He must have been heard because he covered the last two strides in silence. He gave the knob a turn and yanked, a burly, glaring, tousled-headed figure who took one look at the three men standing there and then retreated lest his bare toes be trampled by their immediate advance. He recognized the man in the middle at once as Tony Saxton. One of the others, a heavy-nosed man as big as he was, seemed vaguely familiar, but the third, who was as tall but thinner, was a stranger.
“Hi, Casey,” Saxton said when he had closed the door. “Get you up?”
“Hell, yes, you got me up,” Casey said resentfully.
“Well, it couldn’t be helped. I’ve been up most of the night myself. We could have come earlier but I said to the boys, let’s grab some breakfast and give Casey a couple hours more sleep.”
Casey, understanding nothing at all of this, examined them with brooding dark eyes and then the thin man took a short-barreled revolver from his pocket. He didn’t point it; he simply let Casey see it and held it negligently at his side. Casey looked at it, brows lifting slightly. He looked at Saxton, a stocky, well-dressed man with black hair, hooded dark eyes, and a broad beard-streaked face.
“What the hell is that for?” he demanded indignantly, pointing at the gun.
“Insurance,” Saxton said. “I’ve heard about you and I’ve got no time for trouble.”
Casey sat down on the arm of a chair and ignored his gaping robe. He could feel the coolness on his feet and calves but he took a moment to consider Saxton, who had his finger in many pies, many of them illegal and all of them profitable. For Saxton was the head man in the area for an organization that lacked a definite name but was referred to in various ways by various people. Some were quite sure it had its roots in the Mafia, some called it The Syndicate; others thought of it as The Organization or, more simply, The Mob.
Gambling in all forms was an important part of the operation. If you made a bet—it didn’t matter where or when or how—a little of the proceeds filtered back to Saxton and his group. It was the same way with liquor, licenses of various kinds, the supply lines for bars and restaurants, the sale and distribution of narcotics. Four younger affiliates with big ideas, who were said to be getting too ambitious, had been found with holes in their heads during the past year in vacant lots and backs of cars, the most recent less than a week ago. All were upon but unsolved cases in the district attorney’s office and police files. Casey understood all this but he still had no dues as to why Saxton should be here at all. He had never tangled with the man or his hoods and he now demanded an explanation.
“What is this, anyway? What do you want with me?”
“I want a couple of films. I understand you’ve got them.”
“Films?” yelled Casey. “I’ve got hundreds of them. I take twenty or thirty a day.”
“The ones I mean were taken last night.”
“Not by me.”
“Who said you took them? A stupid little punk named Marty Bates took them.”
Casey opened his mouth, then closed it silently. He took a breath and inspected his bare feet as the scene with Bates at the Melody Lounge replayed itself in his mind. He recalled the little photographer’s manner, his urgency and anxiety and relief when he, Casey, accepted the film-holder. Still not knowing what was on the film or how Saxton could know about it, he was, nevertheless, not about to relinquish the holder if he could help it.
He would have been hard pressed to explain his stubbornness and his determination to stall. Most editorial men were convinced that all photographers were a little nuts and Casey qualified in one respect. He was not particularly jealous of his reputation and he was less secretive than some photographers. But no one, from the publisher down, fooled with his cameras, equipment, or the films he took. That the filmholder in question was not his made no difference. It had been given to his care and his reaction was the same.
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” he said, making the words sound convincing. “You been smoking some of your own tea, Tony?”
Saxton didn’t like it. The eyes narrowed and his mouth tightened in a thin mean line.
“You think I’m kidding?” He nodded at the thin man, who slowly lifted the gun. “I don’t want to put a slug in a newspaperman, even in the leg. It always makes a lot of stink. But I want those films bad enough to take the chance. You either co-operate—and I mean now—or I’m going to take this place apart—”
“Help yourself. If you think Marty’s here, take a look.”
“We know where Marty is,” Saxton said. “We’ve got him on ice.”
“Oh,” said Casey, his thoughts sobering as the truth began slowly to dawn on him.
“Sure.” Saxton allowed himself a crooked grin. “Why do you think we came here? We didn’t just pick your name out of a hat.”
Casey looked at the gun. He glanced at the big man. He inspected the lumpy, battle-scarred face but could not put a name to it. He watched with morose and smoldering eyes as Saxton tipped back his narrow-brimmed hat, and he could no longer put down the feeling of worry and concern that had so swiftly built up inside him.
“Where is he?”
“At his place. Where else? … Look, I’ll spell it out for you once before we go to work on this place. So listen good, Casey.” Saxton sat down and his two companions moved slightly behind Casey. “Last night, maybe around ten thirty, a friend of mine had a traffic accident. Nothing much. Nobody hurt and nobody around. He gets out to look at the damage and this car pulls up and a flashbulb pops twice. The car takes off but somebody just happens to recognize the driver.”
