Hollow Needle Read online

  “Everything all right?” he said. “Dinner okay?”

  “Dinner was swell.”

  “Anything I can get you?”

  In the moment before he answered, Murdock considered Nick. He had considered him before without much purpose, and now that his thoughts had some point of focus, he wondered just what Nick’s position in the house might be. There was nothing about him that suggested a servant in the usually accepted sense, and he certainly did not dress like one. He was young and there was about him an aggressive but well-tempered quality that was difficult to classify. It seemed unlikely that he belonged in the family, and Murdock wondered if he could be a companion to someone in the house and had, temporarily, been assigned to keep an eye on the visiting photographer and see that he was made comfortable.

  Murdock wound up with no answer at all to his speculations, but one thing was clear; he had not been offered the freedom of the house. No one had suggested that he do anything but stay here in his room, though he realized that this could be nothing more than an oversight.

  Now, having looked at the half-dozen books on the shelf of the end table without finding anything that interested him, he said, “Yes, there is. I’d like to get a book if there are any around.”

  “Sure,” Nick said. “Plenty of ’em. I’ll take you down to the library. If you find anything that interests you, you can bring it back here.”

  He opened the door and then, as though his last remark called for some elaboration, he offered a good-natured explanation. “It’s a big place. A guy could get lost around here if he didn’t know where to go. Especially with the lights we’ve got tonight.”

  They went out and along the empty corridor to the center hall and stair well, their shoes making no noise on the thick carpets. Candles burning on strategically placed tables flickered and danced as they passed and served to light their way as they moved down the stairs to the main hall. Here, under an enormous chandelier, now dark, Nick turned to the rear of the house where the hall narrowed and apparently led to some terrace at the back. From this a lateral corridor opened on the left, and they went along it to an open door on the right.

  As they turned in, Murdock heard voices and then he saw that there was a girl sitting in a leather chair near a lamp. She was talking to a man who stood not far from the door, and he turned now, a tall, well-built fellow of forty or so with sandy hair and a smooth, tanned face.

  “Hello, Nick,” he said. “What’s this I hear about your leaving?”

  Nick’s glance moved to the girl before he spoke. “That’s right, Mr. Prentice,” he said. “Probably the end of the week.”

  Prentice mumbled something about being too bad and went out. Nick smiled at the girl and she smiled back. “This is Mr. Murdock,” he said. “From the Courier-Herald. He’s down to take some pictures tomorrow morning—Miss Kenyon.”

  The girl said, “How do you do?” and Murdock saw that she was quite young, with golden hair and a pert, interesting face.

  Nick waved a hand. “Help yourself,” he said, indicating the rows of books, and walked toward the girl, who uncurled in the chair and got to her feet.

  Murdock turned away, aware now that he was in a high-ceilinged room twice the size of his bedroom, with books covering most of three walls and a ladder to reach the top shelves. There was a door on the left, French doors at the end that overlooked the rear terrace, a fireplace on the right. The rug was maroon, so was the leather that covered the divan and chairs.

  The lamplight was inadequate for a room of that size, and Murdock had to stand close to be able to read the titles, most of which did not interest him. There were rows of leather-bound sets—Dickens, Shakespeare, Mark Twain, and O. Henry; there was a section of essays, another of biography, a third of history. He found some shelves of popular fiction, none of it very new, and as he inspected titles he became aware of the conversation taking place between Nick and the girl.

  They had moved to the end of the room by the French doors, and while Murdock had no intention of eavesdropping, he could not help hearing scattered bits of talk. The girl’s voice was low and indistinct, but Nick’s words came through now and then. “Bounced,” he said once. “This afternoon … says I’m not a fit person.” Nick did not sound perturbed, though the girl continued earnestly, and now and then he chuckled, his words indistinct but his tone disparaging.

  “Find anything?” he called finally.

  Murdock pulled out a volume of Conrad, wanting mostly to leave the two alone and deciding it would be better to reread some of Conrad than tackle something new and of questionable value.

  He held the book up. He said, “Yes,” and saw that Nick seemed reluctant to accompany him. “I can find my way back all right.”

  “Fine,” said Nick, and looked relieved.

  In his room, Murdock took off his coat and shoes, unloosened his collar, and moved the lamp to the bedside table. He stretched out and for a while he forgot about the house and the Caldwell family, giving his complete attention to a story called The Brute which he had read before but had sufficiently forgotten to make the experience as worth while and rewarding as it had been originally.

  For a time then he lay back, his mind at ease and held by the author’s words and the mood he had created, but presently he became aware again of his surroundings, and he found himself wondering about the Caldwell legend. He wondered who Miss Kenyon was and what she did. He considered the sun-tanned Mr. Prentice, and there was some vague recollection of the name that he associated with the society page. He thought perhaps Prentice was the original Evelyn Caldwell’s current and third husband.

  Realizing that he did not particularly care, he stood up and put the book aside. He stretched lazily. He yawned and reached for a cigarette, and when he had it going he walked to the windows at the end of the room. Aware presently that the earlier restlessness was once more working on him, he opened one of the windows wide, leaning out to get a deep breath and examining a sky that was now clear and starlit above the vaguely outlined buildings behind the house.

