by Otto Penzler
“Well, what’s the act for?”
Logan took him by the arm, walked him out of the entryway so that he could get a full view of the room. Then Casey saw the man on the floor.
Between the little entryway and the cubbyhole, with its washstand and window giving on the airshaft, was a closet. The door of this was open, and the body of a man, lying on his stomach, his face cocked to one side, was half in, half out of the closet, as though he had fallen out when the door was opened.
He was well dressed, his oxford gray topcoat looked new and his shoes were polished. From what Casey could see, the fellow appeared to be about thirty-five, dark-haired, average height. Now there was a definite stiffness about the still form, and in the back a reddish blotch fused with the gray fabric of the coat.
Casey looked at Logan. “Who is he?”
“Grady. A private dick from New York.”
“Shot in the back?”
“Twice—from close range.”
“Where do I come in?” asked Casey, frowning.
“That’s what I want to know,” said Logan. “I want to know all about the horseplay you staged here this afternoon. I may be wrong. But I think this guy was in that closet—dead—when you were in this room.”
Casey’s eyes widened. He stared at Logan, said: “—!” Then he thought about the Henderson woman, and Wade, and some of the color oozed from his face.
“Then she saw it!” he wheezed huskily. “She must’ve seen it. And it was a plant. That’s why she wanted Wade.”
“Keep your pants on,” Logan said bruskly, “and start at the beginning.”
3
Lieutenant Logan, sitting on the massive, flat-topped desk at the end of the room, his arms angling out beside him, propping him up, was a well built fellow with black hair and eyes. About Casey’s age, he had a flair for clothes. His linen was immaculate, so was his police record. Right now he wore spats—and nobody said anything about them either.
“Wait a minute,” he said when Casey told him about the girl—and the telephone call which had summoned Wade. “At the beginning. How’d you get here, what’d you do—everything. I want it all.”
Casey glared at Logan for a moment, then spoke in thick jerky tones.
“I got the tip from Gerry at Headquarters. When Wade and I got downstairs Judson and Haley and their gang were just gettin’ ready to start. We went up the stairs and when they broke down the door I went in behind the cops. I got one picture, then Judson threw me out.”
Casey cursed at the thought, continued rapidly.
“I knew there was an airshaft some place around so Wade and I cut down this other hall. I figured it oughtta be about there, so we crashed in here; didn’t know what it was but took a chance.
“The Henderson dame was alone here. She gave us an argument, looked scared as hell, but Wade talked to her and—”
“The closet was closed,” Logan said.
“Yeah,” chafed Casey, “so was this other door—to the next office. And anyway I opened the window"—he pointed to the frosted glass pane in the wall of the cubbyhole— ”and saw that the window across the shaft was partway open.”
He stepped towards a wide shelf which lay on iron brackets on one wall of the cubbyhole. “The dame was arguing all the time, but I found out this shelf was loose, I shoved it across the shaft and it just reached. So I took the camera and slid across. It was the men’s room.”
“Anybody in it?” asked Logan.
“No. And I went through to the hall, got one picture. But Haley saw me, caught me before I could reach the door. He and a couple of those thugs you call detectives took the plate away from me.”
“Did you come back here?”
“Yeah, but"—Casey’s thick face cracked in a scowl— ”the place was closed.”
“Hah!” snapped Logan. “Then what?”
“I couldn’t figure it,” Casey went on, still scowling, “but I finally found Wade downstairs. He said that the girl was afraid Nyberg might get sore, and it was time to close up anyway, so she chased him out of the office and locked up.”
Casey shook his head. Logan waited silently.
“It sounded screwy at the time, but I had other things on my mind. Anyway she wanted Wade to take her downstairs—said she was afraid the cops might think she had been in the gambling place. So Wade took her downstairs. He was out on the street when I found him—the crazy fool. He said a car with a couple tough-looking eggs came along and the dame got in and left him standing there.”
“That’s all, huh?” Logan asked.
“That’s all that happened to me, yeah.”
