This Is Murder

Chapter Sixteen

Sam Moraine grinned as he tapped gently on the door of Room 306 in the Rutledge Hotel at Colter City.

A woman’s voice sounded from the other side of the door, “Who is it, please?”

“A message,” Moraine said.

After a moment of thoughtful silence, the woman’s voice said, “Who’s the message for, please?”

“For the woman who’s registered under the name of Mrs. G. C. Chester — that’s all I know about it.”

“Who’s it from?”

“From the friend who called you on the long distance telephone before daylight this morning.”

A key clicked back in the lock. The door opened. A woman’s bare arm appeared through the open door. “Can you give it...”

She gasped, as her eyes focused on his face.

“You!” she exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

“Giving you a message.”

She started to close the door. Moraine pushed his foot against it.

“Invite me in,” he said.

“I don’t want to have anything to do with you. Get out or I’ll call the officers.”

“Swell idea,” Moraine said. “Let’s both call the officers. When I say ‘three’ we’ll both start yelling ‘police!’ One... two...”

“Stop it!” she exclaimed. “Are you crazy?”

“Invite me in.”

“What do you want?”

“I want to talk with you.”

“I don’t want to talk.”

“You will when you know what I’ve got to tell you.”

“What, for instance?”

“That they’re framing Ann Hartwell’s murder on you.”

“They can’t.”

“They are.”

She hesitated for a moment.

Moraine raised his voice and said, “You see, Miss Bender, that when the body was found it was down by the railroad track, and, of course, you took the ten forty train to come here and take an assumed name...”

The door jerked wide open.

“Good heavens!” she exclaimed. “Must you stand there and shout it so everyone in the hotel can hear?”

“Why, no,” Moraine said innocently, “I just wanted to be certain you heard. Suppose I come in where I can talk it over in a more confidential manner?”

She gathered a negligee about her. “Come on in,” she said.

She closed and locked the door behind Moraine.

“Buying a drink?” Moraine asked casually.

“The drink I’d fix for you,” she said, “would be a cyanide cocktail with a dash of arsenic.”

“Don’t be like that.”

“You’ve been a buttinski from the first. What right have you to horn in on this business?”

“What business?”

“My business.”

“I’m not horning in,” Moraine said, seating himself and stretching his legs out in front of him with the ankles crossed; “I’m just paying a social visit.”

Her eyes were hard and watchful.

“Go on and spill it.”

“The police,” he said, “figure Ann Hartwell’s body was dumped from the train that leaves the depot at ten forty and goes past Sixth and Maplehurst at ten forty-seven.”

“She wasn’t on that train.”

“You were.”

“What if I was?”

“The police figure she was dumped from the train.”

“She wasn’t.”

“Can you prove it?”

“Perhaps. What’s it to you?”

“Oh, nothing,” Moraine said casually; “I’m a fugitive from justice, that’s all.”

“You are? Why?”

“Oh, the police suspect me of murdering Pete Dixon.”

She was standing now, rigid with attention, regarding him through narrowed eyes.

“You mean you’re on the lam?”

“That’s it.”

“What happened?”

“Oh, I just acted the sucker, I guess. I found out Pete Dixon was interested in things, and I went out to see him. I got there just too late.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“He was dead.”

He stared at her musingly for a moment, then said, “Mind if I smoke?”

She shook her head in a preoccupied manner, said, “Give me one while you’re about it.”

“Of course,” Moraine said, “I’m telling you this in confidence. If anyone asks me about it, I’ll swear I never said any such thing.”

Moraine produced cigarettes, handed her one, took one himself, and said, “I suppose I should remain standing until you’re seated, but I’m tired. I’ve had a lot of excitement in the last two days.”

She sat down on the edge of an overstuffed chair, leaned forward to share a match with him, then sat back and blew smoke through her nostrils.

“How did you know Dixon was mixed in it?” she asked cautiously.

“Oh, I figured it out,” he said.

“Did you get into the house?” she inquired.

“Yes, that’s where I made my mistake — going in. You see, the door was open.”

She nodded, then said after a moment, “Do the police know that?”

“I think they do. They know I must have picked up the stuff after Dixon was killed.”

“What stuff?”

“A whole suitcase full of it.”

