This Is Murder

Chapter One

Sam Moraine drew two cards and peeked at the corners. They were both aces.

Phil Duncan, the district attorney, watching him, said almost casually, “If you’d drawn down to your hand and hadn’t saved a kicker you might have stood a chance... Give me two, Barney, right off the top.”

Barney Morden, chief investigator for the district attorney’s office, flipped two cards off the top of the deck, sighed, and drew three more for himself.

Moraine grinned at the district attorney. “I caught both your kickers, Phil.”

Phil Duncan slid two blue chips into the center of the table. “Two blues say you’re whistling through the graveyard,” he remarked.

The telephone rang, and Duncan nodded to Morden.

Morden, holding his cards in his right hand, picked up the receiver with the thumb and forefinger of his left hand, clamped his last two fingers around the mouthpiece and said, “Morden speaking.”

Phil Duncan, the district attorney, lowered his voice and turned to Sam Moraine:

“Better call me, Sam. You’d think nothing of paying two dollars for a good show. Why not pay two bucks to look at something pretty?”

Moraine nodded toward Morden, who was frowning into the telephone.

“It’s up to Barney next,” he said. “I may want to raise.”

Morden cupped his palm tightly over the transmitter and turned to Phil Duncan.

“It’s the last hand, Chief,” he said. “Bob Trent says there’s a new development in that Hartwell case you’ve got to cover personally. What’ll I tell him?”

Duncan frowned. “You’ve already said it. It’s the last hand.”

Still keeping his hand cupped over the mouthpiece, Morden observed casually, “Okay, I’m in for two bucks, just out of curiosity. You birds go ahead with the play. I’ll get the dope from Bob.”

He slid his cards to the small table which supported the telephone, clamped his left elbow down on them, pulled a pencil and notepaper from his pocket and said into the transmitter, “Go ahead, Bob, shoot the works.”

Sam Moraine fingered his stack of blue chips meditatively. “I wish you guys would solve your cases during office hours,” he observed. “Every time we start a sociable game and I get a good hand, the telephone rings and someone wants you to go out and find a lost cat.”

Duncan remarked sarcastically:

“I suppose you’d solve all mysteries between nine in the morning and five at night. If a jane came to your office at three o’clock in the afternoon and told you her sister had been murdered, you’d have the case solved by five o’clock so you could pull down the roll top on your desk and beat it for home when the whistle blew.”

Barney Morden, making notes, flung a comment over his shoulder, “Go ahead and stick in your chips, Sam, so I can win six bucks while I’m getting an earful of grief.”

Moraine shook his head.

“If it’s going to be the last hand we might as well make it worth while.”

He slid seven blue chips across the table.

Barney Morden groaned, said into the telephone, “All right, Bob, we’ll take care of it,” replaced the receiver, swung around in his chair to face the table at which the players sat.

“I hope you call him, Chief, just to keep him honest. Somehow, I have my suspicions, this being the last hand and all.”

Phil Duncan rattled his stack of chips with meditative fingers.

“Sam, my boy, I’m a public official, called upon to keep the citizens upright and moral. I’d hate to let you steal anything just because you thought I was in a hurry. I’m afraid I’ve got to keep you honest.”

He dropped five chips into the center of the table, one at a time, slowly.

When the last chip had clattered to the pile, Barney Morden raised his cards to his lips, kissed them and threw them into the discard.

“This,” he observed, “is no place for a minister’s son — or for two lousy pair.”

Sam Moraine turned his cards face up. “Three bullets and a pair of nines,” he observed.

Phil Duncan laid down three queens, a ten and a six.

“Okay,” he said, “take the money. Who’s keeping the bank?”

“I am,” Morden announced, counting out cash while Phil Duncan was struggling into a light overcoat.

“There’s a car on the way out for us, Chief,” he said. “The Bender woman rang up the office. She said she had to get in touch with you at once. She didn’t want to talk with anyone else.”

