Deadly Image

by George Harmon Coxe

  “What did he say?” Casey asked, interrupting the monologue for the first time.

  “Nothing definite,” she said, “but you’d be pretty stupid not to sense that the man had more than his share of greed. I said I wanted the negatives and I was willing to pay for them. I wrote out the check and said there would be more if he delivered. I told him the check was merely a down payment and evidence of good faith. That’s why I dated it ahead. Of course I was bluffing, but I didn’t see how he could know that, because I was perfectly willing to pay. I think he knew that. I told him he had until Monday to make up his mind. I said if he didn’t know anything about the pictures and couldn’t make good, I’d simply stop payment on the check. If he was willing to deliver, all he had to do was call and we could talk money.”

  Casey found himself agreeing with her. She seemed to have assessed Geiger’s fundamental character with considerable skill and insight, and what she said seemed to coincide with his own preconceived idea of what she was really like.

  “Did you get the impression that Geiger could have had those negatives, or knew where he could get them?”

  “Yes. He wouldn’t admit a thing, but why should he take my check if there wasn’t some possibility that he could cash it?”

  “If you’re right, who hired him? I don’t think it was just coincidence that he happened to be at the Melody Lounge last night. I don’t think he could set up a performance like that on his own.”

  “If anyone hired him, I’d say it was my sister-in-law.”

  “Shirley?”

  “You don’t have to look so surprised, just because she has a pretty face and a lovely body. She’s a pretty smart girl, and she knows her way around, but I’m not at all sure of her moral integrity, and I’m not just talking about sex. You see, I saw quite a little of her when she was a teen-ager and a classmate of my kid sister at finishing school. You probably don’t remember her—my sister, I mean. She married young too, but she made it work. She’s living in Santa Barbara with a nice husband and two lovely children … Well, during vacations Shirley spent more time at our house than she did at her own, but I suppose her mother was mostly to blame for that.”

  She paused and said: “Her mother was working on her third husband about that time. From little things that came up, I’m pretty sure Shirley had found her mother entertaining other gentlemen friends now and then before that. The moral climate of that house was bad and Shirley could have been influenced by that, even though she tried to avoid it whenever she could. I don’t know what she was doing during those years in Florida, but I know damn well she set her hooks for Donald, and she caught him.”

  “With her experience and her looks and her body, it wouldn’t be hard to sell Donald. Where women are concerned, he’s probably the most naïve man of his age in the country. He made a job for her in the office and she held him up long enough to make sure he was in love with her. He still is. But my guess is that he’s working on a one-way street now. I think Shirley’s bored with him, and us, and the life we lead.”

  “Then why doesn’t she leave?”

  “Money. She has no grounds for divorce, and if she persisted in getting one, any alimony or settlement would be on the small side. If she happened to get hold of those pictures, she could drive a much harder bargain, couldn’t she?”

  “You’re still working on woman’s intuition, aren’t you?” Casey said dryly. “Has your brother said anything at all to make you think he’s worried about his marriage?”

  “Well—no.”

  “And Shirley?”

  “She’s too smart to say anything.”

  “No arguments, accusations, complaints?”

  “Nothing like that. I can’t explain it. To me, it’s a matter of attitude.” She gave him a small, twisted smile. “All right, have it your way. Call it intuition. I’m prejudiced, I admit it. But you yourself agree that Geiger must be mixed up in this thing, and now he’s dead. For your information, I didn’t kill him.”

  “From the looks of things, that shooting wasn’t premeditated,” Casey said. “In Geiger’s line of work, he could have made trouble for a lot of people. Somebody came to his office wanting something or maybe wanting to pay back a grudge. Someone pulled a gun and it went off. Lieutenant Logan’s having Geiger’s files examined now. My guess is that anyone who had anything to do with Geiger in the last year or so will be checked out. If he finds out what happened to your brother last night, he’s going to be asking a lot of questions.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.” She stood up and reached for her coat, swinging it across her shoulders before Casey could help her. She stepped close, her shadowed eyes inspecting him openly. “I don’t know what I’ve accomplished by coming here, but I feel better. I may be wrong, but I don’t think you’re going to say anything to your friend the lieutenant unless you have to. Also I’m beginning to see what my brother saw in you.”

  Casey, going along with the compliment he could see coming, wondered what he should say. Before he could think of anything, the compliment came.

  “I’m beginning to think you’re quite a guy.”

  “Thank you, madam.” Casey grinned at her. “You mean I’m a good listener.”

  “Only terrific.”

  “More whisky?”

  “No thanks. All I need now is your continued indulgence and—I hope—good will.” She started for the door and he opened it for her. As she moved past him, she put her hand on his forearm and squeezed once. “Don’t bother to come down with me,” she said and then she was at the stairs and he stood watching her until her dark head disappeared.

  11Casey’s mind was too busy with the events of the evening to give sleep a chance, and as he lay there staring into the darkness of his bedroom he remembered a small incident that had heretofore remained buried in the subconscious part of his brain. Now, examining it with care and realizing that it might offer Lieutenant Logan a possible lead, he kept it near the surface of his mind as sleep finally took charge. He recalled it again the next morning while he was shaving, and when he was ready to leave he telephoned the office and told them he would be a few minutes late.

