by Unknown
No more sure of his rights or his ground than Haley, Casey saw the sergeant hesitate. Then he opened the door and went out quickly with Haley’s baffled threat ringing in his ears.
III
he Hut is on the wrong side of Beacon Hill. The street it fronts is narrow, one-way, and hardly worthy of the term—street. The immediate neighborhood is sordid and decadent, with cubby-hole store fronts here and there, and two or three floors of tenements above. In the daytime, the cobblestones form a playground for smutty-nosed urchins; at night, to a casual passerby, it is just an alley.
Yet to the initiate, the Hut is a restaurant. There is a long, low room, dimly lighted and generally smoke-filled. The floor is rough planking and the tables are a hundred years old and look older. The food is good, and more expensive than the surroundings would lead you to believe. The only entertainment is a piano, presided over by the Professor, and, more recently, a girl who sings.
At a quarter of ten, there were but four tables occupied. Casey slid into one of the oaken booths and ordered rye and soda.
The girl was singing. In the half-light she seemed young and nice-looking rather than pretty. Her voice, although not strong or cultivated, was sweet. The accompaniment was soft, swinging, sort of dreamy and full of chords. Both local and visiting orchestra leaders came here for dinner frequently because the Professor could play; he had a left hand that piano players liked to match.
When the number ended, Casey summoned the waiter and told him he wanted to speak to the Professor. Shortly a stringy, sandy-haired fellow shuffled up to the booth. Seeing Casey, he smiled and said:
“Hello, Flash. How’s it?”
“Sit down, Les. What’ll you have.”
The Professor—Les Boyden—slid down on the opposite bench and put up a palm. “Nothing, thanks,” he said.
Casey lit a cigarette, studied Boyden over the match flame. The face was pleasant, but tired, with a look of a man who is not very well. A half smile was quite constant, but the blue eyes were pale and dull, and there was a weakness, somehow, to the mouth and jaw.
Norma Patten had once been Mrs. Les Boyden. Back when they had been a vaudeville team. Casey remembered this, and, seeking some lead on the Sorenson murder that might connect with Norma Patten, he had come here to see Boyden. He wanted time to think about this man, and he kept his voice casual and did not come to the point directly.
“How long you had the girl?” he asked.
“About three months.”
“Where’d you get her?”
“She just came in.” Boyden flipped a thin-fingered hand in an aimless gesture: “She came in and wanted to sing for her dinner. Honest.”
He smiled at Casey, then looked away when the photographer eyed him questioningly without speaking.
“She was down to her last dime. Desperate. I guess this was her last stop on the way to the river. Anyway, she came in and was standing by the piano when I saw her.”
There was a far-off look in Boyden’s eyes and he continued in the absent tones of a man talking to himself.
“Well, I couldn’t throw her out. She stuck around until I started another piece and then, damned if she didn’t start to sing anyway.” His eyes came back to Casey’s. “She’s been here ever since. She can sing, can’t she?”
Casey nodded, and Boyden’s manner brightened.
“And she’s getting noticed. I’m dickering now for a spot on the radio. I think we might go places some day. She’s got something. I don’t know what it is. Something sort of genuine and sweet in her voice, like Kate Smith. I want you to meet her.”
“Wait,” Casey said.
But Boyden had already stood up, and in a minute or so he came back with the girl.
Boyden introduced Flash to her—Mary Nason.
She stood at the end of the booth as Casey rose. Her smile helped his first impression. Nice-looking, genuine. Her hair was dark and wavy and simply done. She had a trim little figure and nice hands and a rounded chin that looked firm and smooth. After a moment of conversation, Boyden said:
“About ten minutes, Mary, and we’ll do a number for Flash.” He watched her walk across the floor, then turned. “How do you like her?”
“She’s nice,” Casey said. “You like her too, huh?”
“Yeah,” Boyden said, flushing slightly. “But I thought you might give her a plug sometime.”
“You know Norma’s in town?” Casey asked after a pause.
“Yes, I saw in the paper she was.”
“Seen her?”
Boyden shook his head. Casey said casually: “Got a cigarette?”