She sat utterly motionless, the cigarette, forgotten, burning between the fingers of her right hand.

“The house was dark,” Moraine said. “A tree had blown across the light wires, and...”

“Yes, I read about it. They had it in the late morning edition.”

“Most unfortunate,” he told her. “Of course, I wouldn’t have gone up in the upper corridor unless I’d heard someone moving around. I thought of course it was Dixon. I went up. It wasn’t Dixon.”

“Who was it?”

“Why,” he said, “Thorne — your boy-friend. He was wandering around up there with a gun in his hand.”

Her nostrils were distended now. She leaned forward.

“And then what happened?”

He yawned and settled back in his chair.

“Lord, I’m sleepy,” he said. “How about a drink?”

“Tell me what happened.”

“I want a drink.”

She jumped up from the chair, started toward the little kitchenette.

Moraine settled back in the chair.

“Come on and help me mix it,” she said, pausing in the doorway.

Moraine reluctantly got to his feet, came toward her.

“Got some stuff here?” he asked.

“Yes, this is an apartment hotel. I have a little kitchenette where I can cook. There’s an icebox, and I’ve got some Scotch.”

“Swell!” he told her. “How about soda?”

“I’ve got some of that too.”

She opened the door, disclosing a kitchenette, took ice cubes from an electric refrigerator, produced a bottle of Scotch.

“Help yourself.”

“You’re joining me?”

“With a little one.”

“Better take a big one.”

“No, I don’t want to get crocked.”

“Why not?” he asked. “Of all the foolish things I’ve ever heard anyone say, that remark takes first prize.”

She giggled a bit and poured Scotch into the glasses. He noticed that her hand was quivering.

“Did Thorne see you?” she asked.

“Oh, Lord,” he said, “you would keep bringing that up. Listen, sister, let’s have about two fingers more Scotch.”

She poured more liquor into one glass.

Moraine switched glasses.

“Come on,” he said, “come on, loosen up and act natural.”

She poured liquor into the other glass.

“I can’t get drunk,” she said.

“Why not?”

“I’ve got the jitters.”

“That’s good for the jitters.”

“You were telling me about Thorne,” she said.

“Oh, was I?”

“Yes.”

“Did Thorne see you?”

“I think he did, but not clearly.”

“You say he had a gun?”

Moraine held the glass under the opening of the soda siphon, watched the liquid hiss into the glass.

“I guess I threw pretty much of a scare into Thorne,” he said. “He heard me and didn’t know who it was. He ran out of the room before he’d got what he wanted.”

She held her own glass to the soda siphon. The rim of it clicked several times against the metal top of the bottle as her hand shook.

“Did he run?”

“He most certainly did. I’ve never seen a man so frightened in my life. He heard me coming down the corridor, and he went out of that room as though he’d been a football player running for a touchdown.”

“Did he recognize you?”

“Frankly, I don’t think he did.”

“But you recognized him?”

“Oh, yes, I saw him clearly.”

“Then what?”

He touched his glass to hers. “My God,” he said, “but you’re inquisitive! Come on in here and sit down.”

They returned to the overstuffed chairs. She gulped more than half of her drink, then stared steadily at him.

“You went into the room?”

“What room?”

“The one that Thorne ran out of.”

“Oh, yes.”

“And Dixon was dead?”

“Yes, he was dead, and there was a suitcase full of papers and stuff lying on the table. There were four shorthand notebooks tied together.”

“Four shorthand notebooks,” she repeated, almost in a whisper.

Moraine nodded cheerfully.

“Did you call the police?’”

“No,” he said, “I looked around and saw there was nothing I could do. I didn’t see why I should mix into it. I figured no one would ever find out I’d been out there. I looked at the papers in the suitcase and they were filled with some pretty interesting stuff.”

“So what did you do?”

“I played a lucky hunch,” Moraine told her, “and took the whole suitcase full of papers with me.”

“They were all together in a suitcase?”

“Yes.”

She was watching him now as a cat watches a goldfish.

“You took that whole suitcase with you?”

“Yes.”

“Did Thorne know you’d taken it with you?”

“I don’t think so. Thorne skipped out.”

