Confusion and disorder were evident in the scattered papers before the open door of the safe and in the litter of odds and ends on the big table. A smaller chamber, glimpsed through an open door at the end of the long room, was also in an untidy state, the portion visible showing a pile of rumpled blankets on the end of a small couch.
But the thing that dominated that quiet, sunlit room was John Murdock’s corpse. In life John Murdock had not been exactly prepossessing; with his huge, flat-skulled head on which the coarse, reddish hair grew low over the brow, and his massive torso and limbs, he had been like his house, too square and blunt and angular for beauty. Now, in death, he was grotesque and hideous, with horrible bursting eyes and a contorted hole of a mouth from which protruded a black and swollen tongue.
Garroting is neither a quick nor a merciful death. Although no longer young Murdock had been a powerful man, and it was evident that he had not succumbed without a desperate struggle; the body hung, rather than sat, in the tall chair, the legs sprawled and twisted far to one side as though in a futile effort to turn and face his adversary. A red braided cord, almost hidden in front by the overlapping folds of the thick neck and knotted tightly against the scrolled back of the chair, held the body in an upright position.
The old sheriff took a proprietary and ghoulish delight in the unnerving spectacle. His gesture toward it was reminiscent of a guide in a waxworks museum calling attention to one of the more realistic exhibits in the chamber of horrors.
“Not much to look at, is he? Choked to death with a cord from the window curtains—looks like he was settin’ there and the murderer came through the window and sneaked up behind him.”
He turned to a small, dapper man who came forward from before the french windows. “This here’s the county attorney.”
County Attorney McArthur frowned and extended a limp hand.
Nicholson took the hand. “Hope we’re not intruding,” he grunted.
“Not at all, not at all,” said McArthur with hollow cordiality. “Glad to have you. I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed though. This is an obvious case of murder incidental to the commission of a robbery, and I feel sure that an hour or two of questioning will produce both the guilty party and the stolen goods.”
“What was stolen and whom do you suspect?” asked Nicholson. “Ten thousand.” McArthur rolled the sum off his tongue with relish. “There was ten thousand dollars in that safe last night, and it’s not there now. Only two people, besides Mr. Murdock, knew of its presence—Powers, the butler, and Miss Nellie Cosimo, Mr. Murdock’s secretary, and we’ve already discovered that Miss Cosimo has an alibi.”
“And that leaves the butler,” murmured Stern.
“Exactly. I haven’t had time to question either of them, but the sheriff’s preliminary investigation has already brought to light several facts that point directly to the butler. He was the only person in the house with Mr. Murdock last night and this morning. He knew of the money and, we have reason to believe, hated his master. He tells a fantastic story, full of absurd discrepancies—something about a tall dark man dressed in a brown hat and overcoat who was in this room when he came in and who slugged him and got away. The story is made out of whole cloth in my opinion.”
“But he was slugged,” cut in Sheriff Christy. “You can’t get away from that, and it takes a damn clever man to slug himself and make it look real.”
Nicholson asked, “Did you have the doctor examine the butler’s injury to determine whether it could have been self-inflicted or not?”
“Sure thing,” said the sheriff. “Doc was pretty sure that he wasn’t faking.”
McArthur cleared his throat. “I’ll believe he was faking before I swallow that ridiculous story he told you, Sheriff. If you and your men are all through here I suggest you have the body removed and bring Powers in for questioning.”
“The boys got plenty of pictures, and they’ve been over the place for fingerprints.” The sheriff turned to Nicholson and Stern.
“Maybe you fellers’d like to take a look around before the inquisition starts.”
Stern had already left the little group by the door and was wandering about in an apparently aimless fashion. He had stopped to peer down at the body for a moment, his face looking as though his stomach was turning over at the grisly sight; then he had strolled to the windows and from there to the safe where he knelt and rifled idly through the papers strewn on the floor. When Nicholson joined him he raised his head and nodded solemnly, his eyes owlish behind their thick lenses.
