Lady Killer Read online

  Tracy knew a dismissal when he heard one. He turned without a word and disappeared into the corridor leading to the printing room.

  “What about the picture?” Murdock said, sizing up this visitor that he had last seen standing on the promenade deck of the Kemnora with Elsie Russell.

  “I would very much like to have it.”

  “You mean you want a print?”

  “Well—”

  “Or is it that you just don’t want it published?”

  The man’s shrug was expressive. He had a thin, high-bridged nose, a pointed chin and deep-set eyes that met Murdock’s stormy gaze squarely. There was something foreign in the cut of his blue topcoat and in the sweep of his hatbrim; there was something foreign in the cultured cadence of his voice as he explained that the publicity might prove embarrassing to him.

  “What’s your name?” Murdock asked.

  “Is it important?”

  “Not particularly.”

  The man hesitated. When he saw Murdock was not going to add anything to the remark he said:

  “Ah—Mason. George Mason.”

  Murdock noticed the moment’s hesitation, saw the other’s glance shift. He had an idea that Mason was not the right name and now, his mind still occupied with thoughts of the package Walt Tracy had described, he wondered if this picture business could be a stall. He remembered how the man had spoken to him after he had taken the picture and then, turning the matter over in his mind once more, he gave up, in no mood for argument and wanting only to be alone so he could think.

  He took a breath and tried to keep the rancor from his tone. He said: “I only take pictures. When I do they become the property of the Courier-Herald because they buy the film and flashbulbs and pay my salary.” The sound of his words and their meaning came to him as he spoke, and though the result seemed academic and a little childish he went on in the same even voice.

  “I only take pictures. I have nothing to say about whether they’re printed or not. When I have the prints I’ll send them upstairs.”

  He hesitated, knowing he would do no such thing in this particular case, and that even if he should send the picture up to the city room there was little likelihood that it would be published. He had taken the shot of Elsie Russell, not for publication but for a souvenir, and yet something, he knew not what, prevented him from saying so.

  “If you want the film go upstairs and ask for Bartlett. He’s the city editor. If he likes your story and your looks he might give it to you.”

  He turned then, and sat down. After a moment he heard the man leave the room and he promptly forgot about him as his mind focused on the package with the wax seals.

  Without knowing what was in that package, he knew beyond all doubt how it had come to be in his equipment case. He knew when it had been hidden there, and he thought he knew why. There had, for a period of a few minutes, been but one opportunity for anyone to have secreted that package in his equipment case and that was while it was on the bed in Cabin H. He saw, in his mind’s eye, the layout of that cabin and the movement of the people in it and then, remembering how Ginny Arnold had stood by the portholes at the opposite side of the room, he knew that only Elsie Russell or Harry Felton could have done the trick.

  It was, he admitted reluctantly, a good trick; for anyone who knew him at all could be certain that the customs men would never search him or bother him in any way. Trusted and respected by the inspectors, he became the perfect carrier for any contraband, and even as he considered this he remembered Tim Orcutt’s presence on the pier and the abnormal activity that had taken place in and around the doctor’s office.

  It seemed clear beyond all doubt now that Sidney Graham had been on Orcutt’s suspect list. Graham, in all probability, had been stripped down and searched in that office and the same thing might have happened to the tall blond man who had preceded him.

  And having come this far in his ratiocinations, Murdock now considered Harry Felton. Felton had also been asked into the doctor’s office. For what purpose Murdock had had no idea at the time, and even now he could see no connection between Felton and Graham. He could, however, no longer ignore the possibility that Elsie Russell might also be involved.

  It shocked and sickened him as he explored the theory but presently he was up against certain facts that he could not easily dismiss. Graham was in his early forties, good-looking in a hard-eyed, masculine way, with a penchant for good clothes and easy spending that made him acceptable to all but the socially fastidious. In the days when Elsie Russell was a headstrong debutante defying convention and her family, it had been Graham who had given her a chance to sing.

  Graham had perhaps been better looking in those days. He had an easy, if low level, man-about-town manner. He coached and abetted the young girl’s vision of a career, acting as both friend and adviser. Later, in a moment of weakness or rebellion against her father’s demands, and no doubt attracted by a personality unlike any she had known before, Elsie had eloped with Graham only to be thwarted by her father and the State Police before any marriage could take place.

  But that, Murdock told himself, was a long time ago. Graham had gone into the jewelry business and Elsie had gone her own way, always with her eye on a career of her own. That she had crossed on the same ship with Graham could be coincidence; that she would attempt to help Graham smuggle in jewelry, using her friendship with Murdock as a means of getting that particular package ashore, was unlikely—unless Graham had some hold on her.

  Yet—and this was what bothered Murdock—she had asked him to bring in a brooch she had bought. Could that have been a way of testing him? If he had said yes to this request, would she have then tried to force on him the package Walt Tracy had described?

  He did not want to believe this but the thought persisted, and not until his mind came back to Tim Orcutt did he realize that he was wasting time on theories when he should be reporting what had happened. Understanding this finally, he reached for the telephone and asked the operator to try to locate the special agent. When she said she would he went into the printing room to see how Walt Tracy was making out.

