Payoff for the Banker (6 page)

“My wife?” Murdock repeated. “Oh—you mean Laurel. No, she—”

“Isn't she your wife, Mr. Murdock?” Weigand said.

“Of course,” Murdock said. He looked at Weigand. “Well,” he said, “no. It was just—simpler. Real estate agents prefer it.”

“She was just—?” Weigand said.

“Precisely,” Murdock agreed. He looked at Weigand and smiled, man of the world to man of the world. “After all, Lieutenant,” he said. “It does happen.”

Weigand agreed it did, frequently. It would explain a thing or two, taken that way. It would explain why a man of Murdock's presumable affluence, trusted lieutenant to a man like George Merle, would be content with the comfortable but unquestionably small apartment over the antique shop.

“Did she know Merle?” Weigand wanted to know.

Merle had met Laurel, Murdock agreed.

“Her name's Laurel Burke,” he said. “I'd like to keep her out of this.”

That was natural, Weigand said. It did him credit. It was not likely to be possible. Particularly as the apartment was more hers than Murdock's.

“Did Merle think she was your wife?” Weigand wanted to know.

“I introduced her as my wife,” Murdock said. “I don't know what he thought. I don't know that he thought about it.”

Apparently, Weigand decided, the two men had known each other only during working hours. There was no meeting of families to match the advertised meeting of minds.

“By the way,” Weigand said and stopped. The waiter returned with the drink. Murdock said he needed it. Murdock proved it.

“Did you happen to know Mr. Merle's family?” Weigand asked, casually.

“Oh yes,” he said. “Josh and Ann. They're his children. His wife's dead, you know. And his sister—Mr. Merle's sister. She lives at the place out at Elmcroft. And Jamie. It's going to be pretty tough on Josh and Ann.”

Weigand agreed that it was a very sad thing. He thought that Murdock knew more about Mr. Merle's domestic life than Merle had known of Murdock's. Which might very well be the way it would work out, considering their respective positions. If Merle were of an old enough school.

Murdock seemed ready to go on about the Merle family, but Weigand did not encourage him. They would have to be met—Joshua Merle was even now waiting to be met. Weigand summed it up.

“So you did not write Merle a letter telling him to come to the apartment. Right? You have no idea why he happened to go there. Right? You know nothing about his murder?”

“That's right,” Murdock said.

Weigand said he hoped so.

“And he wasn't in the habit of dropping in at your apartment, I gather—at Miss Burke's apartment. Since he had only met Miss Burke casually. Right?”

“I don't think he was ever there,” Murdock said. Weigand watched his eyes. Just for a second Murdock's eyes grew shallow again. “I didn't spread it around. I don't see how—”

“Right,” Weigand said. “We know where we stand, at the moment. You'll understand that this is only the beginning as far as you're concerned, Mr. Murdock. You'll understand that there's still a lot to explain—a lot for you to explain.” He stood up and looked down at Murdock. “I could arrest you now,” he said. “I could make it stick, maybe. I'm not, simply because there is too much still to be cleared up. But stick around.”

Murdock's barbered round face sagged. He nodded without speaking.

“And,” Weigand said, “I want Miss Burke's address. I want to see her—and I don't want you seeing her until I do. Or communicating with her. If I find out you have—and I will find out—I'll have you picked up on suspicion. Is that clear?”

“All right,” Murdock said. “That's clear.”

Weigand wished it were quite that clear, really. He wished he knew how he was going to keep Murdock from getting in touch with Laurel Burke—how he was going to find out if Murdock did. There was just a chance that Murdock might credit him with clairvoyance and be afraid to risk it.

He noted down the girl's address.

“Is her name still Mrs. Murdock?” he inquired politely.

Murdock nodded.

“Right,” Weigand said. “I'll be seeing you.”

This promise did not enliven Murdock perceptibly. As Weigand walked away he heard the little bell on the table tinkle anxiously. Murdock needed sustenance. That was fine.

Weigand stopped at a telephone booth. He arranged to have Laurel Burke's apartment picketed from without; he arranged to have a man attend on Mr. Murdock at the earliest possible moment. If the two got together the men were to move in, break it up and bring both to Weigand's office. Otherwise, no action at the moment.

