Deadly Image

by George Harmon Coxe

  Such persistence did not faze her. The humorless smile, the indulgent manner, was still in evidence as she said: “What I wanted might take a lot of time.”

  “But you postdated the check.”

  “Because Mr. Geiger only tentatively agreed to represent me. I dated the check Monday and sent it along as evidence of my good faith. He wanted time to think the proposition over and I gave it to him. If, by Monday, he did not want the job, I had only to stop payment on the check….”

  The sound of a key clicking and the turn of a bolt stopped the sentence and a moment later they could hear the front door opening and closing. Shirley Farrington was first in sight as she stopped in the doorway, and as her husband and Arthur Mayfield moved up behind her, Casey and Logan came to their feet.

  None knew Logan, but the sight of Casey was enough to change the first look of surprise on the men’s faces to one of quick concern. Shirley Farrington’s reaction was different. The look of surprise appeared in the green eyes in that first instant, but when Casey introduced Logan there was no worry in her face and, thinking back, Casey remembered that he had never seen her worry about anything. Now, as she acknowledged the introduction, her inspection of Logan was openly curious while Arthur Mayfield moved toward his wife.

  “Police?” he said. “To see you, Louise? Why?”

  The answer came at once and Louise Mayfield took the floor before Logan could interrupt. “A private detective named Geiger was killed this evening and the lieutenant found a check of mine in the man’s wallet. He came here to ask about it.”

  Donald Farrington stood where he was, his muscular face set but the concern still showing in his dark eyes. Shirley Farrington turned her open-eyed inspection to her sister-in-law, but the announcement was more than Arthur Mayfield could take. His handsome face was all humps and wrinkles and his light-blue eyes had a shocked and puzzled expression.

  “You hired a private detective?” he asked. “For God’s sake, why?”

  “I wanted some information,” Louise Mayfield said flatly. “As I told the lieutenant, I considered it a personal and private matter. I talked to Mr. Geiger over the phone and sent him a check.”

  Disbelief still showed in Arthur Mayfield’s eyes but by this time Logan had recaptured the floor.

  “Do any of you know Earl Geiger?” He watched them shake their heads. “Never heard of him?” Again they shook their heads but this time they said: “No,” but not in unison.

  Logan bunched his lips and let his breath out through his nose. “All right,” he said, as though realizing he had gone as far as he could at the moment. “We’re checking out the other tenants in that building right now,” he added. “By tomorrow morning we may know more about who called on Geiger today.”

  He nodded stiffly to Louise Mayfield, thanked her with faint sarcasm for her co-operation, and started through the doorway. As he did so, Mayfield and Farrington stepped quickly to Casey’s side and spoke softly.

  “Geiger?” Farrington said. “Isn’t he the man you told us about this morning? The one who was sitting at the bar at the Melody Lounge last night?”

  “He’s the one,” Casey said. “Did you say anything to Sam Delemater about him?”

  “Yes,” they said.

  “Delemater said he’d look into it,” Farrington said.

  “That was good advice you gave us this morning,” Mayfield said. “I mean about Delemater. He talked as if he knew what he was doing.”

  “He seemed to think he could find the blonde,” Farrington said.

  “Casey!” The voice was Logan’s and it came from somewhere near the front door. “Are you riding with me?”

  Casey started through the doorway, not bothering to say good night and neglecting the amenities. He followed Logan across the sidewalk and into the police car, paying no attention to the lieutenant’s muttered profanities, which until now had been held in check.

  “Who does she think she’s kidding?” Logan continued as he started the motor. “Hired him by telephone? Sent a check for a thousand bucks in the mail without ever meeting the guy? Like hell … Where do you want to go?”

  “Back to the office,” Casey said, “so I can pick up my car.”