  When he lowered the window part way and turned back, he saw that it was now a quarter of twelve, and it occurred to him that he would like a drink, a cold one preferably, but certainly a nightcap of some kind before he went to bed. He looked for a moment at the push button that connected with the pantry, and found he lacked the nerve to ring it. Instead he put on his shoes, picked up the book, and went into the hall, his plan a simple one and built around the hope that he would find Nick in the library and, failing that, perhaps a pantryman wandering about who could be broached on the subject of a cold stimulant.

  The hall that branched laterally from the center one and stair well was again quiet. There was but one candle in its length, and the shadows were thicker than before until he reached the stairs. Here the hall was square and spacious, enclosing the circular stair well. Across the opening was a corridor similar to the one he had used, and toward the front of the house and on either side of the railing was a door, beside each of which stood a maple lowboy. Two fat candles burned on the lowboys, and, in addition, the one on Murdock’s right held a green Thermos jug and tray, a fact he noticed as he moved down the stairs.

  The main hall had less light than before. The darkened paneling absorbed and destroyed what illumination there was, and as Murdock paused at the foot of the stairs he saw that the rooms opening from either side were black and deserted. There was no sound as he turned toward the rear where the hall narrowed, but when he swung into the corridor leading to the library he saw a glow of light from the open door and took hope.

  The carpet muted his footsteps until he reached the threshold of the room, and as he turned in, his pace unchecked, he saw the man and woman step apart by the French doors, their actions precipitous and awkward, as though in an earlier moment their arms had been about each other.

  Murdock faltered, embarrassed. He identified the man as the sun-tanned Mr. Prentice; the woman he had never seen before, and he knew only that she
was a brunette, taller than most, and handsomely proportioned.

  “Oh,” he said. “Sorry. I just wanted to return a book.”

  There was no reply to this, and unable now to withdraw, he walked to the proper shelf as the silence thickened, seeing Prentice turn toward the window while the woman took a step toward the flat-topped desk. As he replaced the book he saw from the corner of his eye that she was selecting a cigarette from a leather box. He knew she was watching him, but he concentrated on his job and left the room as quickly as possible, his original interest in some stray pantryman and a cold drink forgotten.

  He was halfway up the main stairs when he heard the voices, and he stopped climbing, one hand on the railing. For another second or two he listened, aware now that they came from the room to the right of the stair well railing, the one that had the lowboy and Thermos jug beside the door.

  For some reason he wondered if this was the door to John Caldwell’s suite. He did not know why, for the voices were but a faint rumbling, the only distinguishing characteristic being that one seemed high-pitched and strident, like the voice of an angry woman.

  As he continued on up the stairs and into the lateral corridor, his thoughts centered once more on the ironic circumstances surrounding his assignment, and he considered again the man who was responsible. For somewhere in the house this eighty-year-old multimillionaire with an inventive genius seldom equaled had been forced by elements beyond his control to light his forty-room mansion by candles. For this little while he was helpless in the face of existing conditions and, judging from the sounds of the voices Murdock had just heard, not very happy with his lot.

  Neither was Murdock, particularly. He was glad to get his Scotch-and-water, even without ice; he would, he told himself as he undressed, be gladder still to get his job done and get away from the place, though he could give not one good reason why. He finished his drink and lit a last cigarette, then glanced round as the faint sound of someone’s knocking came to him.

  Not quite sure whether it came from his door or not, he stepped up and turned the knob silently. He eased the door open, not wanting to pry but unable quite to ignore the sound. He saw at once that the knock had come, not from his door, but from the one directly across the hall.

  This door was open part way and he could see the gleam of golden hair and the folds of a blue negligee. He thought this must be the Kenyon girl but he could not see her face, nor could she, apparently, see him. For standing close to her and blocking off her line of vision, oblivious to Murdock and speaking in a low, deep voice, was a tall, stoop-shouldered man with an egg-bald head and long arms.

  Murdock eased the door shut. He did not know who the man was or what he wanted with the Kenyon girl, and he did not stop to listen. He had already had a sufficiency of the house and its inhabitants, and after waiting a few minutes he locked his door without bothering to ask himself why and climbed into bed.

  3

  KENT MURDOCK WAS AWAKENED at eight the following morning by the telephone on the bedside table, and when he answered a cheerful voice said, “Good morning, Mr. Murdock,” and then asked what he would like for breakfast and when he would like it served.

  “Grapefruit, if you have it,” Murdock said. “Two three-minute eggs, whatever you have in the line of muffins or rolls, and coffee. If you can serve it in a half hour that will be fine.”

  The sun was bright outside the room and the first thing he did when he hung up was reach for the bedside light to see if the power had been turned on. When he found that it had, he slipped out of his pajamas and stepped into the bathroom. Here he took his time shaving, going over the point of his jaw twice, and his shower was leisurely. When he had rubbed down, his lean-muscled body looked fit and healthy, and he walked naked to the open window where he filled his lungs three times, sucking hard and holding his breath a few seconds before expelling it.

