Deadly Image

by George Harmon Coxe

  Logan looked momentarily baffled but he had no legitimate argument. He cleared his throat again, turned his hat over in his hand, and started to back away.

  “If I had the time, Mrs. Bates,” he said dryly, “and I was off duty, I might take you up on that drink, but—well—” He gave a small shrug of defeat and said: “Thanks for your help. We’ll be in touch with you.” He looked at Casey, one brow warped. “You, too. Remember what I said about the district attorney.”

  When the door closed Ellen Bates rose and started to move about the room. “I guess the lieutenant didn’t approve of my asking you to stay. He sounded awfully—well, suspicious.”

  “It doesn’t mean anything,” Casey said. “When Logan’s working on a case, he’s suspicious of everybody.”

  She came back to Casey, who was standing in front of the sofa. She looked up at him, the dark-blue eyes softly speculative and a guilty, little-girl expression on her young face.

  “I told him the truth,” she said. “Except for a very small fib.”

  “Oh?”

  “He asked me when I saw Marty last and I said I couldn’t remember.”

  “But you do.”

  “It was the other night. The buzzer woke me up out of a sound sleep. It was nearly three o’clock in the morning. I was a little frightened but I put on a robe and went to the door. It was Marty. He hadn’t been here in weeks, and never at that hour, but I could tell he was nervous and jumpy about something. I let him in and asked him what he wanted, and if he was in trouble. He said he might be in a little trouble when he got home but it wasn’t anything to worry about. He said he might find some hoods—that’s his word, not mine—waiting for him and he had some things he didn’t want them to find. He wanted to leave them here … Wait a minute,” she added, and turned to leave the room.

  When she returned she had two envelopes in her hand, and by then Casey’s mind backtracked and remembered details had come to the surface of his thoughts.

  “Let me get this straight. This is Friday,” he said, and to himself he added: Last night Geiger was found dead. The night before I was in the Melody Lounge and Marty gave me those films of Tony Saxton. “Are you talking about Wednesday?”

  “Yes. Thursday morning, actually.”

  Casey had part of his answer then. Tony Saxton, knowing Marty had taken the pictures, had, by his own account, gone to Marty’s place to wait for him. Marty hadn’t shown up until three o’clock or after. He had two cameras with him but they contained no films. The following morning, when Marty had come to the office, Casey had questioned him about what had happened to those films and Marty, while admitting he had borrowed the developing room in the Express, had refused to say what he had done with the negatives …

  “He left those two envelopes with you?” he asked.

  “One of them.” She held up a bulky, legal-sized envelope. “He left this one here—oh, several weeks ago. He said it had some old negatives that he didn’t want to keep around his place and would I hold them for him. This is the one he left the other night.”

  She offered it to Casey and he saw that it was a regular letter-sized envelope. When he held it up to the light he could see enough through the bond paper to know that it contained a few films. Before he could speculate about the envelope or dwell on its significance, Ellen Bates continued.

  “If you’re wondering why I didn’t say anything about these to Lieutenant Logan, I’ll tell you,” she said. “Marty said he would probably pick up the small envelope in a day or two, but if he didn’t, or if anything happened to him, I was to give them to you. He said you would probably know what to do.”

  Although the development surprised Casey, Marty Bates’s decision did not. He knew Bates liked and trusted him. Bates did not dare keep the films in his own apartment …

  “What?” he said, aware that the girl had spoken.

  “I said, would you like that drink I promised you?”

  Casey shook his head. “Not now,” he said and sat down on the sofa, spreading the two envelopes on the coffee table in front of him. He broke the seal on the smaller envelope. Inside he found six negatives, and he saw at once that five of them were the miniature sort that had been taken on infrared film. He could not be sure what was on them, but the sixth was a different matter. It was an ordinary black and white, three-and-a-quarter by four-and-a-quarter negative. When he held it up to the light he knew that this was a shot of Donald Farrington, half-naked and stretched out on a bed.

  For the next minute or so he was not aware of Ellen Bates or even of his surroundings. The picture in his mind was mental rather than visual and the conclusions that came all seemed to fit. It was still possible that Marty Bates had worked with Geiger but it seemed more likely that he had played a lone hand. His ability to smell out certain situations before they happened must have been activated by something he had seen at the Melody Lounge after Casey had left him that first night.

  There was no point now in speculating on what Marty Bates had seen and what he had done—enlargements of the negatives would help clarify that—but he was ready to believe that the negatives would somehow make it clear to anyone who saw the enlargements that Donald Farrington had indeed been framed. It seemed also likely that it was Bates who had phoned Farrington that morning, had accepted the offer of twenty-five hundred dollars, and had, in fact, intended to deliver the negatives at eight o’clock that night if someone had not stopped him with two bullets. Now, tucking the envelope into an inside pocket, he looked up at the girl, his face grave and a brooding darkness in his eyes.

  “He phoned you this afternoon and said he’d stop by at seven thirty this evening?”

  “Yes. Do those films mean anything to you?”

  “Plenty,” Casey said.

  “Do—do you think they had anything to do with what happened to him tonight?”

  “Probably.”

  “Was he—” There was a soft catching sound in her throat and she tried again. “Was he trying to blackmail somebody?”

  “No,” Casey said, knowing that in a broad sense this was true. “I guess you could say he was trying to help somebody.”

  “But for a price.”

  “Yes.”

  He heard her sigh and watched her move to a slipcovered chair diagonally across from him. He could see the anguish in her dark-blue eyes, and because he did not want to watch what was happening to her face he opened the legal-sized envelope. He saw then that there were perhaps two dozen negatives here. Some were ordinary black and white films; some were of the smaller, infrared variety. With each negative was a black and white print, and as he started to examine them, he saw that on the back of each print was a notation. A closer inspection showed him that each carried a date, some of which went back two years, and a figure. On most of these the figure was 100. None was over that amount and a few were marked 50.

  Still not looking at the girl, he remembered the rumors he had heard in the past and he was ready now to believe that they were true. Over a period of time Marty Bates had taken pictures that were sufficiently embarrassing to the subjects to warrant a small collection. He had kept his requests reasonable and apparently he had been paid for the nuisance value of the pictures. He had not risked serious trouble by making unwarranted demands and the size of his collection showed that this phase of his work was nothing more than a sideline.

  Absently then, not looking for anything in particular, Casey went through the collection one at a time. He recognized some of the people in the prints; some meant nothing at all to him, and he had nearly finished when he found one that made him stop and stare, and brought a quick focusing of his thoughts.

  The black and white print had been taken on the water and showed a medium-sized cruiser. The absence of a wake suggested that the cruiser was drifting, but it was the two people aboard that demanded his attention. On the forward deck and perched on the cabin trunk was a girl, her blond-looking hair tousled by the breeze. Her magnificent figure was shown to full ad
vantage by the bikini she wore, and she happened to be looking right at the camera when the shutter had been snapped, so that her pretty face was easily recognizable.

  Shirley Farrington? he said to himself in quick amazement and looked quickly at the man who stood in the cockpit, one arm half raised as if motioning someone away. He was tall and thin, the mustache clearly visible. There was an angry look on his face but there was no doubt that this was Ralph Jackson, and when Casey had finished staring he turned the print over. The July date was evidence that the picture had been taken three months ago and the figure beneath this told him that someone had paid Marty Bates one hundred dollars.

  Wasting no time wondering how Marty Bates had been able to get such a picture, Casey put it into the pocket that held the smaller envelope. He examined the remaining negatives and prints, finally stopping at one which showed a man named Jake Powell and a woman who was now his wife. This was an infrared picture, apparently taken surreptitiously, and showed the two of them sitting behind a table, their heads close together, the fingers of the man’s right hand intertwined with the fingers of the woman’s left hand.

  When he turned the print over he realized its significance; for the date suggested the picture had been taken more than a year and a half ago and the woman in the picture had not been Mrs. Powell at the time. A year and a half ago there had been another Mrs. Powell and now Casey stood up and asked where the telephone was.

  Ellen Bates rose with him, a look of quick concern on her face. “You’re going to call Lieutenant Logan?”

  “No,” Casey said. “This is nothing for Logan, At least not yet.”

  He returned the negatives and prints to the envelope and put it in an outer pocket. When she directed him to the telephone stand in the hall, he took the directory from the shelf underneath and looked up the number of the Clover Club.

  He was not sure just why he wanted to speak to Jake Powell and he did not stop to analyze his decision. Powell owned the Clover Club and had an office there. He had, for many years, been mixed up in many rackets, not all of them illegal but all of them depending for their success on a certain measure of coercion. Now, athough everything that he, Casey, had seen seemed to point conclusively to the fact that Marty Bates had engaged in some petty blackmail, he wanted to be absolutely sure and he knew this one call would prove the theory.

  “Hello,” he said when a man’s voice answered. “Is Mr. Powell there?”

  “Who wants him?”

  “Casey—of the Express.”

  There was a brief pause, as though the man at the other end was weighing the request. “Hold on,” he said finally, “I’ll see.”

  After a ten-second wait another voice said: “Yeah, Casey. What’s on your mind?”

  “I want to ask you about a picture.”

  “What picture?”

  “It was taken about a year and a half ago,” Casey said and mentioned the exact date. “It shows you and the present Mrs. Powell—who wasn’t Mrs. Powell at the time—sitting at a table, probably in some night club. You know the one I mean?”

  There was another long pause and Casey could hear the sound of breathing at the other end of the wire.

  “I know the picture,” Powell said finally. “What about it?”

  “Did you buy some prints?”

  “Some prints and what I thought was the negative.”

  “From Marty Bates?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I guess you bought the negative,” Casey said. “But it looks like Marty made a copy … Okay. That’s all I wanted to know.”

  He hung up without waiting for a reply and again consulted the telephone directory. This time when a strange voice answered he said: “I’d like to speak to Mrs. Farrington, please. You can tell her it’s Jack Casey of the Express.”

  “You’re speaking of Mrs. Donald Farrington?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’m not sure Mrs. Donald Farrington will want to talk on the telephone just now,” the voice said apologetically. “The elder Mrs. Farrington is very ill and—”

  Casey cut him off. “Just ask her, will you? If it wasn’t important I wouldn’t be calling.”

  “Very well, sir. I’ll deliver your message.”

  Casey could hear the phone being put down and after a lengthy wait he heard it being picked up and then Shirley Farrington said:

  “Yes, Jack. What is it?”

  “I have to see you.”

  “You mean now?”

  “Now.”

  “You don’t mean here.”

  “No,” Casey said. “Anywhere you say. Pick your spot.”

  “I’m not sure I should leave. You see, Mrs. Farrington has slipped into a coma. The doctor says she may not come out of it.”

  “I’m sorry,” Casey said. “I can’t very well insist, but this is something that can’t wait too long. If you can’t meet me I’ll have to come there. It’s about a picture of you and Ralph Jackson on a cabin cruiser. It was taken last July.”

  He could hear her catch her breath but the answer was not long in coming. “All right,” she said. “Where?”

  “How about the Carlton? The cocktail lounge there is never very full at this time of night. When?”

  “As soon as I can. Ten minutes—fifteen. Not longer.”

  Ellen Bates was still on her feet and watching him thoughtfully as he hung up. When he came up to her she said: “I don’t suppose you could tell me what this is all about, could you? We’ve always been good friends, haven’t we?” she added, pleading just a little.

  Casey knew this much was true. He had been very fond of Ellen Bates and still was. The fact that he felt a bit too old for her had stopped any serious thoughts of romance, and one of his functions on those times he had taken her to dinner, even before she had left Marty, had been to provide a convenient shoulder to lean on and offer bits of advice and consolation when she was depressed. Now he smiled down at her and shook his head.

  “I’m sorry, Ellen,” he said. “It would take too long and I’m not even sure you’d understand. Let’s leave it until later, hunh?”

  She gave a small sigh and dropped her glance. “All right. But do you have some idea who killed Marty?”

  “Not really,” Casey said, “but it’s narrowing down a little. There are some nice people who could get hurt if this investigation drags on, and I don’t want that to happen if I can help it.”

  She gave a small shrug to indicate her disappointment. “But you’ll let me know.”

  “As soon as I can,” Casey said. “If this thing doesn’t break wide open tonight, Logan and the district attorney will move in in the morning … Did Marty have any other relatives?”

  The dark-blue eyes opened wide at the quick digression and she shook her head.

  “That means you’ll inherit whatever he has.”

  “Probably, but what could he possibly have except some cameras and some photographic equipment.”

  “He has twenty-five hundred dollars coming to him,” Casey said and took the smaller envelope from the inside pocket. “I told you that in a way he was going to help somebody. He was going to stop here at seven thirty and pick up this envelope and deliver it at eight. He was going to be paid twenty-five hundred dollars in cash.”

  “But he wasn’t paid,” she protested, her frown showing. “I’m not even sure I want it.”

  “If I’m right about the man who intended to buy, I think he’ll probably insist.”

  He picked up his hat, took her hand, and held it a few seconds, giving it a gentle squeeze. He said he’d be back. If he couldn’t make it tonight, he’d come tomorrow. He said he hadn’t forgotten the drink she offered him and when he did come back he’d be ready for it.

  15Casey’s timing was good, and as he stood in the doorway of the cocktail lounge of the Carlton counting the patrons, Shirley Farrington came up from behind and stopped beside him. She was wearing a dark dress and a simple cashmere coat which contrasted sharply with her blonde hair
and seemed to accentuate her tall, full-fleshed figure. Neither spoke, but he saw the look of concern in the green eyes that so often held that humorous, half-insolent expression. He was also reminded of his few earlier dates with her and how flattered he had felt to have as a companion a woman who was so strikingly pretty.

  The lighting in the lounge was subdued but not dim, and when he saw the empty table in the far corner he touched her arm and pointed. “How about that one?” he said, and she made no reply but moved down the two carpeted steps without hesitation. The small bar was well attended by some college types, there were three couples seated along the wall, and the table nearest the one he had in mind was occupied by three elderly ladies dressed to the nines in lace and flowered prints, complete with hats. A waiter beat Casey to the table and held the chair for Shirley, who thanked him and said: “Scotch on the rocks, please. Just a little water.”

  Casey said he’d have the same and now she put her bag on the table and gave him her attention.

  “I hope this doesn’t take too long.”

  “I hope so, too,” Casey said.

  “You sounded pretty grim over the phone.”

  “Yeah.” Casey took the negative and print from his pocket. He examined them once more before he slid them face up across the table and waited for her reaction. “I ran across these a little while ago. A fellow named Marty Bates took the picture. Ever hear of him?”

  He noted the slight widening of the eyes as they focused. He watched the red mouth tighten and twist. He saw the tip of her tongue moisten her lower lip, but when she looked up, only the green eyes showed concern and the tightness had gone from her face.

  “Yes. From Ralph Jackson.”

  “Was he the one who paid the hundred? … When?” he added when she answered with a silent nod.

  “I think it was in August. What I don’t understand is this negative. Ralph told me he’d bought it and that there was nothing more to worry about.”