“All right.” Logan pushed back his gray felt, pursed his lips, finally said: “It begins to add up. Now I’ll tell you my side.
“You’re about the only button pusher I know that’s satisfied to take pictures and leave the police work for the cops. And that’s important this time—because there’s no pictures—no story—tonight. We’re gambling that the killers might come back for the body if they think the kill is covered.“
Logan watched Casey drop into a chair, then continued.
“Grady was working for three or four racetracks—the stewards or something. Remember that stink about the horse doping ring a couple years or so ago?” Casey nodded and Logan said: “The Feds were in on that. This is something new.
“Grady was about ready to crack this ring until Dopey Donlan got knocked off a couple days ago.”
“He was in it?” Casey asked.
“Yeah. And that’s why he was killed. Because the big shots were afraid he’d squawk under pressure. He’s a hophead and he probably would.
“But Grady had some dope on that kill. I didn’t know a thing about it till last night. Grady worked under cover until he came down to Headquarters and told me what he had. He said he thought he’d be ready for the showdown today. But you know these private dicks. Afraid we’d steal his stuff. Wouldn’t spill a thing till he was ready.”
Logan shrugged. “Well, he was ready this afternoon. He was the guy that tipped us off to this joint. He had the man he wanted. When he pulled the raid, Judson was to pinch the killer— or the big hot, or somebody.”
Logan slid off the desk and walked over to the body.
“What an idea. He’s cleaned. Nothing on him but his clothes. If he hadn’t come to see me last night, we’d have a hell of a time identifying him at all.”
“How’d you get wise he was here,” said Casey, taking out a cigarette and trying to get his mind off Wade.
“Haley found some blood in that washroom across the way. He found some—just a spot or two—on the window sill. He remembered you being there, looked around, tumbled to this office. But it was locked. I came down. We found him in the closet.”
Casey stood up, began to pace the floor. “Then somebody got him into the washroom from the race-track dive, or followed him in, put the slug on him and"—he stopped, turned to glance at the wide shelf he had used— ”and slid his body across here.”
“Yeah,” said Logan. “And you and Wade busted in. The killers might’ve been in this next office. The girl had to get Wade out. That’s why she got him to go downstairs with her.” Logan’s voice got thin, thready.
“That’s why we’re waiting. If they aren’t wise they’ll come back for the body—I hope. That must’ve been their original plan—to leave it here till tonight. No word got out of this. Judson, Haley, the examiner and us are the only ones that know about it.
“We’ve got a guy that tried to get in that washroom about three or four minutes before the raid. He says the door was locked, that he watched it from then on till the raid. Nobody came out. So that must’ve been the time that Grady got it. Somebody got wise to him—but they couldn’t know about the raid. It just happened to break right after they’d killed him and—”
Logan broke off in surprise as Casey spun towards him with a thick, throaty curse.
“The picture!” Casey’s eyes got bright and glaring. “Th
e one I took first. That’s it. I caught Handy with the camera, caught him coming out of the washroom a couple seconds after the raid. He must’ve been in there when the door was locked, and—”
“Wait a minute!” rapped Logan, and grabbed Casey. “What picture—what the hell you talking about?”
Casey told him then. Described the picture he had taken in short, clipped sentences. But he could not keep still when he talked. He had to walk, keep moving, because of the thought that festered in his brain and gave him no peace.
“It’s gotta be that way. And the girl knew Grady was dead—in that closet. She musta told Nyberg and—”
“We got word out to pick Moe up,” Logan interrupted. “We had Handy—and let him go.”
“They must’ve made that Henderson tramp get Wade out to her place,” Casey rushed on, “so they could put the pressure on him. Maybe force him to get that place. Only—”
Casey broke off and went slack-jawed.
“Only what?” rapped Logan.
“Only there ain’t any plate. Blaine—
Fessendon, the!” Casey explained what had happened. “Those hoods won’t believe the kid when he tells ‘em it’s smashed.”