“Who’s the Bender woman and what’s the Hartwell case?” Sam Moraine asked, fighting a cigarette.

“Doris Bender,” the district attorney told him. “About twenty-nine, lots of class. Apparently has quite a bit of the world’s goods. Has a half-sister — Ann Hartwell — who lives in Saxonville. She’s married to a dentist. She’s disappeared. Doris Bender has an idea the husband murdered his wife and managed to conceal the body somewhere. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t bother with it personally, but she’s got political friends.”

“Where does she live?”

“Out on Washington Street. What’s the number, Barney?”

“Forty-three ninety,” Barney Morden said.

“Why not go on out there,” Sam Moraine asked, “hear what she has to say, make it snappy, and then come on out to my place? I’ll have some sandwiches and champagne and give you birds a chance to get even. You could give me a lift and get me home, even including a stop at Washington Street, quicker than I could have my chauffeur bring up a car for me. You fellows don’t have to obey the laws and I do. I always like to ride behind a siren.”

“We’re not using the siren unless we have to,” Morden pointed out gloomily. “People have been complaining about the way we go through traffic. They claim we use the siren to get us home in time for dinner.”

“Do you?” asked Moraine, grinning.

Phil Duncan answered his grin.

“Of course we do. You wouldn’t want a public official to be late for dinner, would you?”

Moraine announced regretfully, “I made a mistake in taking up my career. I should have gone into politics and got elected to something. God knows how many times I’m late for dinner.”

A siren moaned a low signal.

“That’s the car,” Morden announced.

He led the way to the elevator, and, when they had reached the sidewalk, climbed in beside the driver, leaving the back sat of the car for the district attorney and Sam Moraine.

As the car glided into swift motion, Moraine turned to Duncan and asked, “How about letting me go up with you, Phil? I’ve never been in on a murder case. I’d like the thrill of it.”

“There won’t be any thrill,” Duncan remarked, lighting a cigar. “It’s just a chore. There probably isn’t even a murder. What’s more, she’s politically important. If you went up, it would be just as a curiosity seeker, and she’d resent it.”

“Why not call me a technical consultant?” asked Moraine.

“What could you consult on,” Duncan asked, “outside of poker?”

“Oh, I’ve got lots of miscellaneous information in the back of my head. I know something about psychology and I know something about paper, a good deal about photography, something about ink...”

“And damn little about murder cases,” Duncan interrupted. “They’re a nuisance.”

“Oh, so it really is a murder?”

“I don’t know. She says it is, but I doubt it. It’s probably just a family fight, but we’ve got to look into it.”

Duncan, reclining against the cushions, puffed appreciatively at his cigar and said, “No kidding, Sam, did you have the three aces pat?”

“That,” Moraine proclaimed, “is a secret. I never hold a kicker unless I know I’m going to catch something to go with it.”

“Baloney!” the district attorney said, snuggling down into his overcoat. “The next time I pick a poker partner I’m going to pick one who doesn’t know so damn much about sales psychology and advertising. You have me at a disadvantage.”

He raised his voice and said to the driver, “Kick open the siren and give her the gun. I’ve got a date to get revenge in a poker game after we get done with this call.”

The siren moaned into noise, swelled into a screaming crescendo, as the driver pushed the car to top speed.

“This,” proclaimed Sam Moraine, “is something like... What would the voters say, Phil, if they figured the siren was screaming for a right of way so the district attorney could get into a poker game and retrieve a lousy six bucks that he’d lost?”

“What would the voters say,” Phil Duncan countered, “if they knew anything that went on behind the official scenes? And, what’s more, it wasn’t a lousy six dollars. It was six dollars and seventy-five cents, and that’s money!”

Moraine braced himself as the car swerved. Tires screamed.

Morden, who hadn’t moved a muscle, remarked, “Why the hell didn’t that guy get over when he heard the siren?”

The district attorney said nothing. He was smoking calmly, too accustomed to those rapid rides even to brace himself when confronted by danger.