This much Casey could believe. Marty Bates would have the kind of luck that would put him in such a spot; he would also have the nerve and reflexes to act without delay. That he must have realized later that he had a compromising and embarrassing picture helped explain his attitude at the Melody Lounge. He was afraid of what he had and—
The thought hung there as Saxton said: “So what do you think we did? We knew he wasn’t working for any local paper,” he added, without waiting for a reply. “So we staked out his place. He didn’t show up till after three o’clock. When he tried to con us, we took him upstairs. He had two cameras with him but when we took a look they were empty. We shook him down and went over his apartment. He didn’t have any films around and we didn’t find ours, so when he kept on with the act about not knowing what we were talking about we had to lean on him. We bent his arm a little and he finally told us you had this filmholder and how you got it.”
As Saxton finished, Casey was at once aware that he had run out of answers. He seemed to know that what he had heard was the truth. He knew he would eventually have to produce the filmholder, but he hesitated and Saxton continued in the same even, confident tones.
“We went to the Express first. We woke up the guy who was sleeping in a chair in the photo department. He said you hadn’t been in since before ten. So that told us you must still have those films. I decided to dean up and get some breakfast but I wanted to be here before you shoved off for the office. So make up your mind.”
He stood up, mouth tightening. “Do you deliver or do we start looking? And remember this: if we don’t get what we want here, we go back to Marty. I think he’s going to be awfully sorry we didn’t find what we came for.”
“He’s at his place?”
“Right. And he’s got company.”
“What happens when you get this film?”
“I’ll call up from here and tell the boys to take off.”
“Okay. Get on the phone.”
Casey started for the bedroom, ignoring Saxton’s exclamation but aware that he was being followed. He walked to the jacket he had slipped over the back of a chair the night before and reached into a side pocket. He was still steaming inside as he removed the filmholder, and the focal point of his resentment was his own helplessness.
He tossed the filmholder toward Saxton, who caught it in mid-air. He sat down on the edge of the b
ed and pulled on his slippers. He measured the distance to the gun and considered the big man with the lumpy face. For a wild moment he wondered if he could take the two of them and then dismissed the thought when he realized that if he missed, Marty Bates would still be in a jam.
He stood up and said: “Okay, Tony. You’ve got it, but remember this: if Marty’s hurt you’ve bought yourself some trouble.”
“Hurt? Don’t be silly. He’s hardly bruised.” Saxton turned the filmholder in his hands then looked back at Casey. “How do we know that is the right one?”
“Because I say so.”
“You’ve got a darkroom here, haven’t you?”
“Sure.”
“Okay. Suppose you develop this thing right now. Then we’ll be sure.”
Casey started to protest and then stopped when he realized it would do no good. He strode hard-heeled through the doorway that led the way to his darkroom, which had been converted from what originally was a small dining room adjacent to the kitchen. The others followed, taking up strategic positions in the corners of the room, but Casey had no thought of resistance now. He did not want to start anything that might wreck the darkroom and he was interested only in getting the trio out of there as soon as possible.
He turned on the safe light and told them to shut the door. He poured chemicals, opened the filmholder by touch, and dropped the two films into the developer. He set the timer and then he stood brooding until it rang.
When he had the two negatives in the hypo he said: “I can make wet prints, if you want.”
“Who needs prints?” Saxton said. “I just want to know what’s on there.”
Casey handed him a dripping negative but when Saxton held it up to the light he was still not satisfied.
“This film is too small,” he said. “Can’t you make it bigger or something?”
Casey snapped on the enlarger. There was a clean white sheet of paper on the easel and he slipped the negative into its housing, focusing quickly until he had an image approximately eleven by fourteen projected on the paper. The instant he inspected it he knew why it was important to Saxton.
If Casey had not recognized two of the three men in the picture the image would have meant nothing more than any run-of-the-mill traffic mishap showing a heavy sedan with two wheels across the curbing and resting close to a row of bushes. But even with the negative projection, which was bright and clear, he could recognize Tony Saxton and a man named Lavelli, who had been missing since the previous week, when the latest objector to Saxton’s domination had been found shot to death.
The police of thirteen states were looking for Lavelli and his automobile, which had vanished at the same time he did. His attorney had issued a statement expressing his fears as to Lavelli’s safety, denying his client’s complicity in the murder, and saying that Lavelli, too, had been a victim of gangland warfare. Here then was proof that—
Casey had no chance to finish the thought because Saxton jabbed him in the ribs and said hoarsely: “Okay. Let’s have it. Come on Casey … Now let’s see the other one,” he demanded when he had the wet negative in his hand.
The second picture was less incriminating than the first. It was clear enough, but the principals had their heads turned sufficiently to obscure their features and no satisfactory identification could be made.
As soon as Saxton was satisfied, he demanded the negative, and as Casey passed it over he said with studied sarcasm: “If you want to preserve those for posterity, Tony, you’d better put them back in the hypo for a while or they’ll spoil.”
“Spoil? Hah! I’ll spoil ’em. Turn on the light.”