Logan jerked Casey around. “Take it easy. You got too much imagination. That girl might be on the level. And Wade. Hell, with his kind of dumb luck—”
He broke off as Casey jerked loose and started for the door. He leaped after the big photographer, caught him again.
“Where you goin’?”
“I’m goin’ to that girl’s place and—”
“No you’re not.” Logan’s chin jutted out and his brows drew down. “You’re goin’ down to the Globe with me and get that picture first. After that we’ll go.”
Casey put balled fists on his hips and leaned forward so that his chin was three inches from Logan’s nose.
“I am, huh?” he grunted.
“It’s a murder picture,” said Logan. “With that and this other guy’s testimony about the washroom, and the M.E.’s verdict to the time of death—”
“And Judson callin’ in, sayin’ we can’t print it,” flared Casey.
“I don’t know about Judson, but—” Logan began.
“And Blaine,” grated Casey. “If he’d had his way there wouldn’t be any picture. But there is;
I held out on him. And you oughtta be damn’ glad I did. You can have it. But I’m not gonna waste time goin’ to the office now; and you’re not gonna take me down till I find that girl.”
Anger flooded Logan’s face and he started to speak. For just a moment he met Casey’s burning stare; then he backed a step and threw up his hands.
Those black eyes of Logan’s could see beneath many surfaces; and when Casey spoke like that you believed him. Logan believed him now. And strangely enough, his lips twitched in a flicker of a smile.
“If that’s the way it is,” he said caustically, “I guess I’d better go with you.” Turning to Man-ahan he added: “Call Judson. Get a couple more men up here. You may get action yet. But if word of this gets out I’m gonna beat the hell out of you, personally.”
He grabbed Casey, who had already shouldered his platecase, said: “The kid’ll be okey as long as the kill is covered. But that girl. We can use her.”
Pratt Street is a narrow offshoot of Massachusetts Avenue. The sidewalks are narrow and made to look more so because the apartments, seedy looking three and four-story brick structures, jammed close together, are all set right out to the edge of the legal building line.
Seven sixty-three, in the middle of the block, had but two characteristics to distinguish it from its adjoining neighbors and those across the street: its number, and the name Edgemere, painted in gilt across its single door.
The tunnel-like entryway was so dark Logan had to strike a match to inspect the name cards above the mailboxes along the right wall. “This is the place, all right,” he said. “Alma Henderson— 3-C.”
The inner door was unlocked and the air here seemed hot and stuffy after the chilled sweep of the night outside. They climbed silently, Logan in the lead, and the soft pounding of a steam radiator on the second floor paced their steps up the last flight of stairs.
Three-C was on the right, rear. Logan knocked once, turned the knob. The door was not locked and as he opened it, Casey grunted impatiently and pushed him into the lighted room. Logan took two steps and stopped short and stiff, so that Casey ran into him and heard him breathe a curse.
Casey looked over his shoulder and saw why. Alma Henderson was on the floor by a wide-open window. A crumpled heap of arms and legs and orange dress.
Casey closed the door softly, and automatically. Logan started across the room. Casey remained where he was, glanced about and became vaguely aware of a cheaply furnished living-room that tried hard to be smart.
Then, because a new indefinable sense of fear reached at his nerve ends with icy fingers, he called: “Wade!” and was instantly aware of the hollowness of his voice, and the absurdity of the act. Wade was not here. Because if he were here—
“Shot her in the back, too,” Logan said bitterly.
Casey lurched across the room. He looked down at the lifeless figure of a girl who was tall, and young, and slender—too slender, and had nice hands. Even in death her face held a youthful prettiness that makeup could not hide.
His gaze held by the discolored spot in the left side of that orange dress, Casey continued to stare at Alma Henderson. But after a moment he was not conscious of what he saw. It was a mental picture that sickened him and he put his thoughts into words.
“She saw Grady killed. She had to go, but before that they got her to spot Wade.”
“That puts the weight on your picture,” Logan said slowly. “It’s not as good as the girl, but she can’t testify.”
“Suppose Wade saw her get it?” Casey spoke as though talking to himself. “You know how that sets him up.”