  Ten minutes after he had left his apartment, he parked his car diagonally across the street from police headquarters in the bright fall sunshine. He gave his lungs generous samples of the crisp air as he went up the broad stone steps, saluted the officer at the information desk, and continued to the elevator. As he stepped out on the fourth floor and turned right, he saw a familiar and somewhat disheveled figure moving toward him along the corridor.

  Marty Bates had his head down as he approached. He did not see Casey and Casey did not speak but put his bulk in front of the smaller man so that Bates remained preoccupied until he ran into Casey, bounced to a stop, and glanced up with startled, impatient eyes.

  “What the hell! Oh—hi, Casey.”

  “Where’ve you been, talking to Logan?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why?”

  “It was a command performance. Two hours worth and four thousand questions. Or maybe it was five questions asked eight hundred times.”

  “Geiger?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why?”

  “He found out I went to see him yesterday.”

  “What time?” Casey asked, his interest quickening.

  “According to Logan, about the time Geiger stopped the slug.” Bates shrugged expressively. “But you know how it is with cops. Can’t tell if they’re lying or bluffing or just trying to box you in.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “The truth. Sure I went to see Geiger. But I didn’t. I mean, he wasn’t in and the door was locked … Look,” he added, quickly stepping around Casey and continuing his course. “I better get the hell out of here before Logan changes his mind. See you later, hunh?”

  The outer office with its tables and chairs and typewriters was deserted except for one detective who sat with his back to the window, reading the morning newspaper.
He glanced up as Casey started for Logan’s door, gave a small nod of recognition, but made no comment. Casey knocked, opened the door a few inches without waiting for an invitation. When he saw that Logan was alone, he continued into the little office and closed the door behind him.

  There was a flicker of annoyance in Logan’s dark eyes as he glanced up from the papers he had been shuffling, but when he recognized his caller a new look took command of his lean, angular face. He stacked the papers, put them down. He leaned back slightly and placed his hands on the arms of the chair.

  “All right,” he said gruffly but not unkindly. “What do you want?”

  “I thought of something,” Casey said.

  “Like something you should have told me last night?”

  “It probably isn’t important,” Casey said. “And anyway I didn’t remember it until just before I went to sleep.”

  Logan made an elaborate gesture with one hand that was meant to wave Casey to the chair at the end of the desk.

  “Sit down,” he said. “Take your time. I’ve just finished talking to one ex-newspaperman; I might as well talk to you.”

  “Yeah,” Casey said. “I just saw Marty Bates in the hall. He said he’d had a session with you.”

  “Skip Marty Bates,” Logan said. “What’s this thing you just remembered?”

  “Well,” Casey said, stretching his legs and crossing his ankles, “I told you I talked to Geiger a few minutes yesterday morning.”

  “So?”

  “While I was there, he had a phone call. I don’t know what it was about, and he didn’t say much, but I got the idea that whatever was said shook him up a bit. I’m pretty sure he was afraid to do any talking with me there. He told whoever it was that he’d call back in a few minutes.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Not quite,” Casey said, “and you can skip the sarcasm. Geiger had a Racing Form spread out on his desk. I guess he’d been trying to find some winners and before he hung up he picked up the pencil he’d been using and jotted down this number he was supposed to call in the margin of the Racing Form. I thought maybe, if you hadn’t thrown the Racing Form away, you might want to check the number and see who had called him.”

  An odd smile had begun to show on Logan’s face as Casey finished. Unable to fathom the expression, Casey waited a few seconds, and when Logan continued to watch him, he said:

  “What are you grinning about?”

  “Nothing in particular,” Logan said. “That was a pretty good idea you remembered and we didn’t throw away the Racing Form. The precinct detectives have been checking out a lot of things; they still are. That Racing Form was just one of them. We wondered about that number, so we followed through. It was listed under Marty Bates’s name. That’s why he was here.”

  “Oh,” said Casey.

  “Yeah.”

  “So what did Marty say?”

  “He admitted he’d telephoned Geiger. He said Geiger called him back. He said he’d worked for Geiger before. You know—taking pictures when Geiger needed them as evidence in some case.”

  “Why not?” Casey said. “Marty was a free lance. He’d take pictures of anything if there was a buck in it.”

  “But Geiger had a darkroom at his office, remember?” Logan said. “We figured maybe Geiger did his own picture taking. Bates admitted it but it didn’t shake him. He said sometimes Geiger needed outside help. He admitted he made a date with Geiger for around one thirty, but not until after we had already identified him as being in the building.”

  “How?”

  “A dealer in old coins has an office across the hall. He saw Bates outside Geiger’s door. He heard him knock and saw him try the door. He thought probably the door was locked, but if Bates had been in Geiger’s office, and was caught just after he came out, he could have pretended the door was locked.”

  “Has the medical examiner been able to narrow down the time of death?”

