“She had no opportunity to steal the keys. It wasn’t George Stark because he already had a key. It was physically possible for Lois Edwards to have stolen them sometime during the rehearsal but from things I learned later she did not shape up as the killer.”
“All right.” Calvert backed up a step, reached behind him and located his hat. “So the one who stole the keys and later returned them to Sheila’s bag was the killer. Where did I make my mistake? Hurry up, I’m curious about that but I haven’t got much time.”
Murdock took a chance. He was not scared, not at that moment, but he could see Dale Jordan from the corner of his eye and that did not help the sick and hopeless feeling inside him. There was nothing he could do to prevent Calvert from pulling that trigger whenever he made up his mind, but he was still the actor, still the center of the stage and it seemed almost as if he were enjoying the role in a sadistic sort of way. So long as he remained interested there was hope, and to Murdock it seemed that his best chance lay in a moderate defiance that would admit no indication of fear or give thought to the consequences.
“Look, Calvert,” he said. “It’s my story and I’m telling it my way. If you want to know—”
Calvert waved the gun. “Then snap it up.” He indicated the easy chair by the desk. “Sit down here where I can watch you.”
Murdock eased down on the chair arm. “Here’s what you did,” he said. “You’d made up your mind you had to kill Sheila and you had to do it fairly soon. I don’t know whether you stole the keys at the studio or later in Stark’s apartment, but it doesn’t matter. You stole them because in addition to killing her there was something else that you had to do. You couldn’t be sure whether anyone would take her home or not but after the fight she had with Stark in the kitchen it couldn’t be anyone but me and it was a reasonable assumption that I wouldn’t stay too long. So when you got around to it later on you went there, knowing if you rang the bell and she opened up you could do the job and if she didn’t—if she was tight or had taken a sleeping-pill—you could still get in with your key.”
He took a breath and went on slowly. “That’s what you did. It must have surprised you some to find me stretched out on the couch with Sheila but when we didn’t wake up it made it all the better because after you strangled her you knew there was a good chance I’d be the fall guy—a break you hadn’t figured on. The other complication was Rudy Nagle and that was bad, wasn’t it? Do you want me to figure that, too? As a guess?”
He waited and when Calvert continued to watch him with narrow-lidded eyes he said, “Nagle knew that Sheila and I would be dead to the world. He saw us come in and he waited a reasonable time for the drug to take effect. He used the key that Faulkner had given him again, came in, and took his pictures. When he came out and started down the street—or did he have a car?—he saw you walk by and was curious enough to see where you went. When he found out he naturally waited for you to come out. Did he have a car?”
“He had a car.” Calvert put on his hat and in the shadow of the brim his face was twisted and savage. “Parked across the street. I didn’t see him at all. He said he took a picture of me when I came out, with some infrared bulb or something so I wouldn’t see the flash.” He swore thinly. “I don’t think he took a picture at all.”
“But he saw you,” Murdock said. “And you had to wreck his darkroom to be sure.” He sneaked a glance at Dale. She was watching Calvert, a peculiar sort of fear clouding her gaze. She wet her lips and in that moment of silence said, “But I thought someone tried to kill you, Arthur. What about the whisky that was drugged?”
“Hah!” said Murdock.
Calvert shifted the gun, his hand tightening slightly. He did not like to think of the whisky, apparently, and Murdock felt his scalp tighten and hurried on.
“That was stupid,” he said. “You always were a pushover for Scotch, weren’t you, Arthur? Especially if it was free. Did you know Sheila and I were doped?”
Calvert shook his head. “I wasn’t sure. Sheila liked her liquor, and I didn’t know how much you’d had because it was quite a while after I left you at Stark’s before I got there. All I knew was that you were passed out and didn’t wake up. I thought a little about it but I couldn’t figure it and the Scotch tasted all right.”