“Only these.” Boyden took out a brown paper package, shook out a cigarette wrapped in ivory-colored paper. “You wouldn’t like them.”
Casey took one, rolled it absently and said: “I always had a feeling she gave you a dirty deal.”
“Perhaps—perhaps not. I guess it was my fault. I was in love with her and I married her. She was ambitious and had the determination to get what she wanted. When she made her mind up to do anything she went right ahead. She had what it takes and I didn’t, that’s all.
“I had ambitions too, but I wouldn’t sacrifice everything else for them. I guess I never had enough guts or backbone to step with Norma.” He shrugged, smiled weakly. “But that’s all over. And no hard feelings. She saw a chance to get ahead alone and took it.”
“You don’t hold a grudge, do you?”
“No. Why? What’re you trying to prove?”
“Somebody’s been blackmailing her,” Casey said, and his eyes narrowed in his study of Boyden’s loose face. “With some old nude pictures Sorenson took. He was murdered tonight.”
Boyden was smiling when Casey spoke, and the smile remained, a ghastly thing. It took him seconds to freeze out that smile and say:
“I asked you what you were tryin’ to prove.”
“I don’t know,” Casey said, and went on to tell how he had gone to try and buy the negatives and release from Sorenson. “And,” he finished, “I think you were at Sorenson’s place.”
“Don’t rib me, Flash,” Boyden said, his face chalky. “Not about a thing like that.”
“I wouldn’t rib you,” Casey said. “But I found a cigarette butt at his place.” He lifted the cigarette in his hand. “Like this one.”
Boyden swallowed with an effort. “Plenty of guys smoke them besides me.”
“Some, but not plenty.”
“It doesn’t prove anything.”
“Not a thing,” Casey said. “That’s why I came to ask.” He sighed, pocketed the cigarette. “I may be wrong, but I always thought you had a yen for Norma in spite of the fact that she used you to climb. I thought maybe you might be helping out or something—like I was—and spill what you knew.
“But then again,” he added dryly, “maybe you were just waiting for a chance to pay her back. You knew Sorenson. A few large coarse banknotes—say a cut of twenty-five grand—”
“Twenty-five?” Boyden husked.
“Yeah?” Casey said curiously, unable to analyze this new reaction. “A piece of that would help to put you and your singer over in a big way, wouldn’t it?”
Boyden straightened up. His lips drew down; his eyes grew frosty.
“You’re wasting your time,” he said, “on a newspaper. You oughta go after Edgar Hoover’s job.”
“Okey,” Casey said. He beckoned the waiter and paid his check. “But I was at Sorenson’s looking for the negatives when the police crashed in. They didn’t like my story—it wasn’t very good. Sometime pretty soon I’ve got to give ’em the details.
“So”—he stood up—“I was just checking to see if I could find something to help my story.”
There was a telephone in the dimly lighted foyer, and Casey stepped inside and called Norma Patten. When he had told her what had happened at Sorenson’s he said:
“It’s gonna be a mess, Norma, but there’s one place I might try before I call it off. Who is this guy Ambrose
that made the touch yesterday?”
“I think his name was Sol Ambrose,” Norma Patten said.
“Oh, that one,” Casey growled. “The shyster, huh? Okey, I’ll see if I can find him on the way back to the Carteret.”
“Please, Flash,” Norma pleaded, “don’t make it worse.”
“I won’t,” Casey said. “I’ll just give him a scare and see what happens.”
IV
he so-called office building that served as Sol Ambrose’s business address was a gloomy brick walk-up not far from Atlantic Avenue. Light from a frosted glass door spread an elongated rectangle across the dusty third-floor hall and up the cracked wall opposite. Casey opened the door without knocking and stalked in aggressively.
A plump, red-faced man with two chins and a shiny bald pate was hunched behind a book-filled desk. Small black eyes, nearly lost in the shadows, blinked angrily while Sol Ambrose half rose, poised, dropped back in his seat.
“Why don’t you knock?” he asked resentfully.
