhaps six by eight feet and fitted out as a darkroom. There was a long sink and composition trays and cabinets holding paper and supplies. There was a drying-rack, an enlarger and easel, another cabinet holding boxes of negatives and prints.
With no expectation of finding the negatives he wanted, he nevertheless spent twenty minutes making sure. Then he turned off the light and moved into the office, crossing to the door and then stopping when he caught sight of his reflection in the medicine-cabinet mirror over the washbasin.
He looked at himself sourly until he realized he was looking sour, and then his sense of humor came to his aid and a grudging grin formed at the corner of his mouth. He thought about Harry, remembering how swell it felt to throw that hook and how neatly effective it had been.
He glanced at his knuckles, finding two of them tender but unmarked. He flexed them and then, on impulse, he reached out and pulled open the mirrored cabinet door.
One look wiped the smile away. He grunted softly, hardly noticing the empty pint bottle and the can of bicarbonate of soda and the dirty glasses and the jar of Bromo-Seltzer. What he did see was a bottle of Chesterfield Scotch and when he examined it more closely he found a corner of the label was missing, a corner that eliminated the letters e-l-d from the name.
He removed the cork and sniffed. When this told him nothing, he held the bottle up to the light and thought he could distinguish a bit of sediment in the bottom.
For an other few seconds he stood there, staring absently at the cabinet while his mind wove new strands of thought about the theory he had constructed about Rudy Nagle.
Finally he put the bottle back. Just another thing you can’t tell Devlin, he said to himself. Then he thought of something else more pleasant and knew that when he came back for his conference with Nagle he would have something more than theory to support his argument that the detective should turn over the damaging negatives and prints without prejudice or further payment.
It was luck as much as his own powers of observation that told Murdock he was being followed, though he was not sure of this until he reached his hotel. At the foot of the stairs, coming down from Nagle’s office, he paused a moment before plunging into the bustling sidewalk traffic and it was as he glanced across the street that he noticed the man. What made him noticeable at all was simply that of all the people in sight, he was the only one who was not moving.
He stood in the doorway of a stationery store, now closed, and though Murdock saw him he did not think anything more about it at the time and turned right toward the Square. Here the lights had blossomed forth against the gathering dusk and the tempo of the city seemed accelerated. All about him was noise and movement, and he bought a paper and watched the crowds flow into the subway entrance before he looked about for a cab.
He did not see the man then, but neither did he find an empty cab, so he crossed to the east side and as he reached the curb and turned again to seek transportation, he saw the man plodding across the street.
This time Murdock had a better look, finding the fellow of average size and appearance, with no distinguishing characteristics except a somewhat swart skin and a thick, short neck. As he watched, the man passed him without looking up, turned north, and lost himself in the crowd.
An empty cab which swerved toward him made him forget the man, and he gave Dale Jordan’s address as he climbed inside. When they stopped in front of the brown-stone a few minutes later, he asked the driver to wait.
There was no answer to his ring when he pressed the downstairs button under the girl’s name, but the inner door was unlocked so he went up and knocked. When he got no answer he came back down, found another card that said: Manager, and rang the proper bell.
The manager was a heavy-set and thick-waisted woman with a tired manner and her hair in curlers. There was no change in her expression while Murdock made his request. All he got was a firm shake of the head and a tired “No.”
She would not, she said, open Miss Jordan’s apartment for him, nor would she slip a note under the door. She did not know him, had never seen him before, and if he had anything to say to Miss Jordan he could write it down and put it in her mailbox. The only other information she offered as he wrote a penciled note on one of his cards and dropped it into the box was that Miss Jordan had left that morning and she had not seen her come back.
Murdock went back to the cab and rode to his hotel. He paid the driver, turned toward the entrance, and then, still thinking about Dale Jordan, turned again, heading for the corner drugstore. That was when he saw the man from Times Square alight from another taxi halfway down the block.
Murdock saw the fellow glance his way. He saw him step into a doorway. He waited until the man stuck his head out and pulled it back; then he said, “Okay,” and went into the drugstore, wondering as he looked up Sheila Vincent’s number, whether the man who was following him was from Devlin’s office. He would, if he found this to be true, ask why the fellow had not picked up Nick and Harry, since he must have seen them come out of Nagle’s building.
He got no answer from Sheila’s home so he tried the office. When his luck was no better there, he went back up the street, ignoring his shadow now, and walked into the lobby. As he started through it Lois Edwards rose from a chair and came toward him.
“Hello, Miss Edwards,” he said. “Have you been waiting for me? Not long, I hope.”
“I didn’t mind.”
She hesitated, her green eyes uncertain. She pulled her cloth coat more snugly about her shoulders and glanced about as though needing more time to put into the proper words that which was in her mind. Murdock helped her.
“I didn’t know whether you’d speak to me again or not,” he said. “I thought maybe you blamed me for the lieutenant’s call.”
“Oh, no,” she said. “I understood that. I wanted to talk to you.” She glanced round again, and the seat she had left was now occupied and so was every other one in the lobby.
“People are still waiting for rooms,” Murdock said. “It makes it kind of crowded. Would you consider having dinner with me? We could eat here, if you like.”
“Oh, no,” she said. “No, thank you. I—”
She let the sentence dangle and he said, “Well, if we’re going to talk I guess it will have to be in my room.”
“All right.” And then she was walking with him to the elevators.
The telephone rang in Murdock’s room before he got his coat off. When he answered, Rudy Nagle’s voice came to him, and Rudy was burning.
<
br /> “What the hell do you mean, busting in my office and casing the place?” he demanded.
“I didn’t,” Murdock said.
“You were there.”
“The door was unlocked and I walked in. How did you know?”
“You forgot about a match folder. It had a Boston address on it—some night club. And the door wasn’t unlocked, and you lifted a confidential report out of my files.”
So that’s it, Murdock thought, convinced that Nick and Harry now had two copies of that report. Aloud he said, “If you’ll cool off a minute I’ll tell you what happened. Your door wasn’t locked when I got there. I walked in and you had company and they didn’t seem to like me.”
He told what had happened and how he had been searched, but did not volunteer any information about the report he had lost. This time Nagle did not interrupt.
There was even an interval of silence when Murdock finished before Nagle said, “Okay. Skip that for now. What about my dough?”
“When’ll you be there?”
“I’m here now, ain’t I?”
“Now’s no good,” Murdock said. “How about nine o’clock?”
“All right,” Nagle said. “And bring something with you. I’m through fooling.”
Lois Edwards was watching Murdock as he hung up. Her coat had slipped from her shoulders and she was leaning forward, hands clasped and resting on one knee. She looked as if she wanted to ask about the call and who the two men were and who he had been talking to.
“If you’ll give me a couple of minutes more,” Murdock said, “I’ll be through. What will you have to drink?”
“Nothing, thanks.”
Murdock grinned. He said he positively had to have a drink and didn’t she know it was bad for a man to drink alone. He got room service and said, “Just a second,” and waited until she shrugged and said, “Scotch, then, please.”
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