  While Logan continued his self-directed monologue of frustration, Casey searched his conscience and tried to reassure himself that the information he had withheld about Louise Mayfield was not in itself important. He could not make himself believe that Louise Mayfield was involved in murder. She had left Geiger’s office long before the time of death as stated by the medical examiner. The fact that she had actually called on Geiger was incidental now. Logan already had his lead in the check. Logan did not believe her story about how she had hired Geiger. He would persist in his investigation, and it might very well be that someone else in the building had seen her. He himself could not, at this point, say anything that would betray the confidence Donald Farrington had placed in him that morning, but there was one other person who might be involved and to whom he owed no allegiance whatsoever. He spoke of it now.

  “I saw one guy this morning who might have gone to see Geiger,” he said.

  “Who?” Logan asked quickly.

  “Ralph Jackson.”

  “The trumpet player?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s the rest of it?”

  “After I left Geiger’s office I walked down the street to my car. I was sitting there lighting a cigarette when I saw Jackson walk down the street. When I started up I saw him turn into the entrance of Geiger’s building. I don’t say he went to see Geiger, understand? Maybe he went in there to buy some stamps or old coins, for all I know. But I remembered seeing Geiger at the Melody Lounge bar last night and that’s where Jackson plays.”

  Logan thought it over before he said: “You didn’t see Jackson come out?”

  “I’d already started rolling when Jackson disappeared.”

  “Thanks,” Logan said, unable as yet to conquer his frustration. “You’re a big help.”

  “Sure,” Casey said. “It wasn’t my idea that I tag along up to the Farringtons’ place. The lady gave you the run-around, so go ahead, take it out on me.”

  Logan seemed to recognize the legitimacy of the complaint because he mumbled something that sounded like an apology as he let Casey out in front of the Express building. He said he might be in touch with Casey in the morning, and if Casey remembered anything else, to let him know.

  9As he had the night before, Casey stopped in at the Melody Lounge on his way home, but this time his interest was not music but the big, bald, and soft-talking barman named Tom Quigley. The room had its usual number of patrons. He had no trouble finding an empty bar stool, but when he ordered his drink the news he got from the small and quick-moving barman he knew only as Eddie was disappointing.

  “Sorry, Mr. Casey,” he said. “It’s Tom’s night off.”

  “Oh.” Casey thought it over a moment and glanced at his watch. “Where does he live now?”

  “He’s been staying at the Royal the last couple of years since his wife died,” Eddie said. “He don’t run around much any more. You could probably find him there if you wanted to stop by.”

  Casey nodded and sipped his drink. Ralph Jackson and his group were between sets and he listened to Duke Baker’s easy piano, appreciating the good left hand and the occasional inverted tenths with the right that reminded him somehow of Herman Chittison. He was still listening when Ralph Jackson appeared in the curtained doorway next to the bandstand, and now Casey put his arm up to get the orchestra leader’s attention and made a beckoning gesture. Jackson came over to take the adjacent stool and they exchanged “Hi’s” as Casey asked what Jackson would have.

  “Eddie knows,” Jackson said and nodded to the barman.

  Casey continued to listen to Duke Baker while the drink was being prepared, but he had one eye on Jackson and as his mind got busy it occurred to him that he might as well ask a few questions.

  Jackson was again wear
ing his double-breasted blue flannel jacket with the silver buttons. The silver identification bracelet was in evidence on one wrist and Casey saw that the hands were long-fingered and strong-looking. The long black hair was sleekly combed, the thin, mustached face that many women found attractive had little color, and suddenly Casey was thinking beyond Jackson to Shirley Farrington, and her husband, and Earl Geiger, and the unknown blonde who had been sitting at the end of the bar the night before. He considered Jackson’s long reputation as a sideman with other bands and he was reminded now of a conversation he had had with Duke Baker a month or so ago, when Jackson’s name had come up.

