8

OWEN FAULKNER LEANED BACK in his chair and shook his head absently, still watching the door that George Stark had closed. “What do you know about that?” he said, speaking to no one in particular.

“He’s a lucky guy,” Arthur Calvert said.

“You can say that again.” Faulkner turned. “I wonder what changed her mind?” he said and then, noticing Murdock, he said, “She left two weeks ago. She was his second wife.”

“Oh?” Murdock said, hoping for more.

“The first one divorced him a few years back. He’s got a boy around twelve or so, living with the mother. Out in San Francisco. That’s where George came from before he hit New York.” He scratched his neck. “I really thought Miriam would get it this time,” he said. “Didn’t you, Ardthur?”

“It looked that way to me.” Calvert nodded. “That’s why I think he’s lucky. That Miriam is a looker, and her old man has dough, and she was in love with George. Must be she still is.”

Dale Jordon stood up. She looked a little embarrassed, and that made the others embarrassed when they realized they had been ignoring her.

“I’ll go now,” she said as the three men rose. “I hope you won’t be angry.” She gave Faulkner a small smile. “But if you are, please be angry with me and not with Keith. It’s not his fault, you know.”

“I’m too tired to be angry with anyone,” Faulkner said. “All I want is to have a good show. Stark talks big about getting writers, it’s a conditioning process they go through before they get to be account executives that makes them act that way. Between us, he’s a little nuts—about writers, I mean. Good ones are damned hard to find and if your boy, Keith, has got anything on the ball—and he must have if he created Sob Sister—I’m his pal.”

Dale’s smile flourished. She smoothed down her dress, and Murdock moved to her side. “I’ll ride down with you,” he said. He held the door for her, said, “See you,” to Faulkner and Calvert, and went out with the girl.

It was nearly six when they reached the sidewalk, which was busy with traffic now as dusk closed in rapidly on the street, and as though by common consent they stopped at the curb while Murdock got out cigarettes and gave Dale Jordan a light. Then, on impulse, he suggested a drink, not just because he liked her but because he wanted to find out everything he could about Sheila Vincent and those who knew her.

The girl smiled up at him and with only a moment’s hesitation, said, “That would be nice. I’d like one.”

Her answer pleased him and her ready acceptance surprised him a little. It always did when he issued such invitations and it was a genuine surprise, a feeling of good luck and accomplishment, though he had, according to his friends, little reason to feel any such reaction.

Women seldom showed much hesitancy with Murdock, not only because he was a good listener and it did not take a woman long to find it out, but because he had the sort of dark, well-groomed attractiveness that women found pleasing in an escort. They may have sensed, too, that he was particular about his companions and were in turn flattered at his choice. Whatever the reason, he knew his way around, he was never aggressive or boorish in public, and it was part of his charm that he could always make the other person feel important.

“Swell,” he said. “I guess we both could use one. How about Armand’s?”

Dale said that would be fine and tucked her hand lightly inside his elbow and they walked like old friends to the corner and down Madison and around the next corner and into Armand’s, where the lights were adequate in the dining-room and somewhat more intimate in the section devoted to the drinking customers.

There were two seats at the bar, and Dale climbed up and munched a pretzel stick and acted just the way Murdock would have ordered her, had he had anything to say—as if she were very pleased to be here.

She said she’d have a Scotch and soda, and in a tall glass, if you please, and he ordered a Martini for himself. After that they talked about things of no importance and watched interestedly the people who came in, speculating on their relative importance and occupation.

She made her drink last while he had a second Martini, and he eyed the dining-room in the rear with its pleasant décor and comfortable banquettes and asked her if she wouldn’t have dinner, so long as they were already here. She was not coy about it and did not say she really should be going; she did not, in fact, say anything with words. She shook her hair back and glanced up at him slantwise. When she smiled he grinned back, caught Armand’s eye, and asked about a table.

Armand said, “In about ten minutes,” and it was then, just after they were seated, that Murdock saw George Stark move into the dining-room with a tall, blond woman moving gracefully at his side. She wore a plain black cloth coat and no hat and she was quite thin, with a fine-boned, patrician face.

