“You mean you don’t know?”
“I remember very little. I got home late and I didn’t want to wake her this morning—”
“I drove her home,” Casey said. “She said you didn’t want to leave and she did. She was going to get a cab and leave the car for you and then she spotted me and asked for a ride.”
“Oh,” Farrington said, sounding more dejected than ever. “Then you don’t know what happened after that. You weren’t there when I left?”
“No.”
Slowly, and with obvious reluctance, Farrington reached into his pocket and withdrew a squarish envelope. He turned it idly over in his hands, not looking at it, not really looking at anything, but Casey could see that the envelope had been postmarked and bore a number of stamps. Finally Farrington looked over at Mayfield, his eyes apparently asking some unspoken question that needed confirmation.
“It’s up to you, Don,” Mayfield said. “You know Casey better than I do.” He looked at Casey and said: “My suggestion was that we go to the firm’s attorneys first.” He lifted both shoulders a fraction of an inch and let them sag. “Don feels that if this were a matter of trusts or estate handling or tax matters our people would be all right, but on a thing like this—well, go ahead,” he said to his brother-in-law. “Tell him. It’s your show.”
Casey accepted the envelope Farrington passed on. The name and home address had been printed in block letters and the post mark showed it had been stamped at the General Post Office at eight o’clock that morning. The words Special Delivery had been written above the address and when he reached inside and removed the three four-by-five glossy photographs he understood the reason for his friend’s concern.
He saw the blonde first, the one he had noticed at the end of the bar and later at Farrington’s table. He also knew that he had been right about her figure because, except for a pair of panties, he could see it all. The first picture showed her sitting on the edge of a bed, her arms at her sides and braced on the mattress, her face turned toward the camera. In the second she was on her feet, in profile, her arms folded across her breasts. The third showed her from the rear, in the act of turning away, arms still folded, but glancing back over her shoulder. The man in the bed, on his back, covered to the hips with a sheet and naked from the waist up, was Donald Farrington.
Slowly then, Casey returned the photographs to the envelope. He could not yet meet Farrington’s tortured gaze and for long seconds he could think of nothing to say. A couple of years ago he had run into a somewhat similar situation, but that time the setting had been arranged to get evidence in a divorce matter that involved a certain collaboration. This, it seemed to him now, was an entirely different sort of performance. Because there was one thing constant in all three pictures, and he had noticed it at once. The blonde had moved enough to make three different poses, and she had acted out her part very well. But during that time Farrington had not moved an inch or, apparently, blinked an eye.
Such evidence, Casey realized, did not eliminate the possibility that Farrington had been solicited by the girl and been taken to some apartment, where he had passed out. But knowing the man, his humorless ways, his standards of morality, and his naïveté where women were concerned, Casey was ready to believe that Farrington was already unconscious when he had been arranged on that bed.
“Don’t you remember anything?” he asked.
“I remember going to the place with Shirley and having a drink while we listened to the band. I was prepared to be bored because I’m not what you’d call a jazz buff. But—and I’m not sure why—that drink changed my mind. To tell the truth, I began to enjoy myself. I remember calling for another round. All of a sudden I found myself having a good time and even liking what I was drinking. I still can’t explain it. I don’t know if I had any more after that—”
“Shirley said you’d had three,” Casey cut in. “She said you weren’t used to three.”
“I’m not.” Farrington leaned forward and braced his elbows on his knees, his face twisted as he tried to recall other details. “I seem to remember Jackson sitting down with us and there was another woman. I couldn’t tell you whether she was a blonde, a brunette, or a redhead. Even looking at those pictures and seeing her face means nothing to me. I can’t remember even having seen her before.”
“Do you remember leaving the Lounge?”
“Not really. I have a sort of vague impression that someone was with me. I think I needed help, and somebody was giving me a hand, but that’s all I remember. I wouldn’t even swear to that.”
“What did you do when you woke up?”
