Murdock remembered the bottle of Chesterfield Scotch in Nagle’s office; the one with the mutilated label; the one that he and Sheila had used. He remembered also the bottle of Chesterfield that Calvert offered him that first afternoon.
As he realized how simple it would be to make the switch he heard Devlin say, “Who, Mr. Faulkner, would know about that liquor and the drug that Nagle had? I’ll tell you,” he said when Faulkner made no reply. “The guy that hired Nagle to do the Vincent job.”
He straightened in his chair and glanced about. “I guess I’ll have that drink now,” he announced and beckoned to a waiter. “And I’ll pay for it.”
“Don’t be silly,” Miriam said. “We know you’ll arrest us if you can, whether we buy a drink or not.”
“Rye and water,” Devlin said to the waiter, “and put it on a separate check.”
“So we aren’t pinched yet?” George Stark said.
“Not by me,” Devlin said. “The district attorney gets what I have. He’ll let you know how he feels about it.” He nodded to Murdock. “But you—well, maybe you’d better get your hat and coat and ride with me.”
17
LIEUTENANT DEVLIN’S CAR WAS PARKED down the street, headed east, and he drove crosstown to Lexington and started south. Murdock settled himself for a long ride and said nothing because there was nothing he could say and no argument that would do much good in the face of the charges Devlin could make. He watched the car slow down as it passed his hotel but he did not think about it until Devlin turned the corner and stopped next to a No Parking sign.
Devlin motioned him to get out. Murdock did so and Devlin locked the car. “Let’s go up to your room,” he said and started along the sidewalk.
Murdock went along silently as they went back to the corner, crossed over, and walked to the hotel entrance. He had been momentarily surprised when Devlin stopped but he allowed no elation to infuse his thoughts because he had an idea this was to be nothing more than a stopover on the trip to headquarters.
But he pretended he was here for the night. He went to the desk and found two messages which he read in the elevator. Both suggested that he get in touch with long-distance and ask for Boston operator 16.
Murdock stuffed them in his pockets, unaware of Devlin’s curious gaze and thinking only about the Courier and T. A. Wyman, its managing editor. According to the slips Wyman had been trying to get him since early afternoon and he knew that eventually he would have to talk to him. But not tonight. Not even if Devlin gave him a break and let him sleep in bed instead of a detention cell. He would, he knew, reap the harvest of Wyman’s wrath when he finally called back but even that was better than trying to explain what had happened. Wyman would know about Sheila’s murder from the wire services but Murdock had neither story nor pictures to offer, other than the ones taken at the studio, and he was in no mood to make excuses.
He stepped from the elevator with Devlin and led the way down the eighth-floor hall to his room. When they were inside he went to the telephone and requested room service.
“One rye and one Scotch, with water, to 816.”
Devlin grinned. “From you I’ll take the drink.” He took off his hat and coat and eased down into the upholstered chair by the window. He moved it so he could put his feet on the window sill.
“I figured we were going to headquarters,” Murdock said.
Devlin shook his head. “Not tonight, son. But not because I couldn’t book you.” He lit a cigarette and put his head back. “I figure I got enough right now to put you away for around fifteen to twenty years.”
“I know it.” Murdock sat down on the bed, his manner passive and weariness in his voice. “Yeah,” he said.
“Of course you’re an ex-serviceman and a newspaper guy and that would help. Your publisher would get a good lawyer and maybe in the end the D.A. would have to settle for less. Say maybe a couple of years just for the hell of it and to make some other newspaper guys think twice before horsing around in a murder case. I could have put you away when the chemist told me about the residue in those two glasses,” he added.
“Am I arguing?”
“Not now, you’re not. Open the door,” he said when the waiter knocked. “I’m thirsty.” He swallowed half his highball before the waiter could get out and when the door closed he went on with his musing.
