She heard him that time, and his bruskness took command of the situation. She let him guide her to a chair. She sat down; she gave him her attention.
15
MURDOCK GAVE HER A LITTLE TIME before he said anything about Rudy Nagle. He asked her if she would like a drink of water, and she said no, and he walked back and forth while he lit two cigarettes. He handed her one. Finally he pulled another chair in front of hers and swung the back toward her, straddling it as he sat down.
“Maybe we’d better start with why you came here,” he said. “Nagle had something he was willing to sell for a price, didn’t he?”
Her pale eyes watched him but she made no answer, and he tried again.
“He saw you the night you went to Sheila’s.”
She shook her head, but she was scared now and the gesture was not convincing.
“You called on her the night she was killed.”
“No.”
“Yes. I was there, sitting on the divan with a drink. I got a quick look at you before Sheila closed the living-room door.”
That hit her. She drew back, and her red lips parted. She sat that way, the shock holding her immobile, for two seconds and then she closed her mouth and set the lips. It made him notice them and he saw that they looked dry and chapped beneath the paint. She shook her head again, and her voice was pretty good in its accents of disdain.
“You are mistaken, Mr. Murdock. And even if you weren’t, who would believe you? It would be your word against mine, wouldn’t it?”
“In court, yes,” Murdock said. “But it is not just a question of one word against another. There are contributing factors that always influence jurors—like having an alibi for that specific time.”
He hesitated, his smile humorless.
“Let’s stop kidding, shall we? Let’s get straight now, because the police are not going to believe you, either. I made a long-distance call earlier this evening,” he said. “I talked with the assistant manager at Mountain Inn and he told me when you checked out and what plane you took.”
Her “O-h” was barely audible.
“You did not get to La Guardia Field when you said you did. You arrived the evening before, didn’t you? And it will be a simple matter to check the flight list and get corroboration from the stewardess that came in with you. You stayed at some hotel and went to La Guardia the next afternoon and waited for the right plane; the plane you might have taken if you had arrived when you said you did.”
There was no sound in the room then, and the voice of the city was remote and unreal. Miriam Stark seemed to crumple in her chair and her lower lip quivered before she lowered her head. Murdock took the inch-long cigarette butt from between her limp fingers and put it out.
After a while she said, not looking up, “Are you going to tell the police?”
“I don’t have to,” Murdock said, and explained how he knew Lieutenant Devlin had already been checking on her departure from Reno. “It’s getting kind of late, Mrs. Stark,” he said. “And with you the circumstances make it worse no matter what your story is.”
He hesitated and said, “You see, you went out of your way to cover up your movements. You didn’t come openly to see Sheila and have it out with her. If you had killed her under those circumstances you would have a chance. This way you sneaked back. You didn’t want anyone to know. That seems to presuppose you expected trouble and may even have had murder in mind.”
He thought, You’re a hell of a one to talk, but he said, “You haven’t been honest with anyone and you’ve been covering up, and you had the bad luck to be seen by Rudy Nagle. You can tell the truth or not but there’s no use in denying that you were in town the night of the murder or that you called on Sheila.”
She brought her chin up, and her face was composed now, her glance direct, a little defiant.
“I suppose you’re right,” she said. “I mean about admitting it; because you are right about the other things. I did come back to see Sheila. I told you I had done a lot of thinking in Reno. I did more than think. I brooded. I imagined all sorts of things and when I made up my mind I was going to fight for George, I was ready to do whatever I had to do. I had it in mind that I might kill her. At first I think I was going to scare her and if that didn’t work—”
She broke off, straightened her back, and tried again. “The trouble was I got myself too worked up. I thought about it every minute of the ride back and by the time I got to her apartment that night I was in such a state that—well, it was a near thing. I had almost made up my mind to shoot her when she opened the door—if she was alone. And then I saw at once that she had company. I didn’t see your face but I knew it was a man. I went back to the hotel,” she said. “And then the next day when I found out what happened I was simply sick with fear. Because you see I didn’t kill and yet everything I had done—” She stopped, and her shoulders sagged again.
“What were you going to shoot her with?”
“With this.” She opened her bag and took out a .25 automatic.
Murdock examined it and handed it back.
“What are you going to do?” she said. “About me?”
Murdock said he did not know. “Nothing now, I guess. I’m no cop. I can’t hold you. But I can’t make any promise, either. I’m just as concerned about my own neck as you are about yours. I didn’t kill Sheila but Devlin may have other ideas.”
He watched her stand up and said, “I’ll have to phone him. But I’m not going to do it from here. He’ll probably find out about us later and it may be tough, but I’d like a little more time if I can get it. Where will you be later?”
“At the Plantation. George likes the piano player there, and I told him I’d meet him at the bar.” She collected her things and glanced at Nagle’s body. “Who killed him?”
“I wish I knew,” Murdock said. “How I wish I knew.”
He opened the door for her, closed it, and listened until her steps had died away. He took another look about the room, knowing there was nothing more to be done here. He had already made up his mind about the check and the key in Nagle’s pockets before Miriam came and he was of the same opinion now.
