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    The Hollow Needle
    The Hollow Needle
    The Hollow Needle
    Ebook302 pages4 hours

    The Hollow Needle

    By George Harmon Coxe

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    One of Kent’s pictures holds the secret to a wealthy man’s deathNo one has seen titan of industry John Caldwell for nine years when he hires Kent Murdock to take his picture. Caldwell is preparing a landmark announcement, and wants Boston’s finest newspaper photographer there to document it. Murdock chafes at the stuffy environment of the Caldwell home—particularly when Caldwell’s heir instructs him to take only one picture. Using an infrared flash, Murdock sneaks a second shot. Less than an hour later, John Caldwell is dead. Murdock makes a print of his second photo, hoping to find something that explains the strange ways of the Caldwell clan. Before he can examine it, the family’s thugs assault him in the dark room, destroying the picture. The photo is gone, but there’s no stopping Kent Murdock from learning what’s rotten in the Caldwell estate.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherMysteriousPress.com Open Road
    Release dateNov 8, 2011
    ISBN9781453233344
    The Hollow Needle
    Author

    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. 

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      Book preview

      The Hollow Needle - George Harmon Coxe

      The Hollow Needle

      George Harmon Coxe

      Contents

      1

      2

      3

      4

      5

      6

      7

      8

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      10

      11

      12

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      Preview: Lady Killer

      1

      KENT MURDOCH HAD TAKEN too many pictures over too many years to be easily impressed by either events, backgrounds, or people. As the ace camera man for the Courier-Herald, and more recently as its picture chief, he had rubbed shoulders with rich and poor alike, photographing both the commonplace and the spectacular as events presented themselves.

      The fact that for this assignment he was acting as the pool photographer, representing the Boston dailies and the national picture services, had meant little to him personally until he approached the gatehouse of the Caldwell estate; only then did it occur to him that he would be the first press photographer ever to set foot on such hallowed ground, and that he would, the following morning, snap the first picture of old John Caldwell that anyone had taken in nine years. At that it was not so much the fact that he was to be an overnight guest that impressed him as the physical display that presently confronted him and the circumstances surrounding his arrival.

      The elements had a part in the overall picture. The weatherman’s earlier forecast of winds and rain had proved to be an understatement. The winds were of gale force, the tides high, and coming on top of two days of rain, they combined to isolate certain coastal areas south of the city. The telephone and power companies suffered most, because of fallen branches and uprooted trees, and as a result Caldwell Manor had been without power, lights, and telephone for the past several hours.

      Now, in the late afternoon, the rain had stopped and the wind was slackening, but there was still a fifty-foot stretch of water covering a dip in the road just short of the gatehouse. Earlier this bit of road had been impassable, and Murdock had been summoned from the city lest additional rain again complete the isolation of the estate.

      A small sedan was parked at the side of the road just short of the flooded section, and as Murdock brought his coupé to a stop three men stepped out, one moving to his side, the others walking to the opposite window. They glanced in at his equipment case and bag. They said, Headed for the manor, mister? Got business there?

      There was nothing threatening in their attitude but they were quietly watchful as he explained his presence, and he got the idea that no one passed on to the gatehouse without their approval.

      We’re from the union, the spokesman said. We understand something big is breaking, and we thought we ought to have some representatives around to give a hand in case we’re needed.

      Murdock wondered just how anyone could give a hand who could not even get inside the grounds, but he did not say so. He said, All I know is that John Caldwell has got a broadcast scheduled for tomorrow morning, and that he wants his picture taken. You fellows staying all night?

      We’re working in shifts. They waved him on. You can get through that water okay if you take it easy.

      Murdock shifted into second, rolled the coupé slowly through the flooded section and out the other side. Here, topping the slight rise, was the gatehouse, two-storied and substantial-looking, one side of which was a continuation of the high brick wall that flanked the heavy iron gates—a wide one for cars, a narrow one for the infrequent foot traveler—and ran parallel with the road until it disappeared among the trees.

      Two men in the uniform of company police moved up as he stopped, just as the union men had done. They asked for his credentials, examined his press card. They told him he would have to leave his car and showed him where to park it, then walked with him to an open window at one side of the gatehouse and relayed the information to the man inside.

      The formality of telephoning to the main house for final approval amused Murdock, but he was impressed, too, as he realized how difficult it would be for anyone to get inside the grounds without permission. That it might be just as difficult to get out was a thought that did not occur to him until some time later.

      Now the gateman hung up and reached for a lever beside the telephone. Okay, sir, he said. Right up the driveway and somebody’ll be meeting you at the house.

