Eye Witness

By George Harmon Coxe

Doing a favor for an old friend gets Kent Murdock involved in a murderNewspaper photographer Kent Murdock goes to Union City for the sake of Helen Farnsley, an old friend whose marriage is in trouble. Long ago he warned her against marrying Lee, and now that their life together has turned sour he wants to help her escape it. But the trouble in Union City starts as soon as he gets to his hotel room. Behind the mirror, Murdock finds a diamond bracelet belonging to the room’s previous resident, a talent agent named Harry who returns a few minutes later to collect it. That night, Murdock sits down with Helen’s husband, who asks for a few hours alone in the room to think. When Murdock returns, Lee has been murdered, and the police are looking for the room’s owner. Kent doesn’t stop to talk to the cops. It would be much easier to find the killer himself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: MysteriousPress.com Open Road
• Release date: Nov 8, 2011
• ISBN: 9781453233368

George Harmon Coxe

George Harmon Coxe (1901–1984) was an early star of hard-boiled crime fiction, best known for characters he created in the seminal pulp magazine Black Mask. Born in upstate New York, he attended Purdue and Cornell Universities before moving to the West Coast to work in newspapers. In 1922 he began publishing short stories in pulp magazines across various genres, including romance and sports. He would find his greatest success, however, writing crime fiction. In 1934 Coxe, relying on his background in journalism, created his most enduring character: Jack “Flashgun” Casey, a crime photographer. First appearing in “Return Engagement,” a Black Mask short, Casey found success on every platform, including radio, television, and film. Coxe’s other well-known characters include Kent Murdock, another photographer, and Jack Fenner, a PI. Always more interested in character development than a clever plot twist, Coxe was at home in novel-writing, producing sixty-three books in his lifetime. Made a Grand Master of the Mystery Writers of America in 1964, Coxe died in 1984. 

Book preview

Chapter One

THE assignment which took Kent Murdock to Uniontown was of the combination variety—part business and part personal. The business part had to do with a routine photographic chore that had been given him that noon after some argument; the personal part was of a voluntary nature and had been undertaken because of his interest in a girl—now married—he had once liked very much.

He left the Courier-Herald at one o’clock on a Monday afternoon, choosing the inland route because of its better roads, and once the city was behind him he settled back to enjoy the bright, sunlit afternoon which gave a feeling of spring to the rolling countryside. He made good time, not because he hurried but because traffic was light and gave him no trouble, and now at ten minutes to four he left his car in the parking lot down the street from the Greene Hotel and walked back towards the marquee.

The sedate, high-ceilinged lobby had its quota of loungers, some apparently waiting for rooms, since there was a line of bags near the bell-captain’s stand. Murdock’s bag and small equipment case, which was as much a part of his travelling paraphernalia as his wallet, extended the line. At the desk the clerk checked his reservation and grew mildly apologetic as he offered a signature card.

‘We have your reservation, Mr. Murdock’, he said, ‘but it may be a while before we can give you a room.’

Murdock signed. He said, ‘Umm’, doubtfully, and frowned. Somewhere on his right a key clanked and as he turned he saw that the cashier had tossed it from her cage into a small box at the back of the counter. He looked back at the clerk, steadily, and that gentleman read his mind sufficiently to go over and look at the key. He came back worrying his lip.

‘If you don’t mind moving into a room that has not yet been made up’, he said tentatively, as though this was against the policy of the house, ‘we could accommodate you.’

Murdock said that would be fine and then had cause to wonder about his decision when, five minutes after the bellboy left him, the telephone rang.

‘Harry?’ a pleasant female voice said. ‘Am I going to see you to-night, dear?’

Murdock glanced about the disordered room. The bed was mussed. A tray, a bottle of soda, two used glasses and a bowl of melting ice and water stood on the bureau; the telephone directory was on the floor by the bed; a face towel, possibly used for shining shoes, lay on the bathroom threshold.

It came to him then that Harry was not very neat but on the heels of this there came another thought, and suddenly he felt an affinity for this departed guest who had women with such nice voices calling up and asking for dates. The voice and a mischievous impulse that came from nowhere decided him, and so, not knowing what else he was going to say but curious about her name, he answered her.

‘Is that Anne?’

‘Anne? This is Leone!’ Then, with some suspicion: ‘Who’s Anne?’

Murdock chuckled. ‘I’m sorry’, he said, ‘I was only kidding. I’m afraid Harry isn’t here any more.’

‘Isn’t that room 617?’

‘Yes.’

‘But I thought—I mean, he said—’ She broke off. ‘I’m sorry’, she said, the disappointment heavy in her voice.

Murdock, grinning now, said he was sorry, too. When she did not hang up it was on the tip of his tongue to say more, for it occurred to him that this hesitancy on Leone’s part might suggest more conversation, and from that might come——

He dismissed the thought with some reluctance as he remembered the things he had to do. ‘I just checked in’, he said. ‘The room hasn’t been made up so I don’t imagine Harry’s been gone long.’