Casey flicked the wall switch and when Saxton finished blinking he said: “Don’t get ideas about what you saw, Casey. You want to run down to your friend Lieutenant Logan and tell him a story, go ahead. Without these pictures you’ve got nothing. They were never taken and we haven’t been here. The same goes for Marty, but I have an idea he’ll stay buttoned up.”
He backed from the little room and beckoned to his associates. Casey followed and when they reached the living room he pointed at the telephone.
“I want to know about Marty,” he said. “Make your call.”
Saxton gave him a moment’s inspection with his dark and hooded eyes; then he shrugged and pulled a slip of paper from his pocket. He went over to the telephone, dialed. A few seconds later he said: “How’s he been behaving? Good … Good … Well everything’s under control here. Thank Marty for being a good boy and I’ll see you later.”
He hung up and looked at Casey, his voice more genial, his mood expansive. “I told you there didn’t have to be any trouble, didn’t I? You did me a favor, I’ll do you one some day. As a starter, I’ll send you a case of Scotch, how about that?”
“You do,” Casey said bluntly, “and I’ll pour it down the sink.”
Saxton grinned. “A hard loser, hunh? Well, you can’t win ’em all, Casey. Take care, kid. I’ll see you around.”
Casey watched them go. He stood a moment scowling darkly at the door after it closed, a brooding, shaggy-haired figure, his frustration still showing as he turned away to clean up the darkroom.
3 If Casey had hurried a little more with his shower, shave, and breakfast; if he had taken a little less time with his dressing and his examination of the newspaper the neighborhood boy left each morning at his door, he might still have avoided the grief that had started to build up for him the night before.
There was, of course, no way for him to know this. With Tony Saxton and his problems out of the way, there was no reason for him to suspect that this day would be different from any other. There was no cause for any particular hurry. He did not, for reasons that had developed over the years, work what might be called a regular shift, like the rest of the staff. The Guild was jealous of the work week it had contracted for and frowned on overtime without pay. The Express, in turn, frowned upon overtime except in emergencies. As a result, Casey more or less set his own hours and he usually left his apartment about nine thirty. Because he was more or less on schedule, he did not hurry, and it was just nine twenty-eight by the living-room clock when the doorbell sounded again.
Casey’s surprise was no less real than it had been when he opened the door earlier that morning, but for an entirely different reason. There were two men this time and it would have been obvious to anyone who had been around that they had nothing in common with Tony Saxton and his breed. They wore their conservative brokers’ clothes very well, Donald Farrington in dark blue and his brother-in-law, Arthur Mayfield, in a gray unfinished worsted. Three buttons, no shoulder padding, beautifully tailored and complete with vests. White shirts, plain-colored ties, and dark-brown hats suitable to the fall season.
There was, however, a somewhat tentative and hesitant air about them as they said hello, and after his first moment of surprise Casey was quickly aware of the difference between the two men. Mayfield, who was tall and smooth-looking, with a cultivated tan that helped disguise the underlying softness of his face, seemed alert-eyed and fit; Farrington, who was a little shorter but strongly built, looked awful. His dark eyes were bloodshot and miserable, and there was a pallid slackness in his face that Casey had never seen before.
“Sorry to bother you like this, Jack,” he said when Casey returned their hello, “but something came up. And—”
“That’s okay,” Casey cut in. “No bother. Come in, come in.”
They took their hats off as Casey waved them toward seats, Mayfield leaning back and crossing his knees in the club chair and Farrington easing down on the edge of the wing chair. Casey, still wondering, sat on the arm of the divan and looked curiously from one to the other. Farrington, who was fingering the brim of his hat, seemed to have difficulty starting the conversation, so Casey helped him.
“You don’t look too good this morning,” he said. “You must have really tied one on last night.” He watched Farrington’s head come up and saw the startled look in his eyes as he continued.
“Can I get you anything? You probably don’t want a drink but I could make some coffee—”
“Last night?” Farrington said as though that was all he had heard. “What do you know about last night?”
Casey chuckled. “I saw you. Briefly, that is.”
“Where?”
“At the Melody Lounge.”
Farrington peered at him in disbelief, his torso tilting slightly from the waist. “You were there? When? What was I doing? I mean, who was with me when you saw me?”
“Whoa!” Casey said, the amusement still showing in his eyes but seeds of concern beginning to take hold as he realized Farrington was deeply troubled and intent about the questions he had asked. “Somewhere around eleven,” he said finally. “For maybe a half hour or so. You were sitting at a table down front with Shirley when I first noticed you.”
“Was I drinking?”
“I thought so at the time,” Casey said. “I didn’t get a very good look at you from where I sat at the bar, but I’d say you’d had a few.”
“You didn’t stop by the table?”
“No.”
“Did anyone else come later?”
“The last time I looked,” Casey said, “you were sitting with Ralph Jackson and a well-constructed blonde I’d never seen before. She was down at the end of the bar when I came in, but I got talking to another fellow and the next time I looked around she was sitting with you.”
Farrington took a long look at his brother-in-law. May-field gave a small nod, as though in confirmation of something between them, and Farrington let out a long and audible sigh before he turned back to Casey.
“When did Shirley leave?”
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