Murder with Pictures Read online

  FOUR o’clock in the morning. He stood under his shower thinking of the strange party in the apartment upstairs—and the curious collection of people in it—that he had quit a couple of hours before. The door clicked. A frightened, pale girl slipped into the bathroom, stepped beside him and pulled the shower-curtain tightly around them both. “Turn the water on!” she whispered. He could hear the voice of the policeman outside.…

  When the sun came up, Kent Murdock, ace photographer of the largest newspaper in the city, was deeply concerned about the sensational murder of the famous criminal lawyer who had been his host. He plunged into the affair with his camera as well as his sharp clear eyes, and the former was no less useful to him than the latter. That camera snapped some very interesting and revealing pictures before the case was closed.

  Here is a new kind of “detective” in a new kind of murder-mystery, and the result is a fast and fascinating story that will hold any reader.

  MURDER MYSTERIES

  •

  DASHIELL HAMMETT OMNIBUS

  RED HARVEST • THE DAIN CURSE

  THE MALTESE FALCON

  by Dashiell Hammett

  THE HANGOVER MURDERS

  by Adam Hobhouse

  THE CROSSWORD MURDER

  by E. R. Punshon

  THE ELEVENTH HOUR

  by J. S. Fletcher

  THE DIAMOND RANSOM MURDERS

  by Nellise Child

  •

  These are Borzoi Books, published by

  ALFRED A. KNOPF

  Copyright 1935 by George Harmon Coxe

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a magazine or newspaper.

  eBook ISBN: 978-0-8041-5234-1

  v3.1

  TO

  MY MOTHER

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Murder Mysteries

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  The characters and situations in this work are wholly fictional and imaginary, and do not portray and are not intended to portray any actual persons or parties.

  Chapter 1

  FOLEY, THE RED-FACED, uniformed deputy on duty in the hall, peeked through one of the glass ovals inset in the leather-covered courtroom doors and said:

  “Hey, the jury’s comin’ out!”

  A concentrated and irritable sigh from the group of news-photographers lounging in the hall greeted the announcement. There was an intangible flurry of movement, a casual shifting of stances.

  Brant, of the News, sighed wearily. “Boy, it’s about time.”

  Tobacco smoke, the residue of a four-hour harvest from an apparently inexhaustible supply of cigarettes, choked the air with a stale stuffy smell and hung suspended in a hazy, pale-blue blanket that shrouded the arched ceiling. Cigarette butts, matches, crumpled paper holders littered the ash-strewn floor. Cameras and bulky black plate-cases were stacked in a row along one wall.

  Foley said: “It won’t be long now,” and kept his eye glued to the little glass window.

  Brant sighed again.

  Coughlin and Weinstock, who had been matching nickels for the past hour, continued, unimpressed.

  “I’ll bet he gets it,” Kesler said. He looked around as though waiting for a challenge. “Who wants to bet Girard ain’t guilty?”

  “Girard’s waiting to hear it,” Foley announced.

  Coughlin said: “That’s four bits you’re in me. A buck or nothing.” Weinstock nodded silently and flipped his coin. Coughlin said: “Nuts!” and fished a crumpled bill from his pocket.

  “It looks like an acquittal,” Foley said. “Girard is—”

  He broke off in sudden alarm and jumped aside. In the next instant the swinging doors slapped outward; Purdy, of the Evening Standard, bucked through the opening. Without breaking his stride, Purdy called: “Not Guilty!” and pounded down the marble floor in his race for a telephone.

  Foley growled: “Hey, you! Quiet!” Then the rest of the reporters swarmed out of the courtroom and he was forgotten.

  The photographers reached for their cameras and plate-cases and swung into action. In a body, they started down the hall. Some continued to the main entrance; others dropped out and, stationing themselves at strategic intervals along the walls, began to screw flash-bulbs into synchronized flash-guns. Kent Murdock of the Courier-Herald turned to Jorgens, who was covering with him.

  “Stay here in the hall, Johnny. When you get one come out. I’ll be on the steps and you’ll probably have to take my stuff in.”

  The courtroom crowd began to filter through the hall and down the wide stone steps of the main entrance. Most of them dispersed matter-of-factly when they reached the sidewalk. A few idled expectantly at the curb or on the steps, eventually collected in clusters of threes and fours and became separate forums of argumentation. A pair of ragged, smutty-nosed urchins strolled upon the scene. Deciding the occasion looked promising, they sat down on the bottom step.

  A quartet of middle-aged women, apparently searching for any sort of thrill in lieu of housework, drew back against the wall of the recessed entrance, where they chattered in high, staccato voices and laughed with spasmodic abruptness. The burly, uniformed policeman stationed at the doorway stepped towards them and delivered an ultimatum. The quartet exchanged indignant glances. They went down the steps muttering and stood in front of the row of cigarette-smoking men who lined the curb.

  A sleek black sedan, with some discreet chromium here and there, slid into the No Parking space opposite the entrance. Murdock, one of the five photographers flanking the steps, eyed the car and license number speculatively, his dark eyes narrowing. He looked back at the policeman in the doorway; then he stepped to the sidewalk, crossing to a Checker taxi, the first in a line of three cabs waiting at the curb.