“So you took it,” Murdock said. “You needed a slug then, I guess. And why not? You took it home, didn’t you? You gave me a drink from that bottle the next afternoon.” He laughed, an abrupt, strained sound. “Nagle told me he switched bottles after he took his pictures but I didn’t believe him. He left the good bottle we’d used before dinner and took the doped Scotch back to his office. That’s where you made your mistake, wasn’t it, Arthur?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t have much money left for Scotch, did you? And how you loved it. That bottle in Rudy’s cabinet was just too good to resist, I guess. You must have had it in your pocket when I walked in on you.”
“I should have killed you then,” Calvert said coldly.
“And you hurried home, not when you told Devlin you did but after that. And you needed a slug that time, too, a big one. Only it didn’t give you the lift you expected; it made you feel worse. So you took another big one.” He went on quickly, not liking the restlessness which was becoming evident in the big man, feeling the tension start to build again and move along his shoulders.
“I guess you thought it was all over with you when you woke up in the hospital. Instead of that Devlin accepted the obvious. So did I—almost. You thought up a story and he accepted that, too, because it just wouldn’t occur to him that anyone would like his liquor well enough to steal a bottle from a man he’d just killed.”
“Well, to hell with this.” Calvert shifted the gun to his left hand, rubbed his right palm dry on his coat and transferred the gun back. His mouth tightened and grew white.
Murdock stood up slowly, the hollowness spreading in his chest, his throat dry. He couldn’t kid himself now. He did not look at the gun but watched the big man’s eyes, remembering Dale Jordan, hearing now the sound of her breathing but not daring to risk a glance.
For he was counting on some fleeting signal from those narrowed eyes, a signal that Calvert’s mind would telegraph to the hand holding the gun. The best he could hope for now was to make himself a moving target and he set himself and was waiting when he heard the sound outside.
It was distant but distinct, that sound, like a car door slamming. Calvert heard it, too, but he did not move, and for perhaps three seconds they stood that way, ears straining and breath held. Then, faintly at first but hurrying and swiftly growing more distinct, there came the rap of feet upon the stairs.
Still watching the big man’s eyes, Murdock saw them shift. For an instant he thought Calvert would turn his head, and said, “That’ll be Devlin,” hoping to force that turn so he could move. “You haven’t got a chance,” he added quickly. “Put it down.”
Calvert resisted the impulse to turn, reacting at once to Murdock’s words. “Put some paper in that machine,” he said to Dale Jordan. “Start typing! I’ve got a chance, all right,” he said, his glance touching the closet door. “Whether you have depends on what you do.”
He listened. The footsteps came steadily on and he moved swiftly then, making no sound as he opened the closet door. He told Murdock to sit down. He told Dale to hurry up and get that paper in the machine.
“I’m leaving this door open a crack,” he said, “and don’t get between me and the girl, Murdock! If you do, if you say a word that’s out of line, I’ll start squeezing this trigger, and she’ll get it first. Keep working, Dale,” he said, “and don’t stop!”
He backed into the closet, gun still leveled. He pulled the door behind him until a two-inch crack remained. From where he sat Murdock could turn and see the vague outline of the muzzle and its deadly black hole.
The knock startled him. Then Calvert’s whisper came from the closet.
“Stay there! Tell him to come
in!”
“Come in,” Murdock called.
The door opened, and Lieutenant Devlin breezed in. He had a grin on his square face as he came through the alcove and his greeting was almost jovial.
“Hi, Murdock,” he said. “Hello, Miss Jordan.”
They said hello, the girl glancing round but not interrupting her typing. Murdock swallowed. He still felt stiff and cold all over and his face was like a mask when he tried to smile.
Devlin’s shrewd gaze noticed this and he half closed one eye. “What’s the matter with you? This business getting you down? Or are you sore at something?”
Murdock gulped air, worked on his grin and flexed his shoulder. “I’m tired,” he said. “We’ve been here quite a while.” He noticed his voice was all right and his muscles started to loosen up. “Where’ve you been?”
“Around.” Devlin walked up to the desk and pushed his hat back. “What did you want to see me about?”
“Ira Bronson was here. He said he’d been in Philadelphia.”
