Payoff for the Banker by Frances and Richard Lockridge Read Free Book Online

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.
    â€œThe police?” he said, questioning it. “You want to see me?”
    â€œAbout 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.
    â€œMerle!” Murdock repeated. “Not George Merle?”
    Everybody seemed to think it must be another Merle.
    â€œGeorge Merle,” Weigand said. “The banker. Your employer, wasn’t he?”
    â€œMy God, yes,” Murdock said. “Did you say murdered?”
    â€œYes,” Weigand said. “The banker— the Mr. Merle. Murdered. Somebody filled him full of lead. Or full enough.”
    â€œMy God,” Murdock said.
    â€œIn,” Weigand told him, “your apartment. On Madison Avenue.”
    â€œMy 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.
    â€œTwo hours ago somebody was using him for a target,” Weigand explained. “Accurately. What time did you see him?”
    â€œA 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.
    â€œThis 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.
    â€œIt 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.
    â€œBut who?” he said. “Who would want to kill G. M.? Do you know who, Lieutenant?”
    â€œNo,” 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.
    â€œHe 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