Deadly Image

by George Harmon Coxe

  Casey pushed his hat back, his rugged face warping in a frown as he considered the information. What he had just heard seemed to confirm the hunch that Marty Bates was indeed involved in some way with Farrington’s trouble.

  He recalled rumors that said Marty engaged now and then in some petty blackmail with candid pictures he had taken surreptitiously. Marty had said yesterday morning that he needed a stake and wanted very much to leave town. But Marty was neither mean nor malicious. He was never very particular how he picked up a few dollars, but neither did he fit into the picture as a big-time operator. Now, bringing his attention to Farrington, Casey said:

  “You said you were willing to pay. Does that still go?”

  “It certainly does. I’ll pay what I have to pay. The reason I wanted to talk to you was to see if you could give me some kind of an idea what I might offer the man when he calls back.”

  “There’s no sense in paying more than he has to,” Mayfield added. “How do we know what this character has in mind? It could be five hundred dollars, it could be five thousand.”

  “I’d be willing to pay more,” Farrington said, “but not unless I have to.”

  With Marty Bates still in mind, Casey considered the question and finally suggested that it might be a good idea to compromise between the five hundred and the five thousand.

  “How about offering him twenty-five hundred? If the guy who talked to you doesn’t have much, he’ll probably grab it. You can afford it and it’s worth it. If he goes for the offer, it’s a good deal. If he laughs at you, you can always go up.”

  Farrington, who had remained standing, eased back into his chair and looked relieved. “I’ll do it,” he said. “And I suppose if we make a deal the fellow’ll want cash. I’d better get some before the bank closes.”

  “Speaking of cash,” Casey said, the purpose of his call moving to the forefront of his mind, “do you usually carry quite a little on you?”

  “As a rule,” Farrington said. “Why do you ask?”

  “I saw Sam Delemater after you talked to him. He showed me four fifty-dollar bills you had given him as a retainer.”

  “That’s right.”

  “How long ago did you get them?”

  “A couple of days ago. As you say, I like to have some cash either on me or where I can get at it after hours. I got a thousand in new fifties.”

  “How many did you have in your wallet the night before last?”

  “I had six.”

  “And how much in your pocket?”

  “Around forty dollars, I guess.”

  “You paid the check at the Melody Lounge, didn’t you?”

  “I don’t remember actually, but I probably did.”

  “When you woke up in that apartment yesterday morning you still had your wallet.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Did you look in it?”

  “It was the first thing I did. The four fifties I gave Delemater were still there. I didn’t worry about what happened to the other two because I was glad to find I still had two hundred dollars left.” He tipped his head, half closing one eye. “Why? I mean, what are you getting at?”

  “I don’t know,” Casey said.

  “There has to be some reason for all these questions.”

  “There’s a reason,” Casey said, “but I can’t put it into words right now. Call it a hunch, call it a pipe dream. But there’s an outside chance that I just might know who called you.”

  “Who?” said Farrington and Mayfield together.

  “I wouldn’t want to mention any names until I can do a little more checking. If I were you, I’d just hope that this guy can produce before whoever it was that framed you starts to put the pressure on.”

  “That’s exactly what I am hoping,” Farrington said.

  “Then go ahead and make the offer. If I should come up with anything before you actually pay off, I’ll let you know.”

  “I’ll be in touch with you anyway,” Farrington said.

  “Good enough,” Casey said and straightened his hat. “Call the office when you’re ready. If I’m not in, leave a message and I’ll get to you one way or another …”

  The work that Casey had avoided by coming in late piled up on him as the day progressed. He had two assignments that morning and it was nearly two o’clock before he had time to get a sandwich. He took time then to telephone Marty Bates’s apartment, but there was no answer. There was no answer when he called again at three. An interview with a professor out at the medical school took him and a reporter nearly an hour and when, shortly after four, he started back for the office he again remembered Marty Bates.

  Bates had an apartment in a three-story brick building not far from Massachusetts Avenue and Casey made a slight detour. Stopping in front of the apartment house and asking the reporter, whose name was Evans, if he minded waiting a couple of minutes, he crossed the sidewalk and moved through the glass doors to the vestibule in front of the stairs. An oblong table against the wall held a package of laundry and some advertising circulars that had come through the mail, and Casey moved on, seeing no one on the stairs and meeting no one in the third-floor hall when he knocked at Marty Bates’s door. When, after the third knock, he realized he was not going to get an answer, he tore a sheet out of a small notebook he carried and wrote:

  Marty: Where the hell are you? Trying to reach you all afternoon. Call me at the office. Important. Casey.

  He slipped the sheet under the door and went back to his car. He had not been in the office more than ten minutes and was, in fact, still in the darkroom when the intercom connecting with the anteroom squawked and a photographer named Lathrop said Casey was wanted on the phone.

  “Tell him to hang on,” Casey said and checked his films before putting them in the fixing tray. Back in the anteroom, Lathrop stopped typing a caption long enough to nod toward the telephone on the desk, and when Casey spoke into the mouthpiece the voice of Donald Farrington came to him, its accents excited and jerky.