  He was dressed and waiting when the waiter came with his breakfast. He called, “Come in,” and the knob rattled, and then he remembered he had locked the door. He went over to open it, a suggestion of sheepishness in his grin as he admitted the same man who had served him the night before.

  He ate by the window, taking time to inspect the grounds at the rear. From where he sat he could see a corner of the formal garden and the tennis court, the long, two-storied garage with its concrete ramps, the glass-domed building that he guessed might house the swimming-pool as well as the quarters of the man who cared for it and his family. Beyond were the lawns and stables, and as he considered the overall picture he realized how little the average man knew about the Caldwell family.

  In spite of the great wealth amassed by Old John’s efforts there was little ostentation in the conduct of the family’s social life. There were no records of lavish parties and little mention in the society pages of the family’s activities; and for the simple reason that its members shunned night clubs and first nights, and when they traveled or visited fashionable spots, they made sure in advance that there would be a minimum of publicity. They had every comfort, as well as the opportunity for sport and relaxation, right here within the estate, and they stayed rather close to its borders, because that was the way Old John wanted it. He had gone to great lengths to preserve this idea of privacy, and it had been rumored on more than one occasion in the past that he had used a double when it became necessary to attend some public function that he could not avoid.

  All this, however, had happened before Murdock’s time. In his own experience he had seen John Caldwell but once, and that was at a distance. Now, considering the background, he found himself looking forward to meeting this legendary figure, and for the first time he was glad that he had been selected to record what might turn out to be the last photograph ever taken of the man.

  As he considered this it suddenly occurred to him that time was growing short. The broadcast was to be at nine-thirty, and seeing now that it was already a quarter of, he pushed back from the table and went to the telephone. He asked for Nick Taylor, and five minutes later Nick appeared.

  Nick still had his Brooks suit on but he looked more like the Nick who had first met Murdock on the steps than the one who had taken him to the library the night before. His spade-jawed face was expressionless, so were his pale-blue eyes.

  “I spoke to Mr. Donald Caldwell,” he said after he had answered Murdock’s good morning. “He’d like you to wait here He’ll be in to talk to you in a few minutes.”

  He backed out, closing the door.

  Murdock stood where he was, surprised at the change in Nick and feeling snubbed at what he had said. “How do you like that?” he said softly, and all at once he became concerned with the assignment that had brought him here.

  At Caldwell’s request he had come here the night before so that he would be on hand to take his pictures, no matter what the weather conditions, and as pool photographer he felt this responsibility. He wanted the best possible picture, and to Murdock this meant taking a half-dozen shots; it meant getting with his subject in plenty of time to set up his equipment; it meant studying background and conditions.

  Recalling John Caldwell’s crotchety reputation where press photographers were concerned, he had been aware from the first that the assignment might be a tricky one. But he had worked with all kinds of people, and he had sufficient experience and confidence to believe that he could get Caldwell’s co-operation if he had time to size him up and find out how best to talk to him. Now, pacing the room as the minutes ticked past, he finally could stand it no longer.

  Abruptly he strode to the door and opened it. Just as abruptly he stopped.

  The black-browed husky who had watched from the porch steps as Murdock came up the driveway the evening before had been leaning against the opposite wall. Now he straightened up. At the same time Nick moved into the opening from beside the door. Murdock frowned. Nick looked back at him.

  “Mr. Caldwell will let you know when he’s ready,” he said.

  There was no mistaking the
tone, nor could there be much doubt as to why the two men were there. Yet in the first moment as the answer came to him there was no anger in Murdock, but only incredulity. To him it was a ridiculous situation and his first impulse was to laugh it off.

  “I don’t get it,” he said. “Is Mr. Caldwell afraid I’ll start hiding behind doors with a camera and take candid shots of the family?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Nick said.

  “All we know,” his companion added ominously, “is that you’re to stay here until Mr. Caldwell says different.”

  He moved up as he spoke, effectively blocking the door, and as Murdock gave him his attention he realized that this man was an entirely different type from Nick. Last night the light had been bad and he had been unable to get a good look at the broad face and thick brows that nearly met over the heavy nose. One of the brows, the right one, was warped as though from an old scar, but it was the eyes that told the story.

  Nick’s blue eyes were the eyes of an aggressive man, a good competitor who would be unlikely to run away when the going got tough. There was a challenge in them but no meanness. His companion was of a different breed. It was not that the eyes were small and dark, or even that they were suspicious; it was something else that Murdock had seen in others with questionable backgrounds and records of violence, a malignant brightness that spoke of inbred cruelty and carried no hint at all of any capacity for humaneness or sympathy.

  He wondered why such a man would be working here, but the resentment was growing in him now and he turned back to Nick. They stood about the same height, the curly-headed one lacking the photographer’s square-shouldered erectness but having more weight through the chest, and as Murdock saw the challenge in Nick’s eyes he knew that the only way he could get out was by the doubtful application of force. For a moment as his anger flared he had the impulse to try; then common sense asserted itself, and he stepped back.