Murder for Two

by George Harmon Coxe

  “I know it, damn it,” Logan said. “But the way it is—well, I’ve got to take it easy. Don’t think we’re not still working on it. That picture you took of him is getting worked overtime. A couple of more breaks somewhere along the line—if this Loeb will only live, for instance—and we’ll nail Lawson. We sure as hell will nail your two pals if we can ever find them.”

  “You will.”

  “And that reminds me,” Logan said. “You and I are going back to headquarters and you are going to spend some time looking at pictures—of faces and profiles.”

  “Those two aren’t local talent,” Casey said.

  “So what? We’ve got a nice file of personalities from out of town too. Characters we never booked. Wait’ll I have another talk with the doc.”

  He went out and Casey waited in the darkness for perhaps ten minutes before the lieutenant returned.

  “Okay,” he said, “let’s go. They’re going to operate in a few minutes but even if it’s a success it’ll be morning before we can talk to him—if then. I’ll station a man here and later maybe I can talk to the secretary. If my luck holds she won’t know a lousy thing about anything—except maybe the time of day.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  A FANCY BIT OF NEEDLING

  IT WAS AFTER TWELVE when Casey got back to the Express Building. Fortunately Logan had not insisted that he go through the complete Rogue’s Gallery on file, but only through that part which consisted of circulars and pictures from other police departments throughout the country, and from certain federal agencies.

  By the time he had finished, he was batting .500. He was not able to identify Harry, but he did find Blondie. Nossek was the name, Carl Nossek, alias Norris. With a fifteen-year record behind him—mostly for various degrees of assault—he was just what Casey had suspected, a muscle-man and thug who could be hired for any crime associated with violence. He was from Jersey and at the moment—insofar as Logan knew—he was not a fugitive.

  Thinking it over, Casey was sorry that he could not do something about the gunman named Harry. He was not so large or formidable as Nossek, but to Casey he seemed more dangerous. Something about his eyes and mouth suggested that whereas Nossek was just a first rate, odd-job thug, Harry was the killer of the pair. Casey had seen this type before. Seldom large, often superficially good-looking, generally pretty smooth, they were the kind who, in their warped and twisted brains, found a certain enjoyment in their work. The way Harry had slugged him from behind bore out this contention; just thinking of it started the resentment churning inside Casey and he brought it with him all the way back to the Express.

  Al was on the elevator again and he said, “There’s a guy up in the studio, Flash.”

  “Waiting for me?”

  “Yeah. I guess he’s been there about an hour now.”

  “He isn’t one of those that came the other night, is he?” Casey asked hopefully.

  “Nah,” Al said. “I never seen him before.”

  Casey went down the corridor quietly. When he reached the doorway, he saw the figure sitting at his desk and he caught just enough of the profile to know who it was. He stepped inside. The man turned, obviously startled. Casey slid his coat off and tossed it on the rack.

  “Hello, Gifford,” he said, “been waiting long?”

  Russell Gifford stood up. He had put his hat and coat on the desk and he wore a nicely cut gray homespun and his sandy hair was neatly combed.

  “Not so very,” he said.

  Casey sat down at his desk and pulled open a drawer. His bottle was nearly empty but there was enough for two drinks. He took out the cork and offered it to Gifford.

  “No, thanks.”

  Casey took a long swallow. He put the bottle back and lit a cigarette, blowing smoke at Gifford and watching him through it. Gifford’s mouth was set beneath the little mustache and he seemed to be making up his mind about something. Casey beat him to it.

  “You used to be a lawyer. Ever know a guy named Loeb? Morris Loeb?”

  “Vaguely. He’s in the Bacon Building, isn’t he?” Casey said he was, and what kind of a lawyer was he. Gifford spread his hands. “Oh—just run of the mill as far as I know.”

  Casey regarded the end of his cigarette and waited. He had an idea of what was coming but he wasn’t going to help Gifford get around to it. Presently it came out.

  “You went to see Dinah tonight.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why?”

  “Oh—just to ask a couple of questions.”