“You’ve been playing the angles,” he said. “You’ve held out from the start. I guess you had good reason, too, the spot you were in, but in my job I don’t give a damn what the reasons are; I don’t expect co-operation but I’m going to get it if I can and I’m going to use what pressure I’ve got. I want a killer. When I get him, I nail him. I don’t give a damn what his name is. You want to know why I didn’t take you down?”
He glanced round. “I told you I called Boston and talked with your friend Lieutenant Bacon. He said some nice things about you. Later when I figured you were working on your own and maybe not exactly playing cricket, I called Boston back and we talked some more and I decided to let you keep plugging. I didn’t ask if you could have murdered the dame, understand. Bacon and I have been in this business too long to kid ourselves about who is a potential killer and who isn’t. I know damn well you could kill. So could anyone else given the proper motives, provocation, or what-have-you. But Boston said you weren’t a lush and you didn’t have woman trouble and the chances were that if you were covering up it was because you were in a spot and not because you wanted to outsmart the police. He said you’d helped him plenty of times so—”
“So you decided to give me a break.”
“Until I could crowd you, yes. I can crowd you now.” Devlin shifted in the chair and took a sip of his drink. “I talked with Ira Bronson. He said he went to Miss Vincent’s office that first morning to check up on some scripts and found you there. He said he thought you had searched the place because the scripts were gone.”
“Why should I want scripts?”
“We asked Bronson that. He didn’t know, either. But there was something else we found. We found she had hired Rudy Nagle a couple of years ago. About a year and a half to be exact. She paid out around three hundred bucks, and that’s a lot of dough for a guy like Nagle. That would call for a lot of work. There should have be some reports around some place. We didn’t find any. I figured maybe you snitched one. If you did it might explain those two hoodlums that bothered you.”
The respect for Devlin’s shrewd intelligence that Murdock had felt from the beginning took another upward curve. He grinned wryly, an odd amusement flickering in his dark eyes.
“That’s nice figuring,” he said.
Devlin’s lids came down. “There was a report?”
Murdock nodded.
Devlin looked almost happy. “This would be a good time to tell me about it,” he said. “In fact, this would be a good time to tell me the rest of it. Give.”
Murdock paced back and forth as he talked. He explained that he had taken the report without knowing what it was; its appearance had suggested something of importance, and he had obeyed an impulse otherwise unexplainable.
He did not say anything about the handkerchief he found, nor did he mention Miriam Stark’s visit to Rudy Nagle that evening; but he did tell of the man with the gun who had been surprised searching Dale Jordan’s room. He told what the report contained and how it happened to be in the hotel safe when the two thugs first searched him and his room.
“They got it this afternoon,” he said.
Devlin sighed. The angles of his squarish face hardened, and his voice took on a note of exasperation where none had been before.
“Brother, you sure tried your damnedest to keep from playing ball, didn’t you? If you had called me about those two guys this afternoon we might have—”
Murdock flushed and interrupted bluntly. “Did you pick them up? Either of them?”
“No.”
“You had a man following me this afternoon, didn’t you?”
“He said you
shook him in the subway.”
“He was outside Nagle’s office. He saw our two friends come out, didn’t he? Why didn’t he grab them? Or did you forget to tell him he was supposed to be watching for Nick and Harry?”
Devlin opened his mouth, thought better of it, and closed it. The hot retort that seemed ready to explode did not come out. He thought a moment and shrugged, his voice no longer ironic.
“Okay,” he said. “That makes us even. What about the report? Give me those statistics again.”
“Age, forty.”
“That was five years ago. Check.”
“Height, five foot nine; weight, one-sixty.”
“Check.”
“Hair, black with gray. Eyes, dark brown.”
“Check.”
“Complexion, sallow; build slight.”
“Check.”
“Moderate drinker; frequents cabarets and theaters.”
“Umm.” Devlin kept his eyes half closed. “Who does it fit?”
“As a guess?”
“As a guess.”