“Wish I had your nerves,” Moraine said.

“It’s just boredom,” Duncan told him. “I used to be frightened stiff. Now I’m bored. I can’t get a kick out of the job any more.”

“You’re going to run again, Phil?”

“Sure, just like I’m going to play poker with you again. I’ve got so much invested now I can’t afford to quit.”

“What have you got invested?”

“Time and career.”

“Can’t you make more out of your private practice than you can on salary as district attorney?”

“Sure.”

“Why stay with it, then?”

“It’s a stepping stone.”

“A stepping stone to what?”

“I don’t know. Of course, Sam, I’m talking frankly with you, perhaps more frankly than I’d talk even with myself, just because you’re a friend, something of a psychologist, and a practical man. I might tell myself that I was devoting my life to public service, and might believe it. If I told you that, you’d say, ‘Hooey!’ Therefore, I’m frank with you. I might lad myself along, but I couldn’t kid you along.

“No, Sam, I got into this job because I figured there was a future in it — not in the job itself, but in what the job might lead to. You know me well enough to know that I wouldn’t want to send an innocent man to the gallows. I wouldn’t try to. On the other hand, one of these days there’s going to be a big prosecution. It may be a murder charge against some prominent person. It may be a big graft prosecution. No one knows just what it’ll be, but sooner or later it’s bound to show up. Then, if I can make a good showing, I could move on up the political ladder. Many times the breaks have sent a clever prosecutor into the governorship.”

Duncan had lowered his voice, leaned toward Sam Moraine, so that his remarks were audible only to the man who shared the back seat with him.

“Who’s going to be your most dangerous opponent in the election?” Moraine asked.

“Johnny Fairfield. Pete Dixon is backing him.”

Moraine said, “That’s because Carl Thorne is backing you?”

“Sure. For the past ten years Carl Thorne and Pete Dixon have fought for control of this town. Neither one of them ever runs for office. Neither one of them ever makes a speech. They keep out of the newspapers as much as possible. But don’t ever fool yourself they aren’t mixed up in every major political campaign.”

“Both crooks?” Moraine asked.

“I wouldn’t say that. Dixon is unscrupulous. Thorne is my friend.”

Duncan leaned still closer to Moraine and said, “Confidentially, Sam, I’d like to stand just on my own two feet, but it can’t be done. This county is run by a political machine, and it’s too highly organized for a man to buck it. Right now, Carl Thorne controls both the city and the county. Dixon is lying low, trying to uncover some scandal that he can spring about election time.

“Just between you and me, I think Thorne might like to have someone in my office who would be a bit more complacent about things. But, with Johnny Fairfield coming out as Dixon’s candidate, and the probabilities that a reform party will also back Fairfield, Thorne will swing his machine back at me. He wouldn’t dare to let Dixon control the district attorney’s office... Incidentally, it’s because of Carl Thorne that I’m going out on this case personally instead of sending an investigator. Thorne is friendly with the Bender woman.”

The car slued around a corner, swung in close to the curb. Barney grunted, and jerked his head toward a house.

“That’s the joint,” he said.

The driver slowed the car to a stop.

“Not going to take me up with you?” Moraine asked.

Duncan hesitated for a moment, then said, “You really want to go, Sam?”

“If it’s not going to make any trouble for you,” Moraine told him, “I’d prefer listening in to sitting here in the car and twiddling my thumbs.”

“Come on, then,” the district attorney said. “I’ll tell Bender you’re an expert on different types of paper and I thought perhaps she might have a letter or two from her sister that she might want you to look over. But, for the life of me, I can’t see why a man wants to horn in on all this grief when he doesn’t have to do it to earn his living.”

“Other pastures look greener,” Moraine pointed out.

“Pasture, hell!” Duncan exclaimed disgustedly. “It’s a dump heap. Come on.”