  “You’re hired,” he told the driver. “Wait for me.”

  The driver looked up from his newspaper, nodded indolently, and resumed his reading. Murdock went back to his place on the steps. A few seconds later the policeman called:

  “Okay, boys. Here they come.”

  Cameras swung up. Somebody cautioned: “Don’t let anybody spoil it now, Mac!”

  The policeman winked and moved out on the broad top step. Four of the photographers who had waited inside barged through the doorway in a mad dash. They wheeled abruptly, lifted their cameras. An instant later Mark Redfield and Nate Girard stepped from the gloom of the hall into the flat, pale shadows of late afternoon.

  A half-dozen of the more curious spectators—those with the hem-of-your-garment complex—had remained in waiting for their prey and now tagged closely behind. Before they could surround Redfield and Girard the policeman said: “Stand back, now!” and stepped in front of them, arms outstretched, blocking them off.

  “Hold it, Mark!”

  Redfield, a big-bodied man with a florid face, a wing collar and a made-to-order courtroom presence, searched the faces of the photographers, trying to locate the voice. Then
he beamed and drew himself up in a definite pose. Girard hesitated momentarily, smoldering dark eyes sweeping the steps. He was a well-built man, tall and with the heaviness of figure that comes with increasing maturity rather than easy living. His rugged face was expressionless, his lips flat under his close-cropped mustache during that instant he stood poised there. Then his brows pulled into a frown and he started down the steps. Redfield’s pose dissolved and his jaw dropped. Disconcerted, he had to hurry to catch Girard.

  Murdock watched the scene through the metal rim of his finder, a faint sardonic smile wrinkling the corners of his eyes. Half-way down the steps Redfield drew even with Girard. Murdock pressed the shutter-release. Automatically reversing his plate-holder, he backed to the sidewalk, keeping pace with the two men as they crossed to the car which now stood with door open.

  He took his second picture when Girard, again in the lead, put his foot on the running board and stooped to enter the tonneau. The rest of the photographers crowded around the sedan while Redfield slammed the door; one fellow thrust his camera through the lowered window and chanced a picture with a flash-bulb. Murdock was no longer interested. He pushed quickly through the crowd to where Jorgens stood at the foot of the steps.

  Murdock held out his exposed plate-holder. “Take this in with yours. Take my plate-case too.” He took a spare plate-holder from his coat pocket, slipped it into the back of his camera. “I want to follow this up before I go in.”

  Redfield’s sedan was angling out from the curb when Murdock reached his waiting taxi. He piled into the back seat and said: “Follow the sedan.”

  The taxi-driver had a comparatively easy job. The sedan moved cross-town at a moderate pace, and from then on, it was just a question of keeping close enough to get the same break with the traffic lights. Twenty minutes later the two cars drew up in front of a modern brick apartment house that boasted a doorman, a marquee, and a rubber mat which said: Embankment Arms.

  Murdock was out of the taxi a second after Redfield and Girard stepped to the sidewalk. As they started for the bronze-framed entrance without looking around, Murdock said: “Wait a minute, Nate.”

  Both men wheeled. The doorman, who had followed them from the sedan, continued discreetly to the revolving doors.

  Murdock lifted the camera. “How about a picture? A nice one.”

  Redfield grinned and Girard said: “Hello, Kent. What’s the matter? Miss out down below?”

  Murdock shook his head. “No. But this is a different background, and I’ve got more time.”

  Girard’s mustache spread in a wry grin.

  Redfield said: “Where do you want us?”

  “That’ll do.”

  Murdock pressed the shutter-release. Then, before either man could move, he added: “One more. I want to be sure.” He reversed his plate-holder, changed the stop-opening of the lens. He started to lift the camera again, then checked the movement, one eyebrow cocking.

  “How would it be,” he asked dryly, “if you sort of looked a little relieved, or pleased, or something, Nate? You know, like a man who’s just had some good news.”

  Girard looked at Redfield, then back at Murdock. After a moment a slow smile relieved the set expression of his mouth and jaw.

  Murdock snapped his picture. “That’s swell,” he said, and swung his camera down. “And now that the business part is over”—he stepped towards Girard and put out his hand—“congratulations.”

  “Thanks.” Girard shook hands firmly, but he spoke without enthusiasm. He glanced over his shoulder at Redfield, and his brows climbed slightly, framing an expression that asked a silent question. Apparently puzzled for a moment, Redfield frowned, then nodded.

  “Oh, yes,” he said, speaking to Murdock. “We’re having a little show up at my place tonight. Why don’t you drop in?”

  “I’d like to.” Murdock pursed his lips. “But I may be working and—”

  “What of it?” Redfield spread his hands. “You live right here in the same building, don’t you? You have to come home. We’ll probably still be at it when you get through. Take a look in and see, anyway.”

  2

  LEON’S PORTABLE BAR had been set up in the balconied dining-room. The party was far enough advanced so that there was no longer any rush for service, and when Kent Murdock put down his empty glass, Leon’s left hand whisked it away and the right followed with the bar rag in an automatic polishing movement that was practiced, professional.