He was sick of hiding evidence and covering up for people. When Nagle’s clothing had been searched Devlin would find the check and key and Devlin could take it from there. He snapped off the desk lamp and went out into the hall, closing the door quietly behind him.
Outside the night air felt good, and he took off his hat and wiped his forehead as he walked toward Seventh Avenue. At the corner he turned left and became one of the midevening throng that promenaded the lower reaches of the Square until he found a telephone booth in a cigar store. What he said when he called police headquarters would, he thought, go down on the record as an anonymous tip.
He walked faster when he came out, crossing diagonally over to Forty-Sixth Street and presently finding an empty cab heading east. He gave the address of Owen Faulkner’s apartment and when he arrived and found that Faulkner wasn’t in he gave the driver Lois Edwards’s number.
Again the uniformed major-domo in the foyer sent his name up, and again he was waved toward the elevator and whisked upward. Lois Edwards opened the door and she had her short mink jacket on. Back of her and waiting in the living-room was Owen Faulkner.
“Hello,” Murdock said, and called to Faulkner. “I stopped at your place but you were out so I took a chance and came here.” He stood in the foyer, feeling the woman’s eyes upon him but talking to Faulkner, not saying the things he wanted to say but keeping his tone conversational.
“I’d like to talk to you about Rudy Nagle,” he said.
He could not have achieved a better effect if he had shouted. Even from where he stood he could see Faulkner’s face twitch and tighten and he waited as the other came toward him.
“Nagle?” Faulkner said. “I don’t seem to recall anyone by that name.”
Murdock smiled at Lois Edwards and got a blank look in return. “You’re on your way
some place, aren’t you?”
“The Plantation,” she said. “We’re supposed to meet the Starks there.”
“Fine,” Murdock said. “I told Mrs. Stark I’d see her there later. We can all ride together.” He glanced at Faulkner’s troubled face. “Nagle can wait, Owen,” he said. “Are we ready?”
There was nothing either the man or woman could do. Faulkner put on his coat, and they rode down in the elevator and ten minutes later the doorman at the Plantation was opening the cab door for them.
Lois waited while the men checked their coats, and when Murdock joined her he saw that the Plantation was made up of two rooms. The outer one contained a medium-sized bar, a dozen round black-topped tables; two of the walls and part of a third were decorated with black leather and mirrors, and beneath them were banquettes of various lengths.
At the end of the room was a doorway leading to an inner room for those who wanted entertainment and were willing to pay a four-dollar minimum. Faulkner went toward this doorway and the headwaiter waiting there.
“I’ll see if George and Miriam are here yet,” he said.
Lois stood close to Murdock. As Faulkner moved away she said, not looking at him, “Who is Rudy Nagle?”
Murdock had made up his mind and he remembered what he had told Miriam Stark—that time was getting short. He was through covering up and if his plans worked out there would be a lot of uncovering done before the night was over.
“A private detective. I think Owen hired him.”
Lois said nothing. Owen came back. “They’re here,” he said. “The waiter’s pushing some tables together. Come on.”
“Go ahead,” Murdock said. “I’ll join you as soon as I’ve made a phone call.”
He asked a waiter where the telephone was and climbed the stairs to a booth in the upper hall. When he got his connection he asked for Lieutenant Devlin and was informed that the lieutenant was out. He said it was an urgent matter and was there any way he could reach Devlin? After a pause the voice said if he would leave his number the lieutenant might call back.
Murdock gave the number and said he would wait five minutes and if Devlin did not call back by that time he would not be at this number. Devlin phoned back in three.
“What’s up?” the lieutenant said.
“I hadn’t heard from you,” Murdock said. “I wondered if you wanted me for anything. Where are you now?”
Devlin mentioned an address. “Checking on a fellow by name of Nagle who just got bumped off. Ever hear of him?”
“Yes.”
“I wondered about it. Where are you?”
Murdock told him. He told whom he was with and said they would probably be around for a while. “Come up whenever you’re ready,” he said. “I might buy you a drink.”
“You might not, too. But I’ll be seeing you. Thanks for calling.”
The inner room’s lights were dimmed, and on the stage, holding the microphone and accompanied by a trio on piano, guitar, and bass, was a slim, handsome Negress with a soft, little-girl voice and exquisite phrasing. She was just finishing as Murdock moved inside, and as the applause came Owen Faulkner spotted him and held up his hand. Murdock got settled in a chair before the girl sang again and after that he listened, hearing now the piano and giving it most of his attention.
“How about that piano, George?” he said when the number was over.
“Wait,” Stark said. He sounded a little excited and seemed pleased that Murdock had noticed that which he himself had come to hear. “Wait till later when he’s on his own.”
The Negress and the trio went away and presently a monologist appeared and went into his act. Owen Faulkner had the chair next to Murdock and was fidgeting. After a few minutes he whispered, “What did you want to talk about. Who’s this Nagle?”
“A private dick,” Murdock said, “as if you didn’t know. He took some pictures awhile back.”
“Pictures? Of what?”
Faulkner’s voice went up a little, and instantly there arose about the room a loud chorus that chanted, “Shhh—shhhh,” with overtones of angry mumbling.