They pushed open the door of an apartment house, entered the elevator, went to the third floor, their steps pounding down the corridor. Morden raised his knuckles to knock on a door, but, before he could knock, the door was flung open and an attractive woman gave them a quick smile.

“Oh, I’m so glad you’ve come!” she said to Phil Duncan.

Duncan’s manner was gravely professional.

“Mrs. Bender, let me present Mr. Moraine. Moraine is head of the Moraine Advertising and Distributing Company. You may have heard of it. He’s an expert on certain technical matters. He happened to be available, and I brought him along, thinking he might help us.”

She gave Moraine her hand. The tips of her fingers were cold.

“Thank you,” she said. “Come in.”

The men entered the apartment. Heavy drapes covered the windows. Thick rugs were under foot. Deep overstuffed chairs were invitingly placed beneath the mellow illumination of reading lamps. The air was heavy with tobacco smoke. A siphon of carbonated water, a bottle of Scotch, a tray of ice and two glasses were on a small taboret between two chairs which had been drawn toward the center of the room.

A man in a dinner jacket stood very erect and dignified. He did not bow. His eyes stared steadily at the men who had entered. He was in the late twenties or early thirties. His forehead was high. Dark hair had grizzled somewhat at his temples. His eyes were steady and appraising. He didn’t speak until Duncan had turned to him. Then he bowed from the waist and said, “How are you, Mr. Duncan? Perhaps you don’t remember me. I’m Wickes — Thomas W. Wickes. Carl Thorne introduced me to you a little over a year ago.”

Duncan mechanically shook hands, the handshake of a politician who must meet hundreds of people whom he cannot remember and yet must not offend.

“How are you?” he asked readily, but with no warmth in his tone. “Your face is familiar. Shake hands with Sam Moraine. You’ve probably heard of him — Moraine Advertising and Distributing Company.”

The man moved with well-timed, athletic grace.

“Glad to know you,” he said, muscular fingers closing about Moraine’s hand. “Doris — Mrs. Bender — wanted me to come up and give her some advice. I told her the only thing to do was to get in touch with the district attorney at once.”

Duncan sat down, crossed his legs.

“What’s happened?” he asked.

Wickes glanced over at Doris Bender. She started to talk.

“We can speak frankly,” she said. “Tom Wickes understands everything. He’s been in my confidence from the start. You remember that I told you I thought Ann had been murdered...”

She broke off and turned to Sam Moraine and said, by way of explanation, “She’s my sister, or, rather, my half-sister. She lives in Saxonville with her husband, Dr. Richard Hartwell, a dentist. She disappeared, and I thought she’d been murdered. Frankly, I thought Richard might have murdered her. He acted very queerly about it all. He said she frequently threatened to disappear. He didn’t seem to care, particularly, yet he was nervous.”

The woman paused, glanced about at her little circle of listeners, Moraine’s eyes showed frank interest.

She was between twenty-eight and thirty, and vivacious. Her hands were constantly in motion, making swift little gestures. Her eyes and hair were dark, her lips very red.

She lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, puffed out a long ribbon of thin blue smoke, turned wide eyes back to the district attorney.

Duncan puffed out cigar smoke and muttered, “Go ahead.”

“About an hour ago,” she said, “I received a special delivery letter. It looked strange right from the start — you know, the way it was addressed and everything. I opened it and there was a demand that I should pay ten thousand dollars for Ann’s ransom. If I didn’t pay it, I was never to see her again. If I called in the officers, they were going to kill her.”

Duncan removed the cigar from his lips. His eyes showed sudden interest.

“Where’s the note?” he asked.

She looked across at Tom Wickes, who pulled an envelope from his pocket and handed it to the district attorney.

Duncan held it by the edges, took out the folded sheet of paper. “Let’s be careful not to rub off any fingerprints,” he said. “There’s just a chance we might develop something.”

He unfolded the single sheet of paper, read the message, held it so Moraine and Barney Morden could see the contents.

“What do you make of it, Sam?” he asked.

