“No.”
“Ever been in before?”
“Once, as far as I know. She came in one night last week.”
“When I left she was sitting at a table with Mr. Farrington.”
“That’s right. Ralph Jackson brought her over.”
Casey paused again while he tried to put his bits and pieces of information together.
“Mr. Farrington doesn’t come in often, does he?”
“No. Hardly ever.”
“But Mrs. Farrington does,” Casey said, remembering some statements Quigley had made the night before and wanting confirmation.
“She comes in now and then.”
“Alone?”
“Most of the time. Twice I’ve seen her here with—I think it’s her brother-in-law—Mr. Mayfield. But she has been in alone. She seems to like the music. She sits by herself and has a drink, maybe two.”
“And sometimes Ralph Jackson sits with her.”
Quigley remained attentive and the narrowness still showed in his eyes. “This happened a few times.”
“Does she ever wait and leave with him when he finishes?”
“I never saw her do that. It’s like I said. A drink or two. She listens to a couple of sets and pays her check and takes off.”
“I’m almost through, Tom,” Casey said. “And don’t worry about me spreading whatever you tell me. This is in confidence too. I’m just trying to help a friend. I’ve known Donald Farrington quite a while and I know he’s not a drinking man. Last night I asked you how many he’d had and you wouldn’t tell me. Okay. But he had a good load when he left, didn’t he?”
“He did at that.”
“And the blonde left with him, didn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“Did he need any help?”
“In what way?”
“Well, could he walk by himself?”
“I’m not so sure.” Quigley shook his head. “He took care of the tab, and he got to his feet, but he was having a little trouble and the waiter came over to lend a hand and then—”
He stopped and an odd look came over his broad face.
“What’s the matter?” Casey asked.
“I was thinking about what you told me about Geiger. Geiger came over to help too. As a matter of fact, he and the blonde finally helped Mr. Farrington out the door.”
“Thanks, Tom,” Casey said and came to his feet. What he had just learned did not surprise him, in the light of what he knew; it also seemed to support the pattern that had been forming in his mind since that morning. He was at the door and starting to open it before he remembered another question that had just now occurred to him.
The picture of the Melody Lounge as it had been when he started to take Shirley Farrington home last night was still fixed in his mind and he realized that there was one character he had not mentioned. He had no preconceived idea that Marty Bates had anything to do with what had happened to Farrington, but Marty was brash and curious-minded too. Marty Bates could sometimes smell a situation developing ahead of time and—
“You know Marty Bates, don’t you?”
“Oh, sure.”
“He was at the bar when I left,” Casey said. “How long did he stay?”
“I couldn’t say for sure.” Quigley shrugged heavy shoulders. “You know how it is. I had my own work to do—”
“About how long?”
“Oh—I’d say a half hour.”
“Did he leave before Farrington did?”
“Let me see,” Quigley said and took time to think. “Yes, come to think of it, he did. I was going to say he left about the same time, but I think he went out a little before Mr. Farrington.”
Casey said: “Thanks, Tom,” and offered his hand. Quigley shook it and Casey added: “Logan’s working on this Geiger thing. He and his detectives will be doing a lot of checking, not only about what Geiger was doing today, but yesterday, and the day before that. I wouldn’t be surprised if he finally got around to asking you some questions, but it won’t be because of anything I tell him about what you said. It will be his own idea.”
10There was a heavy black sedan in the parking place opposite Casey’s apartment when he drove along his street shortly before one. He had no lien on this particular spot, but there was usually room here when he came home at night, and now, finding no other space, he turned down the next cross street and parked there. When he had locked up and made sure his old Graphic was secure in the rear deck, he came along the quiet and deserted block, not wondering about the sedan until he saw the man crossing the pavement on an intercepting course.
“Mr. Casey?”
Casey, a pace or two short of the steps that led to the brownstone entrance, stopped to face the approaching figure, not recognizing either the man or the voice. He stood that way, aware that someone had been waiting for him and feeling the first stirring of some inner tension as he recalled the visit he had had that morning from Tony Saxton and his muscle men. He thought the man wore a dark suit and a cap and he could tell now that he was tall and lean and young.
“Yeah,” he said, shifting his weight a little in case he had to move fast.
He watched the man step up on the sidewalk without slowing down, noted the empty hands; then he saw that the dark suit was in fact a uniform and the visored cap part of a chauffeur’s outfit. Across the street he heard a sedan door open and close and now the man said:
“Mrs. Mayfield would like to talk to you.”
Casey’s incipient surprise began to expand but he could feel his muscles relax when he saw the hurrying figure with the camel’s-hair coat draped over the shoulders. Then she was standing by the chauffeur, peering up at him.
“I know it’s late,” she said, a little breathlessly, “but I had to see you.”
“Hello, Mrs. Mayfield,” Casey said. “Been waiting long?”
“Quite a while. I phoned your office after you left the house but they said you wouldn’t be back. I called here and got no answer so I decided to come and wait. We can talk in the car,” she said with no further hesitation, “or if you’ve got any whisky we can talk in your place.”
“I’ve got whisky.”