Then he telephoned Charles and chatted with Hugo, who answered. Hugo wanted to know when the Lieutenant—Hugo promoted him to captain, out of cordiality—was coming around. Hugo said the lobsters were good again and indicated that Gus was pining for the lieutenant's familiar face. Hugo summoned Jerry North.

The girl was still with them. Jerry would tell her that her apartment was not available, but that she could get such personal things as she wanted from it by application. He and Pam would take her to a hotel and remember what hotel.

“Any hotel except the Main,” Weigand requested.

“O.K., Loot,” Jerry North said broadly. “Wait a minute. Here's Pam.”

“Bill,” Pam said. “The old boy's son was here. Josh. A while ago. And somebody telephoned him and afterward he looked as if he had heard. And the girl knows him better than I thought.”

“Does she?” Weigand asked. “How well did you think?”

“Oh,” Pam said. “Just a long time ago, a little. But I think now it was a lot. And not such a long time ago. Anyway, in her mind. Because she looked like that.”

It was quite a way to look, Bill told Pam. Mary Hunter must have an unusually expressive face. Pam told him all right, to wait and see. Bill promised that he would.

There were a good many coincidences around, Bill Weigand thought as he got into his car and headed for the precinct. A good many people seemed to know a good many people, with a nondescript apartment on Madison Avenue as a geographical center. It began to look complex.

Or, as Mullins would certainly say, screwy. Which Mullins would attribute to the presence of the Norths in it.

4

T
UESDAY
, 8:35
P.M.
TO
9:25
P.M.

Bill Weigand was the better for hamburgers from Hamburg Heaven when he went into a dusty room in the precinct station house and was looked at by two young men. Seated, one was obviously taller than the other—a man in his middle twenties, darkly good-looking, darkly morose. The other was slighter and shorter; he had red hair and a quick face. The dark young man looked at Weigand as if he were measuring him, possibly for a coffin; the other's eyebrows went up and his face moved restlessly.

But it was the dark man who spoke.

“Your man,” he said, “tells me they shot father.”

The voice accused.

“Sergeant Mullins,” Lieutenant Weigand said, with no expression. “Detective sergeant. What he told you is correct, Mr. Merle.”

“What the hell kind of a town is this?” Joshua Merle demanded. He stood up. Although he tried to hide it, his face was working a little. “He wasn't somebody you shoot.”

It was an odd statement, but it sounded less odd on the young voice.

“I'm sorry,” Weigand said. “You have my sympathy, Mr. Merle. We'll do everything we can—.”

“It's a hell of a time for that,” the dark young man told him. But his voice was not so combative as his words.

“Steady, Josh,” the red-headed one said. “Hold it, fella.”

“Right,” Weigand said. “Take it easy, Mr. Merle. It's tough—but take it easy as you can.” He turned to the young man with red hair. “You're a friend of his, I gather?” he said. “You give him good advice.”

“He's Weldon Jameson,” Merle said. “He's a hell of a good friend of mine.”

“Right,” Weigand said, mildly.

“I ran into him,” Merle said. “Asked him to come along with me. He felt the way I did about the old—about Dad.”

“That's right,” Jameson said, quickly. “He was a lot of guy, Josh's dad.”

The two looked at Weigand. They could hardly have been less similar, but there was a likeness between them. It was more than their youth; the likeness was hard to decipher. It was, possibly, a kind of readiness; a kind of expectation that things would be tough.

Then Merle took a step forward and limped, favoring his right foot. And Jameson sat down in the wooden chair from which he had risen and his right leg did not bend properly at the knee.

Weigand's glance which accepted this was quick, but Jameson's noting of it was quicker.

“Crocks,” he said. “A pair of surveyed sailors, Lieutenant.”

“So what?” Merle said. “What's that got to do with it?”

“Nothing,” Weigand told him. “Navy—both of you?”

“Naval aviation,” Jameson said. “We got out.” He looked at his leg. “The hard way,” he told it.

“Skip it, Jamie,” Merle said. “For God's sake. You think I—.”