  Jackson had led other bands, but they were small combinations like the present one, and Duke Baker had suggested that Jackson’s ambition was to have a big band of his own. He would not mind the endless one-night stands and the none-too-profitable hotel dates that would be booked principally to get a good radio outlet. Television and records were what Jackson had in mind, and when Casey had asked Baker what was stopping Jackson, Baker had said:

  “Money, Mr. Casey.” He had given the word time to soak in before he added: “It takes a bundle to get a big band started these days. Orchestrations, rehearsals, getting good men lined up and then putting them on the payroll until you can get the bookings. You either need a backer who is willing to spend or you let the hoods in and they cut you up, so you’re lucky if you own ten per cent of yourself by the time you have it made….”

  The thought and the memory of Duke Baker terminated abruptly when Jackson said: “Cheers,” and lifted his drink a few inches. Casey said: “Cheers,” and decided he might as well ask his question. “Who was that cute blonde you had last night?”

  “Blonde?” Jackson’s mustache lifted in a grin and he showed his teeth. “What blonde? I know dozens of them.”

  Casey grinned back to show he appreciated the remark, and was reminded again of the times he had come here, to find some girl sitting by herself, waiting for Jackson to finish.

  “This one was not bad,” Casey said and pointed. “She was sitting down there.”

  Jackson frowned, as though he was having difficulty recalling the girl.

  “You mean last night?”

  “Last night,” Casey said patiently. “I noticed you sitting down with Mr. and Mrs. Farrington. He was carrying quite a package, wasn’t he?”

  “He sure was,” Jackson said and chuckled.

  “I got talking to Marty Bates,” Casey said, “and when I looked again this blonde was at the table. Who brought her over?”

  “Oh, that one. I did. Farrington had been staring at her and I asked if he wanted to meet her and he said yes.”

  “So what’s her name?”

  “Judy something or other.”

  “Is that how you introduced her?”

  “How else? I don’t know the last names of half of these chicks. They say: ‘Hello, Ralph,’ and I say: ‘Hi, Honey, or doll, or Ruth, or Irma, or Alice.’ Last night I went over to the bar and brought her back. I asked her what her name was and she said Judy. So I said: ‘Judy, this is Mr. and Mrs. Farrington. They want you to have a drink with them.’” He finished his drink and put his glass down. “Why? Is it important? Do you want to meet her sometime?”

  “Yeah,” said Casey. “Like how about tonight?”

  “Are you kidding? I tell you I don’t know her. But she’ll be in again and I can pass the word that you’re interested. Or maybe ask her to give you a ring. Okay?”

  Casey took some more of his drink and made no comment. Because of what had happened to Donald Farrington, he did not believe Jackson’s story, but he could not pick holes in it now since, under ordinary circumstances, such a meeting could have taken place.

  “Did you see Farrington leave?”

  “I saw Mrs. Farrington leave. She came over and talked to you and you went out together.”

  “That left Farrington and this Judy.”

  “Right.”

  “So when did they leave?”

  “I don’t know.” The reply was emphatic enough but Jackson must have seen the skeptical lights in Casey’s dark and narrowed gaze because he added an explanation. “They must have left between sets,” he said. “The boys and I were out back having a sandwich and when we came out for the last set they were gone.”

  Because Casey could not refute the statement, he nodded and digressed. “You know a private detective named Earl Geiger?”

  “I know who he is.”

  “He was in here having a drink last night too.”

  “What about it?”

  “I wondered if he was doing some work for you.”

  Jackson drew back slightly, his mouth twisting beneath the mustache, and his eyes no longer friendly.

  “What the hell is this, anyway?” he demanded. “I think I’m joining you for a pleasant drink and you start giving me the third degree.” He slid off the stool and started to turn away, but Casey’s next word stopped him.

  “If he’s not working for you, why did you stop in his office just before noon this morning?”

  Jackson stood very still. He gave Casey a long and hostile look. “Who says?”

  “I do,” Casey said. “I saw you go in there. I didn’t wait to see you come out, but I saw you go in.”

  “So what the hell business is that of yours?”

  “It’s police business now,” Casey said. “Somebody shot Geiger this afternoon. They didn’t find him until this evening. He’s in the morgue now and Lieutenant Logan’s been asking me some questions.” Casey stood up and buttoned his jacket. “I like to co-operate with Logan when I can,” he said. “I told him about you. He’ll probably be around before long.”

