This Is Murder

Chapter Twelve

Sam Moraine pushed open the door of the apartment house lobby. A Negro lad, who was nodding back of a switchboard, jerked his body stiffly erect and surveyed the intruder with wide, sleep-dazed eyes. Sam Moraine leaned over the counter.

“Thomas Wickes live here?” he asked.

The Negro nodded. Moraine pulled a roll of bills from his pocket. He smoothed out a dollar bill, placed it on the counter and looked at it from several angles, as though admiring the engraving. The eyes of the colored boy showed interest.

“Are you a bright boy?” asked Sam Moraine.

The eyes were wider now, the white showing prominently, the irises reddish-black as they stared steadily at the dollar bill.

“Ise bright ’nuf to know which side ob de bread has got de butter,” the lad remarked.

Moraine made a gesture, moving the dollar bill a few inches toward the far side of the counter.

“Is Wickes in his room?”

The boy mechanically reached toward the switchboard.

“No, wait a minute,” Moraine instructed. “I don’t want you to call him — not yet. I just want to know if he’s in.”

The boy frowned thoughtfully.

“Yassah,” he said, “lie’s in. He ain’t bin in long. He came in purty late, but he’s in.”

Sam Moraine pushed the dollar bill across to the colored lad. He reached in his pocket once more, pulled out the roll of bills and counted off five one-dollar bills with solemn precision. The eyes back of the switchboard grew wider.

“I’m going up and see Tom Wickes for a little while,” Moraine said. “When I come back, I’m going to want you to go out and run an errand for me. It’s something you’ll have to do quickly. Do you suppose you could do it?”

The hand made a deprecatory gesture toward the switchboard. “Lordy, Boss. Ah couldn’t leave dis place. Sometimes dis time ob de mornin’ they ain’t no call comes through, but if a call come through an’ Ah ain’t heah to get it, Ah gets the debil from de boss-lady, and Ah don’t mean no maybe about it.”

Moraine nodded and said, “That’s all right, boy; I’m an expert on telephone calls. I’ll sit back there and watch the switchboard for you.”

The lad hesitated. Moraine picked up the five one-dollar bills, folded them impressively, sighed and slipped them back in his pocket.

“You be all ready,” he said, “when I come down. And don’t announce me. What’s the number of Mr. Wickes apartment?”

“Six hunnert and three, sah.”

Moraine moved toward the elevator. The colored boy reached a decision. “Boss, I’se gwine be ready run dat erran’ for yo’ when yo’ gets back.”

Moraine grinned, opened the door of the automatic elevator and pressed the button for the sixth floor.

He found Apartment 603 without difficulty, located the mother-of-pearl bell button to the right of the door, and held his thumb against it. He could hear a buzzer sounding within the apartment. After a moment, there was the creak of bed springs and the sound of bare feet thudding to the floor. A man’s voice from the other side of the door said cautiously, “Who is it?”

“A message,” said Moraine.

“What sort of message?”

“A message from a woman.”

“Who are you?”

“The man she told to see that you got the message.”

There was a moment of silence. Moraine made no effort to urge the man on the other side of the door, letting the silent suspense serve his purpose. The man reached a decision. Bolts clicked back on the inside of the door. It was opened a cautious three inches. A hand was extended.

“A verbal message,” Moraine said, and pushed the door open.

Wickes, attired in pyjamas, stared at Moraine with startled surprise. Then he drew up with dignity. His face showed indignation.

“Moraine!” he said. “What the devil’s the meaning of this? If you wanted to see me why didn’t you announce yourself in the usual way?”

“Because,” Moraine told him, “I had a message.”

“Who’s your message from?”

“A message,” said Moraine, “from a dead woman.”

Wickes licked his lips slowly.

“What’s the matter with you?” he asked. “Are you drunk?”

Moraine seated himself on the arm of an over-stuffed chair, pulled a cigarette case from his pocket.

“No,” he said, “I’m not drunk; I’m bringing you a message from a dead woman.”

Wickes squared himself, as though getting set either to receive or give a blow. His bare toes seemed trying to dig into the carpet.