  “What did you want a specimen of her handwriting for?”

  “I’m collecting autographs,” Casey said, still casual.

  “What did you want it for?”

  Casey sat up. He took off his hat and scratched the nape of his neck where the hair was shaggy. He put the hat back on and his rugged face got sultry.

  “I’m a tired guy, Gifford,” he said. “Last night Rosalind Taylor was murdered and this noon a guy named Byrkman—you know the name, huh? And tonight this Loeb I asked about, and who was Byrkman’s lawyer, was shot. I’ve sort of got tangled up in all three of those things, Gifford, and you come around asking me silly questions. Go away, will you?”

  Gifford did not move. His round face lost a half-shade of its usual color and began to tighten.

  “What are you going to do about Dinah?”

  “You mean the folder? I haven’t done anything yet, have I?”

  “Don’t. And stay away from her, Casey. Don’t bother her any more.”

  Casey looked at him curiously, his dark eyes watching Gifford’s hands and pockets. “Going around with a gun again?”

  “No. I haven’t any gun. I just came to tell you to leave Dinah alone.”

  The telephone rang. Casey reached for it, his gaze still fixed on Gifford.

  “Hello.” It was Karen Harding. “How are you?”

  “I’m fine,” she said. “I’ve been trying to get you for hours.”

  “I’m sorry. I was out.”

  “I read about Byrkman in the paper.” There was a pause and Casey couldn’t think of anything to say. “Could you come over?”

  “Well,” Casey said, “it’s kind of late.”

  “I wish you would. For a little while, please?”

  Casey’s spirit, what he had left, sagged a trifle. If she knew about Byrkman she also knew that John Perry’s best chance had been taken from him. And she was alone and probably had been all evening.

  “All right,” he said. “Sure. Right away,” he said and hung up. He closed his desk drawers and rose and reached for his coat. “I’ve got to shove, Gifford.”

  Russell Gifford stayed silent. He went to the door when Casey did, and down the corridor and into the elevator. Casey spoke to Al, pretending that Gifford was no longer there, and when they started through the downstairs foyer, Gifford touched his arm.

  Casey stopped. There wasn’t much light here but there was enough for him to see the reflected grimness in the man’s eyes, the thin line of the mouth.

  “Remember what I said about Dinah.” There was no bluster to the sentence but the words were incisive and deadly serious. The effect surprised Casey. It made him stop and think; then he got annoyed.

  “Listen,” he said, “if you don’t stop bothering me I’m going to take you over to Logan and swear out a complaint. And then where would you be?”

  He pushed through the doors, and suddenly found that worry had replaced his annoyance. Gifford was obviously wildly in love with Dinah King. So much so that he wasn’t even rational any more. And when men got like that—and they did—they did crazy, stupid things.

  “Go home and get some sleep,” he said. “What I told you about the folder last night still goes—until I find out different.”

  “Just stay away from Dinah King,” Gifford said, and started off down the street.

  Karen Harding wore a simple cotton dress with a narrow belt and a round, moderately low neckline. Her legs were bare and she had
on ankle-length socks and huarachos. Casey saw that her lovely legs were just as tanned as her face and almost as smooth, and she seemed so sweet and desirable that he nearly gave her an affectionate slap on her bottom when she turned away. Just in time he caught himself and remembered that she was very young and very much in trouble.

  She tried not to show it. She gave him a smile and took his hand and said how nice it was of him to come. And when he saw the tray on the coffee table, with the full bottle of bonded rye and the ice bucket and the soda and glasses, he was suddenly jealous of John Perry and then annoyed that this should be.

  “You shouldn’t have done it,” he said, picking up the bottle, “but I sure can use a touch.”

  “I should have had some for you last night. I guess you needed it worse then.”

  “I guess I did.—What about you?”

  “Just a teensy bit.”

  “You don’t like rye, do you? And I’ll bet your friends don’t either. It’ll probably go begging.”

  “But I’ll still have it when you come,” Karen Harding said.