“Okay,” Devlin said. “If he goes home or to his office we’ll pick him up. What else?”
“I found out some things this afternoon.” Murdock hesitated while Dale Jordan pulled out her completed pages and, slipping out the carbons, spread them on the desk. When she started to fix a new set of carbons and paper he told how he had learned that Bronson was working for nothing for Sheila. “He came clean when he found out I knew,” he said.
“Yeah.” Devlin rocked back and forth on heel and toe. “I talked with the Coast. They haven’t got our prints yet but they looked up Myron Wortman. There’s not much heat on him now. Been a change in administration. They figure he could settle for a suspended sentence if he’d make restitution—it was only a matter of a couple of thousand bucks.” He nodded to the stacks of typescript. “What’s all this?”
Murdock told him, and Devlin looked over Dale’s shoulder as he listened. Murdock kept talking and the perspiration was coming out on him now; he could feel it trickle down his sides under his arms and his palms were wet.
He watched Dale type a line, still not knowing how he was going to get out of the spot or do anything about Calvert. He noticed that Devlin was no longer grinning; he was nodding his head as he listened to Murdock’s account and presently he began to pace absently back and forth, his hands clasped and tucked underneath his topcoat.
Murdock kept talking. So long as he did, so long as he kept Devlin’s interest the detective would stay; yet in the end, unless he thought of something, Devlin would leave and Calvert would still be here—with his gun.
He tried to find some answer, telling himself it was a silly, impossible situation that must have a solution.
His gaze followed Devlin but he was still thinking, measuring the angle between the crack in the door and Dale Jordan. He thought he might dive at the girl and knock her off the chair to the floor; he might do that before Calvert could shoot. But if he moved, Calvert would have to act. He would come out shooting and Devlin, with no warning and his gun holstered, would be just another victim.
Murdock twisted slightly from his seat on the chair arm. He wiped the perspiration from his forehead, hearing Devlin saying something about the scripts Dale was copying without knowing what he said. Then, as his glance focused clearly on the detective, he nearly fell off the chair.
Devlin was still pacing but he had shortened his range. He was walking from the far wall to the closet door and turning just short of it—invisible to Calvert because of the angle of the opening—and moving back.
Now, there was nothing the matter with Murdock’s perceptions and he had the sort of self-control that comes from meeting people under all sorts of conditions and masking your feelings and making others think what you want them to think. It was not what could be called a poker face in any exact sense, for it was more mobile and less obvious, but he could do all right when he wanted to.
For the briefest instant then he stared and knew it. And it was no wonder. It was, in fact, something of an achievement that he could so swiftly slide his glance on past and make some remark about the radio show.
For Devlin was no longer at ease. His mouth was warped in a tight smile and his eyes were dangerously bright. He had his finger to his lips in a pantomimed command for attention and silence, and in his right hand was his short-barreled service revolver.
He never lost a beat as he continued his pacing; what he did do was glance over his shoulder as he walked away, pointing his finger at the closet door and then at the girl as though to say he understood the situation.
“You take care of the girl!” his gestures seemed to say in that moment that he turned and started back.
“Yeah,” Murdock said, temporizing, wondering what he had been saying. “Sure.” He nodded with simulated reflectedness. “Okay. I guess that’s about all there is to it.”
Devlin came back, veering slightly so as to pass close to the door. He was even with it now, passing the hinged side but still a step away from the open edge.
“In that case—” he said, and took his next step.
Murdock was set but he did not move until Devlin did. When the detective lifted one hand and, not breaking stride, stiff-armed the door shut, Murdock was on his feet, grabbing Dale Jordan’s arm and swinging her jitterbug-fashion into the corner.
He heard the two quick shots an instant after the door slammed and before he could turn. When he did look Devlin had his back to the wall and his gun inches from the crack of the door which was still closed.
There were two holes in the door, and even then Murdock noticed the wooden slivers pointing outward and knew that Calvert and not Devlin had fired.
The detective’s command came at once.
