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

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.
    â€œI’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.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œMr. 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.
    â€œWait 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.
    â€œSigned ‘O. M.’” Weigand said. “On a typewriter. ‘O. M.’ for ‘Oscar Murdock,’ obviously.”
    He stopped to let it sink.
    â€œAll right, Mr. Murdock,” he said. “Be helpful. You said you wanted to be.”
    Murdock continued to shake his head.
    â€œNo,” he said. “I didn’t send him any such note. I don’t understand it. It was somebody else.”
    â€œNamed—what?” Weigand wanted to know. “Oliver Murphy? Orville Mansfield? Did Mr. Merle know dozens of people with initials O. M.?”
    â€œBut,” 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.”
    â€œWas it?” Weigand said. “A funny joke?”
    â€œAll right,” Murdock said. “That’s all I can say. I suppose you’re going to arrest me?”
    â€œDo 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?”
    â€œI—” Murdock said. He looked at Weigand. “I guess not,” he said.
    â€œNo,” Weigand said. “I wouldn’t. That would make it too easy. You and your wife—by the way, is your wife around?”
    â€œMy wife?” Murdock repeated. “Oh—you mean Laurel. No, she—”
    â€œIsn’t she your wife, Mr. Murdock?” Weigand said.
    â€œOf course,” Murdock said. He looked at Weigand. “Well,” he said, “no. It was just—simpler. Real estate agents prefer it.”
    â€œShe was just—?” Weigand said.
    â€œPrecisely,” 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