Murdock stared at her. He forgot what he was saying. Stark did not see him, and he watched intently until the couple was seated, knowing he had seen the woman somewhere—or a picture of her—but unable to remember where.

“That must be Miriam Stark,” Dale said.

“You never met her?”

She shook her head, and Murdock took time out to order and then went back to his inspection of the woman. Presently Stark saw him. He did not wave, but simply nodded, and his wife, noticing this, glanced over at Murdock. It may have been that, or the way she put her elbow on the table and, with one hand on her cheekbone so that it covered roughly half her face, turned back to her husband. However it happened, Murdock sat very still, the suspicion growing in him as his pulse quickened.

In those next moments he became oblivious to his surroundings. He was not aware of Dale or what she was saying. He forgot to breathe, and an odd excitement began to build inside him. In imagination he dressed the woman differently, putting the black coat on and wrapping it tight, adding a close-fitting black hat and seeing clearly the distinctive, upward-slanting brow that remained visible.

He knew then. He leaned back and looked no more across the room. He smiled at Dale and acknowledged what she had just said while his mind focused down on Miriam Stark. She had telephoned her husband from La Guardia Field about an hour ago—or so she had said.

That much was possible but she had not just arrived from Reno. She arrived from Reno—or wherever it was she had been—sometime yesterday, or last night. For this was the woman who had come to Sheila’s apartment sometime after one that morning.

“Yes, me,” was all he had heard her say before Sheila closed the living-room door, but Murdock was satisfied that the woman who had said this was either Miriam Stark or her twin sister.

He said to Dale Jordan, “I guess she went to Reno on account of Sheila”

The girl sat back while the waiter served them. When he withdrew and she did not reply Murdock said, “How long had it been going on before—Sheila and George, I mean—before Mrs. Stark made up her mind to get the divorce?”

“I don’t know,” Dale said, busy with her food.

After a pause Murdock said, “We’ve been pretty honest with each other up to now.”

The girl colored slightly. She nodded. “That’s why I’d rather not talk about Mr. Stark,” she said.

Murdock knew what she meant in spite of the ambiguity of her words. He said that was a good enough answer for anyone, and from then on they did not discuss Stark or Sheila Vincent or their relations with each other. They talked instead of Dale Jordan and her husband and in the next half hour Murdock learned all about Keith Harding and what a wonderful writer he was. He learned exactly how Dale had met him and was told the details of her bargaining with Sheila when she applied for work.

“I guess you don’t know who killed her,” he said.

“No.”

“Could you guess?”

“No,” she said when she had thought it over.

Murdock remembered something else. “Over in Faulkner’s office you said you could prove your husband created Sob Sister.”

“I can.”

“But you’re not ready to tell how.”

“I’ll tell you.” She smiled, turning her head, her hazel eyes direct. “But I can’t tell you here.” She waited until the table was cleared and the coffee served. “If you’ll come up for a minute when you take me home,” she said, “I’ll show you.”

It was eight-thirty when they left the dining-room, and Murdock, glancing back as they moved along the bar, saw that the Starks were still busily talking over their cocktails. He had an idea they might be there awhile, and on the ride home with Dale it occurred to him that if he came back within a reasonable time he might be able to move in on the twosome long enough to get a little information.

Now, as he paid the taxi driver, he was impatient to find out what it was the girl wanted to show him and ran up the brownstone’s steps, following her through the vestibule and up the thinly-carpeted stairs to the second-floor hall. She got her keys out as they went along it, and she unlocked the door without fumbling and stepped inside.

“I’ll have to turn the light on over here,” she said, and moved ahead of him.

Then, as she took her first step, the voice snapped at them from the darkness.

“Stand still!” it said, a man’s voice, low and threatening.

Dale Jordan caught her breath and stopped. So did Murdock, his hand still on the door.

“Close it!”

Murdock obeyed, deliberately, feeling the pressure expand inside him.