“Good.” She turned to the chauffeur. “I shouldn’t be too long, Harold.”
Then she was moving beside Casey, letting him open the lower door and preceding him up the stairs to the second-floor landing. She stood aside as he unlocked his door, waiting until he had reached inside to snap on the light. She walked in and let the coat slip from her shoulders as she examined the man-sized chairs and divan and kneehole desk. She glanced slowly about, as though evaluating the etchings and lithographs on the walls. Finally she nodded with what might have been approval.
“It all looks very comfortable.”
“It is for me,” Casey said. “What kind of whisky did you have in mind?”
“If there’s a choice, I’ll have Scotch. With a little water, please.”
She was still standing when Casey came back with the drinks and he saw that she was not as tall as he thought. Fairly high heels helped give the impression, but it was her slenderness and the erect way she held herself that added most to the illusion. Now she looked right at him, the mascaraed eyes darkly speculative as they moved from his chin to the top of his head and back to meet his steady gaze.
“I had to see you,” she said.
“I’m wondering why you didn’t see me this morning.”
The simple announcement put the first crack in a composure that bordered on the arrogant.
“This morning?”
“This morning.”
“Where, this morning?”
“On Meridian Street. In front of Earl Geiger’s place.”
The eyes were wide open now, a hint of consternation mirrored in their depths. Heir mouth was open too, in that moment before she could put down her surprise and think of something to say.
“You were there?”
“On the curb,” Casey said and went on to explain
what he had been doing and what he had seen. He had half expected a protest of some kind, or perhaps a denial, but none came. The explanation that followed was so forthright and unconcerned that he was at once ready to believe she was speaking the truth.
“Ever since I’ve grown up I’ve had the reputation of being a snooty bitch,” she said, “and I guess in a lot of ways I am. To compound the fault—if that’s what it is—I’m nearsighted and blind as a bat without my glasses. I wear contact lenses most of the time but I didn’t have them in this morning. If you were more than ten feet away I couldn’t possibly have recognized you.” She walked over to the divan, turned and sat down on the edge of it, holding the glass in both hands. “You didn’t tell Lieutenant Logan about me.”
“After he found that check of yours,” Casey said, “I didn’t have to. I’ve known him quite a while and I don’t think he’s buying that story you made up for him.”
“He’ll have to buy it until he can prove otherwise.”
“He’s liable to do just that. You went up to Geiger’s office,” he added, “and you were up there five minutes or so. You wrote out that check for a thousand dollars because you had a proposition to make, and don’t tell me you got his name out of a phone book. Who told you about Geiger—your brother?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“This morning after he talked to you.”
“Then you must know what happened to him last night?”
“I do.” She leaned forward and put her glass on the coffee table. “I’m not going to pretend that you and I are good friends just because Don and I are in trouble now. I’ve met you two or three times and in that sense I hardly know you. But Donald seems to think you’re quite a tremendous person. I’ve heard him talk about you before, and the fact that he came to you this morning when he needed help so desperately is good enough for me. If he can trust you that much, so can I. I have to talk to somebody and you seem to be elected. I hope you don’t mind. I hope you’ll give my confidence the same respect that you’re giving Donald’s.”
“I didn’t promise Don anything,” Casey said, impressed by the woman’s frankness and liking the way she expressed herself. “He was in a jam that he didn’t know how to handle and I made some suggestions. Whatever it is you want to tell me will be treated in confidence, up to a point.”
“What point is that?”
“There’s a little matter of murder to be considered now,” Casey said. “Murder is a police job and I don’t know what Lieutenant Logan will come up with. What I’m saying is that if what I know ever happens to become important I’ll have to co-operate. What you tell me is up to you, but if you want to talk you can start by telling me how you knew about your brother’s trouble in the first place?”
For a silent moment or two he could see her eyes probing his. She seemed to be considering not so much the question itself as the course she intended to take. For that brief interval the thin, high-cheekboned face with its smooth olive skin remained grave and then, apparently making up her mind, a small smile came and went and she reached for her glass. She drained it without putting it down and then held it out to him.
“Get me a refill, like a good boy,” she said crisply, “and I’ll tell you … I heard him come in,” she said when Casey came back with the fresh drink. “It was about five o’clock and I haven’t been sleeping too well—partly because my mother hasn’t very long to live—and I had got up to see that the night nurse was still on the job.
“He didn’t see me,” she said, “but I saw him. And believe me, it was a shock. Because if you know my brother you know he doesn’t know what the word ‘carousing’ means. He’s strictly not a drinking man and he knows it and accepts it. I can’t remember when he’s been out till five in the morning—but that wasn’t all. He could hardly stand. But he had his shoes in his hand and he was quiet, and fortunately, I had sense enough not to say anything to him then. I wasn’t worried, you understand; I just couldn’t understand what happened to him.
“Well, I went back to bed, but I couldn’t turn off my mind. I pretended I was asleep when Arthur got up and went into the bathroom to shower and shave. He got dressed and went downstairs for breakfast. I had heard Donald go down before that and then I heard the doorbell. I was standing on the landing when the boy came with a special-delivery letter and I could hear the two men talking in the dining room. I also got another glimpse of Donald when he left and he still looked like death.”