Faulkner glanced about irritably. He worried the signet ring. “Let’s go to the bar,” he said.
“It’ll keep,” Murdock said. “I want to hear the piano player when he comes back.”
In the dim glow of the colored lights Lois Edwards was watching Faulkner. Murdock caught her eyes once and what he saw in the shadowed depths told him she was a very troubled woman. He wondered how much she knew and what, if anything, she had told Faulkner, and then he realized that Miriam Stark was watching him.
“I’m glad you could make it,” she said, as though nothing had happened. “Though I wasn’t sure I’d ever speak to you again when you came this afternoon with the lieutenant.”
“I told you it wasn’t my fault.”
“I know. But at first—”
“Shhh—shhhh,” threatened the chorus.
A waiter sidled up with drinks, and Murdock drank gratefully and settled back to watch the performer and wait for the return of the trio. They came back fifteen minutes later and George Stark sat up. A slight, good-looking colored youth led the way to the piano and as he ran his fingers lightly over the keys while the guitar player made sure he was still tuned, he glanced out over the tables, his eyes touching George Stark briefly in a nod of recognition.
“I think he saw me,” Stark said. “If he did he’ll play ‘Sweet Lorraine’ or ‘Can’t Get Started,’ or maybe ‘Memories of You.’”
“Is it that important, George?” Miriam said. “After all he’s just a piano player.”
“Just a piano player, she says.” Stark gave Murdock a knowing wink. “Wait till you hear him.”
“What’s his name?” Murdock asked.
“Slim something. Higgins or Huggins—something like that. Listen.”
Stark was right about the selection. The trio went into “I Can’t Get Started With You,” taking it slow, with the first chorus mostly piano and the other two instruments softly backing it. And before they’d hit the first two bars Murdock was all attention.
He had heard piano like that before, but not often and never often enough. He was listening for the left hand and he heard the tenths and the progressions and it held him, building while the right hand, scorning the octave gyrations of the ballroom school, kept pace. Light and cleanly played arpeggios came in now and then, always ending at the right spot and never getting lost in the beat and the rest of the time the boy was playing those right hand tenths and using a thumb and four fingers so that the result was full-chorded and very marvelous to hear.
Over by the wall a woman was talking, and this time it was George Stark who looked up and said, “Shhhh!” Miriam nudged him. “Oh, stop it, George,” she said.
The guitar and bass picked up the theme in the second chorus, and the guitar kicked the melody around for a while with the piano filling in solidly, and on the last chorus they all built it up, not loud, not every man for himself, but with harmony and teamwork. They went out on a trick ending, and Stark’s eyes glowed as he turned round for confirmation of his forecast.
“How about that?”
Murdock nodded. “Everything you said it would be. Only I’m a little surprised at you.” He paused. “I’ve only heard two better,” he said. “Art Tatum and Herman Chittison. And this boy could play in the same room with them and not have to apologize.”
“That’s what I said.”
“But you don’t know his name.”
Stark still did not know what Murdock was driving at. “So?” he said.
“So why don’t you find out? You’re in the advertising business. You put on radio shows. Why don’t you do something for this Slim? Why isn’t he on the air?” He turned to Faulkner. “What do you think?”
Faulkner shrugged. “I wouldn’t know from nothing about piano players. All I know about a piano is that it’s got 88 keys—I think.”
Stark looked thoughtful. “Maybe you�
�re right, Murdock.”
“You know he’s right,” Miriam said. “You’ve been doing an awful lot of talking and shishing other people. Why don’t you do something?”
“Maybe I will,” said Stark. “Listen.”
The trio started an intimate arrangement of “Sugar,” and Murdock finished his drink, very gently tapped out the beat with the side of his thumb. They were on the second chorus when a shadow appeared at his elbow and a man moved close. He thought it was the waiter and looked up to see what he wanted.
Lieutenant Devlin was reaching for the empty chair at the end of the table. He slid into it quietly, nodding to Murdock and to Faulkner and Lois Edwards. Presently Miriam saw him and even in the semidarkness of the room her face blanched and stiffened. No one said anything, and they waited that way for the last chorus, and when it was over Stark turned and saw Devlin.
“Well.” He glanced about, his lean face surprised. When he found no answer in the faces of the others he said, “Hello, Lieutenant. What will you drink?”
“Nothing, thanks,” Devlin said. “At least not now. This is not a social call. I’m here on business and this isn’t a very good place to talk. We could go outside or—”
“Wait a minute.” Stark’s lips tightened unpleasantly, his mustache flattening. “We have a table here. We’d like to hear the rest of the show.”
“Maybe I didn’t make it plain,” Devlin said quietly. “I’m here on business. I’m going to talk to all of you, and we can do it out in the other room—if we can get a table in the corner—or we can all take a ride downtown.”
No one said anything. Stark started to and changed his mind. He signaled the waiter and asked for the check. When he said they would be out as soon as he got his change, Devlin thanked him and left the table.
16
LIEUTENANT DEVLIN WAS WAITING at a large table in the corner under the stairway. When Murdock and the others came out he asked them to sit down and told them it would be all right to order drinks if they liked.
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