      The small gate swung open, and Murdock stepped through. It swung behind him with a metallic clang after he had passed, and then he was walking up a winding driveway so immaculately graded that he was tempted to walk along the grassy edge rather than mar its graveled perfection with his footprints.

      The main house stood about a hundred yards beyond, a magnificent gray stone structure of three stories, colonial in style and white-trimmed. Murdock had heard that one of the wings was given over entirely to a ballroom; he knew that out back there was an enclosed swimming-pool, a tennis court, a twelve-car garage with living-quarters for the chauffeurs and their families. He was speculating on these and other features of the estate when he noticed the two men who waited on the front steps in the gathering dusk as he approached with his equipment case and bag.

      Something in the attitude of these two reminded Murdock of pictures he had seen of Secret Service men guarding the President. They stood at ease, legs spread slightly, hands behind their backs, their inspection of him thorough and intent. The one in the lightweight black suit was thickset and black-browed; the other was younger, taller, with close-cropped curly hair, a spade jaw, and what, to Murdock, looked like a Brooks suit.

      Intrigued by the picture they presented, he wondered about this ritual of welcome as he walked the last few steps, his speculation still tinged with good humor as he tried to guess whether it was the aversion of the Caldwells to photographers that warranted this reception, whether they were a little uneasy about the family plate, or whether this was, after all, the way things were done at Caldwell Manor.

      The fellow in the Brooks suit spoke pleasantly enough. This way, please, Mr. Murdock. He indicated his companion. He’ll take your bags.

      Murdock released his case and bag to the black-suited man, and they went up the steps and across the porch to a doorway wide enough to accommodate them three abreast, above which was a lovely old fanlight. They were going through the broad main hall then, its paneling dark with age and its corners obscure in the flickering candlelight. Shadows were all about them as they climbed the gracefully circling stairs, and in the dim glow from the drawing-room on the right, Murdock got a glimpse of authentic, Early American pieces, the collection of which had long been a hobby of John Caldwell.

      The man who met them in the second-floor hall could have posed for one of those Gentlemen of Distinction advertisements just as he stood. Impeccably dressed in a dark suit, white shirt, and dark-blue tie, he had a thin-nosed, bony face and sparse, gray-brown hair combed straight back from a high forehead. His brown eyes probed nervously as they examined Murdock and his smile was reserved.

      Mr. Murdock? he said politely. I’m Donald Caldwell. It was good of you to come. He paused, making no offer of a handshake. Did you have any trouble on the road?

      Murdock mentally catalogued Donald Caldwell as the only living son of Old John, putting his age at fifty plus and finding him a head shorter than his famous father but with the same wiry build.

      No, sir. Murdock considered saying that the business of gaining admittance to the estate constituted his chief trouble, decided that such a reference might not be appreciated. A few trees down, he said, but the highway department has things pretty well cleared up. You’ve still got quite a puddle out by the gatehouse.

      That’s why we wanted you here tonight. The weather report says clearing, and the power company has promised to have service restored before morning. However, we thought it just as well not to take a chance of being isolated again. I hope you’ll be comfortable.

      He bowed tentatively, turned. As he walked away Murdock felt a touch on his sleeve and found himself being escorted along the hall, round a corner to another hall where the shadows were thicker, and down this to a door on the right.

      The curly-haired escort opened it, motioned Murdock in. Here we are, he said, and closed the door after he had taken the bags, leaving his companion in the hall.

      Light from an old-fashioned oil lamp with a china base and shade did what it could to combat the growing darkness outside and cast a warm glow over the room and its polished maple furniture. Hooked rugs covered most of the floor area, the wallpaper was cheerful, and though Murdock was no authority on antiques he was instantly impressed with the wide spool bed, the chest and its matching mirror, the table desk, the occasional tables.

      I think you’ll find everything you need here, his escort said. Your dinner will be served here shortly, and I’ll stop in later to see how you’re doing. He started to open the door, turned back. I’m Nick Taylor, he said. If you need anything else—he indicated the telephone on the bedside table—you can call the house operator and ask for me.

      Murdock put his things down and slipped off his coat as the door closed. He made a casual tour of the room, glanced in at the adjoining bath, which in itself was larger than most hotel rooms and dimly lighted by a single candle. He stopped at the two windows at the end of the room, a lean, straight-backed man, taller than most, with thick, dark hair and good bones in his face. He stood there quite a while, dark eyes thoughtful as they scanned the landscaped grounds at the rear and the buildings which were fast losing shape in the darkness. When he finally turned away he found a vague sense of uncertainty mingling with his thoughts.