She took some of her drink and put the glass down. “Somehow, call it woman’s intuition if you like, I knew that something was decidedly wrong. By the middle of the morning I couldn’t stand it any longer. I went down to the office, told Donald what I’d seen and heard, and demanded an explanation. If it surprises you that he would tell me the whole story it shouldn’t, and I’ll tell you why.”
She leaned back and let her head come to rest on the cushion, her eyes fixed on some point above Casey’s head. “I’m three years older than Donald and I’ve always been the boss. It started when we were young and I guess I was more like a big brother to him than an older sister. When we used to play together, I took charge and gave the orders and Donald always went along. I suppose I’ve developed into a selfish, aggressive, bossy woman. Maybe I was always that way. Maybe I should have been a man.” She shook her head violently, still not seeing Casey. “No. I like men—some of them. I need a man. I guess I always will. I also made the mistake of marrying much too young,” she said, unaware that she was digressing.
“You may remember seeing the pictures. It was one of those weddings-of-the-year in this town. Two young, attractive people; good families, social position, proper background, and all that rot. The trouble was we were babies. I didn’t know what was expected of me or what to expect from a husband. We fumbled along, knowing it was no good but trying to understand each other, for two and a half years before I got the divorce. So my family sent me abroad and I went to school there for a year and then I came back and a year later I married Nick Mallory.”
Some secret smile touched her eyes as she said: “Well, he was older, and he was a man, and he made me respect him. My bossiness and arrogance got nowhere with Nick. When I’d go into a spin and lose my temper and slap him, he’d slap back. Not in anger or revenge, just to let me know I couldn’t get away with it. He had some money and he didn’t want any more. He was content to let his broker handle his affairs. He had only one love besides me and that was racing cars. We had six wonderful years and went all over the world while he drove those cars, until luck caught up with him and another driver spun into him at Watkins Glen.”
She paused for a second or two, not changing her position, and said: “It took me three years to get over it. But having had a wonderful marriage and knowing what a real man was like, I realized I didn’t want to go it alone any longer. I’d known Arthur Mayfield for years. I knew what he was and what he did. I knew he didn’t have a bean after his father died, but that didn’t matter. I knew he never kept a job for long but I rationalized that objection away by telling myself he was never around in one place long enough to apply himself. He could make enough money playing high-stake bridge and golf to keep himself in clothes and spending money and that’s all he needed. There are always people with money who need an extra man as a house guest and Arthur filled the bill in his own unique way. He was tall and handsome and well mannered and never arbitrary.”
“As a house guest, in payment for his board and room, he was a decided success and traded on his reputation. I think he must have the all-time record—he once stayed nearly two months—and he covered everything from Jamaica to Sun Valley and Bar Harbor to Palm Beach … I guess a woman can talk herself into anything where a man is concerned,” she added with heavy irony. “I married Arthur and Arthur is a very nice guy in his way. Donald made a place for him in the office. He goes there for a few hours most days. His chief interest seems to be trying to please me and getting his golf handicap down from three to scra
tch … He’ll never make it, either,” she added as an afterthought.
“Three is as good as he’ll ever be and he won’t be that good in another year or two. Unfortunately, I’m not the kind who can love a man long if I don’t respect him. Oh, he’s obliging enough. If you push a button or snap your fingers he’s quite ready to fix you a drink or jump into bed—” She stopped suddenly and her eyes came back to Casey. She colored slightly as though realizing the extent of her confession, and now she said:
“That was quite a digression, wasn’t it? You’ll have to forgive me for telling you the story of my life but I’ve had these things on my chest for a long time and, frankly, I’m glad they’re out of the way. You may gather that our marriage isn’t working and you’re right. We both know it and I suppose I’d start divorce proceedings if it weren’t for my mother. She rather thinks I’m a loose woman for having married three times and another divorce would be too much just now.”
Casey nodded, to show her that he understood. What he had heard had been interesting in itself, but because he wanted her to say what she had to say without prompting he waited until she had brought her thoughts back to the original subject.
“Donald told me what had happened because I bullied it out of him. He said he’d been to see you and then another private detective you had recommended. He did mention this man Earl Geiger because you had said you’d seen him at the Melody Lounge last night when all this started. He said you seemed to think that perhaps Geiger was involved, so I decided to take the bit between my teeth.”
She took another breath and said: “Donald’s the diplomatic type, always careful not to hurt anyone’s feelings or step on anyone’s toes. I’m not. I looked up the man’s address in the telephone book and went to see him. I hadn’t talked to him very long before I knew he was a weasel. You know, shifty, evasive, and thoroughly disgusting. Even his evasiveness was filled with innuendos and somehow I became convinced that he really did have something to do with Donald’s trouble. I was ready to think that he had procured the blonde and had either taken the pictures or hired someone to do it. If I’d had a gun with me I would have pointed it at him and demanded that he produce the negatives…. Well, I didn’t have a gun but I have learned one thing, and that is that money will buy very nearly anything if you offer enough of it.”
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