“Looks like the guy didn’t find what he was looking for,” he said.
“What are you batting about?” asked Nicholson. Five minutes’ conversation with McArthur had put him in a bad mood.
“The guy came here for something,” insisted Stern, “and it was something he wanted pretty bad. He got Murdock’s keys—they’re over there on the table now—and he tried the safe first. He did a good job, but whatever he was hunting for wasn’t here. Then he went through the drawer of the table and searched the small room. He was interrupted before he’d finished. Probably by the butler, in spite of what our pompous friend says. My guess is that he socked the butler and scrammed—and if I’m right he’ll be back.”
“Who’s jumping to conclusions now? And where do you get that ‘back’ stuff?” said Nicholson. “That’s another one of the things you read in a book. The only murderers who ever revisit the scene of their crimes are the ones dragged there by the cops. The others usually keep going in the other direction.”
Stern only grinned, and Nicholson grunted disgustedly and left him, to go across and stare down at the corpse and the littered table at which it sat. Evidences of the search to which Stern had alluded were obvious. The drawer of the desk had been jerked open, and everything in it snatched out and piled on the desk top. Nicholson noted the keys and the fact that Murdock’s right trousers pocket was turned inside out. A gleam came into his eye, and he suppressed an exclamation as a possible object of the search occurred to him. Spy reports. That was what the murderer had been looking for—and that brought Jackson right back into the middle of the picture. Jackson could have been the man who slugged the butler—the description, or as much as they had heard so far, checked—and why couldn’t Jackson have a brown hat and overcoat? Better hear the butler’s story right away and find out whether he could identify the man who had hit him. Then get Jackson down in the line-up, and the case would be over. The whole business was a cinch.
He turned to the sheriff. “This fellow you picked up in the wrecked car down the road—where is he now? Did you question him?”
“Hospital,” grunted the sheriff, suddenly laconic. “Unconscious. Slight concussion, the docs say. Won’t be able to talk for several hours.”
“What about the car?” persisted Nicholson.
“License plates from your state. We haven’t had time to check them yet.”
Nicholson asked for the number of the plates and got busy on the telephone. Two husky deputies assisted a white-coated morgue attendant in untying and removing the body. The cord about Murdock’s neck had been knotted tightly at the chair back, and they had difficulty loosening it. Released from the fatal noose, the body collapsed limply, with only a slight suggestion of rigor mortis, and was placed on a stretcher.
Nicholson, having completed his telephone call, waited until the door closed behind the deputies and their burden before he spoke.
“That car belonged to a night-club singer, name of Mayme Burke,” he announced triumphantly. “She was the sister of one of the union longshoremen that were mixed up in the killing we had last night. We got a general alarm out for him. I’ll bet my bottom dollar that either he or this other fellow we’re looking for, Jackson, or maybe both of them, were in that car when it crashed—and I’ll go further. One or both of them came up here and bumped Murdock. McArthur, I think that butler’s telling the truth.”
McArthur bridled and seemed about to explode.
The sheriff said quickly, “I’d like to get more facts before we start in on theories. For instance”—he ambled over and pointed a bony finger at the drawer of the big table—“did any of you gents see anything funny about this drawer?”
“Yeah,” said Nicholson. “It was forced. Why would the guy force a drawer when he had Murdock’s keys?”
“Probably because he didn’t have that particular key,” suggested McArthur.
“The key’s there, all right.” Nicholson picked up the bunch of keys and selected one. “The guy was pretty panicky, the way I see it, and forced the drawer before he thought about searching Murdock for keys. Or maybe he hated to touch the corpse. But when he got to the safe he found out he couldn’t force the inner compartment and had to have the keys. By the way, Sheriff, was the safe open when you got here?”
“Just like you see it,” said the old man.