“Printed with a rubber stamp,” Moraine said. “It’s a lot of work to do that. It’s one of those outfits they sell for kids. You can only set up one or two lines at a time. Someone went to a lot of work on this.” The letter read —

There was no signature on the message, but, at the bottom, where a signature would have been, appeared four capital X’s in a row.

“What do you make of it, Barney?” Phil Duncan asked.

“Looks phoney,” Barney Morden said.

“Why?”

“I don’t know, it just does. Let’s get in touch with the postal authorities and see if we can’t trace that special delivery letter. That rubber-stamp address is distinctive. Perhaps some mail man picked it up from a box and would remember it.”

“But,” Doris Bender cautioned, “we can’t let anyone know about it. We mustn’t notify the authorities.”

“You’ve notified me,” Duncan told her. “I’m the district attorney.”

“I know,” she said, “but you don’t count.”

“Thanks,” Duncan retorted ironically.

“Oh, I didn’t mean it that way, Mr. Duncan. You see, I’m not consulting you as an official, just as a friend. That’s what I meant. Through Carl, I feel I know you informally — no, I don’t mean that — I mean unofficially.”

Duncan said in steady, measured tones, “Now, let’s get this straight: Are you consulting me as the district attorney?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Then my duty is clear. I must notify the federal men and probably the police.”

“Then the newspapers will get hold of it.”

“They might through the police but they won’t through the federal men. We could put the thing in their hands. That is, you could. I wouldn’t want to do it, if it were going to be handled that way.”

“Why not?”

“Because it would build up ill-feeling between the police and myself. There’s too much of that already.”

“But I don’t want to notify the federal authorities,” Doris Bender said.

“What do you want to do?”

“I want to pay the money.”

Phil Duncan studied the tip of his cigar, glanced almost surreptitiously at Sam Moraine, encountered an expressionless face, turned to Barney Morden and received an almost imperceptible nod.

“Why didn’t you pay the money without calling on my office? Surely you must realize that these people may have the place watched. They may have seen me come here.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Well, let’s think of it now.”

“What should I do?”

“The only advice I can give you officially is to notify the authorities.”

“I don’t want to notify the authorities.”

“Then,” said Duncan, getting to his feet, “if you’re not going to follow my advice, I can be of no further assistance to you.”

She clung to his arm. “Oh,” she said, “but you can’t!”

He shook her loose, turned on her with some show of exasperation.

“You little fool!” he said. “Can’t you see what I’m doing? I’m giving you an opportunity to pay the money, if that’s what you want to do. This may be a racket. It may be a genuine snatch. I don’t know; you don’t know. The only advice I can give you, as an official, is not to’ have anything to do with the crooks. That may be the wrong kind of advice. Perhaps the best thing to do is to pay the money and get your sister back. As an official, I can’t give you that advice. Therefore, I’m getting out and leaving you to your own devices.”

Wickes nodded his head emphatically.

“Clever,” he said. “Damn clever! He’s quite right, Doris. Let him go. He’s splendid.”

Duncan turned to him.

“Just one tip,” he said. “Be certain you’re dealing with the right people before you put up any money.

“This whole thing may be a racket. Someone may have learned that Ann Hartwell has disappeared and that you’re concerned about it. They’re trying to chisel in for ten thousand dollars. Do you understand?”

Wickes nodded his head.

“I understand,” he said.

Duncan led the way to the door. Sam Moraine followed him. Barney Morden seemed reluctant to leave, although it wasn’t until after the man had entered the automobile that he actually said anything.

“That thing,” he said slowly, as the car purred into motion, “smells fishy to me.”

Duncan shrugged his shoulders.

“Remember,” he said, “that she told me she didn’t want to consult me as an official.”

“I hate to interfere with your business,” Moraine remarked, “but if I were you I’d start tracing that Hartwell woman from the time she left her home in Saxonville.”

Duncan stared at him.

“To hell with that,” he said. “Let’s finish our poker game.”