  He put some money on the bar, took a final look at the orchestra leader, half expecting an ugly phrase or a bit of profanity. Apparently Jackson was in a state of shock because he was still staring, has thin face paler than ever, when Casey turned away.

  The Royal was one of the city’s older hotels, and while it was no longer rated as first-class by the automobile touring books it was respectable enough, its clientele mostly semipermanent residents who stayed at reduced rates, and salesmen who traveled on limited expense accounts. A redeeming feature were rooms and baths much larger than the more modern hotels had, and Casey was again reminded of this fact when Tom Quigley admitted him to the room he now called home.

  Quigley, looking as big and bald as ever, was clad in slippers, rumpled slacks, and an old sweater that had worn through at the elbows. The sound of a late movie on the television set filled the high-ceilinged room and Quigley’s moon-like face held a look of obvious surprise as he recognized his caller and, after an uncertain moment, stepped out of the way and invited Casey in. He padded over to turn off the television set and Casey made his apologies for coming so late, adding that he was glad that Quigley had not yet gone to bed.

  “No trouble about that, Mr. Casey,” Quigley said. “I’ve got the habit of going to bed late over the years and I make up for it by getting up late in the mornings.”

  Casey glanced about the comfortable-looking room, noting the double bed in the alcove, and the heavy chairs and odd tables, some of which Quigley might have brought with him. He sat down at the other’s invitation and took a moment to wonder how he could best approach the questions that were piling up in his mind.

  “I’m trying to run down some things, Tom,” he said finally. “I thought maybe you could help me.”

  “I will if I can,” Quigley said quietly.

  “It has to do with your job, and the Melody Lounge, and some of the customers you had there last night. You’ve been a bartender a long time,” he added. “You hear all kinds of conversations and learn all kinds of things. You can size up a customer in a hurry. You see everything and you know what goes on.”

  Quigley nodded. “That’s true,” he said. “A man wants to talk and I’m not busy, I listen. I hear things a man is telling a perfect stranger that he wouldn’t tell his best friend or even his lawy
er. And you know why? Because a man who comes in and buys a drink considers his stool and his part of the bar sort of a private reservation. He doesn’t care what the bartender hears because he knows damn well the bartender has to be a sort of sphinx, you know what I mean? They trust you by ignoring you and counting on you to keep your ears plugged and your lips buttoned. A barman is supposed to look without seeing and listen without hearing; unless the customer wants to talk, and then he’s supposed to listen.”

  Casey nodded, but the other wasn’t through.

  “What you hear is supposed to be in confidence and if word gets around that a place has a gabby barman who passes along what he hears, how long do you think the place is going to stay in business?”

  Casey nodded again, unable to suppress a momentary grin at the way Quigley had expressed himself and put his point across.

  “I’m not asking you to betray any confidences, Tom,” he said. “But I have a friend who may be in some trouble. That trouble could have started at the Melody Lounge last night. Now it wouldn’t be good if word got around that the Lounge was the kind of place a decent, well-behaved guy could get in trouble in, would it?”

  The moon face developed a frown and furrows climbed the bald head. “I’m not sure I follow you.”

  “You know a private detective named Geiger? He was sitting alone at one end of the bar when I was there last night.”

  “I know who he is. He doesn’t come in often.”

  “He got himself killed today,” Casey said and went on to give a quick resume of what he had learned from Logan. When he finished, Quigley took another few seconds to digest the information and the frown was still there.

  “How does the Melody Lounge figure in that?”

  “I don’t know that it does.”

  “So who was your friend that might’ve got in trouble?” Quigley hesitated, his expression changing and his gaze narrowing slightly. “Would it be Mr. Farrington?”

  “There was a busty young blonde sitting at the bar at the opposite end from Geiger.”

  “I remember her.”

  “Is she a regular?”