      His years of experience had prepared him for almost any sort of situation and for any sort of treatment. This, however, was something new. It was not just the assignment, or the experience with the company police and gateman; it was the feeling that had come over him since he had entered the house—the vastness of its halls, and its silence, and the businesslike way he had been greeted and escorted about. He had never been in a larger bedroom or a nicer one, and though he was to be an overnight guest under unusual circumstances and did not expect to be accorded the treatment offered a social visitor, he was conscious of an unaccountable uneasiness that he could not explain.

      But this was only a fleeting, nebulous impression, and it did not last long. For as he turned again to inspect his surroundings the moment of reflection passed and he saw the elements of humor in the situation as well as an explanation.

      The trouble with you, he said to himself, is that you’re just not used to such luxury.

      He grinned as the thought came to him. He told himself to stop being self-conscious and went over and bounced up and down on the bed to make sure it was as comfortable as it looked. He walked round the room again, stopping to examine the wallpaper, which had a diamond pattern, with colored sailing ships centered in each section. When he came back to his bag he opened it and took out his flask. Still grinning, he eyed the telephone and wondered how it would be to call up and ask someone for ice and soda, not because he particularly wanted it but just to see what would happen.

      He put down the impulse with some difficulty when he remembered that dinner was to be served in his room, and stepped into the bathroom where he found a glass. He mixed tapwater with his Scotch. When he had taken a good pull at his drink he slipped off his coat and shirt and washed his face and neck, wondering as he did so how big a water tank they had on the place and what would happen if the power stayed off.

      Finished with his speculations, and with his dark hair neatly combed, he brought his drink back to the bedroom and sat down in the Boston rocker near the lamp. He was still there, mellowed a little now by his drink, when someone knocked lightly on the door and a white-coated servant came in pushing a table.

      The man offered a pleasant Good evening, sir. He asked where Murdock would like dinner served, and when Murdock said it didn’t matter the man said, Perhaps here by the light, sir, and brought a ladder-back chair up to the table.

      He removed silver covers silently, served the food beneath them with expert efficiency, and stepped back. He pointed to a push button near the bed and said it connected with the pantry. He said Murdock could ring when he had finished, or in the event that he wanted something more. Murdock thanked him and sat down to a meal that made up in part for the lack of cordiality with which he had been greeted.

      There was a thin soup, hot and delicious; there were two lamb chops, thick and tender, the outsides browned and the insides a succulent pink. The huge baked potato was hot and flaky inside, the mixed green salad was fresh and crisp. There were warm rolls in a napkin, ice cream in a silver saucer set in cracked ice, and enough coffee for three cups.

      Murdock ate everything and he liked the room a lot better when he finished. He took his last cup of coffee over to the rocker and got a cigarette going, and then he began to think about his host and the assignment that had brought him here.

      2

      AT THE TURN OF THE CENTURY John Caldwell had been a journeyman machinist with inventive tendencies and a lot of faith in his own judgment and ability. One of the first to see the possibilities of the diesel engine, he built and experimented with early models, persisting in the face of ridicule and disappointment until he had convinced the skeptics that he was right.

      By devoting his time and inventiveness to improving his first efforts, he soon became a leader in that infant industry. His own success closely paralleled the developments in that field, with the result that he had created a nation-wide industrial empire to the point where, in recent years, roughly fifty per cent of all diesel locomotives in service were, Caldwell-powered, and fully a third of the heavy-duty trucks had Caldwell engines under their hoods.

      Until recently, when his health began to fail, he had continued to spend several hours a day in his workshop. He had groomed his sons and at least one grandson in the management of his empire so that he could continue to devote some time to the work he loved best, and as a result his list of inventions and patents in allied fields was impressive and had done much to contribute to the comforts of the individual as well as to further the progress of the country’s industrial growth. It was ironic, therefore, that on the eve of his eightieth birthday he should be forced to sit at home, unable to use the labor-saving devices with which he was identified. For tonight, at least, he had to sit by lamplight as he had done fifty years ago, with no telephone to summon help from the outside should it be needed, without electricity to run his radio, lights, or furnace.

      Considering these things now, Murdock went on to speculate on what might have happened had the storm been more severe. He had heard some rumors of the substance of the nation-wide broadcast John Caldwell was to make the following morning and for which he was willing to shatter precedent and admit a press photographer to his home, and he saw that it would be even more ironic if the storm had made the broadcast impossible.

      For in spite of his genius John Caldwell had pursued a course or rugged individualism that had grown more rugged with increasing age. His convictions regarding personal publicity were strong and his demand for privacy insistent. He had, in the past, gone to great lengths to avoid interviews and he was almost never photographed publicly. It was his custom to speak a few words over the air at Christmas time on the Caldwell Diesel Hour, but beyond that he had no contact with the press or radio except through company spokesmen. That he should reverse himself so completely on this occasion testified to the importance of the broadcast, and Murdock found himself wondering what would happen if the power was not restored before nine-thirty the following morning. He asked about this when Nick Taylor came in after the dinner table had been wheeled away.