“Wondered where the hell I was and if I was going to die!”
“What time was that?”
“Around four o’clock, maybe a little after. It took me a little while before I could stand up and then I made it to the bathroom and upchucked. I didn’t know where I was or what had happened. All I knew was that I was in a strange bed without any clothes on.”
“What about your car?”
“It was parked down the street.”
“What’s the address of this place?”
Farrington named it, along with the apartment number. Casey jotted it down in a small notebook, and without being able to pinpoint the location knew that it was in a section of old apartment houses, most of them second or third class, between the Avenue and the Fenway.
“It was nearly five when I got home,” Farrington continued. “I didn’t go to bed. I couldn’t. I was too jittery. I showered and shaved and was careful not to wake Shirley. I went downstairs and made some coffee and then I sat there shaking while I tried to keep it down. Later I forced some breakfast into me and then the boy came with the envelope.”
He swallowed and said: “I didn’t know what it was, so I opened it, and Arthur was there finishing his breakfast and I had to talk to somebody. When I got over my panic we thought about going to the police or our attorney. I needed help. A lot of it. I just couldn’t sit and do nothing, and then I thought of you.”
“Why?” Casey asked.
“Well”—Farrington took a breath and leaned back in his chair—“in the first place because I knew I could trust you. You’ve been around a long time and you know everybody and you’ve had a lot of experience. You know what makes people tick. I said to myself if you wouldn’t know what to do in a case like this I didn’t know who would.”
“It’s a frame, pure and simple,” Mayfield said. “That much is obvious. Somebody takes three pictures and in all of them Don never makes a move. He must have been out cold … Frankly,” he added, “when I first saw those prints I thought Don was overdoing the panic bit. I thought he was just alibiing an embarrassing situation he got into all by himself. You know what I mean. He’s not the only guy it ever happened to.”
He leaned back and waved one hand before he continued, and Casey understood why his reaction was more realistic than his brother-in-law’s. For Mayfield had been cut from a different bolt of cloth than Farrington. His family, a generation or two ago, had been as prominent as Farrington’s, but the fortune his forebears had amassed had been dissipated by a father who had left his only son a good education, most of the social graces, and a family home mortgaged to the hilt. Where Farrington was conservative, proper, and often diffident, Mayfield had always been more of the gregarious man-about-town type. Now, as the one-time Louise Farrington’s third husband, he was again in good financial standing and he did the best he could to keep the status quo.
He had been nearly forty when he married and he had accumulated a savoir-faire and a social maturity that had become second nature. With his wavy light brown hair, light blue eyes, and handsome features, he had known long ago that he was attractive to women, and opportunities for intercourse with the opposite sex—both social and sexual—were not hard to come by. He had traded on his reputation as a perennial house guest, odd man, bridge partner, and low-handicap golfer to sell such things as expensive automobiles, domestic and foreign, inv
estment trust shares, oil leases, and real estate….
“If you know Don,” he added in an effort to make his point clear, “you know he’s essentially a straight-and-narrow type character. I thought he’d jumped the reservation; that, not being a drinking man, he’d taken on more than he could handle. I assumed he’d picked up this blonde, or she’d picked him up—and from her pictures, who could blame him?—and taken him home. What the hell, it’s a thing that’s happened to most of us, one time or another. If she’d rolled him, he could have taken his medicine, but she didn’t. He had three hundred in his wallet and he says he’s only missing one hundred of that. But these pictures—well, she must have had some friend who could take them.” He grunted softly and added: “I still think she’ll sell them cheap rather than—”
“But I can’t take that chance,” Farrington said, finding no assurance in Mayfield’s theory. “That’s why I’m here.”
“If it isn’t like I thought it was,” Mayfield said, persisting; “if Don’s hunch is right, then it had to be set up deliberately. You know, practically in advance. Right?”
“Could be,” Casey said.
“Okay, but why? Why pick on Don?”