“What’s the message?” he asked in a voice that was harsh and metallic.

Moraine regarded him for several seconds with wary watchfulness.

“The message,” he said slowly, “is that you can’t get away with it.”

“Can’t get away with what?”

Moraine’s eyes stared steadily and accusingly.

“With murder,” he said.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Wickes demanded. “I didn’t murder her. I was nothing to her, and she was nothing to me.”

Moraine advanced, as though ready to start a fight. “Baloney,” he said, “you can’t make that fine stick with me.”

“By God, it’s the truth,” Wickes said, his eyes hard, his muscles tense. “I saw her occasionally, but that was all. I never did see her except when Doris Bender was there.”

“You mean Ann Hartwell?” Moraine exclaimed incredulously.

“Yes, I mean Ann Hartwell.”

“How did you know I was talking about Ann Hartwell?”

“Why, you said...”

Wickes’ voice trailed away into silence. His eyes faltered.

“I said,” Moraine told him, “that I came with a message from a dead woman. How did you know that Ann Hartwell was dead?”

“I didn’t know she was dead.”

“She was the one you were talking about.”

“Well, what if she was?”

“How did you know she was the one I referred to when I said I had a message from a dead woman?”

“I knew she was missing, and I figured what must have happened,” Wickes said.

“Just because you knew she was missing?”

“Yes.”

“How did you know that?”

“Hell, the cops had me on the carpet for an hour tonight. I didn’t know anything about it. I thought they were still down in the apartment. I dropped in to call on Doris Bender and found the cops there, and found that everyone had skipped out.”

“Had Doris Bender skipped out?”

“She was missing, yes.”

“Then, why didn’t you think she was the one I referred to?”

Wickes made a show of indignation.

“Damn it,” he said, “I don’t know who you think you are. Perhaps you’re a boy scout, doing your good turn for the day, helping out the cops, or something. As far as I’m concerned, you’re just a buttinski on this whole deal. The cops have had me on the carpet and interfered with enough of my sleep. Personally, I think you’re either drunk, or crazy, or both. Now get out!”

Moraine stood his ground, staring steadily.

“Too bad you tipped your hand, isn’t it, Wickes?”

The man’s face twisted with fury. He struck at Sam Moraine’s face with a vicious left hook.

Moraine slipped his head back out of the way. The blow whizzed past. Wickes cursed and swung with his right.

Moraine slipped a blow over his shoulder, said, “All right, you asked for it.” He snapped his right fist into Wickes’ pyjamaed stomach, and, as Wickes came forward under the smashing impact of the blow, Moraine braced himself and struck a pivoting right uppercut.

Wickes sailed back through the air, struck the bed, went over backwards, and the force of the impact brought groaning protest from the bedsprings.

Moraine slipped into the hallway, slammed the door behind him, and took to the stairs, reaching the lobby seconds sooner than would have been the case had he used the elevator. He nodded to the colored lad, produced bills from his pocket.

“I want you to walk up and stand on the corner,” he said. “Stand where you can look up and down the street in both directions. Within a minute or two there’ll be a man in a blue serge suit, with a derby hat, come along the street. He may be walking or he may get out of a taxicab. He’ll ask you if the coast is clear, and you tell him yes. Do you understand that?”

The big white eyes blinked solemnly.

“Jest if de coast is clear, is dat right, Boss?”

“That’s right.”

“Den Ah says it is?”

“That’s right, you say it is.”

The boy looked down at the money in his hand.

“Yo’ suah yo’ knows how to watch this yere switchboard?” he asked.

“Sure,” Moraine said, “I’m the man who invented them.”

The colored lad started for the door.

“Which corner, Boss; dis one right up heah?”

“That’s right. Just turn to the left and stand on the comer.”

“How long does Ah wait?”

“Not very long. He’ll be along in a minute or two. If he takes too long, you don’t need to wait. I’ll call you back. Stand where you can see me if I come to the door.”

“All right, Boss, all right. Ah’ll certainly be standin’ right theah. Yo’ can depen’ on me, Boss.”

Moraine took his seat behind the switchboard, watched the array of colored lights.