  Tracy was sorting his prints. He was strangely uncommunicative when Murdock spoke to him and then Murdock, remembering the harshness with which he had dismissed the youngster earlier, knew the reason. He said he was sorry he jumped on Tracy and Tracy said that was all right and Murdock, stretching the truth a little, said he still didn’t know what that package was all about but if he found the answer he’d let Tracy know.

  The restlessness was crowding him as he came back to his desk, and now his thoughts were focused on Felton, not trying to find a connection between the reporter and Graham but remembering how Felton had sat by the equipment case while he and Elsie were mixing the drinks and Ginny stood by the porthole. He remembered that Felton had intended to ride back with him and how he had asked if Murdock was ready to go. Instead of that Felton had been escorted to the doctor’s office and Murdock had been politely ordered to be on his way.

  The telephone stilled his thoughts and he reached for it. When the operator said she had been unable to locate Tim Orcutt but had left word for him to call, Murdock thanked her and asked to be connected with the city desk.

  He spoke briefly, learning that Felton had been in earlier but had left some time ago; then he stood up and put on his topcoat. He told Tracy what to do with the prints and went out, his mouth still set and unpleasant lights in his eyes.…

  Harry Felton lived on the Charles Street side of the Hill near the foot of a narrow, one-way street which led upward into darkness. That Murdock noticed the car parked at the corner was due primarily to the fact that the driver had left it so close to the intersection that Murdock had to be careful in making his turn. He had to slow down and swing sharply in order not to clip the front fender of this sedan with his own rear fender, and as he angled past and shifted gears he gave the other car a quick, irritated glance.

  Charles Street was bright with its street
lights, and a little of this illumination splashed through the sedan’s windshield, enough to tell him that two men occupied the front seat. Of the two, one made no impression whatsoever and there was no time for a second look. The man behind the wheel, however, was Sidney Graham. At least that was Murdock’s impression as he drove upward along the narrow street until he found a place to park.

  Ancient brick houses crowded each other in this block. Most of them had been converted into small apartments and were distinguishable from each other only by the numbers and the styling of the entrance. This one where Felton lived was almost flush with the sidewalk, a recessed affair, the dark-green door of which was ajar.

  Murdock stopped here to glance back to the intersection. He could see the hood of the sedan and part of the windshield. For another moment he wondered why Graham had parked in that particular way. Or had he been mistaken in his identification? Finally it came to him that he did not particularly care and he went on in, finding four names listed above the mailboxes, apparently one to a floor. Felton had number two. Murdock gave the button a jab with his thumb and started up the narrow stairs, climbing swiftly into the gloom above.

  There was but one door opposite the second floor landing and he knocked, reaching for the knob as he did so. When it turned he pushed on into a darkened room; then he stopped.

  He said: “Hey, Harry!” seeing nothing at all in the room and starting to turn as an odd chill ran swiftly up his spine.

  He sensed rather than heard the whisper of sound behind him and knew instantly that he was not alone. After that he thought no more but moved swiftly, nerves taut and sharply tuned, not back towards the door but forward, blindly, yet away from the danger he knew lurked behind him.

  Turning now, he tried to duck, and something blacker than the room itself moved with him. From the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of some bright metallic object that flashed briefly in a swift sure arc in front of the shadowy threat. He tried to dodge, tripped. Then, as pain erupted in his skull, he found himself falling.

  Anger was the dominant emotion that flooded through him as he went down. He had been struck in the back of the skull where the bone was thickest and his hat had been knocked from his head. He was jarred and hurt but not stunned. He might have regained his feet in time to cut off his assailant’s escape if it had not been for this thing on the floor which had tripped him.

  He twisted on one knee, trying to orient himself as he heard the door slam. He put his hand down to help push himself erect, and then he froze, breath held and scalp crawling as his fingers touched a naked leg and moved on to feel the edge of some fabric, not trousers, but something lighter that lay loosely, like a skirt.

  Fear held him there the next few seconds as his hand recoiled, a strange and shapeless fear that left him shaken and unnerved and was more real than any fear of personal danger. He could not make himself explore further in all that darkness. It took a tremendous effort on his part to move at all, and now the pain in his head was forgotten as he came to his feet and lurched to the door.

  He opened it, not knowing how much time he had lost but hearing no sound below. He went to the window overlooking the street but he did not open it for now there was nothing outside but shadows and the bare emptiness of sidewalk and pavement. Then, because it was something he had to do, he groped for a light switch, found one near the door and snapped it on, blinking at the sudden brightness.

  Harry Felton, naked except for the green bathrobe that partly covered him, was stretched out on the rug, arms outflung, his clothes strewn wildly about him. The lips were bloodied and swollen; there was a gash on one brow and another along the angle of his jaw. The once handsome face seemed twisted and puffy, but what held Murdock’s horrified gaze was the wet, ugly stain which had spread darkly across the green fabric and was centered on a small, jagged hole.