For another second there was no other sound, no movement. The stiffness climbed up Murdock’s calves and moved along the backs of his thighs. He peered into the blackness, seeing now the pale rectangles on the opposite wall, put there by some reflection of the street lights. When he could see nothing more he began to inch sideways. Then, as the girl gasped, light exploded in his face, and he was staring blindly into the bright cone of a flashlight.

He kept his hands at his sides and got his weight on both feet and well forward. He pulled his gaze from the center of the beam to its edges. He could see, vaguely, the girl’s figure near the table and lamp, her arms held stiffly at her sides, her head bent against the light. As he waited, the tension holding him immobile, the light moved back and started to circle.

“Over here,” the man said. “Both of you.”

Murdock listened for some overtone in the low thick voice that would give him a clue. There had been nothing at all to guide him, and he wanted to hear it again. He pushed his breath out and flexed his shoulders.

“Why should we?”

“Maybe you’d rather get shot.”

“With what?”

“With this.” And a snub-nosed revolver moved into the rim of light and was withdrawn. “See it?” the man said.

“I see it.” Murdock moved slowly up to Dale Jordan. “Okay,” he said. “Now where?”

“Keep moving.”

The light was backing again, circling to the left toward the hall door. Murdock moved with the girl, cautiously, believing now that the fellow wanted to get out, that the important thing was a little obedience and some respect for the odds.

“See that door?”

They were nearly to the wall now, and five feet ahead was a closed door. “So?” Murdock said.

“So open it. Move in and close it after you.”

Murdock got the door open. He had the girl’s arm now, and it was slim and taut under his hand. With the light at his back he could see enough to know they were moving into a dressing-room, their shadows bulking hugely before them.

There was still another door ahead, and a mirror there reflected momentarily the flashlight’s brilliance and told him it was a bathroom. Shutting his lids against the glare, he closed the room door and felt the girl lean against him and start to tremble as the blackness engulfed them.

“It’s okay,” he said softly and pulled her close so he could whisper in her ear. “The voice,” he said. “Think about it. Did you ever hear it before? Have you any idea who it is?”

Her whispered “No” came back to him and her hair brushed his face as she shook her head. He held her that way, hands on her arms and her slim body warm and firm-muscled against him, listening now until he thought he heard the outer door open and close.

When he started to move away, her hand held him back. “Don’t go,” she breathed. “He might—”

Murdock interrupted her. He said he didn’t think so. He said he thought he heard the man leave. “It’s all right now,” he said. “Is there a light in here?”

She moved beside him, reaching up and pulling a cord, and the little room was suddenly bright. They blinked against it, then Murdock opened the door and told her to wait.

He moved into the living-room, the illumination behind him guiding him to the table lamp. He turned it on and, not slowing down, continued to the hall door, opened it, and stepped out. As he started for the stairs he thought he heard a door close somewhere below and stopped to listen. When he realized there was nothing more to be done about the intruder, he returned to the living-room and closed the door, the reason for the episode now clear.

It was a pleasantly furnished room, nicely decorated in a modern manner and hardly what one would expect on a twenty-five-dollar salary. The rug was good, and there was a bookcase and desk unit along one wall; there was a chest, a couch with a slip cover, three lamps, and two easy chairs. The drawers of the desk stood open, and papers were scattered around the floor near by. The top two drawers of the chest were also open and bulging with clothes where the caller had burrowed.

He turned to call Dale. Then he saw her sitting on the dressing-room floor beside the open bottom drawer of another chest. He went quickly to her, finding now the half-dozen stenographer’s notebooks beside her, the bulging Manila folder in her lap.

“Is that it?” he asked.

“What?”

She looked at him strangely, as though unable to concentrate on the question.

“The proof you were going to show me.”

She nodded. She closed the folder and started to get up, and he reached down and put his hands under her elbows. He felt the tremor in her body as they went into the living-room and knew she was still scared, not so much from the danger that had threatened but from what might have happened had they returned later.

“I don’t know why he didn’t get them,” she said.

“He started on the desk,” Murdock said. “He was working on the chest in here when we came in. He hadn’t got around to the right one. Do you want to sit down and tell me about it?”