Payoff for the Banker (5 page)

“Mine,” Bill Weigand told him.

There were other marks. Connors studied them through a glass. He waved toward the chalked outline on the floor which marked the previous resting place of Mr. Merle.

“His,” he said briefly.

He flicked the paper over and dusted again. The powder adhered in the swirls of a print on the edge and on two other prints.

“Mine again,” Bill said. “Thumb.”

“Obviously,” Connors said, distantly. “And his again. Nobody else.” He regarded Bill Weigand. “I guess you wrote it yourself, Loot,” he said. “O.K. for me to get back to the bathroom? We're getting all kinds in there. Including toes. Somebody turns the bathtub off with his toes. Or her toes.”

Weigand gestured him away. Using the pencil, and touching as little as possible, he refolded the letter and put it back in the envelope.

“The little man without any fingers,” he said. “Or with gloves on them.”

“That,” Mullins said, “I'll buy.”

“And so,” Weigand said, “Oscar Murdock writes a note to his boss, inviting him to come and get killed, and initials it—and then uses gloves to keep his prints off. Ingenious.”

“Well,” Mullins said, “it could be at that, Loot.”

Weigand agreed.

“When first we practice to deceive,” he said. “We may practice twice. If we have that kind of a mind. So policemen will think that somebody else wrote the letter and tried to pin it on us. But why not merely tell Merle and not write at all? Why not telephone him?”

“I'll buy that, too,” Mullins said. “Whoever wrote it. Why write it at all? Unless somebody wanted to pin it on Murdock.”

“Or unless that's what Murdock wants us to think, being in it anyway,” Weigand said. “We'll just have to ask.”

The telephone rang. Mullins picked it up, listened, handed it to Bill Weigand. Weigand listened and said “Right.” He listened and said, “We'll be along. We're about through here. Ask him to wait, will you?”

He put the telephone back.

“The old boy's son has turned up,” he said. “At the precinct. He says the precinct telephoned him that his father was dead. We'll—.”

He broke off and began again.

“No,” he said. “Sergeant, you and Stein go along and keep him company. Extend sympathy and tell him we'll catch whoever did it. And you might find out where he was around five, just for routine's sake. I'll be along later.”

He watched them go. He wandered about the living room; stood for a moment in the door of the bathroom and watched Connors and the photographer at work. He paused at one of the windows which opened over the courtyard and looked down at the men who still scratched for secrets in the court. One of them looked up and shook his head and Weigand nodded and left the window. He took his hat, called to Connors to lock up and bring the key with him when he was finished, and went into the hall. The elevator lumbered up with the old man at the control. The old man said nothing, and started the car down.

“So you didn't hear anybody scream,” Weigand said. “Or any shots.”

“No,” the man said. “Unless I thought it was backfires. Nobody screamed.”

“Right,” Weigand said. “Did Murdock leave an address?”

“Not with me,” the old man said. “Maybe with his nibs.”

“Selden?” Weigand guessed. “The antique man?”

“Sure,” the old man said. “Don't he own the joint?”

“Does he?” Weigand said.

“Sure. Who else?”

“I don't know,” Weigand said, getting out.

The antique shop was closed for the night. But there was a bell signal beside the door and Weigand pushed it. Nothing happened. He pushed it again. James Selden ran up the shade and looked out at him.

“Closed,” Selden said through the door. “Come back tomorrow.”

“Police,” Weigand shouted through the door. “I want to see you a minute.”

“Damn,” Selden said, loud enough to be heard through the glass. He had a good voice for a dusty man. He opened the door and stood in the doorway.

“How long are these cops going to blockade me?” he demanded. “Suppose somebody wants to buy something?”

“Tonight?” Weigand inquired, mildly. “They'll be gone by tomorrow.”

“All right,” James Selden said. “I don't know anything about it. I didn't hear anything or see anyone. I didn't shoot the girl.”

“What girl?” Weigand said.

“The girl who got shot,” the antique man told him with asperity. “In the fourth floor rear. In Murdock's old apartment.”

“No girl got shot,” Weigand told him. “A man. A man named Merle.”