“Perhaps,” she said, “he’d been figuring on taking those things with him. Perhaps that’s why they were in the suitcase.”

“No,” Moraine said, “that’s the funny part of it. Dixon was going before the grand jury to-day. It had all been fixed up. The grand jury was going to subpoena him as a surprise witness. He was going to tell a lot of stuff about graft and corruption and throw these papers in front of the grand jury to prove it. So Dixon had them all neatly packed in a suitcase. He was going over things and getting them in order, getting ready to give his testimony.”

“Then why didn’t Thorne take that suitcase?”

“He never had time,” Moraine said. “There was a train going past the place as I was climbing the stairs. That’s why I didn’t hear the shot and why Thorne didn’t hear me coming until I was up the stairs and part way down the corridor.”

“You’re on the lam now?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“You re hot — they’re looking for you?”

“I’ll say they’re looking for me.”

“What did you do with the papers?”

“Carried them with me, of course. They’re too valuable to leave anywhere.”

“If they catch you they’ll pick up the papers.”

“That’s what I figured,” he said, “and that’s the reason I came here.”

“How did you know I was here?”

“That’s a secret.”

“You must tell me.”

“Oh, no, that’s a professional secret. I like to do a little detective work on the side, you know.”

She was breathing deeply and rapidly.

“I’m going to be frank with you,” she said.

“It always pays to be frank,” he told her.

“I’m hiding out, myself.”

“I gathered as much, from the fact that you’re registered here as Mrs. G. C. Chester.”

“If,” she said, “you found out that I was here, others must have found it out.”

“Oh, no, they haven’t — otherwise I wouldn’t have been here.”

“But why did you come?”

“Because it was the safest place I could think of. I figured no one would ever think of looking for me here.”

“You mean you’re going to move in?”

“Exactly.”

“With me?”

“Sure,” he said. “I’ll pose as your brother if you’d like, and you can take an adjoining apartment, but I’m moving in with you. You can do the cooking, and I won’t have to go out. I’ll bet you’re all stocked up so you can keep out of sight, aren’t you?”

“I’ll say I am. I’ve got enough provisions here to last me for a-month. I don’t ever need to go outside that door.”

“Swell!” he told her. “I’ll help you eat them.”

“I’m afraid,” she said, “Raving another room would make the management a little suspicious.”

She was watching him narrowly.

Moraine sipped his drink, dismissed the matter with a wave of his hand as though it constituted a very minor problem.

“Have it your own way,” he said.

Abruptly, she rose from her chair, came over and sat down by his side on the davenport.

“Do you know,” she said, “I always liked you.”

“Swell!” he told her. “That’s going to make it better. I usually fight with women who don’t like me.”

“You won’t fight with me.”

She tilted her chin back, looked up in his eyes and laughed.

Moraine patted her shoulder.

“Good girl,” he said.

She raised her glass to him. Her eyes smiled at him over the rim of the glass.

“Here’s to us,” she said softly, “just us.”

Moraine drained his glass, smacked his lips.

“How about a refill?” he asked.

She nodded, got to her feet and said slowly, “Listen, those documents are valuable. Where’s your suitcase?”

“It’s O.K.,” he told her, “I’ve checked it with the bell captain, and he thinks it’s full of hooch. He’s going to take excellent care of it.”

She placed her head on his shoulder.

“I like you,” she said. “You’re so damn capable. I’ve been crazy about you ever since the first time I saw you... I suppose I shouldn’t be telling you this.”

She jumped up as he toned toward her.

“Probably,” she announced, “I shouldn’t have said that. Perhaps it’s the hooch.”

“It sounded swell to me,” Moraine told her. “How about having more hooch and saying more of the same?”

She hesitated a moment, then suddenly nodded, picked up the glasses and said, “You stay right here. I’ll get a refill.”

She walked across the room to the door of the kitchenette, turned and said, “Stay right there and make yourself comfortable.”

She went through the door and a moment later Moraine heard her give a half-scream. He was on his feet when she came back through the door, staring at him with wide eyes, a sheepish smile on her lips.

“I did the most foolish thing,” she said.

“What?” Moraine asked.

“Picked up the siphon of soda water by the top and squeezed the handle as I picked it up. I couldn’t seem to let go of the thing. It squirted all over me. Look at me, I’m a wreck.”