Presently a light blazed in the connection marking Apartment 603.

Moraine simulated, as best he could, the voice of the colored lad, slurring his words, speaking with a rather thick accent.

“Yassah, yassah, what yo’ want?”

A man’s voice, harsh and rasping, said, “Listen, Rastus, get this straight: I want some fast service. Get me Mrs. G. C. Chester at the Rutledge Hotel in Colter City. I want to get her on the telephone right away. Put through that call just as fast as you can make it.”

“Yassah, yassah.”

“Have you got the name?”

“Yassah, Missus G. C. Chestah, suh.”

“That’s right, and it’s the Rutledge Hotel at Colter City. Put that call through fast!”

Moraine plugged in to Central, gave the long distance call, and then, when he had the connection, rang Wickes’ apartment and stayed in on the line to listen. He heard Wickes’ voice saying cautiously, “Hello, you know who this is?”

A woman’s voice, sounding thick with sleep, said, “No, who is it?”

Wickes became impatient.

“Snap out of it,” he said. “I don’t want to mention names over the telephone. For God’s sake! Douse your head in cold water and get on the job!”

The woman at the other end of the line laughed. “That’s better,” she said. “I’d recognize that note of irritation anywhere. All right, what is it, Big Boy?”

Then Moraine recognized the voice as that of Doris Bender.

“I just had a visitor,” Wickes said.

“At this hour?”

“Yes.”

“Who was it?”

“A friend of yours.”

“Well, go on, break it to me.”

“The man,” he said, “we picked as a fall guy.”

There was a moment of silence during which Moraine, listening in on the wire, could hear the singing of the line.

When Doris Bender spoke again, her voice was hard, cautious, and showed she was fully awake.

“What’s on his chest?”

“He was telling me about a murder and a message from a dead woman.”

“Go on.”

“The woman was Ann Hartwell. He says she was murdered. He seems to think I did it.”

Wickes paused significantly.

There was a moment of silence, then Doris Bender said, “Have they found her body, Tom?”

“I don’t know. Apparently they have. He seemed pretty sure of himself.”

“Have the police any theories?”

“I don’t know anything except what this man told me.”

“He told you he had a message from Ann?”

“Yes. That’s the line he used. He’s getting ready to make trouble.”

“Did he give you any message?”

“No. Of course not. It was just a line he used to get into my apartment and try to rattle me.”

“All right, what do I do?”

“You send me some money,” he told her. “I may have to travel.”

“Baloney,” she said. “You’ve got no reason to travel. You sit tight.”

“I’m afraid to sit tight. I want to join you.”

“Don’t be a fool. Stay there and take it. They can’t hang anything on you.” -

“I want some dough. I mean it.”

“Well, keep on wanting. You have all you’re going to get out of me.”

“Listen, Dorry, let me see you. Can’t I come out and...”

“No,” she interrupted.

He was silent for a moment, then asked, “You got the eleven forty train okay?”

“Of course I did.”

“Okay, Dorry. I’m giving you the information. I wish you’d let me join you.” -

Her voice rose and became harsh as she said, “Don’t be such a damn baby. You stay right where you are. Where are you calling from now? Not the apartment house?”

“Yes.”

“Fool! Why didn’t you go to a pay station?”

“It’s too important, this place is okay. There’s not a chance of a leak out of here.”

She made a peculiar exclamation of disgust and slammed the receiver back on the hook. A moment later Wickes hung up, and Moraine pulled the plug from the switchboard, letting it drop back into place.

He got up, walked to the door, looked up the street and whistled to the colored lad.

“Nothing showed up?” he asked.

The boy shook his head.

Moraine handed him the five one-dollar bills.

“Okay,” he said, “I guess the whole thing is off, but it isn’t your fault.”

The boy’s teeth showed in a flashing grin.

“Yassah, Boss,” he said, “an’ thank you kindly, sah.”

Moraine walked out into the early dawn. He rounded the corner, came to his parked coupe. Alton G. Rice leaned out, rolling down the glass of the window.

“Get anything?” he asked.

“I don’t know yet,” Moraine told him.