  “He called,” Farrington said.

  “When?”

  “Just now.”

  “Did you make your offer?”

  “Yes. He took it.”

  “No argument?”

  “None. He said he’ll have all the information I’d need—he mentioned some pictures—and I’m to meet him on the north-east comer of James and Cooper Streets at eight tonight. Will you go with me?”

  The request surprised Casey and it took him a moment to gather his thoughts and frame a reply. “He didn’t say anything about coming alone?”

  “No. He just said to bring the money in cash.”

  “Maybe Sam Delemater would be a better man to have along?”

  “I want you with me,” Farrington said. “I’ll feel a lot better if you’ll come. Don’t think I don’t appreciate what you’ve done already for me, but please don’t quit now.”

  “Okay,” Casey said, unable to stifle a sigh, but knowing he could not turn down such a request. “I’ll meet you there at—say—twenty minutes of eight.”

  “I’ll be there,” Farrington said. “I’ll be waiting. And thanks, Casey. I won’t forget it.”

  The wind had swung into the east during the afternoon and the air that was so crisp and clear during the morning had a feeling of dampness now as darkness descended and Casey eased his car along the curb on James Street at a quarter of eight. He realized now that the appointed comer had been well chosen because this was a commercial district of blank-walled warehouses and wholesale establishments, which offered few doorways and no good place where a man could stand unobserved. The street light spread its yellow glow bleakly upon the immediate intersection and was quickly lost, and now, approaching the nearest corner with his parking lights on, he saw a solitary figure standing close to the brick wall just ahead.

  He kept the motor idling so that both the company and police radios would remain activated. He could find no other cars parked in the immediate area. He wondered about this
as he left the car and started along the sidewalk, seeing Donald Farrington step away from the wall and turn to meet him.

  “Where’s your car?”

  “I used a taxi,” Farrington said. “I knew you’d come in your car and I thought if this fellow saw two cars parked here it might scare him off.”

  “You’ve got a point,” Casey said. “You know, it might be a good idea if I stayed in my car and kept out of sight. If this guy sees two of us standing on the corner, he might decide not to stop.”

  “All right,” Farrington said. “I guess that would be better. And remember, if he shows up don’t try anything. Just stay there. I want whatever he’s got and I’m willing to pay and no questions asked. All I want from you is moral support.”

  They watched a car come down Cooper Street and cross the intersection. A second or two later a panel truck followed it. At the same time headlights coming up James focused on them as a sedan came to a stop to obey the sign that made Cooper a through street. When the sedan made a left turn and was gone, Casey said:

  “Moral support? You got it. But don’t stand against the wall; stand out here nearer the curb, where you can be seen. If you want me, give me a wave.”

  Back in his own car, he lit a cigarette and slouched down in the seat so that only his eyes and the top of his head showed above the windshield and door windows. He turned down the police radio slightly and started to count the cars that went by.

  When he heard the sound of an incoming passenger train in the railroad cutoff a block away, he glanced at his watch and saw that it was 8:05. By that time he had noticed fourteen cars of various sizes and shapes, none of which seemed familiar and none of which slowed down except when the stop sign made it necessary. Up ahead, Farrington was patrolling his particular corner, walking a few steps to one curb to peer up and down and then coming back to the intersecting curb to repeat the process. Casey was still slumped down in the seat and the police dispatcher had just announced the time as 8:17 when the company radio sputtered and crackled to life.

  “City desk calling car 83,” the distorted voice said. “City desk calling car 83 … Come in, Casey.”

  Casey grabbed the microphone and pressed the button. “Car 83,” he said. “Go ahead.”

  “Where are you?”

  “James and Cooper.”

  “You on anything special?”

  “No. What have you got?”

  “We just got a call from Lieutenant Logan. Get this address,” the city editor said and gave the street and number. “Logan wants you there on the double. He said to ask for him.”

  “You don’t know why?”

  “He didn’t say. Whatever it is didn’t come through police headquarters because we’ve had no word yet from Connolly. So call back as soon as you find out what the hell it’s all about … Over and out.”

  Casey hung up the microphone slowly and sat a moment, staring sightlessly through the windshield as an odd feeling of tension and uncertainty began to build inside him. What he had just heard disturbed him greatly and he tried not to think too much as he left the car and started up the darkened street.

  “I just got a call on the office radio,” he said as Farrington again came to meet him. “I’m sorry, kid, but I’ve got to run.”

  “All right,” Farrington said quietly. “Thanks for sticking it out as long as you have … I probably should have come alone,” he added, his feeling of disappointment and defeat apparent in the tone of his voice. “He could have seen the two of us and got scared off.”

  “He could have changed his mind,” Casey said. “If he’s got what he says he has, he’ll be in touch again. Do you want me to drop you somewhere, or are you going to stick around?”

  “I’ll stick it out a while longer,” Farrington said. “I’ve got nothing else to do.”

  “Okay,” Casey said and gave the younger man’s shoulder a hard squeeze. “I’ll call you when I can.”