  “Another, Mr. Murdock?”

  “Later, Leon.”

  Murdock lit a cigarette and turned his back to the bar, hooking one elbow on the rounded edge. He glanced down across the drawing-room, saw that the girl in the blue dress who had attracted him from the instant he stepped into the room was still sitting alone. His eyes hesitated in a brief moment of study as they found her, then moved on to the grand piano.

  The present entertainer, a tired-looking girl with nice legs and a fair voice, was just finishing her song. Because most hands were otherwise occupied, there was little applause; apparently none was expected. The blond youth at the piano transposed in a series of soft, full chords and continued idly on another chorus when the girl sat down beside him on the bench.

  Nate Girard moved into the living-room from the terrace windows on the left. He held two champagne glasses in one hand, a cigarette in the other. As he walked diagonally across to the dining-room steps, he smiled and said something to the foursome on the modernistic sofa. He came straight to the bar and Leon said:

  “Two more of the same, Mr. Girard?”

  “If you please, Leon.” Girard put down his glasses and shook hands with Murdock. “Glad you could make it.”

  “Hestor here?” Murdock asked casually.

  “Yes. With me. Do you mind?”

  “You don’t have to be that polite, Nate.” Murdock’s tone was sardonic. “Where would I be, minding?”

  “Well—” Girard’s hands moved in a suggestion of a shrug. He glanced over his shoulder. Leon had not finished with the order and he looked back at Murdock. “Not drinking?”

  “I’ve got to work in the morning.” Murdock hesitated, his dark eyes speculative; then he took Girard by the elbow and drew him to one corner of the room, letting go of the elbow as he took another half-step to face him.

  He said: “I like the party, but I don’t know yet who’s giving it. Are we celebrating your acquittal or Redfield’s fifty-thousand fee?”

  Girard smiled. “Call it a co-operative affair. I’m throwing it, and Mark and Rita are furnishing the apartment. Mine is too small.”

  “It’s an idea.” Murdock nodded in amused approval. “You’ve got something to celebrate. It must seem good to be out.”

  “You’ll never know how good.”

  “A party tonight,” mused Murdock, glancing down at the end of his cigarette, “and this afternoon—”

  “A cold sweat,” Girard cut in grimly, “while twelve good men and true argued for four hours and finally got the best of their natural sadistic impulses to send me to the chair.” Girard’s mouth dipped at the corners, pulling his mustache ends with it. His voice took on an undertone of cynicism. “It wouldn’t have surprised me much. Most of the newspaper men, most of the wise money, thought I’d get it.”

  “A lot of them did,” Murdock agreed.

  “The police and the District Attorney”—Girard’s lips flexed in a wry grin—“still think I killed Joe Cusick.”

  Murdock’s brows lifted. “That’s their job. Somebody did and—”

  “You think so too, huh?” Girard’s deep-set eyes were fixed, fathomless.

  “I didn’t follow the trial very closely.” Murdock’s glance touched some remote object, and his momentary frown was thoughtful. “But I’ve got plenty of gall and ill-mannered curiosity,” he added dryly. “I have to have in my business, and I’ve known you quite a while. So when I pulled you over here, I had an idea—since you’ve had your acquittal and can never be tried again—I might ask yo
u for the truth.”

  He dropped the cigarette in a pedestal ash-tray. “And now that I’ve gone this far, I think I would ask except that, as I think of it, it’s sort of a stupid question. There’s only one answer, isn’t there?”

  Nate Girard did not speak at once. Murdock met his gaze with steady eyes and they stood there like that, both waiting, each sizing up the other.

  Murdock was nearly as tall as Girard, with a lean flat-muscled body that was loose, yet well knit. His brows were straight above brown eyes that were sometimes like copper—only harder, sometimes dark enough to be called black. Now shadows made them black. Girard was ten years older, a few pounds heavier. A close-up revealed the muscular leanness of a man who keeps fit and does not have to worry about his waistline. The ruggedness of his rectangular face, the close-cropped mustache, the black hair, gray-streaked at the sides, gave him a distinguished look that was both handsome and intelligent.

  The intangible thing common to both, and as apparent as a physical characteristic, was that each had about him a certain hardness that varied only in type; apparent because there was no shifting of eyes, no fumbling with hands or nervous reactions as the tension grew. Murdock broke it without removing his gaze.

  “It’s okay. Tell me to go to hell.”

  “Why should I?” Girard’s mustache twitched. His tone seemed rather grimly amused. “That question is so hackneyed I’m used to it. I’ve been asked it by experts—in the District Attorney’s office.”

  Girard paused. Murdock seemed to relax, and his eyes narrowed with his smile.

  “The answer is still the same,” Girard added evenly. “And if I seem bitter about this trial it’s because the answer happens to be the truth. I never killed a man in my life.”

  “But you know who did?”

  Leon’s anxious voice reached the corner of the room. “Ready, Mr. Girard.”

  Nate Girard glanced over Murdock’s shoulder. “Don’t be morbid,” he counseled. “This is a celebration.” He slapped the side of Murdock’s shoulder smartly, stepped round him, adding: “What you need is another drink.”