“Merle?” the antique man asked. “Not
George
Merle?”

“Why not?” Weigand said. “Did you know him?”

“Everybody knew him,” James Selden said. “Or knew of him. As a matter of fact, I did know him, slightly. I sold him a mirror. Authentic, too.”

“Some time,” Weigand said, “you tell me about that. It might be interesting. Tomorrow, maybe. Now—give me Oscar Murdock's address, if you've got it. And I'll quit bothering you.”

“Why not?” the antique man said. It was a great house for questions, Bill Weigand decided. “Did he kill him?”

Bill was patient.

“Not that I know of,” he said. “I want to talk to him, that's all.”

“The Main,” the antique man said. “Him and the girl too, I wouldn't wonder.”

“Right,” Weigand said. “I didn't know about the girl.”

“His wife, he says,” James Selden told him. “I wouldn't know.” He paused and peered at Weigand from under his layer of dust. “Merle was here several times about that mirror,” he said. “A couple of months ago, maybe. And a month or so before that he was here about a chair.”

“Did he buy it?” Weigand asked.

“No,” James Selden told him. “He said it was too damned uncomfortable.” He paused and reflected. “God knows it was,” he added. “Good night.”

He closed the door.

The Hotel Main was dignified and had an air of permanence. It was the proper distance over on the East Side and on a proper street. Bill Weigand parked the Buick with careful regard for parking signs and the hotel doorman told him it was a good evening. Weigand nodded. The clerk behind the desk also thought the evening good. Weigand wanted to see Mr. Oscar Murdock.

“Room—” he began, and also began a reserved gesture toward the house telephone. “Oh, Mr. Murdock,” he said. “This gentleman—.”

He spoke to somebody behind Bill Weigand and Weigand turned around.

“—was just asking for you,” the clerk said.

Murdock gave, first, the impression of good barbering. He was of medium height and just over medium roundness and he had innocent blue eyes in an innocent pink face. He looked at Weigand and did not know him and his manner intimated that that had been, until now, his loss. His voice was gentle and encouraging.

“Yes?” he said. “Mr.—?”

“Weigand,” Weigand told him. “Lieutenant. Police lieutenant.”

The effect was not startling. Oscar Murdock did not blanch nor tremble nor otherwise show alarm. But for a moment his eyes changed. They seemed to grow more shallow; tiny muscles moved around them. All you could say was that his expression changed; you could not say, definitely, what his expression changed to. But his calling had not, Weigand suspected, endeared him to Mr. Murdock.

Murdock's voice remained bland.

“The police?” he said, questioning it. “You want to see me?”

“About Merle's death,” Weigand said. “His murder, you know.”

The change of expression was more marked this time. The man looked shocked and something more than shocked. Perhaps the something more might be called disappointment. But perhaps Weigand was imagining things.

“Merle!” Murdock repeated. “Not
George
Merle?”

Everybody seemed to think it must be another Merle.

“George Merle,” Weigand said. “The banker. Your employer, wasn't he?”

“My God, yes,” Murdock said. “Did you say
murdered?”

“Yes,” Weigand said. “The banker—
the
Mr. Merle. Murdered. Somebody filled him full of lead. Or full enough.”

“My God,” Murdock said.

“In,” Weigand told him, “your apartment. On Madison Avenue.”

“My God,” Murdock said. “I tried to—.” He stopped suddenly. “When was it?”

A couple of hours ago, Weigand told him. More or less.

Murdock told him it wasn't possible. Two hours ago he saw Merle at the office. He was just as always. Murdock couldn't believe it.

“Two hours ago somebody was using him for a target,” Weigand explained. “Accurately. What time did you see him?”

“A little before five,” Murdock said. “I can't believe it.”

Merle had been, Weigand explained, killed a little after five. Now it was a little after seven—now it was seven thirty. Murdock had seen him nearer three hours ago. Murdock shook his head, still showing that he couldn't believe it, and that it was a tremendous shock. His expressions and movements were plain enough now; they represented a loyal employee, and possibly a friend, who was bewildered and grieved by sudden death. His attitude was correct, which did not prove that the small gestures and muscular movements, the look in the eyes, the hand touching the forehead—that all these did not grow out of emotions sincerely felt. Mr. Murdock appeared a man who did things in order, which did not prove insincerity.

