Murder for Two by George Harmon Coxe Page B

tough enough; it has to be somebody like this Taylor woman.”
    In the taxi, Karen Harding told the driver to go slowly, and when the police car passed her, she waited until the tail light was two blocks ahead before she directed the driver back to Henry Byrkman’s place.
    Now, thinking it over, her conscience bothered her a little. She should, she supposed, have told the lieutenant. She would certainly have told Casey and she comforted herself by saying that it was Logan’s own fault. She really intended to tell him, and then before she had a chance he had practically told her she was in the way and had better go home like a good little girl.
    Of course, it was nothing but luck that gave her a chance to look into the bedroom. If Henry Byrkman hadn’t left the light on and the door part-way open, and if she hadn’t taken that chair in the corner where she could see a little piece of the bedroom, she would never have noticed the suitcase.
    It sat on the bed, its top back, and even from where she sat she could see that it was full. When she finally rose she had detoured slightly and taken a final peek and seen the second handbag on the floor.
    That certainly meant that Henry Byrkman had been interrupted in his packing. It would seem that Henry Byrkman was about to take a little trip or at least change his address. Now, thinking about it, she decided that even though Logan had ditched her, she should tell him what she’d seen. Suppose Henry Byrkman had murdered Rosalind Taylor—and he had a motive, didn’t he?—if Rosalind was about to expose something criminal in Byrkman’s past? Something, perhaps, that had to do with John Perry’s going to prison and the formula Matt Lawson had stolen.
    She sat up, seeing a lighted drugstore ahead, and told the driver to stop. She went in, found the telephone booth, and called Police Headquarters. When she could not locate Logan, she phoned the Express , asked for Casey. When told he was out, she got his home telephone number and called that.
    â€œWell,” she said half aloud when she hung up, “that’s that. And it’s your own fault.”
    In the taxi again she resumed her journey, knowing now that she had to do something, though not at all knowing what that something might be. The taxi rolled steadily on. A block from the intersecting street where Henry Byrkman lived, a car passed them, cut in, and then made the same turn. When the taxi followed, its lights dimmed because of the restrictions, the car was just pulling into the curb a block and a half ahead.
    Karen Harding, watching absently, suddenly gave the car her attention. She sat up and spoke to the driver and the cab slowed, creeping across the intersection and finally coming to a stop about a hundred feet behind the other car. The driver, a blue-chinned individual with glasses, looked back at her as though she might be a mental case.
    â€œNow what?” he wanted to know.
    â€œI don’t know,” she said. “Just wait and—leave your motor on, please. Maybe you’d better turn off your lights too.”
    The driver obeyed and settled back on the cushions. Karen Harding sat on the edge of the seat, a strange excitement stirring her. If this car had come for Henry Byrkman it would explain his packed bags, she told herself. But if he came out, with whoever it was who had come for him, then what should she do?
    Round and round the question went and in the end she asked herself what Casey would do under the circumstances. Viewed in this manner, she could find two alternatives: she could try and find out where Henry Byrkman went, or she could take a chance with her blackout bulbs and hope to get a picture of whoever came for him.
    She opened her handbag and began to adjust her Leica before she made up her mind. Following the other car seemed like the best idea, but that depended on the skill of her driver. If she lost the car ahead she would have nothing and