“The money was in the inner compartment of the safe,” the county attorney said somewhat testily, “and the windows were always kept locked, except in the summer. According to the butler ventilation was obtained through that fan in the transom above the middle window. If you ask me I’d say the windows were opened by the butler himself in order to lend credence to his fantastic story. I confess, gentlemen, this seems to me to be a waste of time. In my opinion, we should interview witnesses.”
“I agree with you heartily,” said Nicholson, “but there are a couple more questions I’d like to ask first—sort of background, you know. First, about the family and servants. It seems to me I’ve seen pictures of a Miss and Mrs. Murdock in the papers. Where are they?”
“Florida,” said the sheriff. “Wife and daughter and two maids and a chauffeur. Butler’s the only left ‘cept for old man Shawn and his wife who come in by the day. Shawn’s the handy man, and his wife does what cooking there is when the women of the family are away. The butler sorta takes care of Murdock. I asked why Murdock happened to come home last night, and the butler said there was somebody here to see him—to see Murdock, I mean.”
“Hmmmm, a visitor, eh? That’s interesting. Did the butler say who it was?”
“Not yet,” said the sheriff. He grinned. “I didn’t get a chance to ask him.”
Nicholson returned the grin. “The butler seems to have the answers to a lot of questions,” he admitted. “I guess I’ll wait with mine until we hear what he has to say.”
3. Man in the Brown Coat
Powers was above average height and thick through the chest and shoulders. The wooden, slightly snobbish deference of the well-trained servant hung on him like a transparent cloak and hardly served to hide the emotional strain going on underneath. There were white lines around his mouth and jaw, and his eyes darted restlessly from face to face. He paused for a moment just inside the door, and his head went down like that of a cornered animal about to charge; then he regained control and straightened.
“You sent for me, gentlemen?” he asked the room at large.
The sheriff nodded and indicated a chair placed facing the windows. Powers sat down heavily.
“Thank you, sir. You are very kind.” Powers’ eyes shifted toward the table and chair in the center of the room and were hastily averted.
“You understand, sir. The—er—morning’s occurrences have been almost too much.” He lifted his hand and touched the large square of adhesive on his temple.
“Sure, sure,” said the sheriff soothingly. “Musta been a shock-”
McArthur squared away in front of the man and glared down at him.
“It’s nothing to the shock you’re going to get if you don’t come clean and tell the truth,” he snapped. “Who killed Murdock?”
“The truth——“ Powers half rose from his chair. “Why—I—you don’t think I know who killed him?”
“You hated him,” persisted McArthur. He pointed dramatically. “You knew there were ten thousand dollars in that safe.”
“Just a minute.” Sheriff Christy’s customary drawl was gone and his voice was sharp. His eyes were suddenly a cold blue.
“Mr. McArthur’s the county attorney,” he said to Powers. “He knew Mr. Murdock and he’s kinda upset. These here’s Captain Nicholson and Attorney Stern from across the river. We’re here to find out who killed your boss and swiped the ten thousand dollars, and I guess you want to help us do that, don’t you?” Powers’ reply was somewhat surprising. “Mr. Murdock was a hard man. I suppose Miss Cosimo told this gentleman I hated him.” He hesitated. “Perhaps I did. I know that I would have given notice long ago if it had not been for Miss Julia and the mistress—but I did not kill him and I did not take the money from the safe—and I certainly want to help find whoever did.” Powers’ fingers went again to the bandage on his forehead. “After all,” he finished, “he tried to kill me too.”
McArthur reddened and cleared his throat vigorously. He seemed momentarily to consider challenging the sheriff’s authority to conduct the investigation but he evidently thought better of it for he sat back in his chair and was silent. Stern caught Nicholson’s eye and winked.
Sheriff Christy did not seem to notice the byplay. He said to Powers, “Go ahead. Just tell us everything that happened.”
“Yes sir,” said Powers. “I’ll do the best I can. Mr. Murdock got home at eleven o’clock last night. He was usually late when the family was away. There was a—person here waiting for him—a Mr. Weller—I believe he has something to do with the unions on the water front.”