This time there was no answer and after a moment he heard the connection break. He replaced the telephone, his eyes still amused. He slipped off his jacket and stretched it over the back of a chair, still wondering about Leone and Harry, hoisted his bag to the luggage rack, and opened it. He took out his toilet kit and went into the bathroom to wash, and he had just finished wiping his hands when he heard the knock on the door.

When he opened it a girl walked in saying, ‘Hello’, and glancing about before she turned back with some surprise. ‘Oh, isn’t Harry here?’

Murdock looked her over carefully and what he saw was a young, green-eyed girl with a smooth round face and medium-blonde hair which she wore in a long bob, carelessly done. A camel’s hair coat rested on her shoulders; beneath this were sweater, slacks and loafers, and except for the heavy and somewhat professional make-up, she might at first glance have passed for a high-school senior.

‘No’, he said, closing the door as his grin came again. ‘Harry must have just checked out.’

‘Why, the dog’, she said cheerfully, ‘he didn’t tell me.’

She was aware of Murdock’s frank inspection now but it did not seem to embarrass her. She sat on the edge of the one arm-chair, her leg swinging. She looked right at him, her bright prettiness on the brash side but her manner ingenuous, and now, with her coat open, Murdock revised his estimate. He could see that she was a little older than a high-school senior—perhaps two or three years older—and the sweater, pleasantly snug, revealed hitherto unsuspected curves that were both full-blown and shapely.

‘You’re not the only one’, Murdock said.

‘Oh?’

‘You’re the second one that wanted him.’

She glanced up, speculating. ‘A woman?’

‘How did you know?’

She smiled at him. ‘I know Harry.’

‘Her name was Leone.’

‘Oh’, she said again, the overtones in the word suggesting that the name was familiar. She shrugged faintly, stood up.

‘Is she nice?’

Murdock was leaning against the edge of the bureau and she started past, caught sight of herself in the mirror, and stopped for a better look.

‘Harry thinks so.’ She tipped her head as she inspected herself and then pulled a comb from her pocket. Quite oblivious to Murdock’s presence she began to work on her shoulder-length hair, combing with quick hard strokes at the curled ends. ‘Yes, I guess she’s nice—if you like red-heads.’

‘How old?’

‘Oh—thirty. Maybe a little younger.’

Murdock grinned as he watched her. ‘That takes care of Leone’, he said. ‘Now, who’s Harry?’

Her eyes met his in the mirror. ‘He’s my agent.’

‘You mean you’re an entertainer?’

‘I play the piano.’ She put the comb away and turned blinking her lashes at him. ‘Down at the Club Ebony. Until ten when the show starts.’

‘Good enough’, Murdock nodded, ‘Chopin?’

She made a face at him; then she smiled. ‘Fats Waller’, she said, and wrapped her coat about her. ‘I’m sorry I barged in like that.’

Murdock said it was all right. ‘Are you any good on the piano?’

‘Why don’t you come down and see?’ She opened the door, still watching him, her glance approving. ‘Come down any time.’

He said he might do that, and because something about her forthright easy assurance intrigued him he added that he’d probably see her again. And in this he was right, though it did not happen at the Club Ebony, or in quite the way he had in mind.

When she had gone Murdock tried to put his mind on other things. He stood at the bureau scowling at himself in the mirror until he realized his hair was tousled and then he went into the bathroom and wet it. He came back to get his comb but when he started to use it he discovered that the mirror was adjusted for a shorter man and he reached out to tilt it to another angle. It was then he heard something fall.

This mirror hung between two uprights from which pins were inserted to make the frame adjustable. It was flat against the wall before Murdock touched it, and since he had to move it slightly forward before he could tilt the mirror he knew when he heard the object strike the floor that it had been hidden between the mirror and the wall. Now he got down on his knees, reaching for the envelope that lay close to the baseboard.

He straightened, dusting his knees, and then he was turning the envelope in his fingers, aware that there was something hard inside and that the flap had not been sealed but was held in place with a paper clip.

A frown grew at the angles of his dark eyes as his fingers explored the hidden object, and then he had the clip off and was peering inside the envelope. What he saw startled him and for a long moment he could only stare, held by the flashing brilliance of the diamond-and-sapphire-studded bracelet. Unable then to think beyond the mere fact of his discovery, he swore softly and extracted the bracelet, finding it to be flexible and about a half-inch in width. For perhaps five seconds he stood there, weighing the bracelet in his palm. He stretched it back into the envelope and refastened the clip, absently, since his mind was busy evaluating his discovery. He was still standing there when he heard the key in the lock.