  “Not much,” Logan said. “But we got a little help from someone else.” He hesitated and began to teeter back and forth in his chair, restricting his movement to an inch or two each way. “The guy who has the office upstairs heard what could have been two shots. One, and a couple of seconds later, the second.”

  “What time was that?”

  “One thirty. Not later. Earlier, if anything. He didn’t actually identify the sound as shots. He’d be no good to us in court. All he’ll admit is that the sounds were different enough to make him step to the window. But they’re putting up that building only three doors down the street. The jackhammers were going, and the pile driver, and he decided what he had heard came from there.”

  “How does that time figure with Marty’s call on Geiger?”

  “We can’t pinpoint it but it’s close enough to keep us bearing down.”

  “Did you find the gun?”

  “No.” Logan shook his head. “There was no gun in Geiger’s apartment.”

  “Then the killer could have used it. I mean, Geiger could have tried to pull it and been a little slow and—”

  “That’s the way it looks,” Logan said. “They could have grappled for the gun, which would explain the shot that went wild. The one that killed him was practically a contact shot and had a funny angle through the body.”

  Casey stood up. He had nothing more to say and what he had heard was disconcerting. He was ready to admit that Earl Geiger could have been killed because of his implication in the frame that had been set up for Donald Farrington, but he had no evidence of this, no proof.

  That Marty Bates might somehow have become involved in the same operation was now a definite possibility, and as he said goodbye to Logan and went into the hall, remembered things came back to him. By the time he reached the public telephone in the main lobby, he knew there was one other thing that he should check.

  Yesterday morning Marty Bates had come to the Express to pay up on a seventy-dollar debt. He had given Casey a twenty-dollar bill and a fifty. Casey still had the fifty in his pocket. It had a crisp, new feel to it and he placed it on the little ledge next to the telephone while he dialed Sam Delemater’s office.

  “Sam,” he said when he had identified himself. “Don Farrington gave you four fifty-dollar bills yesterday as an advance for your services. Do you still have them?”

  “Sure.”

  “Get them out, will you?”

  Delemater did not argue and in a moment he said: “They’re out. What about them?”

  “Look and see if their numbers are consecutive.”

  “They are.”

  “Read off the last two digits, will you?”

  “Sixty-three, four, five, and six.”

  Casey looked at the bill he had taken from his pocket. When he saw that the serial number ended in six and seven, he was ready to believe that the fifty-dollar bill Marty Bates had given him had also come from Donald Farrington’s wallet.

  “What’s this all about?” Delemater asked.

  “Just checking out on something,” Casey said. “How you coming with that missing blonde?”

  “I’m working at it,” Delemater said. “Don’t rush me, kid. I should have something by tonight.”

  Casey backed from the telephone booth. He looked at the fifty-dollar bill another few seconds, then folded it and put it back in his trousers’ pocket. He thought he knew where Marty had got that fifty-dollar bill. To be absolutely sure, he needed confirmation from Donald Farrington and he decided now that the Express could get along without him for another fifteen or twenty minutes.

  12The firm of Farrington and Coe had its own building just off State Street, and compared to its multi-storied neighbors it had a conservative, sedate, old-fashioned look. It was only two stories high, its facade dark-red brick with white trim; the granite framework for the carved wooden door was colonial in design and the entrance, two steps up from the street level, was marble-floored. The door stood open at this hour and Casey moved inside, his glance sweeping the high-ceilinged interior.r />
  At the rear were desks and office machines and clerical workers. On the left, behind a railing, were a dozen leather-backed chairs which faced the quotation board and the lighted Translux tape with its moving symbols that gave the latest sales prices to the interested clients who occupied the chairs. Four or five desks were lined up on the right for customers’ men, and behind them wood paneling closed off the private offices. Arthur Mayfield, looking very handsome, urbane, and business-like in his expertly tailored gray suit, was on the telephone at the first desk when he spotted Casey, and he gestured with his free hand while he jerked his head toward Don Farrington’s office behind him. Casey had already started that way, and when he knocked and entered, Farrington jumped up from behind the desk, an air of excitement on his dark, good-looking face.

  “Thanks for coming so soon, Casey,” he said. “Your office said they weren’t sure when you’d be in but didn’t think you’d be long.”

  “Oh,” said Casey. “You called me?”

  “Why—yes. Didn’t they tell you?”

  “I haven’t been to the office yet,” Casey said. “I stopped by to ask you about something, but anyway I’m here. What’s up? More trouble?”

  “Quite the contrary. I think maybe we finally got a break.” He hesitated as the door opened and Arthur May-field entered, to stand beside Casey. “You see, I got this call.”

  “When?”

  “About a half an hour ago. Not longer. This voice—it was a man—said he understood I was in some trouble. I asked who was talking and he said it didn’t matter. He said he thought he had come up with some evidence that would prove I was deliberately framed the night before last, and how much was it worth to me.”

  “What did you tell him?” Casey asked.

  “I didn’t get a chance to tell him anything. He said I should think it over and decide what I wanted to pay. He said he’d call back sometime this afternoon and I could make an offer. Before I could say anything more, he hung up.”