Casey moved up to the desk, pushed some books out of the way and slid a thick thigh across one corner.
“Hello, Sol,” he said levelly.
“I don’t know you,” Ambrose said.
“Don’t let it bother you,” Casey said. “I just stopped in to get those pictures you’re holding for Norma Patten.”
Ambrose blinked and his head seemed to shrink between hunched shoulders. He wet his lips and his eyes mirrored alarm as they swiveled helplessly about the room.
“Huh? What pictures?” he blustered.
“The ones you thought you’d get twenty-five grand for. I want the negatives and the release. And snap it up, I’m in a hurry.”
Ambrose tried to outstare the burly figure perched on his desk, dropped his glance when he saw the bad look in Casey’s eyes. Finally he cleared his throat, and with forced authority said:
“Beat it or I’ll call the cops!”
“I said, snap it up!” Casey growled.
Ambrose reached for a telephone in nervous alarm. Casey slid off the desk, slapped the lawyer’s hand aside. One long step put him behind the desk and, reaching down, he grabbed Ambrose’s vest and jerked him erect with one hand.
“You’ve got two chances,” Casey said, shaking the lawyer a bit for emphasis. “If you want to pass that stuff over I might pay you ten grand for it. If not, I’m gonna beat hell out of you, search this joint and drag you down to Headquarters.”
Ambrose swallowed and his eyes bulged. Casey was still bluffing and he was still convincing—and here the odds were all his. Ambrose was not in a very good spot to argue. Thrice on the brink of disbarment he had a shady reputation and barely enough legitimate business to pay his rent. He opened his mouth, shut it; then Casey shook him again and rapped:
“Make up your mind!”
“I don’t know nothing about it,” Ambrose whined.
“You put the touch on her, didn’t you?” Casey countered. He held the lawyer at arm’s length and drew back his fist.
“But I haven’t got those negatives.”
“You know where they are.”
“Suppose I do. What—”
That word was chewed off short. It was the last word Sol Ambrose ever spoke.
Casey was staring right at the lawyer’s face. He saw that face jerk sidewise, the red spot jump out on one corner of the forehead, the spatter of blood on the hand that gripped the vest; yet it was a full second before he realized what had happened.
There had been no warning, no sound of the door opening; even the roar of the gun seemed late. Somehow he was still waiting for Ambrose’s next word: waiting, and staring into suddenly vacant eyes, and supporting a sagging weight with his left arm.
Casey broke the grip of surprise with latent action that tried to recover the lost second. He dropped Ambrose, forgot him and spun towards the door.
It was ajar. He thought he saw a wisp of powder smoke in the opening as he raced towards it. With no preconceived plan except to get a glimpse of the killer, he yanked the door open and dashed into the hall.
Too late he saw the out-thrust foot and realized the man had waited with his back against the wall for just such a headlong rush. Casey stumbled, crashed into the opposite wall and dropped to the floor. Before he could lift his head a gun muzzle jabbed into the nape of his neck.
“Up!” a whispered voice commanded. “Up. Easy, and with your face in the wall.”
Casey stood up.
“Pull your hat down,” the voice directed. “Over your ears.”
Casey, prompted by the pressure of the gun and the knowledge he could not hope to reach the hand that held it, pulled his battered felt down over his ears with both hands. Another hand reached in front and tugged at the brim to make sure it was over his eyes.
“Now into the office—and keep your chin down or I’ll knock it down.”
Casey felt his way into the room. The gun was withdrawn. After the door closed he heard the man behind him, and a hand began to pat his trench coat pockets. Again the gun pressed against his spine while the hand tapped his hip pockets.
“No cannon?” the voice whispered.
Casey stiffened as something inside him froze. For the first time he was conscious of the bulging bulk in his inside coat pocket; that ten thousand dollars seemed to press against his chest and make it hard to breathe.
The hand moved up. Slapping the armpits and chest it tapped the pocket two or three times experimentally. And Casey stood there with the sweat coming out on his face, afraid to move lest he betray himself.
“What’s this?” the voice said coolly, and a hand slid inside the coat.