He moved instinctively then, but even this instinct was governed by some unaccountable sense of guilt. His mind told him that it was the maid at the door, but the feeling remained that he had something in his possession that did not belong to him. And so, instead of slipping the envelope in his pocket, he leaned forward and just as quickly put it back where he had found it, pushing the bureau back.

There was time to do this and step aside before the door swung open, and then, instead of the maid, a man walked in and took two steps before he spotted Murdock and stopped.

‘Oh!’ he said, blinking in surprise, ‘Pardon me.’

Somehow Murdock knew even then that this must be Harry. He did not know why except that it seemed to him that Harry looked like a talent agent, though a somewhat younger one than he had expected. About average size, he was very dapper with his covert-cloth coat, chalk-striped suit, and flowered cravat. He wore no hat and his wavy brown hair was thick and long, every strand in place. His eyes were light, his face unlined, and he gave the impression of having more teeth than most people, an illusion caused no doubt by their size and evenness, plus a facial structure that made them noticeable when he talked.

‘I only checked out twenty minutes ago’, he said moving forward once more. ‘I didn’t think anybody’d be here … I forgot something’, he said, and as he spoke he brushed by Murdock and retrieved the envelope from its hiding place.

Murdock’s eyes were intent, his mind busy. ‘You must be Harry.’

‘Yeah’, said Harry, still concerned with the envelope. His fingers slid over its surface, probing. An expression of relief touched his features briefly and became a smile. ‘How’d you know?’ he said and let out a sigh that was probably unconscious but audible.

‘You had a caller’. Murdock watched the envelope disappear into a coat pocket. ‘Blonde and green-eyed. Plays the piano.’

‘Oh, that was Claire Emerson.’ Harry showed his teeth and backed towards the door. ‘A good kid. Talent, too. Came here, did she?’

‘I guess she didn’t know you figured on moving out.’

‘I’ll call her. Hope you’ll excuse me for busting in like this but I thought——’

‘I know’, Murdock said dryly. ‘You thought the room was empty. Also’, he said, a little nettled somehow because of the man’s offhand manner, ‘I guess you forgot to leave the duplicate key when you paid your bill.’

Harry looked down at the key in his hand. ‘That’s right, I did’, he said and brought forth what might have been a syllable of laughter. ‘This time I’ll remember to leave it at the desk.’

He went out quickly and Murdock walked about the room, his frown static and a feeling of resentment beginning to work on him. He remembered Leone’s call and was perversely pleased that he had forgotten to mention it to Harry. He felt cheated and frustrated at these invasions of his privacy which tantalized him but told him nothing, and he was bothered greatly by the thought of that diamond bracelet.

‘Some room’, he said aloud, and continued his brooding for another few seconds until he could put his mind on the matter which had brought him to town. When he was ready he walked over to the telephone, taking a card from his pocket as he sat on the bed.

The card said: Simon Rigby—Private Investigator, and there was an address and a telephone number in each of the lower corners. Fingering the card without enthusiasm he took a breath and asked the operator for the number. He got his connection promptly and when a hoarse, unaccented voice answered he identified himself.

‘Oh, yeah’, Rigby said, ‘Mr. Dorrance wrote me you’d be in town.’

‘Mrs. Farnsley works over at the Evening Ledger, right?’

‘In the advertising department—part-time, I think. You’ll find her on the second floor.’

‘I’m going over and see her now’, Murdock said. ‘Where can I find you later?’

‘Right here, if it’s all right with you. Any time between six and six-thirty. Maybe we could have a drink.’

Murdock agreed that might be a good idea. He stood up, a moderately tall man with thick, dark hair, nice shoulders, and a lean, angular face. His eyes, dark like his hair, were thoughtful again as they moved absently about the room, taking in his bag, as yet unpacked, the small equipment case that stood against the wall, the mirror where the envelope had been hidden.

He considered reluctantly the twofold job at hand, and it occurred to him that except for the personal consideration involved, the first part of his assignment was better suited to Dorothy Dix or a marriage counsellor than to a press photographer. Still he had always liked Helen Farnsley, just as he had disliked her husband. And aside from any favour he might be doing for her uncle, Walter Dorrance, he wanted to help her if he could.

Slipping on his jacket, he gave himself a quick glance as he passed the mirror, adjusted his tie, picked up his hat and coat. When he had donned them he flicked off the overhead light and left the room.

Chapter Two

OUTSIDE Murdock got directions from the doorman and then stood a moment glancing up and down the busy street. Traffic was heavy on the road and the sidewalks were well-filled. A city bus, pulling to the kerb near the corner, spilled a half-dozen erstwhile riders from its centre door while others scrambled to climb aboard in front, and up at the intersection a policeman’s whistle shrilled its sharp command.

There were a few window shoppers, but for the most part the pedestrians moved briskly and with purpose, for the warmth had gone from the sun’s rays and the breeze that whipped in from the Sound had a bite in it. Murdock felt it as he started up the street and when he had snapped up his coat collar he found himself walking with head slightly bent lest an unexpected current of air whip off his hat.