The other looked at young Merle. The command was as clear as if he had spoken.

“All right,” Merle said. “Sorry, Jamie.”

“You wanted,” Weigand said, “to hear about your father.”

He told Merle about his father, accepting Jameson as an auditor. Merle limped once across the room and back and sat down again as Weigand talked. When Weigand had finished, he said he didn't get it.

“Assuming somebody wanted to kill Dad,” he said. “I don't know why, God knows, but somebody did. What took Dad to that dump?”

It wasn't particularly a dump, Weigand told him. It was merely a small apartment. Apparently what had taken George Merle there was a letter from a man named Murdock.

“Ozzie,” Joshua Merle said. “What would Ozzie—I don't believe that, Lieutenant.”

“Neither does Murdock,” Weigand told him. “Or so he says. There was a letter which seemed to be signed by Murdock, inviting your father to come to the apartment. Alternatively, he may have come to see Mrs. Hunter.”

“What Mrs. Hunter?” young Merle said. His tone was unexpectedly hot. “Mar—Rick Hunter's wife?”

“Mary Hunter,” Weigand agreed, interested. “Apparently you knew her.”

The young man stared at him. He seemed to be looking through him.

“Did you?” Weigand said.

“What?” Merle said. “Oh yes, I used to know her. Before she married. She married a guy in the Navy. He was killed a while ago.”

He said the last without surprise, as if only the time were a matter of importance; as if the fact of the death were entirely routine. But perhaps this was because his tone was now unexpectedly cool, as if none of it—and particularly none of Mary Hunter—were of importance.

“You mean it was her apartment?” Weldon Jameson asked. His voice held interest; a good deal of interest. “I thought you said it was Murdock's.”

Weigand shook his head.

“Had
been Murdock's,” he said. “He'd sublet it to Mrs. Hunter. Technically, anyway, it was hers when Mr. Merle was killed there. And she found the body.” He paused. “She says,” he added.

“And you say she didn't?” Merle asked. His voice was still uninterested. Weigand wondered if it was deliberately uninterested.

He didn't say anything, as yet, Weigand explained. He merely sought information. He hoped, for example, that Mr. Merle could give him some. Or Mr. Jameson.

“I believe you live with the Merles, Mr. Jameson?” he said, and then wondered why he believed that. Then he remembered that Murdock had mentioned a “Jamie” in connection with the Merle family.

Jameson smiled at the detective; the smile lighted his face. It was also somehow derisive.

“I've—been staying there,” he said. “For a few months. Since …”

Nobody interrupted him. He merely stopped with that. He looked at young Merle as if waiting for him to interject. But Merle seemed to be thinking of something much further away.

“Well, Mr. Merle?” Weigand said, when the dark young man still did not answer.

Merle looked at the detective and brought his thoughts back.

“I don't know what you want, Lieutenant,” he said. “What do you want?”

“Information,” Weigand told him. “I want to find the man who murdered your father, Mr. Merle. Or the woman.”

“All right,” Merle said. “That's your job. But I don't know. Jamie here doesn't know. Why don't you find out? What did you want me here for?”

Weigand said he hadn't, particularly.

“Then what did your man here—what did whoever it was here—telephone me for?” Merle said. “How did he know where I was, for that matter? And why drag me around here? Unless—unless you want me to identify him?”

There was that, Weigand admitted, or would be. But tomorrow would have done; there wasn't much doubt. Mrs. Hunter had identified George Merle; so had papers in his pocket. As he explained this, Weigand himself grew puzzled. Who at the precinct had called this rather surly son of the murdered man? Weigand picked up a telephone to find out.

A few minutes later he put it down, and now he was more puzzled than before. Unless somebody at the precinct was lying, nobody had called young Merle. An effort had been made to reach somebody at the Merle house, and only a servant had been reached. A little later, however, Ann Merle, the daughter, had telephoned and had been told of the death of her father. The precinct had, properly enough, considered the family notified.

“Who called you?” Weigand asked, after he had spent a fruitless moment looking at the telephone. “Who did he say he was?”

“The police,” Merle said. “Just ‘this is the police.' Why? Wasn't it?”