She planted her feet wide apart, extending her hands. The negligee was disclosed as a sodden mass of damp silk which clung to her as though it had been pasted to her skin.

“If you could only mix yourself with a little Scotch and ice,” he said, “you’d be a drink.”

She laughed, moved toward the bedroom, the we. silk clinging to her.

“I’m going to get out of these things right now,” she said. “It won’t take me but a minute.”

She went through the door of the bedroom, slipping off her clothes as she turned to give Moraine a swift smile.

“I won’t be long,” she said, and shut the door.

Moraine smoked a cigarette and had consumed about half of it when she once more appeared, attired in a clinging black dress.

She saw his eyes flit appreciatively over the lines of the gown. “Like it?” she asked.

“I’ll say!”

She stepped to the telephone and said, “Room service... This is Mrs. Gertrude C. Chester, in 306. My husband has joined me, and I’m celebrating. I’m just out of soda water. Can you send up a siphon of soda water right away?”

She dropped the receiver back on the hook and smiled at Moraine.

“How about having them send up your baggage?” she asked.

“I’ll have to go down and get the bell boy to send it up. I told him that, no matter what happened, he wasn’t to take orders about that baggage from anyone else.”

“Yes,” she agreed slowly, “I can see how you felt about it. I’d never have let it out of my possession.”

“Oh, it’s all right; I just didn’t want to be careless about it, that’s all.”

She kept hovering near the door.

“I’m sorry about that drink,” she apologized, “but it won’t take long for the boy to get up here with a siphon of water... I heard the elevator door then... I’ll bet that’s the boy coming with the water.”

She opened the door, looked up and down the corridor and said, “Here he comes now.”

She stepped out into the corridor, standing with one hand on the doorknob.

“I was in a hurry,” she said, and took a step or two away from the door.

Moraine, sprawled on the davenport, his feet thrust out in front of him, continued to smoke.

After a moment, she was back, holding a full siphon of soda water.

“Now,” she said, “well have those drinks.”

She stepped into the kitchenette and a moment later was back with two tall glasses. She handed Moraine one, kept the other, stood close by him for a moment, then sat down on his lap and ran her fingers through his hair.

“Big boy, aren’t you? And strong too, I bet,” she said.

“Taking inventory?” he asked her.

She raised her glass to his.

“To us,” she said, “just us.”

“That’s what the last one was to,” he objected.

“Don’t you like that for a toast?”

“It’s okay, but I want to feel I’m making progress. I don’t want to feel I’m just marking time.”

She laughed, leaned forward, kissed him, and raised the glass to her lips.

“Here’s how,” she said — “and you know the rest of that.”

They drank.

Moraine set down his half-empty glass on the tile table by the davenport.

“Something seems to tell me I’m going to get drunk,” he observed.

“Listen,” she told him, “You want to get your suitcase sent up before you get drunk.”

He sighed wearily, gently lifted her from his lap.

“Okay, sister,” he said, “I’ll go down and bring up the baggage. Don’t drink up all the hooch while I’m gone.”

“You won’t be long?” she asked anxiously.

“Not over four or five minutes. All I’ve got to do is hunt up the bell captain and get that suitcase and a bag.”

“I keep worrying about that. I wish you’d be careful with it. You can do a lot with the stuff that’s in that suitcase.”

He grinned at her.

“Baby,” he exclaimed, “just watch papa!”

He closed the door, took the elevator down to the lobby, hunted up the bell captain.

“Who took that call up to 306 just a minute ago?” he asked.

“I did,” the captain told him. “Why?”

“The lady wanted me to change one word in that telegram,” he said. “It hasn’t gone out yet, has it?”

The bell captain looked at him suspiciously.

“There’s a chap up there in the room that isn’t in the know,” Moraine said. “She had to step out in the corridor to give you the message because we didn’t want him to know it was going out. And then she got to worrying about it — you know, the way women will.”

Moraine took a dollar bill from his pocket.

“And while you’re about it,” he said, “you can bring my baggage up to 306.”

“You’re going to be up there?” the bell captain said.

Moraine laughed. “Hell,” he said, “I’m Mr. Chester.”