“Did this fellow Weller say what he wanted to see Murdock about?” asked the sheriff.
Powers hesitated. “No sir,” he said finally.
Stern leaned forward. “Beg pardon, Sheriff. That’s probably Fink Weller. He’s a water-front racketeer who used to be president of the longshoremen’s union until the men kicked him out.” The sheriff nodded, and Powers said, “I don’t know, of course, but I believe what the gentleman says is substantially correct.” Stern’s eyes twinkled and bowed gravely. “Thank you, Powers.” McArthur cleared his throat again threateningly, and even Nicholson fidgeted in his chair. The old sheriff gave Stern a reproving look, then nodded to Powers to continue.
“Mr. Murdock brought Mr. Weller to the library and requested me to bring them some refreshments and, when I had done so, told me that he would require nothing more and that I might retire.”
“Then you don’t know when Weller left?”
“I’m a light sleeper, sir. I heard the front door open and close and Mr. Weller’s car starting. I didn’t look at my watch but I judged it to be about two o’clock.”
“Hmm.” The sheriff ran a hand along his bristly jaw, as though suddenly aware that he had forgotten to shave that morning. “Where’s your room?” he asked.
“Off the kitchen, sir, at the end of the hall.”
“And where did Mr. Murdock sleep?”
Powers gestured toward the small chamber at the end of the library. “Down here. He usually slept here when he worked late.” McArthur could contain himself no longer. “How do you know where he slept?” he barked.
“His bed upstairs was not slept in,” Powers answered evenly. “And if he had gone upstairs or come down in the morning I should have heard him. As I said, I am a light sleeper.”
Sheriff Christy ignored the interruption. “Anything happen during the night? You hear any unusual noise or anything like that?”
Powers shook his head. “Everything was just as usual, sir. I’m sure of that.”
“What time’d you get up this morning?”
“At six-thirty. I always arise at six-thirty. I had breakfast in the kitchen, and then at a little after seven there was a telephone call——”
“Phone call, huh? On this phone?” Sheriff Christy indicated the instrument on the library table beside the fatal chair.
“No sir. That’s an extension of the house phone in the hall. Mr. Murdock did not like to be disturbed, and I answered all phone calls—that is, all calls that came over the regular house phone. Mr. Murdock had
a private, unlisted wire for personal calls with connections in his den here and in his bedroom upstairs.”
“You don’t say? Were there any calls over the private line?”
“I wouldn’t know, sir. Mr. Murdock took those calls himself.” The sheriff rose, crossed the room, and opened the hall door. “Phillips,” he bawled, “call the telephone company and get a record of all calls from or to this house last night or this morning. Murdock had a private line beside the regular listed house phone. Be sure you get the dope on both of them.”
The deputy answered, “Okay, Jake,” and was at the phone before the sheriff closed the door. The old man came back and sat down.
“Go on,” he said to Powers, “tell us about this phone call.”
“Well, sir, it was a person named Jackson——“ Powers paused as Nicholson yelped, “What?” and came to attention like a bird dog. The sheriff looked at Nicholson who sat back and shook his head. Powers glanced from one to the other and then continued: “Mr. Jackson asked to speak to Mr. Murdock, but I informed him that I had orders not to disturb the master before ten o’clock. He then requested me to inform Mr. Murdock that he—Mr. Jackson, that is—would be here at ten. He was very insistent, and I took the message.”
Nicholson said, “Look, Sheriff, do you mind taking time out for a couple of minutes? There’s one or two things I’d like to get straight before I hear the rest of the story.”
The sheriff nodded, and Nicholson asked, “What time was the body found?”
Christy fixed a cold blue eye on Powers. “You came into this room at ten o’clock sharp, right? And Murdock was dead in the chair by the table there just like we saw him?”
Death on the Waterfront Page 10
