He hung up, leaned back, and looked very pleased with himself. Casey let his breath out slowly and shook his head as his grin broadened.
“I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t heard it,” he said. “What a con artist. She’ll probably call you up when she hits town.”
“Yeah,” Delemater said happily. “She could be all right too.”
“She’ll be looking for a job,” Casey said accusingly.
“Well, I can’t give her a job, but I can take her out to dinner. Who knows, this may be the beginning of a long and valued friendship.”
Delemater, still very pleased with himself, opened the lower drawer in the desk and produced a bottle of bourbon. He pushed back his chair and stepped to the water cooler. There was a paper-cup dispenser on the wall and he cllicked the lever twice so that one cup fell inside the other. When he had some water he came back to the desk and added a generous measure of whisky. He started round the desk to offer it to Casey and Casey put his hand up and shook his head, the humorous interlude forgotten now, the depression growing in him and the pressure of his thoughts beginning to show in his face as his mind turned back. He waited until Delemater had returned to his chair and swallowed some of his drink before he asked if Delemater knew what had happened to Marty Bates.
Delemater said no. Then Casey told him. He started with the telephone call that Donald Farrington had received that morning. He spoke of the eight-o’clock appointment that was never kept, and went over the essential facts of the murder. When he finished, Delemater’s ruddy face was grave and there were hard glints in the narrowed gray eyes. He finished his drink, crumpled the cup, and threw it forcefully into the wastebasket.
“The poor bastard,” he said savagely. “Do you think it hooks up with the Geiger thing?”
“I think it has to.”
Casey took the prints he had made from Marty Bates’s negatives from his pocket. He pulled his chair over so he could sit beside Delemater and spread the prints out on the desk in sequence. Because the original pictures had been taken on infrared film and with infrared flash bulbs, the light values had a peculiar quality, but the details were clear enough, the figures easily identifiable. While Delemater examined the prints, Casey explained his theory.
“Marty Bates was a smart little cooky when it came to taking pictures,” he said, “and what he saw in the Melody Lounge that night was enough to tell him that something special was going on. A proper, respectable citizen like Donald Farrington is drunker than he should be. A strange blonde who could be on the make winds up at Farrington’s table and his wife comes up and asks me to drive her home. So Marty waits to see what is going to happen. Farrington finally leaves and he can hardly stand and the blonde is helping him. Then Geiger gets into the picture and lends a hand. Now Marty could have taken some pictures for Geiger at one time or another, but even if he didn’t he knows who Geiger is and the kind of work he does. The thing smells, and Marty was always good at being around and ready when it came time to take a picture.”
“You think he went outside just ahead of them?” Delemater asked.
Casey indicated the first picture in the sequence. He could not tell where the picture had been taken but he was willing to believe that Marty Bates had moved behind a parked car to get that particular shot. Part of the entrance of the Melody Lounge was visible in the background and three people had apparently just moved from the doorway, Donald Farrington, knees sagging and head down but still recognizable; Earl Geiger, supporting him with one arm around Farrington’s shoulders; and the blonde Gloria Vance holding one arm.
“Geiger wouldn’t see the flash from an infrared bulb, hunh?” Delemater asked.
“There’s some light,” Casey said. “About as much as you get from the glow of a cigarette. You’d have to be looking right at it to see it and Marty was too experienced to let that happen. Geiger never knew that picture was taken, or this one.”
Casey pointed to the second picture, which showed the back and side of a sedan. The girl was standing on the sidewalk and Geiger was trying to assist Farrington into the back seat. A third picture showed the car moving off, its license plate clearly visible. The fourth was another sidewalk picture, but this time the background was an apartment-house entrance. Geiger, still supporting Farrington and helped by the blonde, who now was carrying what looked like a camera case and equipment bag, had nearly reached the entrance when the picture was taken.
“That’s the apartment where the King girl lives,” Delemater said.
“Right,” Casey said and put his finger on the fifth print, which showed Geiger and Gloria coming out of the same entrance and starting to cross the sidewalk. The sixth was a sharp black and white print which showed Farrington in bed, and it had apparently been taken from almost the same angle as the other photographs that had been originally sent to the Farrington home by special delivery.
“How do you figure this one?” Delemater asked.
“The King girl’s apartment was at the front of the building.”
“Right you are.”
“So I think Marty, knowing he had something hot, was standing there on the sidewalk after they’d gone inside, wondering what his next step would be, when he saw the light go on in that particular apartment. That told him where it was happening. When he saw the other two come out alone, he knew that Farrington was still upstairs. I think he went up to have a look. Maybe he picked the lock, maybe the door was not even locked.”
“He went in and took the picture,” Delemater said. “That would explain the fourth flash bulb I found in the wastebasket. Then he ducked out—”
“Not quite,” Casey said. “I think Marty looked in Farrington’s wallet. I talked to Farrington about it and he said there were six fifty-dollar bills in that wallet. There were only four when he got up and started to dress. He gave those four to you,” he said, and went on to explain about the other fifty-dollar bill that Bates had given him in payment of a debt.
“Yeah,” Delemater said. “I guess Marty couldn’t resist a little larceny.”
“He figured it probably wouldn’t hurt anybody,” Casey said, “and it didn’t. What it did do, when I checked the serial numbers on that bill with the ones you had, was to tell me that he had to be hooked up in this thing one way or another. I tried to locate him today. I wanted to pin him down. I wish to God I’d found him.”