“If he’s not here, he’s still alive.”
“You look around then,” Casey muttered. “I’ll stay here.”
“Sure,” said Logan, moving away. “It’s gonna be a pleasure to meet up with these guys. In the back. And it looks like she might’ve been trying to open that window.” He cursed softly. “It’s kinda screwy. It don’t look like a planned kill.”
Casey backed away a step, lifted his head and looked out the window. City lights from beyond suffused the drab sky and made a dirty blue background for the rear rooflines of houses in the next block, for spindly antennae, and a potbellied water-tower. A sound of movement behind him flicked his eyes away from the somber picture and he turned.
A man stood beside the doorway to the inner hall. A stocky man with a twisted grin on his broad, sallow face. He had a small automatic in his right hand.
Then Logan came into the room. He had his hands raised shoulder high, and he walked slowly. Behind him came a thin, hollow-chested, ratty-looking youth who held the muzzle of his gun stiffly against Logan’s back.
“Just be nice,” the stocky man said. “Both of
4
The tableau held motionless a second or two; then the thin man’s glance slid sidewise to Casey and he jabbed with his gun, spoke to Logan.
“So it’s gonna be a pleasure to meet up with us, huh?” He chuckled but his lips were sneering. “Well, the pleasure’s all yours. How do you like it?”
Casey felt a thickness in his throat and he cleared it with a grunt, said: “Where’s Wade?” ominously.
“Who’s Wade?” asked the stocky man and cocked one eyebrow in an expression of mock concern.
“You know who,” said Casey huskily and slid one foot forward across the rug.
“Hold it!” clipped the stocky man. “We know how we stand, and if you think you can crowd us, you’re nuts.”
Casey stopped with his left foot advanced. He was a good eight feet from Logan, ten feet or more from the stocky man. He’d never get that far, and he knew it. He had no weapon, and there was nothing h
e could get his hands on—except the vase on the gateleg table, and that was back by the wall.
The stocky man pocketed his gun, moved towards the telephone stand near the doorway to the inner hall, said: “Get him away from that phone. I’d better find out what we do with these punks.”
The thin man marched Logan forward three steps, and as they stopped Casey watched the lieutenant. The handsome face was set now, and there was a tight, pinched smile on his lips. The smooth skin at his cheekbones was stretched like a banjo head, but it was the eyes that held Casey’s gaze.
There was an intense gleam in their dark depths, and, as Casey watched, he saw one lid pull down in a slow, deliberate wink. The lid remained narrowed.
Casey knew then that Logan was going to fight for it. He weighed their chances and then forgot about that angle. He would be ready when Logan moved. He waited.
The stocky man had dialed a number and was talking in low, jerky tones.
“One of ‘em’s that picture-taker; the other acts like a cop…. Yeah…. Yeah. Because we couldn’t get out. We didn’t lock the door, and these muggs bust in with only one knock. We couldn’t make the back door, so we ducked in the bedroom. Sure. But what do we do with ‘em?”
He was silent for a moment after that: then he said: “Okey. Yeah.”
Casey did not see the fellow hang up, because his eyes were still on Logan. But he heard the click of the receiver. And at that instant, Logan acted.
His movement was a peculiar, spinning maneuver that should have been awkward, but wasn’t. The spin was catlike in its quickness, compact, and to the right.
As he moved his right fist swung down from the shoulder height, smashed on the thin man’s gun wrist. The automatic spun from the fellow’s grasp, skidded towards Casey. Then Logan completed the spin as his left came up and around in a looping hook.
Casey went into action as he heard the smack of fist on jawbone. One step brought him over the fallen automatic. As he stooped, a slanting, corner-of-the-eye picture presented the stocky man straightening from the telephone table, clawing at his pocket.
The automatic was cool in Casey’s hot fingers. As he snatched it up he went to one knee and swung his arm over. He saw the sweep of the stocky man’s gun, caught sight of the muzzle. Then the roar in his ears, the slap of recoil in his wrist told him the shot was his own.