“Oh,” the bell captain said, and produced a telegram blank on which a message had been scrawled in pencil.

“No, it hasn’t gone out yet. I’ve rung for the messenger. He’ll be here any minute.”

The telegram was addressed to Thomas Wickes, and read:

The telegram was signed simply “Gertrude.”

Moraine read it through slowly, took a pencil from his pocket and scratched out the words “sell-out.”

“I’ll have to think of some other word for that,” he said. “When we wrote it, we forgot the telegraph company couldn’t transmit punctuation and compound words.”

The bell captain’s casual nod showed his lack of interest.

After a moment, Moraine wrote “betrayal” above the place occupied by the words “sell-out.”

“That’s okay,” he said. “Now, can you bring my suitcase up to 306?”

“It will be up right away,” the bell captain told him.

Moraine took the elevator back to Doris Bender’s apartment. Her face showed relief as he opened the door.

“I had the funniest hunch that perhaps you were taking a run-out powder,” she said.

“Why should I take a powder?”

“I don’t know. I just had sort of a hunch.”

“Forget it. I should run away from a nice little hideout like this, and walk into the arms- of some hick cop that recognized me from a newspaper photograph.”

“Your bags coming up?” she asked.

“They’ll be here by the time you’ve poured another drink.”

“That’s swell. I’ve changed my mind.”

“About what?”

“About getting crocked.”

“You mean you’re going to get crocked?”

“Absolutely pie-eyed, polluted. I’m going to celebrate.”

“Swell!” he told her. “We don’t have to go out for anything, do we?”

“We don’t have to go out for a month.”

The bell boy knocked at the door as she poured the drink. Moraine let him in, and Doris Bender came from the kitchenette to stare at the heavy suitcase which he thumped down on the floor. He placed his bag and overcoat beside it.

“Anything else?” the bell captain asked.

“Not a thing so far, but bring up a bottle of Scotch in about an hour.”

The boy nodded, and grinned.

Moraine sprawled on the davenport, propped his head up with a pillow. Doris Bender brought him Scotch and soda. Her eyes drifted to the big suitcase.

“Filled with papers?” she asked.

“Just lift it,” he told her.

She took hold of the handle, tried to lift it, and a look of surprise came over her face. She put both hands on the handle, strained, and managed to lift it an inch or two from the floor.

“Good heavens!” she said.

Moraine nodded complacently. “Chock full of political dynamite.”

“Say, how about some food?”

“Good idea. It’d be easier to eat now and celebrate afterwards than to celebrate now and eat afterwards. I never can work up an appetite when I’m crocked.”

“Same here,” she agreed.

“Do we have some stuff sent up from the dining-room?”

“No, they don’t have a dining-room. It’s an apartment hotel. There’s a restaurant next door, but there’s no sense having people trooping in and out of the room. I’ve got enough provisions here to last in a pinch for a long while, and I can have groceries delivered any time by ordering over the telephone.”

“Okay,” he told her; “that suits me swell. Where was your boy-friend when you left on the train?”

“What boy-friend?” she asked.

“What was his name — Wickes?”

“Oh,” she said, and laughed, “he wasn’t my boyfriend. That was Ann’s boy-friend. I think he likes me, but it’s just as a sister.”

“Ann,” he observed, “must have been popular.”

“She was — poor lad. Men fell for her and fell hard.”

“You still haven’t told me where Wickes was when you went down to the train.”

“I don’t know where he was. I didn’t tell him I was going.”

“Where was Ann?”

“I don’t know that either. Ann played rather a dirty trick on me.”

“What was it?”

“I don’t like to talk about it, now she’s dead.”

“Did you go to the station in a taxicab?”

“No, on a street car.”

“From your apartment?”

“I wasn’t in my apartment for a while before the train left. I wasn’t there after about eight o’clock in the evening.”

“Why?”

“Things were getting hot.”

“How were they getting hot?”

“Oh, don’t ask so damn many questions,” she said. “My God! I thought we were going to get drunk!”

“No,” he corrected; “we were going to eat.”

“All right, I’ll fix something.”

She was careful to close the door into the kitchenette, from which presently emerged the sound of pans making noise on the top of the gas range.

Moraine sighed happily and drifted off into light, dozing slumber.