“For one thing,” Casey said, “he’s got the kind of money that could make a frame like this worthwhile. Also he’s married, and that makes him vulnerable. He’s got a name and reputation to protect.”
“But why send three photographs in the mail and nothing else?” Farrington said.
“To scare you,” Casey said. “To soften you up. To let you stew so that when it comes time for the payoff you’ll lay it on the line with no argument and no questions asked.”
“I don’t mind paying,” Farrington said. “I got myself into this mess—I don’t know how yet, but I did—and if I could pay and be sure that was the end of it I’d be willing to give almost any amount. Good God, if Shirley got her hands on these, she could not only divorce me—”
“Does she want to?” Casey asked.
“Why—” Farrington looked startled. “No. I mean—why should she?”
“I’m not so sure those pictures would be enough for a divorce without some corroboration. I mean, assuming Shirley wanted it. With a good lawyer you could fight it and—”
“Fight it?” Farrington’s voice was shocked; so was the look in his eyes. “Oh, no,” he said flatly. “I couldn’t drag the family name through a thing like that, and my mother—” He hesitated again and his tone was quiet. “My mother’s in a terminal illness, Casey. Her condition is inoperable. She could go into a coma any time. She may live a week, another day, a month. Believe me, I’d much rather pay.”
“Okay,” Casey said. “I can understand that part, but you didn’t come here just to tell me your troubles.”
“We came here to ask you what we should do. To get your advice.”
“Okay. You’ve got it. It’s very simple. What you need is the best private detective you can find. Somebody who will start from that apartment-house address and work from there. A good man should be able to turn up that blonde eventually, and if he does, if he puts a little pressure on her—and with your dough he should be able to do that without any trouble—she’ll tell the truth and the whole thing will fall apart.”
“Yes,” Farringon said, nodding, “but do you know anybody like that?”
“Sure,” Casey said. “A fellow named Sam Delemater. Go see him and tell him exactly what happened, and don’t let his appearance fool you. He may seem a little sloppy to you and he likes to play the horses, but he’s completely honest—”
“And discreet and trustworthy?” Mayfield asked.
“All that and more.”
“Will you call him for me?” Farrington asked.
“Be glad to,” Casey said and moved over to the telephone. He thought he remembered Delemater’s number but he checked the directory to make sure and then dialed. Presently a familiar voice came to him and he said: “Sam? Casey. If you can spare a little time from your Racing Form I’ve got a job for you.”
“One of your special jobs?” Delemater said. “I’m not sure I want it. You usually argue about my fee and you’re too tough on my expense account.”
Casey chuckled to show that he appreciated Delemater’s sense of humor, before he said: “This is not for me, Sam. A friend of mine. He won’t argue about fees or expenses or anything else if you can help him. I can’t go into this over the telephone but his name is Donald Farrington and he’ll be down in a few minutes with his brother-in-law, Arthur Mayfield.”
“Farrington? Like in Farrington and Coe?” Delemater said.
“The same. They don’t know anything about private detectives and I recommended you. I told them that you were honest, trustworthy, discreet, closemouthed, and completely dependable.”
This time the chuckle came from Delemater. “And that’s the truth, kid, even if I say so myself … Okay, I’ll wait here for them.”
Farrington and Mayfield were on their feet when Casey hung up. They started to thank him for his help but Casey was still thinking and now he stopped them.
“We ought to do one more thing before you leave.”
“Oh?” Farrington said. “What?”
“Let’s see those three prints again,” Casey said, and when Farrington produced them he selected the one in which the girl’s face was looking at the camera. “I can copy this,” he said, “and make some head-and-shoulder prints for Delemater.”
They eyed him blankly as he hesitated. When he saw that they did not understand what he had in mind, he tried to spell it out for them.