  He went back to his car and put it in gear. He slowed slightly at the corner in token obedience to the stop sign, and as he accelerated the feeling of tension had given way to a sense of dread and foreboding that he could no longer avoid. For the address that Logan had mentioned was doubly familiar now because he had stopped there that afternoon when he had been trying to find Marty Bates.

  13The address Casey had in mind was a residential district made up largely of small, middle-class apartments. Unlike his trip to Earl Geiger’s office on Meridian Street the previous night, congestion was a problem now and he had to park a block away from the building he sought. When he locked the car he started along the sidewalk, camera in hand, aware that the pavement had been blocked off at each end, that windows were open on both sides of the street as curious tenants leaned across the sills to get a grandstand view of the proceedings. Others on the sidewalk stood quietly in small groups, and three uniformed policemen were stationed at strategic points to keep the immediate area around the doorway clear.

  The officer who stopped Casey and eyed his camera suspiciously happened to know who he was, but he remained adamant until Casey told him his story and challenged the man to disprove it. Still skeptical, the officer accompanied him to the glass door and spoke to a colleague stationed inside the entryway. In this way the word was passed and when the affirmative answer came, Casey could not resist saying: “I told you so,” as he started inside.

  At no time did he ask what had happened or where he was supposed to go. The dread feeling that weighed so heavily on his mind could not be avoided and he carried his burden up the stairs, his gaze troubled and morose as he moved past the policeman on the third-floor landing and headed toward the open door he had knocked on a few hours earlier. For he knew somehow that Marty Bates was dead, like Earl Geiger, and his earlier assumption that Marty must have plunged into a situation that was beyond his depth was no longer important.

  There were two detectives in the sparsely furnished and disordered living room, but most of the activity seemed to be centered in the hallway opposite the entrance. Here, and in an open doorway beyond, the floodlights of the police photographer furnished a bright glare that put the investigating officers in silhouette, and Casey stood waiting until Lieutenant Logan moved into the room, talking to a small, nondescript man Casey had never seen before.

  When he saw Casey, Logan stopped talking, said: “Wait!” and led the man over to the two detectives. As they went into a huddle, Casey checked his camera and moved a little closer to the hallway, not wanting any part of what he had to do, motivated solely by habit and the ingrained automatic necessities of his job. He was still waiting for the police photographer to finish when Logan took him by the arm.

  “What do you think you’re going to do?” he demanded.

  “What do you think?” Casey said, unimpressed by the lieutenant’s tone.

  “I didn’t get you over here to take pictures,” Logan said. “It’s nothing personal, you understand, but I’ve got a job to do and—”

  “And I’ve got a job, too,” Casey said. “I don’t know what you want from me, but I’m here. It was your idea. If you want to stop me from taking a picture, you’d better throw me out right now.”

  For a moment the two glared at each other, their friendship momentarily forgotten. Each was aware of the demands of his job. Neither wanted to back down. There was impatience rather than anger in the impasse and it was Casey who made the first conciliatory gesture.

  “One picture,” he said. “And don’t get the idea I’m asking for a favor. You wouldn’t have sent for me if you hadn’t wanted something. If you want co-operation, give a little. What the hell’s the matter with you, anyway?”

  For another second or two Logan chewed on his lip and wavered on the brink of indecision. But under such circumstances Casey was a hard man to argue with and in the end the lieutenant broke the stalemate.

  “Okay.” He blew out his breath and made noises in his throat. “One.”

  “One is all I want,” Casey said. “Is it Marty B
ates?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “In the bathroom.”

  “How?”

  “Two slugs in the back of the head. One missed.”

  “In the back of the head?” Casey said, a new sickness rising quickly in him. “Jesus!”

  “Yeah,” Logan said. “Just keep out of the way until I’m ready for you, will you?”

  Casey lit a cigarette and leaned back against the wall, the nausea churning at the pit of his stomach, and an odd weakness in his legs. He was not too aware of what went on around him for the next few minutes. He kept asking himself if there was anything he could have done to prevent this. He did not try to understand why Marty Bates should have been killed the way he had. He thought briefly of Tony Saxton, for this was the method used by professional killers to get rid of undesirables.

  When he could find no good reason why Saxton should take such a step, his thoughts moved on, and in the end the conclusion that came to him seemed inescapable. Earl Geiger had set up Donald Farrington for a frame on which he or someone expected to collect in a big way. Marty Bates, who had been at the Melody Lounge when the frame-up apparently was getting under way, had somehow injected himself into the situation. He, Casey, had no idea why Geiger had been killed but it seemed now that Marty Bates must have had some knowledge of Geiger’s death and had therefore become a threat to the killer. Furthermore, if, as he suspected, Bates was the man who had made the date for 8:00 with Donald Farrington, it was at once clear why Bates had never made the contact.

  When Casey put his cigarette out, he noticed that the deputy medical examiner, who had been at Geiger’s office the night before, was now talking to Logan. Realizing then that the police photographer had turned off his lights, Casey moved into the hallway and stopped at the bathroom door. He saw nothing at all except the crumpled figure on the floor and, remembering how Marty Bates had died, he was grateful that someone had been here before him to throw a blanket over the body.