He walked two blocks that way and turned right for another block and a half, arriving then at the grey stone building, that housed the Uniontown Evening Ledger. Here he took an ancient elevator to the second floor, feeling now the rumbling vibrations of the basement presses as he became aware of the distinctive smell of ink and paper and hot metal that was somehow the universal odour of all newspapers.

Part of the display department was on the second floor, a big room with some glassed-in private offices at the rear, and though he saw Helen Farnsley almost at once she did not see him until he was two-thirds of the way across the room. When she looked up from her desk and saw him coming, her jaw dropped and her eyes stared widely. She sat right where she was, her stare unchanged, until he stopped beside her; then she found her voice and stood up, giving him both hands.

‘Why, Kent Murdock’, she cried. ‘Of all people. But how wonderful.’

‘Hi, Helen’. He took her hands and smiled fondly at this girl who was nearly as tall as he was, a slenderly shaped girl with hazel eyes and chestnut hair worn in a short bob with curled-up ends. ‘Do you still love me?’

‘You know I adore you’, she said, her glance sparkling, ‘but how do you happen to be in town? An assignment the Ledger has overlooked?’

‘I hope so. Could you duck out for a cup of coffee or a quick drink?’

‘I’d love some coffee.’ She called to a girl two desks away, saying she’d be back in a few minutes, slung a tweed coat across her shoulders, and tucked her arm in his. ‘There’s a place just around the corner.’

‘There usually is, isn’t there?’

‘What?’

‘A place around the corner from a newspaper plant.’

‘Usually a bar’, said Helen Farnsley. ‘We have that too.’

When they were seated in a booth with their coffee, Murdock spent a moment in frank inspection, looking for changes that two years of married life had made, and finding them. There was a new depth to the hazel eyes, tiny lines at the corners he had never seen before, a suggestion of inner strength and maturity that had not been present that summer she had worked on the Courier-Herald.

‘Well?’ she said.

‘Do you remember Tom Larsen?’ he asked, referring to one of Boston’s most famous athletes.

‘Certainly. He used to play football for Harvard.’

‘He’s been coaching the past few years and we know he has been huddling with the University authorities here. We got a tip he was about to sign as head coach. I came down here to get some pictures.’

She tipped her chin an inch to the left, her glance suspicious. ‘You’re the picture-chief up there. You have six photographers working under you.’

‘Seven.’

‘Why couldn’t one of the others come just as well?’

‘That’s what I said to Wyman.’ T. A. Wyman was the managing editor who had given Murdock the assignment that noon. ‘He said I’d do a better job, a statement which I doubted then and still doubt. He said the stock shots they’d get from the photo services wouldn’t be enough; he wanted some human interest stuff they could build into a feature piece.’

Murdock gestured idly. ‘Last week I had lunch with Wyman and your uncle Walter. We talked about you. This morning I asked Wyman if the assignment had anything to do with getting me down here so I could see how you were. He said no—and you can argue only so far with Wyman. He’s an old friend of your father and he’s been worried about you. He likes you and——’

‘I know’, she said, ‘Mr. Wyman got me my job on the paper.’

‘The importance of the assignment may have been slightly exaggerated but I do know Wyman thinks it’s time you patched things up with your uncle, and he wanted me to find out how it was with you and your husband. He’s been getting reports lately—your Uncle Walter, I mean. He knows he made a mistake and he’s ready to relent.’ He fashioned a grin and kept his tone unchanged. ‘I come bearing an olive branch.’

‘I see.’ She put her cup down and a new firmness came about her mouth. ‘Come back home, all is forgiven. Is that it?’ She shook her head and her tone was flat. ‘Well, I’m doing all right.’

‘That’s not the way I hear it. The way I get it Lee’s been chasing another girl, and lately you’ve been seeing another man—rather regularly, they say. Name’s Leonard—isn’t it?’

She nodded, her glance remote. ‘Murray Leonard. He works upstairs.’

‘Do you like him?’

‘Very much.’

‘Then why don’t you divorce Lee? You could, couldn’t you?’

‘I think so. Perhaps I will—now.’ She sipped coffee and now her eyes went beyond him, mirroring the past. ‘Do you remember how everyone tried to tell me about Lee? They said he was handsome and agreed that he had a lot of charm. They also went out of their way to point out that he was not a solid citizen or a particularly desirable one, suggesting that he did not have either the courage, the moral scruples, or the integrity for a nice girl like me whose experience was largely limited to college boys my own age. You talked to me, too, didn’t you?’ She sighed,

Reviews for Eye Witness

[antiquary_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I like Coxe's stories about tough news photographer Kent Murdock, in this case investigating what seems to be his own murder (it is actually somebody else)