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  Lady Killer

  George Harmon Coxe

  A MysteriousPress.com

  Open Road Integrated Media ebook

  1

  IT HAD been a long time since Kent Murdock had gone down the harbour on the boarding tug to meet an incoming ship at Quarantine. Not just because he had for some years been picture-chief of the Courier-Herald and made his own assignments, but because the only privately owned ships coming in with passengers since the war were cruise ships from the West Indies, or freighters with limited accommodations.

  That he was present when the S. S. Kemnora came up the harbour was not so much due to the inauguration of a new Southampton-to-Boston service by a first-class liner—though this was an event which brought out full coverage by all the daily papers—or to the presence aboard of a Senator, a Congressional Committee, and a Danish film actress; what made Murdock relieve the regular waterfront man was a radiogram from a girl he had once known and liked, a message which read:

  PLEASE MEET KEMNORA TUESDAY AT QUARANTINE. URGENT. ELSIE.

  The Kemnora was late, through no fault of her own. For a haze hung over the lower harbour, and farther out along the banks the fog had been thick so that for a few hours the ship had moved at reduced speed. Due to dock at noon, it was after four when the boarding tug came alongside, and though the captain may have fumed in private that such a delay should happen on the maiden voyage, he ordered all flags broken out and the ship moved proudly, a single-stack, one-class liner, her super-structure trim and modern.

  Murdock saw Elsie Russell first on the rail while he waited on the tug for the boarding officer, and the customs inspectors who would do the paper work, to climb the ladder. He waved then but he could not locate her when he reached the promenade deck until, coming out of a passageway, he saw her at the rail with a slim, dark-haired man.

  With no idea that the picture would be published, but wanting a candid shot of this tall, smartly suited girl for his own file, he set his focus and called her name. She turned quickly, ash-blond hair flying and her eyes expectant. For a moment she stood that way, as poised and graceful as a model and just as well shaped. Then, as her smile of recognition took shape and the shutter clicked, she gave a little squeal and, forgetting the man with her, rushed forward to kiss Murdock soundly.

  “Kent,” she said. “How wonderful of you to come. I knew I could count on you.”

  As she drew back and Murdock started to reply, the dark-haired man moved up. “I beg your pardon,” he said, his voice soft with an accent Murdock could not identify.

  “Oh, Kent,” Elsie said. “This is—”

  The man seemed not to hear the attempted introduction. “You won’t be publishing that picture, will you?”

  Murdock regarded him curiously, aware that beneath the steady black eyes the face was sharp-featured and intense, the skin darker than his own. And although the voice seemed pleasant enough there was behind it a suggested urgency that impressed him more than the words themselves. For he had been asked questions like this before, usually by a married man whose picture had been taken—often inadvertently and as part of a background group—with some woman other than his wife. The answer to such questions varied and now, a glance at Elsie telling him nothing at all, he hedged.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Why?”

  If there was an answer he did not hear it then because Harry Felton broke in on them. Felton was a reporter on the Courier who had obtained a special “cutter pass” and was substituting for the regular ship-news man so he could do a feature story. A big, well set-up fellow in his early thirties, with a lot of assurance and the expansive manner of a born extrovert, he turned his smile on the girl.

  “Hi, Elsie,” he said.

  There was no kiss for Felton. Elsie shook hands and they said the usual things casual friends say after an absence, the girl’s manner polite but unimpressed by the big man’s smile and surface charm; then, while the slim, dark man hovered in the background, Felton took Murdock by the arm.

  “I’ve got that Congressional Committee all together,” he said. “Come grab a couple of shots, will you, before they scatter?”

  Elsie Russell called after them as they started off. “Come down and have a drink when you finish,” she said. “Cabin H.”

  The Committee was holding forth in one corner of the lounge. The other photographers had about finished when Murdock arrived, but the reporters were still putting questions and there was no objection when Murdock grouped the members again and took his own shots.

  The Senator was located in his stateroom and he posed good-naturedly while he spoke his words of wisdom to the gentlemen of the press. There were drinks for those who wanted them, for the Senator was a man who knew his way around, but in this instance Murdock edged out of the room with Felton and went looking for the Danish actress.

  She posed willingly on the boat deck in the customary fashion of all actresses who were eager to reach the top professionally—by sitting on the rail with knees crossed and skirts high while she waved to some imaginary fan. After that Murdock took other pictures of honeymoon couples and local family groups and he had plenty of time because the customs men were gathering the passengers’ declarations in the forward saloon, suspending temporarily the excitement and gayety that had been building up along the crowded decks.

  Elsie was waiting in her stateroom when he went below a few minutes later and a steward was just coming out, having deposited some ice and extra glasses on one of the bureaus. Murdock eyed the bottle of Scotch with approval but it was the sumptuousness of the room that held his attention. A wall-to-wall carpet covered the floor, the lighting was indirect, there was a gleaming bath adjoining, and two of everything—beds, bureaus, easy chairs, plus a vanity. He whistled softly as he finished his inspection.