“This is a great shock to me, Lieutenant,” Murdock said. “You can have no idea how great a shock. He was a great man—a great friend.”

Weigand expressed his sympathy.

“It was considerate of you to tell me—to come here yourself, I mean,” Murdock said. “I appreciate it. Old G. M.” He looked at Weigand and shook his head. “I feel I should have been with him—have done something,” he said. “I did so many things for him, you know. It was more than a job.”

Murdock was more confiding than was to be expected. Suddenly he seemed to think of something. It was as if murder as a reciprocal activity, requiring a murderer as well as a victim, had just occurred to him.

“But who?” he said. “Who would want to kill G. M.? Do you know who, Lieutenant?”

“No,” Weigand said. “We're trying to find out. That's what brought me here, Mr. Murdock. I thought you might be able to help.”

Oscar Murdock shook his head doubtfully. He said he didn't see how. Not that he didn't want to help. Of course, if there was anything he could tell him that would help—. But probably they already knew all about Mr. Merle that would help. Everybody knew about Mr. Merle. Except for the personal things, of course. There he might help.

“He was a dignified, generous gentleman,” Murdock said. “He was of the old school.”

Murdock liked to say things the easy way, Weigand decided. What old school? There had been a good many—some of them, from their product, reform schools. Probably Murdock really meant that Mr. Merle had been a very rich man, head of a big bank, director of numerous corporations, generous in fund drives, titular head of charitable organizations with professionals doing the work. All very right and proper, of course; not necessarily a subject for pæans.

The detective's voice was grave, reflecting none of this.

“I'm sure that will be very—helpful, Mr. Murdock,” he said. “We'll be very glad to hear about Mr. Merle from one who knew him as you did. However, there are one or two more specific points. If we could sit down somewhere?”

Murdock said of course, with the air of one who has been negligent in hospitality. He led the detective to a small lounge, offered him a cigarette, rang a little bell on a little table before Weigand could stop him. He seemed to guess that Weigand had been about to stop him.

“I don't know about you,” he said, “but I need a drink. Won't you join me?”

Weigand was gravely tempted. Weigand resisted temptation. He waited, smoking, while a waiter came and took Murdock's order for scotch and plain water. Double scotch, not too much water. He let the waiter go and then he decided he had waited long enough.

“Mr. Merle went to your apartment at your invitation, Mr. Murdock,” he said, in a voice without inflection. “He carried your invitation with him.”

Murdock looked unbelieving. Then he slumped a little in his chair, and began shaking his head decisively.

“Wait a minute,” Weigand said. “I saw the invitation. It was a note. I'll tell you what it said.”

From memory Weigand told Oscar Murdock what the note said.

“Signed ‘O. M.'” Weigand said. “On a typewriter. ‘O. M.' for ‘Oscar Murdock,' obviously.”

He stopped to let it sink.

“All right, Mr. Murdock,” he said. “Be helpful. You said you wanted to be.”

Murdock continued to shake his head.

“No,” he said. “I didn't send him any such note. I don't understand it. It was somebody else.”

“Named—what?” Weigand wanted to know. “Oliver Murphy? Orville Mansfield? Did Mr. Merle know dozens of people with initials O. M.?”

“But,” Murdock said, “that proves it, really. When I sent him memoranda and things I didn't sign O. M. I signed Oz—an O with a kind of a wriggle which meant ‘Z.' Because he called me Ozzie. It was—a sort of a joke.”

“Was it?” Weigand said. “A funny joke?”

“All right,” Murdock said. “That's all I can say. I suppose you're going to arrest me?”

“Do you?” Weigand said. “Well, you may be right. But there's lots of time. You'll be around, won't you? You weren't thinking of going anywhere, were you?”

“I—” Murdock said. He looked at Weigand. “I guess not,” he said.

“No,” Weigand said. “I wouldn't. That would make it too easy. You and your wife—by the way, is your wife around?”