      Nick seemed more affable now. When Murdock invited him to sit down he did so. They’ll get the broadcast off on time, he said, lighting a cigarette. The radio engineer came just after you did with the regular long-wave equipment. There’s plenty of room out back for a helicopter and if the power isn’t on by morning they’ll fly in a short-wave set.

      For a guy who hates publicity, Mr. Caldwell’s going to a lot of trouble to make sure he gets some.

      Yeah.

      The talk around the office is that he’s going to announce some new labor policy or union deal.

      Nick’s eyes were pale blue and expressionless, though there may have been a trace of a smile at the corner of his mouth. I wouldn’t know, he said, his voice giving the impression that if he knew he would not say so. What paper you with?

      Murdock told him and then had to explain how he had been selected to represent the Boston dailies as well as the picture services.

      One photographer was all Mr. Caldwell could take, he said. I got elected.

      Nick nodded. He examined the end of his cigarette and rubbed it off in an ash tray. Finally he put his hands on his knees and pushed himself erect, something in his manner suggesting to Murdock that Nick would like to talk awhile but did not think he should.

      Everything all right? he said. Dinner okay?

      Dinner was swell.

      Anything I can get you?

      In the moment before he answered, Murdock considered Nick. He had considered him before without much purpose, and now that his thoughts had some point of focus, he wondered just what Nick’s position in the house might be. There was nothing about him that suggested a servant in the usually accepted sense, and he certainly did not dress like one. He was young and there was about him an aggressive but well-tempered quality that was difficult to classify. It seemed unlikely that he belonged in the family, and Murdock wondered if he could be a companion to someone in the house and had, temporarily, been assigned to keep an eye on the visiting photographer and see that he was made comfortable.

      Murdock wound up with no answer at all to his speculations, but one thing was clear; he had not been offered the freedom of the house. No one had suggested that he do anything but stay here in his room, though he realized that this could be nothing more than an oversight.

      Now, having looked at the half-dozen books on the shelf of the end table without finding anything that interested him, he said, Yes, there is. I’d like to get a book if there are any around.

      Sure, Nick said. Plenty of ’em. I’ll take you down to the library. If you find anything that interests you, you can bring it back here.

      He opened the door and then, as though his last remark called for some elaboration, he offered a good-natured explanation. It’s a big place. A guy could get lost around here if he didn’t know where to go. Especially with the lights we’ve got tonight.

      They went out and along the empty corridor to the center hall and stair well, their shoes making no noise on the thick carpets. Candles burning on strategically placed tables flickered and danced as they passed and served to light their way as they moved down the stairs to the main hall. Here, under an enormous chandelier, now dark, Nick turned to the rear of the house where the hall narrowed and apparently led to some terrace at the back. From this a lateral corridor opened on the left, and they went along it to an open door on the right.

      As they turned in, Murdock heard voices and then he saw that there was a girl sitting in a leather chair near a lamp. She was talking to a man who stood not far from the door, and he turned now, a tall, well-built fellow of forty or so with sandy hair and a smooth, tanned face.

      Hello, Nick, he said. What’s this I hear about your leaving?

      Nick’s glance moved to the girl before he spoke. That’s right, Mr. Prentice, he said. Probably the end of the week.

      Prentice mumbled something about being too bad and went out. Nick smiled at the girl and she smiled back. This is Mr. Murdock, he said. "From the Courier-Herald. He’s down to take some pictures tomorrow morning—Miss Kenyon."

      The girl said, How do you do? and Murdock saw that she was quite young, with golden hair and a pert, interesting face.

      Nick waved a hand. Help yourself, he said, indicating the rows of books, and walked toward the girl, who uncurled in the chair and got to her feet.

      Murdock turned away, aware now that he was in a high-ceilinged room twice the size of his bedroom, with books covering most of three walls and a ladder to reach the top shelves. There was a door on the left, French doors at the end that overlooked the rear terrace, a fireplace on the right. The rug was maroon, so was the leather that covered the divan and chairs.

      The lamplight was inadequate for a room of that size, and Murdock had to stand close to be able to read the titles, most of which did not interest him. There were rows of leather-bound sets—Dickens, Shakespeare, Mark Twain, and O. Henry; there was a section of essays, another of biography, a third of history. He found some shelves of popular fiction, none of it very new, and as he inspected titles he became aware of the conversation taking place between Nick and the girl.

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