  Casey grinned at her. “I didn’t know they made girls like you any more. I wonder what happened to the pattern when I was young.”

  “You can’t be a day over eighty. There’s still time.”

  Casey chuckled and gave her her drink and they sat down on the sofa. When they had cigarettes going, Karen Harding said:

  “Did the police find anything in Byrkman’s things? I mean about John.”

  Casey said he didn’t think so. “I stopped in to see him this morning.”

  “Oh. Did you?”

  After that she did not say anything for a while and from the corner of his eye Casey could see her despondency grow.

  “There’s still a chance,” he said finally, and told about Morris Loeb. “If he was Byrkman’s lawyer, there’s a chance that he might know something. He certainly wasn’t shot without good reason. Of course, it may have nothing to do with Byrkman, but then why should it have happened today?”

  “Do you really think so?”

  “Sure, I do,” Casey said, his tone implying a confidence he did not feel. “If Loeb was shot because of Byrkman, then Loeb knows something. Probably by morning, when he’ll be able to talk, we’ll know what that something is. And even if he doesn’t there’s still one other guy that knows the truth about John Perry and that’s Matt Lawson.”

  “Of course he’ll confess to the whole thing.” Her voice was bitter now and there was bitterness upon her mouth.

  “He may have to before Logan gets through.”

  “You don’t believe that,” Karen Harding said. “Not for a minute do you believe it.” She looked into her glass, put it aside. “Henry Byrkman was John’s only chance and he’s dead, and that’s that. That’s all there is to it.”

  Casey watched her covertly. A nerve jumped in his chest and a tightness came there when he saw how disconsolate and dejected she looked. It made him feel lousy, and he knew it would do no good to sympathize and offer platitudes.

  “All right,” he said, his voice suddenly gruff. “There’s worse things than that.”

  “Name just one.”

  “Suppose Lawson gets away with it,” he said, as though he had not heard her remark. “Suppose Loeb doesn’t know a thing. That doesn’t mean you have to go all to pieces over a young squirt who has got—”

  “He’s not a squirt.”

  Casey felt better. He kept his voice blunt.

  “Call him what you want then. He’s lost his rights in the formula. He went to jail and he served his time and he’s out. He’s young, isn’t he? He’s got his health. He’s still got the ability he had. He told me he had another process nearly perfected but what’s he doing about it? Nothing. Moping. You know what I think? I think the guy’s a quitter.”

  Casey had seen the change come as he spoke. Without looking at her he had seen her start to sit up and spots of color touch her cheekbones. Now she turned and struck back at him, because she was young and reactions were direct and fundamental.

  “He’s not a quitter.”

  “Sure he’s a quitter. From the word go—and you’d know it if you could stop feeling sorry for yourself long enough to—”

  “Oh—I—hate you.”

  “Do you?”

  Her lashes snapped back and her wide eyes finally penetrated the depths of Casey’s.

  “No. Oh, Flash, I’m sorry.” She put her head against his shoulder and he slid his arm around her. “But you—”

  “Sure,” Casey said, the thickness rising into his throat. “And now that you’re snapped out of it, stay that way. Let things ride. Quit worrying. I needled him some this morning. I think I snapped him out of it a little bit.”

  He went on to speak of the process Perry was working on and what he had said to MacGrath.

  “If it makes any difference,” he said, “the guy still loves you. He’s not crying about the formula Lawson got any more. The thing that bothers him is the jail business. He feels he’s got to get a pardon, to clear himself before he can speak to you again.”

  “But I don’t care about that, Flash.”

  “I know you don’t. But he does. I guess I would too.” He finished his drink. He didn’t want to go but he thought he’d better. He eased her upright and withdrew his arm. “Just let it ride a while, Kay. Stop worrying. It’s no good the two of you moping.”

  “I know,” the girl said.

  “Wait’ll we find out about Loeb before you do any crying on my shoulder.”

  “All right, Flash.”

  “And don’t forget, we’ve still got Lawson. Perry—well, just give him a decent break and I’ve got an idea he’ll come crawling back.”