“I’ve got a copying rig out in the darkroom. I take a picture of this picture. When I get down to the office I develop it and then I make some enlargements, masking off everything except this blonde’s face. It won’t be as sharp as the original, but good enough for Delemater. He ought to have something to show around here and there to see if he can find anyone who might recognize the girl. You can leave those three photos with him if you like, but you don’t want him showing the full view, do you?”
They got it then. They admitted that it would probably be a good idea and Casey told them to sit down. He was back in the living room in less than five minutes with the film in his pocket. By that time he had an additional suggestion and he wondered why it had taken him so long to remember that there had been another private detective sitting at the bar at the Melody Lounge last night.
“This probably has no connection with your trouble,” he said, “but so long as there’s a possibility, you might mention it to Delemater. Tell him I saw Earl Geiger at the front of the bar when I came in last night. I don’t know how long he stayed but he was there when I went out—”
“Geiger?” they said.
“Delemater will know him,” Casey said. “He’s a private detective too, but not in Delemater’s league. I understand he does some divorce work and he ought to know about setting up the right kind of evidence when necessary. I don’t know if Delemater can get anywhere talking to him or not, and we’re probably grabbing at straws, but I thought I ought to mention it.”
“Earl Geiger,” Farrington said. “Okay. And thanks, Casey. I can’t honestly say that I feel any better physically—God, what a hangover I’ve got—but I’m a lot more hopeful than I was when I came.”
Mayfield still maintained his air of quiet confidence and now, shaking hands with Casey, he said: “Frankly I was against coming here, but now that we’ve talked to you I’m like Don. I feel one hell of a lot better. If this Delemater is as good as you say he is, we should be able to lick this thing … Come on,” he added, taking Farrington’s arm and turning him toward the door. “Let’s get Delemater started and get back to work.”
Casey went to the door with them. He told them to tell Delemater that he would send him the pictures of the blonde just as soon as he could.
4The photographic department of the Express was called the studio by those who worked there, and when Casey came in shortly after ten and foun
d another photographer typing out captions for pictures he had taken earlier he went on into the developing cubicles. He had processed the negative he had taken in his apartment and was busy making head-and-shoulder prints of the blonde when the telephone rang and the business office demanded a photographer. A bit of argument with the other photographer, whose name was Garvey, and some vague promises of future favors, got Casey off the hook and he was able to send an office boy over to Delemater’s office with the prints before the telephone rang again. This time the assignment was a fire in Sommerville, and Casey was on his way the moment he got the address.
The Express operated four radio oars for the use of photographers and reporters, and two years earlier Casey had made an arrangement with the business manager which was the only one of its kind in the city. Rather than buy an additional car, the company had installed a two-way radio in Casey’s sedan and they paid him by the mile, on the theory that Casey could be depended upon to keep reasonable records as to when the car was being used for business and when the mileage was for personal use. On this morning the fire, a three-story house that threatened the whole block, proved reasonably satisfactory from a photographer’s standpoint and he was nearly back to the office when the city room reached him by radio to say a tractor-crane had tipped over into an excavation near Stuart Street.
Casey had to park a block away but when he reached the site he was in time to get the shot of the operator as he was lifted into the ambulance with a broken leg. He took two more shots of the upset crane and stood a moment listening to the staccato sounds of air hammers and drills and the monotonous pounding of a pile driver as the excavation was prepared for new foundations. Turning back toward his car in this street of three- and four-story loft buildings with ground-floor shops, he passed the structure next to the excavation and then, coming abreast the entrance of the second building, he stopped.
It was not a hunch that motivated his next step. He had no preconceived idea of making another call, but something clicked in his brain as he realized that the building he was looking at housed Earl Geiger’s office. A glance at his watch told him it was eleven twenty. There was no particular hurry in getting his films back to the office and so, purely on an impulse that he could not quite account for, he turned into the narrow doorway that stood between an appliance shop and a dry-cleaning establishment, glanced at the building directory on the wall, climbed the dusty flight of stairs, and continued to the next to last office on the left.
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