The bulge vanished. Casey shot his eyes down past the rim of his hat at the bridge of his nose. All he could see was a gray coat sleeve, a lean, thin-fingered hand—and that sheaf of fifty-dollar bills.
Outraged anger rather than the fear of what might happen when he confessed his loss to Norma Patten motivated Casey’s next move. It was a foolish play, risky, without much hope of success; but then when Casey was mad he was not always reasonable.
Whirling with a savage grunt, he ducked and dived behind him, arms outstretched. Apparently the man moved with the skill of an adagio dancer. Casey smacked the floor on his knees, brushed a slender leg but failed to grasp it; then the gun rapped down on his head and he went flat on the floor.
“Get up, chump!” the voice ordered grimly.
Casey heard a door open as he obeyed. Presently he felt the gun in his back again and he was being pushed through a doorway into what he felt was a closet.
He sensed the movement behind him. It was like a swish of air, intuitive rather than actual. He tried to duck; then pain exploded in his brain from a smash back of his ear. His knees crumpled and he went down. Behind him he thought he heard the door close and the bolt snap home.
At no time was Casey entirely unconscious. Half-stunned at first, he fought the dizziness in his head, wrenched off his hat and got to his knees. He remained that way a minute or so, and when the roaring in his ears abated, he could hear the killer searching the office. He stood up and oriented himself in the darkness, but he made no attempt to break out until he heard the man slam the outer door; then he put his shoulder against the closet door and tried to smash the panel or the lock.
He kept to these tactics for several minutes. The closet was so small he could not draw back for a real charge, could get no momentum.
Finally he rested, and while he devised another method he heard the office door open again. He listened. Someone was moving about. He could hear desk drawers open and close; a filing cabinet rasped on its metal slides.
Casey rapped on the door. The only result was a slap of heels on the floor and the clicking of the outer door. He cursed, arched his back against the rear wall of the closet, put one foot at a time beside the lock and, bent almost double, strained to straighten out.
The door creaked under the thrust of his powerful muscles. He rested, still wedged clear of
the floor, took a breath and tried again. This time the lock ripped from the panel. The door flew open and he dropped heavily on his back.
Picking himself up, he went straight to the telephone and swept it into his hands. He barked a number, stood there, a burly, impatient figure with a trickle of blood on one ear and his eyes sultry and brooding.
When he got his connection he said: “Police Headquarters? Lemme speak to Lieutenant Logan.”
V
uite 9-B at the Carteret had acquired a different aspect. Cigar smoke hung in a blue haze from the ceiling and the air had a stale, stuffy smell. Two plain-clothesmen, who looked bored and indifferent, leaned against the wall adjacent to the doorway. In the center of the room Sergeant Haley and Captain Judson were looking down at a slender hard-muscled man of forty-five or so; nearby, on the love seat, sat Norma Patten.
Casey, entering with Lieutenant Logan, stopped short and his surprise was apparent on his thick face. Because he trusted Logan, he had given him the whole story in Sol Ambrose’s office; but he was unprepared for this sort of scene. Haley gave him the clue as to why the police were here in his first greeting.
“So—” He leered. “A tip was what took you to Sorenson’s place, huh? I knew you were lying and I checked you. They told us at your office you’d come to the Carteret for a date with Norma.” His green eyes narrowed scornfully and he turned to Logan. “Glad you picked him up.”
Casey took a deep breath and anger boiled up inside him.
“He didn’t pick me up,” he grunted. “I called him.”
“Sol Ambrose, the shyster, was knocked off about a half hour ago,” Logan said quietly.
Haley gaped. Judson, a tall, long-jawed veteran, muffled a curse and sucked in his lips. The man in the chair gave no outward reaction at all, but Norma Patten gasped audibly and color drained from her cheeks, leaving them chalky except for the rouge spots.
“Tell them, Flash,” Logan said crisply.
Casey told his story, told it with a smoldering stubbornness when he related how the ten thousand had been taken from his pocket. Norma Patten’s eyes were sharp and accusing when he began to talk, and he avoided them until he finished; then he walked over to her and said thickly: