Deadly Image

by George Harmon Coxe

  Keeping his word to Logan, he took but one picture and kept his glance averted after the flash gun had exploded. He backed into the living room and found a chair. The queasiness was still in his stomach. He wanted a drink and he tried hard not to do any thinking when the ambulance men came. He was looking out the window when they left with their burden, and a little later he realized that the room behind him had quieted somewhat and there was less activity. When, finally, Logan came over to him and he turned to face the lieutenant, it occurred to him that he still did not know just what Logan wanted of him.

  “Who found him?” he asked.

  “The landlord. A package of laundry was delivered to Bates some time this afternoon. It was on the table in the downstairs hall and the guy thought he’d do Bates a favor by bringing it up.”

  Casey, remembering the laundry he had seen downstairs when he had made his call, said: “What time was that?”

  “A few minutes before eight. When he came in and took a look around he could tell by the way the room had been ransacked that something was wrong. He says he called out and got no answer, so he decided to take a better look. He found Bates in the bathroom.”

  “Who did he report it to?” Casey asked, wondering why the newspapers did not already know about the murder.

  “Not headquarters,” Logan said. “I mean, not through the telegraph bureau. He could tell by looking at Bates that it was murder and he asked for Homicide. I happened to be in.”

  “You didn’t put anything on the air for a radio car?”

  “Sure,” Logan said, a faint grin warping his mouth, “but not so any of you cute newspapermen would know it. The dispatcher simply told the radio car to report to the landlord at this address.”

  “Oh,” said Casey.

  “Yeah,” Logan said. “And you know why I sent for you, don’t you?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Your memory must be slipping.” Logan pulled a small piece of paper from his pocket and not until Casey saw it did he remember the note he had left for Marty Bates. He listened while the lieutenant read it aloud and tried to think of some good answer, when Logan added: “I want to know what was so important that you had to see Marty Bates. What time did you leave this note?”

  “I’m not sure. I didn’t look at my watch. I’d say it was between four and four thirty. Somewhere around there. What does the medical examiner say?”

  “He says he thinks Bates got it between five and seven. I asked him if he’d split the difference and he said he would, but not officially. So let’s say six o’clock. Now what did you want?”

  For once Casey did not know what to say. The look in Logan’s eyes told him that the lieutenant was not going to let up on him until he had some reasonable answer, but he could not tell the story of Donald Farrington’s trouble unless there was some evidence to show that he was personally involved; neither could he withhold information from the police that might prove vital.

  “I told you about the picture Marty took the night before last of Tony Saxton and what happened between Saxton and me yesterday morning. Marty would take a picture of anybody or anything if he thought there was any dough in it. Marty telephoned Geiger yesterday morning. He admitted he went to Geiger’s office around one thirty—the time you say he was killed—yesterday afternoon. He told you why when you questioned him this morning but he didn’t sell you on the story, did he?”

  “You know he didn’t.”

  “He didn’t sell me either,” Casey said. “I wanted to talk to him. I thought maybe if I did I could get the truth out of him. I phoned him twice this afternoon. On the way back from an assignment out at the medical school, I stopped here. Marty was out. I left a note … Did the same gun kill him that killed Geiger?” he asked, hoping the digression would take.

  “The slugs we recovered tonight were the same caliber but we have to wait until ballistics makes a report before we’re sure.” He glanced again at Casey’s note, which he still held in his hand. “What’s the rest of it?” he demanded. “There’s got to be more to it than that.”

  Casey thought it over again, torn between his loyalty to Farrington and to Logan. He took a small breath and decided to take one more step.

  “Suppose I told you I got a tip that Earl Geiger had set someone up in a blackmail situation and expected to make a big score? Suppose, knowing Marty Bates, that I had a hunch that maybe Marty was horning into the operation.”

  “Suppose you stop supposing and tell me where you got the tip,” Logan said. “And quit stalling, will you? If you didn’t have some kind of tip you wouldn’t have mentioned it.”

  Casey realized that he was in for another argument but he did not want to lose his temper, nor did he want Logan to lose his. A quick glance about the room told him the other detectives had left and he said: “Where’s Sergeant Manahan?”

  “He’s going over the bedroom,” Logan said.

  Casey reached for a straight-backed chair and sat down. He opened his coat, pushed his hat back, and slid along the seat until he was resting on the base of his spine. He looked up at Logan, his rugged face grave and his dark gaze steady.

  “You have your own informers, don’t you?”

  “Hell, yes,” Logan said. “Without stool pigeons the police department couldn’t operate.”

  “I mean, you have your own personal ones.”

  “Sure. So does any other detective that’s worth a damn.”

  “When you want something you put out the word. They do what they can because there’s a few bucks in it, or because they know there’s maybe a six-months rap hanging over their heads and you can pull the string if you want to … or maybe because you may get a break for them the next time they take a fall.”

  “We pay them, yeah. Sometimes out of our own pocket.”

  “But the main thing is that you protect them. You have to protect them. They know if they get caught they can wind up in an alley with a couple of broken arms or maybe even with a slug or two in the head.”

  “So?”

  “If you can’t protect them the word gets around and the other pigeons get scared. Then pretty soon you don’t have any informers. Well, it’s the same way with me.”

  “Oh, come off it, Casey,” Logan snorted.

  Casey remained unperturbed and continued doggedly. “I know a lot of people in this town. From city hall down to waiters in two-bit bar and grills. I get tips now and then, some good, some bad. I hear a lot of rumors. The guys that give them to me—girls, too—expect me to respect their confidence. If I run around telling everybody who said what and getting these tipsters in trouble, how do you think I wind up? I get leads that I wouldn’t even tell the city editor about. I just follow them up and see what happens.”

  It was quite a mouthful for Casey and he was out of breath when he finished. Logan, waiting with obvious impatience, just shook his head and his reply was crisp and sardonic.

  “Don’t give me this bit about privileged communications that the lawyers and doctors spring on us.”

  “Newspaper people have protected their sources before,” Casey said. “In court and out of court.”

  “They’ve also been cited for contempt. Some of them have spent ten days in a cell while they thought it over.”

  “Sure,” Casey said, “and I’m no martyr. If I get in court and the judge gives me a choice, I’ll talk rather than take ten days.”

  He hesitated, measuring the effect of his words on Logan, his mind still busy. At the moment he had no idea who had killed Marty Bates. He had no facts, no evidence that would even support a guess. Until he had something to go on, he was not ready to betray Donald Farrington’s confidence, or even to repeat the things that Tom Quigley had told him, also in confidence.

  “You’re holding out on me,” Logan said accusingly.

  “How?” Casey argued. “I told you what the rumor was. What difference does it make where it came from?”

  “If I didn’t know you and you weren’t a newspaperman, I co
uld take you down as a material witness. I could sweat you for twenty-four hours, even if I didn’t book you.”

  “What do I know that’s material?” Casey asked.

  “But you are a newspaperman,” Logan said, as though he had not heard the comment. “And the way the papers hang together, they’d all be on the department’s back. Then I’d be in the soup if I didn’t come up with something.”

  “Look,” Casey said patiently. “I’ll make you a promise. When and if I come up with something material, you’ll hear about it.”

  Logan considered the remark. Traces of frustration showed in his shrewd, dark eyes but he was too intelligent to let that frustration warp his judgment.

  “Have it your way,” he said. “In the morning I’ll be turning over what I have to the district attorney, including what you said. He can deal with you any way he likes.” He took a small breath and, his manner changing, said: “There’s one other reason I wanted to talk to you. Bates was married, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes,” Casey said, “and to one hell of a nice girl.”

  “She didn’t live here?”

  “They haven’t been together for a couple of years.”

  “Divorced?”

  “Separated.”

  “How come no divorce?”

  “The last time I talked to Ellen she said she had divorce in mind but was in no hurry. She’s saving up vacation time until she can go out to Nevada and stay a while. She intends to take care of it there.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know her pretty well?”

  “For quite a while,” Casy said. “She’s worked for the Express for years. She went to night school to study shorthand at her own expense and worked her way up from the classified department to private secretary to the business manager.”

  “Does Bates have any other relatives?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Do you mind going over with me while I break the news? Do you know where she lives?”

  “I know where she lives and I’ll be glad to go,” Casey said.

  He stood up to button his coat and adjust his hat while Logan went into the bedroom and had some words with Sergeant Manahan. When they went downstairs only two reporters remained on the sidewalk, one of whom was Connolly. They asked their questions and Logan gave them a brief statement and Cohen of the News wanted to know how Casey happened to be upstairs. While Logan explained that Casey had come by invitation because it was thought he might have some information that would be helpful to the investigation, Casey stepped over to Connolly and gave him the filmholder. He asked him to get it back to the office and said he would stop in later if he could.

  14The apartment house where Ellen Bates lived was a few cuts above the one her husband had, not only in location and appearance but also in the monthly rental. The foyer was spacious and well lighted. The automatic elevator was carpeted and smoothly efficient. The apartment Casey wanted was on the fourth floor and when he had pressed the recessed mother-of-pearl button to activate the buzzer he tried to think of an opening line and some proper words. Aloud he said:

  “Do you want to take it or shall I?”

  “You,” Logan said as the latch clicked.

  The girl who opened the door was of average height, with a neat, commendable figure that seemed well proportioned in all respects. In her late twenties, she had medium-brown hair and dark-blue eyes that were forthright and direct. The sweater-and-skirt outfit she wore looked well on her and Casey remembered she had always been well groomed. She had a nice smile, which was more in evidence since she had left Marty, and she used it now when she saw Casey.

  “Jack,” she said, opening the door wide “Come in, come in. How nice.”

  Casey got his hat off and moved inside, aware that Logan followed him. He took a quick glance around the attractive living room that was tastefully furnished and definitely feminine in color and style without being suffocatingly so. There was a simple uncluttered look to the place that he was instantly aware of even as he faced her.

  “No,” he said. “It’s not nice at all, Ellen. This is Lieutenant Logan and I’m afraid we have bad news.”

  “Oh?” The smile went away and the long-lashed eyes were quickly concerned. She did not look at Logan but moved to the center of the room, her back toward them. When she was ready, she turned. “Marty?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is he hurt? Is it bad?”

  “He’s dead, Mrs. Bates,” Logan said, his voice surprisingly gentle. “We know it was quick—he never really knew what happened … Wouldn’t you like to sit down?”

  Casey took her arm and led her to the Lawson sofa between the windows. When she eased slowly down on the cushion he sat with her and took her hand, feeling some strange thickness in his throat as he saw her eyes fill.

  “I’m sorry, Ellen,” he said. “I liked him too. And the lieutenant’s right: he never felt a thing. He was shot in the head from behind.”

  She made no outward sign that she had heard, except for a long, shuddering sigh. Her hand was hot and tight-fingered as he held it, and while the moisture remained in her eyes it did not overflow. After a silent second or two, she swallowed and lifted her chin and stared at some point across the room.

  “What a horrible thing to do … Why?” she asked, her voice breaking slightly. “Marty was never mean or cruel or vicious.”

  “We don’t know, Mrs. Bates,” Logan said. “We’re hoping maybe you can help us.”

  “When did it happen?”

  “We think around six. The landlord found him about an hour ago.”

  “You have no idea who did it?”

  “Not yet. We think he had something—maybe pictures—that somebody wanted.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “The apartment was ransacked.”

  The hot hand still clung to Casey, and as her sightless gaze remained fixed, a silence built in the room. Casey waited, his eyes compassionate and troubled. When there was no further reaction from the girl, Logan cleared his throat.

  “I’ll have to ask you some questions, Mrs. Bates. I’ll try to keep it brief. Casey tells me you’ve been separated for some time.”

  “For nearly two years now.”

  “Was there any special reason why you broke up?”

  “Nothing special. I mean, there wasn’t any other woman. He didn’t beat me—nothing like that. I guess it was just that we wanted different things and we couldn’t seem to compromise. Marty drank too much but he didn’t take it out on me. It was just that he liked what he was doing, he had no regular hours, he was seldom home, he had no sense of responsibility.”

  Apparently realizing she had been holding Casey’s hand for some time, she released it and now she looked right at Logan. “I wanted something more than that. Not just security; a real home and a family. A husband I could lean on and respect, a future to look forward to. I think he understood that and somehow he must have realized that he could not give me what I wanted. I think he loved me in his way, and maybe I shouldn’t say this, but I really think he was just a little relieved when I told him I was leaving him and that some day I would get a divorce.”

  “Your relations since then were friendly?” Logan asked.

  “Yes. Just because I couldn’t live with him doesn’t mean I didn’t like him. I’ve always liked him. We understood each other. We were friends.”

  “Did you see him often?”

  “Not often.”

  “How often?”

  “Sometimes three or four times a month. Sometimes not for six weeks.”

  “Did you go out with him at all?”

  “Not in the sense you mean. Once in a great while I’d have a drink with him after work. Never anything more than that.”

  “Would you know if he had any particular enemies? Anyone who had a motive for killing him.”

  “I wouldn’t think he would have any enemies.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  �
�Saw him or talked to him?”

  “Is there a difference?”

  “If you mean literally, yes. I—I’m not sure when I saw him last, but I talked to him on the telephone early this afternoon. He called me at the office.”

  “What did he want?”

  “He didn’t say. He asked me if I expected to be here around seven thirty this evening. I said I probably would and he said he’d like to stop by. He wanted to talk to me.”

  “I see,” Logan said, his disappointment showing as he shrugged and glanced at Casey. “Then you can’t think of anything that might help us?”

  “I only wish I could.”

  “I imagine the district attorney may want to talk to you,” Logan said. “Meanwhile, if you should think of anything—”

  He let the sentence dangle, glanced at Casey, and gave a small jerk of his head to indicate it was time to leave. Ellen Bates came to her feet when Casey stood up and now, looking right at Logan, she said, her tone suggesting that her request was the most natural thing in the world:

  “Would you mind if Jack stayed a little while longer?”

  Logan made no attempt to mask his surprise and he had no ready answer. His head moved forward about an inch as he peered at her. Suspicious lights showed in his dark eyes as he fixed his gaze on Casey, kept it there a second, and then turned it back on the girl. Before he could reply, she turned to Casey.

  “Would you mind awfully? Are you especially busy? Does the lieutenant need you for something?”

  Casey, as surprised as Logan, swallowed and shook his head. “No,” he said when he could find his voice. “I’d be glad to stay if you want me to.”

  Logan, not quite satisfied, said: “For any special reason, Mrs. Bates?”

  “That depends on what you mean by special, Lieutenant,” she said calmly. “Just because Marty and I no longer loved each other doesn’t mean that I’m not terribly shocked and upset by what happened to him. I don’t have many friends, men friends at least. I’d like to talk to somebody. I don’t want to sit here all by myself. Not just yet. Not if I can help it. Jack’s an old friend, Lieutenant,” she said. “We both knew Marty and I can offer him a drink—you too, if you’d like—and I’d appreciate it very much if he could stay just a few minutes longer so I can get used to the idea that Marty’s really gone.”