  “I don’t want him that way.”

  “Oh, you’re getting fussy now,” Casey cracked. “All right, I’ll fix it so he’ll come on a charging white horse.”

  “Yes,” Karen Harding said, and opened the door for him. “You’re sweet, Flash.”

  Casey said, “Ahh—” and then she kissed him lightly on the mouth and somehow he was in the hall and stumbling toward the stairs.

  He walked all the way home without realizing it, not thinking of the kiss because he understood that and knew it came from gratitude, but about Perry and Lawson and Loeb. He was sure now that when the pattern of Rosalind Taylor, Henry Byrkman, and Morris Loeb was straightened out the killer would be known. It was only a hunch—that and nothing more—that told him that when this had been done there would be an answer for John Perry and Karen Harding.

  Chapter Nineteen

  LOGAN GETS A BREAK

  LIEUTENANT LOGAN and Sergeant Manahan were waiting at the hospital the next morning when Casey arrived with his camera and plate-case.

  “Look at him,” Manahan said, eying the plate-case, “an optimist.”

  “In my racket you’ve got to be,” Casey said. “How’s Loeb?”

  “He pulled through the operation,” Logan said. “They aren’t making any promises but the doc says I can probably see him for a few minutes.”

  “I’ve got my fingers crossed,” Casey said. “A few minutes should be long enough.”

  Logan nodded. They were in the downstairs waiting-room. There was no one else there at the time and that gave the lieutenant plenty of room to pace. He used it all, his lean face impassive and his dark eyes brooding.

  “Five minutes should do it,” he said, “and I hope to God the guy has got good eyesight.”

  He took a rolled photograph from his pocket, pursing his lips and looking at it for a long time. “If you could only get a decent picture once in a while,” he said to Casey.

  The photographer looked over the lieutenant’s shoulder and saw that it was the one Karen Harding had taken of Byrkman, Harry, and the blond Nossek.

  “Did you show it to Helen MacKay?” Casey asked.

  “We drew a blank,” Manahan said.

  “Not that we didn’t expect it,” Logan added. “Those two had murder on their
minds then and they were being damn sure she wouldn’t be able to identify them.” He paused, glancing at Casey. “There was another guy who came upstairs about that time. The clerk said you were around with a picture. It was Byrkman, huh? You get around, don’t you? And the MacKay woman said someone buzzed when the smaller of the two hoods was tying her ankles—buzzed but didn’t come in.” Logan looked back at the picture. “The little guy—”

  “Harry,” Casey said.

  “—in this picture could be the one that came in first, according to her. But Loeb ought to be different. He probably got a look at the one who took that shot at him—”

  “If the fellow didn’t have dark glasses,” Casey said.

  “This time,” Logan said, “I’ve got an idea he didn’t. I think he hadn’t figured on doing any shooting. There was an unfired gun under the desk. There was a drawer of that desk part-way open, and the number on that gun checked with a permit issued to Loeb.”

  “You think he tried to get it out?”

  “I’m pretty sure of it. He’d been forced to open the safe and while his caller was searching it I think he opened the drawer to sneak out the gun. That’s why he got shot.”

  He stopped as an intern came in.

  “Lieutenant Logan? You can see Mr. Loeb now.”

  They climbed a flight of stairs and went down a hall. Halfway along its length a doctor stood in front of a door.

  “You can have five minutes,” he said, “if you don’t excite him. I shouldn’t even allow that, but if you say it’s important—”

  “He may be able to help solve two murders, that’s all,” Logan said, “and we won’t excite him. That’s a promise.”

  The doctor opened the door and as they went in Logan looked down and saw Casey’s plate-case.

  “You heard the doc,” he said. “So for God’s sake don’t go popping bulbs in the guy’s face.”

  “Not unless he says I can,” Casey said.

  Morris Loeb looked exceedingly chipper considering what he had been through.

  “You had a close one,” Logan said.

  Loeb turned his head to look at Casey and Manahan.

  “Which is the one who found me?”