“Ira Bronson. Height, age, eyes, and maybe habits fit. He could have dyed his hair—what he has—put on glasses and weight. Good living would change the complexion from sallow to florid.”
Devlin stood up. “Yeah,” he said. “San Francisco, huh? Myron Wortman might have been paying a bit of blackmail,” he added. “Maybe he got tired of paying.”
He put on his coat and hat, stepped to the door. “Thanks for the drink—and the information. Too bad you couldn’t have spilled some of this in the beginning.”
“In the beginning I didn’t know the score.”
“I guess you didn’t. I’ll probably call you in the morning. Meanwhile you’d better stick right here. Tonight, I mean. The killer might decide you know too much, ever think of that?”
“Not until now,” Murdock said. “I’ll keep it in mind.” And then he thought of something else and said, “Have you got the bottle of Scotch Calvert drank out of? Well, if it has a label with three letters missing from the word Chesterfield—”
“It has.”
“That’s the same bottle that was in Nagle’s office this afternoon.”
Devlin nodded and went out, and Murdock watched the door for a few seconds, his thoughts a long way off. When he realized he was standing there he turned and went to his bag, taking out his half-bottle of Scotch and holding it up to the light. It was more than half full as he remembered, but in spite of that he wet his tongue with it and tasted it before he poured some into his glass and the ice that remained.
When he undressed a half hour later he sat on the edge of the bed and lifted the telephone. He gave Dale Jordan’s number and got no answer and he wished now he had thought to tell Devlin that he had been unable to reach the girl since the night they were held up.
Somehow with all of the lieutenant’s questions the matter of that holdup had been mentioned but not discussed. There had been no further questions as to the apparent reason for it and now, as it all came back to him, Murdock felt the pressure of this new worry and was deeply disturbed. It was a long time before he could get to sleep, and his last thoughts were of the girl.
18
KENT MURDOCK SLEPT SOUNDLY and when he awoke at nine-thirty it was another minute or so before he began to remember the events of the previous day. Then, as his thoughts came inevitably to Dale Jordan, he rolled over, scooping up the telephone and asking for her number. Presently he heard the distant ringing and listened, letting the sequence run to ten before giving up.
Lying there propped up on one elbow, he replaced the instrument and gazed somberly at it and then, as though resenting his treatment, it shrilled loudly, startling him. When he picked it up, the operator said, “Mr. Kent Murdock? I have a long-distance call for you.”
“If it’s from Boston,” Murdock said, “I’m not accepting it. But don’t tell the Boston operator that,” he added quickly. “All you know is that Mr. Murdock is not in and you don’t know when he’ll be back.”
His dark eyes were troubled as he hung up, and his brows were warped. All during his shave and shower he argued with himself, calling himself names and scowling at his image in the mirror as he admitted his weakness. In the end he remained steadfast and obdurate on his original decision. He could not talk to Wyman until he had something to say; something encouraging if possible, but at least something that would make sense.
He was finishing breakfast when Lieutenant Devlin telephoned, and Devlin’s voice was happier than usual. “We got one of your playmates about an hour ago,” he said.
“Which one?”
“The skinny one. Harry.”
“That’s nice going.”
“I was thinking you’d better come down the identify him.”
Murdock said all right. “Will I have to sign a complaint?”
“I don’t know yet. Don’t worry about it, just get down here. I’ll leave word downstairs to have you brought up to my office.”
Devlin was waiting in his cubbyhole forty-five minutes later when Murdock arrived and the lieutenant was still in excellent spirits.
“Did you stay in last night?” he asked.
“I had one more drink and went to bed.”
Devlin said he was glad to hear it; it was nice to know that Murdock had decided to apply his talents to such things as decorum and good sense. When he had divested himself of these thoughts he swung his feet from the desk and reached for the telephone. He spoke briefly, and presently the door opened and a uniformed officer pushed Harry into the room.