  “So this,” he said, “is what comes of making a picture in France and getting a Hollywood contract.”

  Gray eyes smiled at him. “Oh, you knew about that?”

  “We keep track of you.”

  “It’s not that big a contract but it’s a start.” She glanced about, still smiling. “I’m sharing this with Virginia Arnold. I ran into her in London and—do you know her?”

  “I knew her,” Murdock said, “when she was singing in the Rendezvous and married to Bert Carlin.” He grinned and said: “And you were the debutante chanteuse at the Berkely Club getting seventy-five dollars a week and wearing two-hundred-dollar gowns.… Well, if you want publicity from me sit up there and let’s get the cheesecake. Cross those nice legs of yours and pull your skirts up so I can see them.”

  She sat on the arm of a chair, her tawny face thoughtful and a tiny frown growing at the bridge of her nose. “That wasn’t why I wanted you to meet me.”

  Murdock had been wondering about that. He had known Elsie Russell since she was the town’s most talked of debutante, not all of that talk being flattering. He had photographed her countless times, not only at society affairs but later when she announced that she was putting such things behind her and giving all her time thereafter to her career as a singer. It had never amounted to much, that singing. She worked as long as her name and fresh young charm proved a drawing card at the Berkely. After that there was summer stock at various New England straw-hat theaters. When nothing s
ubstantial came from this she spent a year or more on the society staff of the Courier, forsaking this finally for some bit parts on the New York stage and, during the war, service in England and France with the Red Cross.

  She was, he realized, more beautiful now at twenty-eight than she had ever been. Maturity had added grace to her carriage and the fine lines of her body, and the boyish, teen-age prettiness she once had, had developed into a quiet radiance all her own. For all of this, real success had somehow escaped her and the young men who had once fought for the honor of being her escort had married other girls. Yet, unless she had changed greatly, she was not, Murdock knew, the sort who would get him down here just for publicity pictures.

  “That’s good,” he said. “Just smile a little for the man. Hold it … Now one more—with the skirts a little higher.”

  She made a face at him. “A little higher and I’ll get my contract canceled on the grounds of moral turpitude.”

  He took his picture, pocketed the filmholder, and put his camera and equipment case on the bed by the door. When he turned she had opened her handbag and was holding something out to him. He moved up to find the object a platinum brooch, richly set with diamonds and sapphires.

  He saw she wanted him to take it so he turned it over in his fingers. “Hmm,” he said, sounding impressed. “Nice.”

  “I got it on a side street in Antwerp,” she said. “I paid two thousand for it and I think it’s worth a lot more. At least I hope it is. And I thought that, well”—she paused, unable to meet his gaze—“if you could just put it in your pocket, Kent, why then no one would ever know the difference. If I have to pay the duty—”

  Her voice trailed off and she glanced up doubtfully.

  Murdock sighed, not liking what he had to say but thinking none the less of her for her request. Because it was so often that way with women, a fact which customs men were well aware of. It was not, they all agreed, that women were more dishonest than men or would wilfully break the law, it was simply that the bringing in of undeclared articles presented a challenge women often found hard to resist. Seldom did it occur to them that, regardless of motives, the act itself was a criminal one. Usually the smuggling was limited to little things they conveniently forgot to declare; except those who bought dresses and coats and sewed in old labels—and were invariably detected and penalized.

  He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Elsie,” he said, and saw her face fall. “Do you want your kiss back?”

  She tried to smile, still holding the brooch, and he went on, wanting to help her yet knowing it was a thing he could not do.

  “You said I could put it in my pocket and no one would know the difference, and you’re probably right. You asked me because you know they trust me around here. That trust is part of my stock in trade. It’s a thing you build up over a period of years and without it a newspaperman gets nowhere. If you’re a little short, if you need some cash to take care of the duty, I’ll get some for you, but on this other thing I’m afraid the answer is no.”

  Color touched her checks then because now that she understood the issues involved she knew that from Murdock she had asked an impossible thing and was ashamed. And because he liked this girl and was genuinely sorry, he said:

  “And even if I did bring it in you know what might happen?”

  “I’d save myself some money,” she said dryly.

  “For now, yes. Also I think you’d be pretty pleased with yourself and the trick you played. People have a hard time keeping such things to themselves, women particularly. A couple of months from now you might be bragging about the duty you saved and someone you think is a friend—and is not—might quietly tip off the customs. An informer gets a cut, you know, on all penalties, and one day a couple of special agents pay you a visit. They want to see the brooch.

  “You say, ‘I beg your pardon?’ And they say, ‘The one you brought in from Europe a couple of months ago on the Kemnora and forgot to declare.’”

  He grinned and said: “You know they’re right but you don’t know how they know, and if you insist on denying it they’ll flash a warrant on you and then they’ll find the brooch, either in your apartment or safe-deposit box, or wherever you have it. And you know what happens then? You wind up in jail—with me in the adjoining cell.”

  She sighed, her mouth wryly amused as she accepted his reasoning; then she was shoving the brooch back in her bag as the door opened and Virginia Arnold came in.