  4

  KENT MURDOCK had seen and photographed death in nearly all its violent forms, not only as a newspaperman but as a captain in the army, and though the impact of such scenes varied, reaction was always strongest when the victim was someone you knew. It was a thing he never quite got used to and it was that way now as he swallowed against an inner sickness and contracting stomach.

  His palms were damp as he knelt beside the still figure and made sure that there was no life left. When he rose a sense of physical exhaustion lay upon him but he had begun to think now and turned away to glance about the room, seeing again the articles of clothing on the floor, the open drawers of the secretary, the disordered appearance of the davenport cushions. He picked up his hat and punched it into shape, thankful that he had been wearing it when he was struck. He walked slowly towards an open doorway, skirting the gateleg table and coming now to a small hall from which two other doors opened.

  Enough light was reflected from the living room to tell him that one of these doors led to a small kitchen. He did not bother to go in but entered the second door which gave on the bedroom. He located a switch and snapped on the ceiling light. Across the room he saw a closed door, apparently leading to a closet, and the opened door to the darkened bath. There were two bags, a Gladstone and a suitcase, on the double bed. Both were packed with clothing but stood with their lids open and, from the looks of them, both had been searched.

  Murdock made no inspection of the room or the bags but went at once to the telephone on the bedside table and dialed the number of the Courier-Herald. When he got the operator he asked if Tim Orcutt had call back and she said he had. Murdock explained where he was, told her to get Orcutt again and tell him to come to this address, but first to connect him with city desk.

  He talked briefly with the city editor, suggesting that Wyman, the managing editor, be informed of what had happened, and adding that it might be a good idea not to break any story until he, Murdock, had had a chance to find out more about it. He hung up, started to call Lieutenant Bacon, a friend of his attached to Homicide, and then decided to postpone the call for five minutes—until he had a chance to take a picture or two.

  There were newspapers that would print a photograph of Harry Felton as he lay battered and half-naked on the living room floor, but the Courier was not one of them. Murdock was well aware of this, but he had been a photographer long enough to know that the time to take a picture was when you had the opportunity, and that it was better to take pictures that you might never use than to pass up the opportunity to take one and then wish you had. It was this thought that prompted him to postpone his call to Bacon. For he had an old Leica locked in the glove compartment of his coupe for just such emergencies, and with it was a flash-unit and a packet of small-sized bulbs.

  Not bothering to turn off the bedroom light, he reentered the living room, and it was then that he saw the handkerchief. He was not sure then whether or not he had seen it before and thought it part of Felton’s scattered clothing, but now something about its crumpled smallness made him stoop and pick it up from beneath the gateleg table.

  He knew the instant he touched it that it was not a man’s handkerchief. There was not enough of it, and as he shook it out there came to him a perfumed odor. He saw then that the handkerchief was not white but a pale-blue and in one corner the initial R had been daintily embroidered.

  Murdock stuffed it in his jacket pocket, thinking hard and then trying not to. He crossed the room without a glance at the dead man and went down the narrow stairs to the street.

  His car was parked fifty feet up the hill and on the opposite side, and after he opened the door he had to look for his keys so that he could unlock the glove compartment. When, a minute or two later, he had what he wanted, he came back to the house and this time he thought to glance down at the corner.

  The sedan which had been parked there ten minutes before with its front end projecting almost into the intersection was no longer there. Traffic moved intermittently along Charles Street, the sound of it muted by the narrowness of the street where Murdock stood. Somewhere in the distance a bus accelerated, the soun
d of it lost as a car turned the corner and started up the hill in gear. When it passed, Murdock stepped into the little foyer and climbed upward, his thoughts on Sidney Graham, wondering why Graham had been watching Felton’s house—if that was his purpose in parking that way—wondering if he, Murdock, had been mistaken.

  He was hurrying a little as he swung round the landing. He went into Felton’s apartment without slowing down, his head slightly bent, and what happened then shocked him badly. There was no warning, not even an intuitive one. He simply walked smack into the room, intent upon his thoughts and nothing more, and saw this man standing beside Felton’s body.

  It was a question then as to which was the more startled, though Murdock did not think of this at the time. He stopped where he stood, recoiling inwardly with his hand still on the knob, seeing the other stiffen too but unable yet to think.

  For a long second neither moved, neither spoke. Then Murdock found he could control his muscles and closed the door, his mind racing now and having an advantage over the other because he recognized him as the tall, blond man who had preceded Sidney Graham into the doctor’s office at the pier, a man Tim Orcutt had given a name to though Murdock could not recall it now.

  “Hello,” he said. “Been here long?”

  It was just something to say because Murdock was figuring fast, counting the time he had been gone and putting it at no more than three minutes.

  The big man let his shoulders relax. He still wore the belted trench coat, and it had a lot of skirt, suggesting that it might have been tailored abroad. His eyes in the shadows of his hatbrim looked dark until he turned and the light caught them; then they were light blue, the brows sandy, like his hair.

  “No,” he said finally, his voice calm but carrying what to Murdock sounded like a British accent. “As a matter of fact I just came.” He paused, eyes busy now beneath narrowing lids. “I take it you’ve been here before.”