This Is Murder

Chapter Two

Natalie Rice’s voice had the mechanical intonation of secretarial perfection as she said into the inter-office phone: “Mr. Thomas Wickes to see you. He refuses to state his business.”

Sam Moraine looked at his wrist-watch and frowned. “Keep him waiting about five minutes, and come in here.”

Moraine was waiting for her as she stepped into his private office. Her appearance was in direct contrast to the sound of her voice through the inter-office speaker. Here was no prim, precise office automation, but a live, vibrant, feminine personality. A smile seemed always quivering on her lips, yet held always in restraint. Her eyes could have been provocative if she had let them. Her lips made one think of lingering caresses.

“I don’t know just how this interview is going to develop, Miss Rice, but I want you to take it down in shorthand.”

The smile continued to lurk at the comers of her lips. Her eyes veiled their expression. Her voice was a model of toneless secretarial efficiency.

“All of it?” she asked.

“Yes.”

Miss Rice’s face betrayed no surprise.

“Very well. You wish it transcribed afterwards?”

“Not unless I tell you to.”

“Very well. Shall I show him in?”

“Yes.”

She plugged in the switch on the dictograph connection which enabled her to hear in the outer office everything that was said over Moraine’s desk, and opened the door to the outer office, saying as she did so, “You may come in, Mr. Wickes.”

Despite his nervousness, Wickes paused to smile at her before she closed the door, then crossed the office and extended his hand to Moraine.

“I’m here on a peculiar mission,” he said. “I know you’ll pardon me.”

Moraine shook hands, indicated a chair and said casually, “The fact that you’re here at all indicates that. What’s on your mind?”

Wickes, fidgeting uneasily, said, “There’s been a leak.”

“In what way?”

“I’m afraid through the district attorney’s office.”

“I don’t think so,” Moraine told him. “But why come to me about it? I’m not interested in it. I was called in by Duncan merely to pass upon a technical matter.”

Wickes blurted, “I understand your position. I probably have a crust, coming here and interfering with your morning’s work, but you’re the only one who can help us.”

“I’m sorry,” Moraine told him. “This is entirely out of my line.”

“There’s a human life at stake. You’ve got to remember that,” Wickes insisted. “Moreover, you have a yacht, and that’s important.”

“Why is it important?”

Wickes lit a cigarette. The hand which held the match shook perceptibly. “Nerves all shot,” he apologized.

Beyond a sympathetic nod, Moraine offered no solace.

“After you left,” Wickes said, speaking more slowly now, apparently choosing his words carefully, “we received another communication. We’re convinced we’re dealing with the right people, but we demanded absolute proof.

“They told us to take the money, go out in the bay to-night in a yacht, anchor the yacht at a certain place. A speed boat would come, pick up our go-between and convince him that we were dealing with the right people. After that, we could have Mrs. Hartwell whenever we paid the money.

“Now, here’s what I want you to do: I want you to take the ten thousand dollars. If you find you’re dealing with the right people, pay over die money.”

“You’re barking up the wrong tree,” Moraine said. “I’m not acting as intermediary or go-between in an affair of this land. Moreover, I’m a friend of the district attorney. I’m not going to do anything without consulting him. I don’t want to mix into any of this stuff. What’s more...”

Wickes said slowly, “Would you be willing to do it if the district attorney gave you his permission?”

“I don’t think so. I might.”

“You might at least ask him.”

“Why not have him get one of his men to do it?”

“They won’t stand for it. They were watching the house last night. They knew the district attorney went out there but they knew you were with him. They said they’d be willing to act with you as intermediary. That’s why I’m here.”

Moraine smoked thoughtfully for a few seconds, then reluctantly admitted, “That may alter the situation. It’s something I don’t want to do.”

“It’s a duty,” Wickes pointed out.

“A damned imposition,” Moraine amended.

Wickes said nothing.

A few moments later the telephone rang. Moraine jerked the receiver from its hook, placed it to his ear and heard Miss Rice’s very efficient voice saying, “I’ve located the district attorney and have him on the wire, in case you want to put that proposition up to him.”

Moraine thought a minute, cupped his hand over the transmitter and said to Wickes, “This is a coincidence. The district attorney just happened to be calling in. I’ll talk with him.”

He removed his hand, said, “Hello, Phil. I presume you re calling up about that investment of ours.”

Duncan’s voice was cautious. “Miss Rice told me you might want me to stall around for a minute or two,” he said. “Shall I say something over the telephone just to make it look plausible?”

“Yes,” Moraine told him.

Duncan laughed. “Here’s where I have a chance to tell you what I think of you,” he said. “Any bird who would take a friend out to his house and trim him to the tune of eighteen dollars and fifty cents should be allowed to stew in his own grease when he gets into a jam. I suppose you’ve been pinched for parking by a fire plug and sassing a cop and want me to square it. If there’s an officer sitting at your elbow, trying to drag you down to jail, I hope this will be a good lesson for you...”

Moraine interrupted in a smooth voice, saying, “All right, Phil, that’s fine. I know just exactly what you have in mind. However, I’m wondering if that can’t wait. I have another matter I want to take up with you. Mr. Wickes is here. You may remember, we met him last night. It seems the people he was dealing with were watching the house and knew that we came out there. They’ve told him to lay off you and suggested that I act as intermediary. Wickes wants me to make the contact and pay the money.”

There was a moment of silence.

“Is he there now?” asked Duncan.

“Yes.”

“Does he seem nervous and excited?”

“Yes.”

“Look as though he hadn’t slept much?”

“Yes.”

“How about his linen? Is it fresh?”

“Yes, I think it is.”

“When is this business going to be pulled?”

“To-night, I believe.”

“Have you got a gun?”

“No.”

“Then,” Duncan said, “you can do just whatever you please. Do you want to mix into it?”

“No.”

“But you think you should, perhaps, is that it?”

“Yes”

“Officially,” Duncan said, “as far as the office is concerned, I don’t even know about it. Do anything you want, but I’m sending a gun down to your office by special messenger and also a permit to carry a concealed weapon.”

“Thanks very much,” Moraine told him, and, without hanging up the telephone, turned to Wickes.

“Okay, Wickes,” he said, “I’ll go.”

Wickes’ lips twisted in a relieved smile. Over the telephone, Moraine could hear Duncan’s chuckle and the voice of the district attorney saying, “You were the boy who wanted adventure. Stick around.”

Tom Wickes pulled a half-dozen snapshots from his pocket.

“These,” he said, “are photographs of Ann Hartwell. They give a pretty good idea of what she looks like. Study them carefully. You’ll want to be sure she’s the one you’re paying out the money for.”