“Come out, Calvert!” he said. “Backwards!”
There was a second of silence.
The doorknob turned, stayed that way. Another second ticked by and then Calvert came out, not backward but with a rush, the gun in front of him.
The light of the room may have bothered him a little but the truth was, he never had a chance. Not with Devlin. The detective’s counterstroke was instant and precise. He did not bother to shoot. Before Calvert could bring his gun to bear on anyone, Devlin slapped the barrel of his revolver on the big man’s wrist and with an upward, almost simultaneous movement, clipped him hard upon the jaw.
Calvert’s gun spun to the center of the room. He staggered and went to one knee, the welt livid on his jaw.
He did not look round or try to reach Devlin; he did not look up. Still on one knee he tried to get his gun back, lunging forward, right hand outstretched.
Devlin yelled something, and Murdock who had started for Calvert’s gun, stopped short and froze. Devlin spoke once more, his command clipped and demanding. When Calvert’s fingers touched the gun Devlin shot him twice in the arm and shoulder from a distance of six feet.
Calvert slid forward on his face, his limp fingers overreaching the gun. He lay quite still in that brief interval and his breathing was hoarse and labored and unpleasant to hear. Murdock shook himself. He stepped forward and picked up the gun, sliding it from under the wrist, then handing it to Devlin.
Arthur Calvert groaned, and his legs moved. He pushed up with his good arm, got his knees under him and finally managed to gain a sitting position. He blinked hard, his one hand red-stained now as he explored his upper arm and shoulder, and Murdock stood there in a mental daze, knowing what had happened but not knowing how it was brought about.
He swallowed and glanced at Dale Jordan. She did not move nor make a sound but stood stiffly in the corner her hands pressed to her breast, her face scared and sick. He turned back to Devlin and the detective moved to the telephone so Murdock stepped to the desk, the tension gone but the perspiration worse.
He started to speak to Devlin and was forestalled. As though reading his mind, the detective pointed to the paper in the typewriter.
Murdock leaned over, staring. The sheet was about two-thirds full of
typing. The lines were all of equal length, the letters were in capitals, the lines quadruple rather than double spaced. The words in each line duplicated all other lines and read:
CALVERT IS IN THE CLOSET WITH A GUN
Murdock was not sure how long he stood there but when he was able to think again and be thankful for the girl’s clear thinking and inventiveness, Devlin was putting the telephone down. Then, as other thoughts tumbled through Murdock’s mind, he got an idea that dwarfed all else. Wheeling without a word, he started for the alcove and the door.
“Wait a minute!” Devlin yelled. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“Upstairs.” Murdock opened the door and grinned. “I work for a newspaper, remember? And I think there’s a guy upstairs with a camera. If he’s a good Joe, I’ll be back in business again.”
23
LIEUTENANT DEVLIN HAD A LOT TO SAY, and it took him quite a while. He said it right in Sheila Vincent’s office after Calvert had been taken away and the place cleared of precinct officials and plain-clothes men. He had more of an audience now because Faulkner had stopped back and been ordered to remain, and at the moment the producer looked very miserable and ashamed as he listened to Devlin voice his opinion of Faulkner’s conduct.
Murdock took up the complaint, his voice morose as he remembered the trouble Faulkner had caused him. “You wanted to get rid of Sheila and you couldn’t think of any other way so you hired Nagle to frame me.”
“But I didn’t know it was going to be you,” Faulkner said.
“You got hold of a cheap detective like Nagle,” Murdock went on, ignoring the excuse, “and put me in a spot I almost didn’t get out of.”
“I had to get a detective like Nagle,” Faulkner said. “No reputable agency would touch a thing like that.”
“Whose idea was it to undress her down to a slip and plant the robe and take half my clothes off?”
“Nagle’s. I didn’t tell him what to do.” Faulkner hurried on, his face moist and eyes desperate. “I told him I had to have a setup that Sheila wouldn’t dare argue with. I didn’t know what he was going to do. I didn’t care.”
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