  Ginny Arnold was a small, well-rounded brunette, not exactly pretty but with a dark, seductive beauty that was worth a second look in any company.

  “You know each other, don’t you?” Elsie said.

  “Sure,” Murdock said. “I was one of her claque down at the old Rendezvous. Hi, Ginny.”

  “Hello, Kent.” She came forward to shake hands, poised, sleekly turned out, expensive-looking. She continued across the room, slipping the mink cape from her shoulders and tossing it on the bed beneath the ports. “Some claque,” she said, and smiled. “You were always going to get my picture in the paper—and never did.”

  Murdock laughed and his dark eyes were bright with amusement. He said that was a long time ago and that he had more influence now.

  “I’m supposed to be getting him a drink … How about you, Ginny?” Elsie said, and then glanced up as Harry Felton came in.

  “How about that drink,” he said in that bluff, uninhibited way of his. Then, seeing Ginny Arnold, some of his expansiveness oozed away. “Oh,” he said. “Hello, Ginny. Didn’t know you were aboard.”

  “Hello, Killer,” Ginny said, and with the words Murdock felt an odd tension settle over the room where none had been before. For there was a hostility in the girl’s inflection that verged on contempt, and thinking back, Murdock understood why.

  Killer was but a part of Felton’s nickname and did not come from any pugilistic tendencies. Lady Killer was the complete tag and was originally given to him by some associate in a moment of jest. That it stuck was due to Felton’s good looks, sartorial splendor, and the conscious surface charm that some women found attractive. Such attributes, plus the well-known fact that he was not always too particular in his selections, combined to give him the most complete set of addresses and telephone numbers of anyone on the staff, and he was quite willing to share them with those less fortunate. He was not well liked, and in some quarters not exactly trusted, but he was an able, facile writer, and because of this was tolerated.

  With women it was different, at least those who were not allergic to his charm. They were always calling him up. It was because of his proclivity for new conquests that Ginny Arnold had divorced her first husband, who had been her accompanist in the early days, only to discover that Felton had tired of her sufficiently to make a matrimonial commitment distasteful to him. She had married her present husband, Wilbur Arnold, a couple of years later, and gossip had it that Felton had once again begun to pay her some attention. The wise ones said that Arnold had bought Felton off and then advised his wife of what he had done to show up the reporter in his true colors. This European trip, they said, was by way of compensation for her.

  Now Felton recovered quickly. “Well, come on. Let’s have the drink,” he said, ignoring Ginny, who now turned her back and walked to the far side of the room.

  “Coming up,” Elsie said, and when Felton flopped down on the bed near the door and stretched out his legs, Murdock went to give her a hand.

  He poured four drinks, helped with the ice, and when the glasses were ready he held the four of them in the span of his two hands, carrying them into the bathroom to add water. Ginny was standing by one of the ports when he came back a minute later, apparently paying no attention to Elsie and Felton who sat on the other bed beside the camera and equipment case.

  Murdock passed the drinks. He said: “Cheer’o.”

  The response was not overwhelming, and although Elsie smiled when he winked at her and lifted his glass, the earlier feeling of congeniality was gone. Felton bega
n to talk to Elsie about her plans, keeping his voice down so that the conversation became limited to a twosome. Outside, ships whistled and tooted their welcome to the Kemnora, and presently Ginny glanced out the port and said she thought they must be coming alongside the pier.

  A new vibration shook the hull as one of the screws went into reverse, and when Murdock corroborated Ginny’s assumption, Felton jumped up and drained his glass. He thanked Elsie for the drink.

  “Let’s get going,” he said, handing Murdock his case, “before we get trampled by the passengers. See you on the pier, kids.”

  2

  THE processing of passengers by customs men had always interested Murdock. During the past few years most of it had been done at the airport, to limited numbers, and because he had forgotten how it was when two hundred passengers came in at once, he stood by the station inspector’s desk where the arrivals lined up to get their declarations back and be paired-off with the inspectors who were to go over their things.

  Although a passenger seldom knew it, it was here, as he stood with the stub which had been given him aboard ship, that his initial inspection began. He was in a line of fellow travelers waiting his turn, and he was aware that there was another line which extended from the desk at right angles. It was in this line that the inspectors waited to be assigned, and it was a line that was augmented continually by other inspectors who had finished their first assignments and returned to be reassigned.

  What the passenger did not know was that he was already under surveillance. Intent on his own place in line, and more than likely chafing at the delay in getting his declaration back so the job could go on, he gave little thought to the second line which converged on the desk. With the inspector, it was different. If he happened to be the fourth in line, almost invariably he counted up four places in the passenger line and took a look at the individual with whom he was to be paired-off. He would look for signs of nervousness: the twisting of a ring, the patting of an inner pocket, any surreptitious fingering of some article of clothing. Veterans had told Murdock that it was here that the casual smuggler often gave himself away; yet when passenger and inspector met at the desk the routine was generally the same and the victim—if he was dishonest—had no way of knowing that the odds were now against him.