Harry looked very unhappy. Gone was his leer, and there was a bruise on his cheekbone that Murdock had not put there. There was dirt on his knees and his tie was askew, the two top buttons on his shirt missing so that his collar gaped.
“Hello, Harry,” Murdock said.
Harry’s reply was profane and defiant. He was in the proper mood for elaboration and might have given voice to his thoughts had the officer not twisted the handcuffs.
“He’s our boy, hunh?” Devlin said. “One of our bright young rookies spotted him on the street,” he added to Murdock. “Tailed him to a rooming-house near Ninth Avenue and had sense enough to find out which room he went to before he made the pinch. We have a reception planned for your pal when he comes back,” he said to Harry.
He nodded to the officer, who opened the door and swung Harry through it. When they had gone Devlin said, “We tried to get ahold of Ira Bronson. He’s not around—home or office. His secretary doesn’t know a thing, or so she says.”
Murdock told Devlin about Dale Jordan, and the detective’s face grew thoughtful as he heard the details.
“You think some guy was after the scripts the girl had patched up? The ones her husband had written? Could that figure in the murder?”
“It might if Bronson happens to be your boy,” Murdock said. “But don’t ask me how. He was Sheila’s agent but if he turns out to be Wortman, she might have—”
He stopped, confused by all the fragments of details that he did not understand. The more he thought the more he added to his uncertainty and he finally blew out his breath.
“What the hell,” he said. “I don’t know any more answers. I just wish you’d hurry up and solve this thing—”
“You and me.”
“—so I can get back to Boston. Have you talked to Calvert yet? Is he all right?”
“I understand he’ll be okay to leave the hospital this afternoon.” Devlin reached for his hat. “I’m going over and talk to him now. Want to come?”
Arthur Calvert was sitting up in his hospital bed and though he welcomed Murdock and Devlin with a grin, his face was pale and his blue eyes were lusterless.
“It’s about time somebody paid me a visit,” he cracked. “Sit down. I’m glad to see you.”
“I heard you had a close one,” Murdock said.
“So I understand.”
“How do you feel?” Devlin pulled a chair up for Murdock but remained st
anding. “They tell me they’re letting you out after lunch.”
“Feel a little rocky,” Calvert said. “But my stomach is starting to behave; I’ll be okay once I get out in the air.”
“Who do you think switched bottles on you?” Devlin asked.
Calvert gave him a blank look; then glanced inquiringly at Murdock. He ran his fingers through his blond hair. “Was that how it was?” he asked finally.
“Did you drink Chesterfield Scotch?”
“When I could get it.”
“You had a bottle in the room the afternoon I stopped by,” Murdock said.
“Sure. I still got it. Some of it, I mean.” Calvert frowned, twisting his lower jaw. “Haven’t I?” he said.
“The only bottle of liquor in your room—the only one we found, that is,” Devlin said, “was a bottle of Scotch that was loaded with chloral hydrate. It had a funny label on it.”
Calvert was still frowning, and his gaze remained fixed, as though his sight was turned inward to explore the past.
“The bottle I poured my two drinks from had a Chesterfield label. I’m positive about that.”
“Sure. The bottle I mean was Chesterfield, too, but the label had a piece missing on one side. The last three letters of the name were gone.”
Calvert sighed. “I don’t know,” he said. “I didn’t notice.” He rearranged his pillow and leaned back, his face troubled and perplexed. “What I can’t understand is how it could happen at all. Or why.”
He paused and found Devlin waiting for him to go on. “Why should anyone want to kill me? Good God! I don’t know who killed Sheila and if I did I’d have said so. She was a selfish and grasping dame and hard to get along with, and I admit I was burned when she gave me the air and started to play around with George Stark. But I’ve got to be grateful for what she did for me. Faulkner wouldn’t have given me the male lead opposite Lois Edwards if Sheila hadn’t put in her pitch for me and made it stick. If she’d been killed a month ago I probably wouldn’t have had a job at all.”
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