“So who killed him?”
“I don’t know,” Casey said, “but it narrows down now. Somebody hired Earl Geiger to set up Farrington. Marty got in on the act. These pictures prove that Farrington was framed. Marty was willing to deliver them for twenty-five hundred dollars and Farrington was ready to pay.”
Delemater bunched his lips, shifted his hat, and grunted softly. “It sort of points to somebody at the Farrington place.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Farrington,” Casey said. “Mr. or Mrs. Arthur Mayfield. Or Ralph Jackson.”
“Jackson? How does he fit?”
“All I know,” Casey said, not wanting to divulge the things that Shirley Farrington had told him earlier, “is that Jackson brought Gloria Vance over to Farrington’s table before Mrs. Farrington left.”
“Yeah.” Delemater nodded, pushed back his chair, and stood up. While Casey gathered up the photographs, he said: “Well, Sam Delemater always likes to earn his dough. If I can nab this blonde who calls herself Gloria Vance, I can wrap my end up. Let’s take a trip over to the Warwick Hotel and see what we can find. Okay?”
18The Warwick Hotel was a six-story brick structure that had discolored, soot-stained walls and an over-all look of decay. Located just outside the downtown district, it made no pretense of innovations, either inside or out, but the rates were modest and the desk clerks had been trained to demand a minimum of information about the guests and, where possible, mind their own business. Most of its rooms were of the regular room-and-bath variety, but some had been designed for light housekeeping by the addition of a small dressing room and an equally small cubby th
at masqueraded as a kitchen. Casey had not been inside the building in some time and now he followed Delemater’s sturdy figure down the fourthfloor hall until he stopped at room 412.
Casey could hear someone moving in the room when Delemater knocked, and presently a woman’s voice said: “Just a minute.” There was a short pause and now the voice was closer. “Who is it?”
“A friend of Wanda’s,” Delemater said, moving ahead as the lock clicked and the door began to swing.
Gloria Vance had no chance after that. Delemater didn’t push, he just kept moving, and Casey could see the painted mouth open and the look of quick surprise that filled the shadowed blue eyes. They opened wide in that first moment. They darted from Delemater to Casey and back again; just as suddenly they grew narrow and hostile.
“Wait a minute,” she said, still trying to hold onto the doorknob. “I don’t know you,” she added, her voice hardening in a mixture of doubt and resentment. “You’re no friend of Wanda’s.”
“Sure I am, honey,” Delemater said. “She gave me your address.”
Casey moved inside and closed the door, aware now that the girl was more ordinary-looking than she had seemed in the subdued lighting of the Melody Lounge. She was young but he couldn’t tell how young because she wore a lot of make-up. The eyelids and lashes had been given the full treatment, and he was tall enough to see the brown roots in the part of her yellow hair as she backed up a step, still eying them suspiciously.
“What do you want?”
“To talk a little,” Delemater said.
“I don’t want to talk to you.”
“We want to ask you some questions.”
“I don’t have to answer any questions.” She took another backward step and stuck out her chin, which was somewhat pointed, and her chest, which was fully formed and well molded by her brassiere and the snug-fitting, dark-red dress. “I haven’t done anything. If you’re cops let’s see your buzzer.”
“No cops.” Delemater took off his hat and nodded at Casey. “My friend here works for the Express. You ought to be nice to him. I’m a private investigator. You want to see my license?” He glanced beyond her to the daybed and the open hatbox which rested there. “Going some place, Gloria?”
“Yes, I’m going some place. Just as soon as you get out of here and I can finish packing.”
Casey sat down on the nearest chair, crossed his knees, and balanced his hat on them, content for the moment to sit and wait.
He had seen the detective work before, and he always found his methods and technique worth watching. For this sort of thing was Delemater’s business and he was good at it. Now, still intent upon the girl, Delemater took from an inside pocket the three photographs that had been sent to Donald Farrington by special delivery. When Delemater glanced at him, Casey grunted and reached for the prints.
Delemater gave them to him and Casey took time to inspect the three pictures of Gloria Vance as she posed beside the bed where Donald Farrington lay, half-naked and unconscious. She looked more attractive in the pictures than she did in person, and without her clothes he was reminded again that she had a fully developed and seductively rounded torso. Now Casey passed the photographs back to Delemater, who immediately handed them over to the girl.
“Remember these?”
She remembered them all right. The plucked and penciled brows climbed as she backed up slowly and sat down beside the hatbox. When she finally glanced up, the painted mouth was petulant and the eyes were sulky and defiant.
“What about them?” she demanded. “It was just another job. I’ve posed with less on than that.”
“Where do you work, Gloria?” Delemater asked as he took the pictures back.
“Wherever I can. I haven’t had anything regular since last summer. A week here, a week there. Once in a while, a smoker or a stag dinner.”
“Who set you up for this?” Casey asked. “Ralph Jackson?”
“He told me about it.”
“How long have you known him?” Delemater said.
“Not long. A friend of mine introduced me to him a couple of weeks ago. Last week I went to the Melody Lounge to see if he knew anything I could do. He bought me a drink and asked me a lot of questions. He said he might have something for me and did I have an apartment where I could put on a little act for a friend of his. I knew I couldn’t do it here and then I remembered that Wanda was going to Buffalo. I thought I could get her keys, so I told him yes.”
“Then what,” Delemater said.
“He told me to go see Earl Geiger.”
“How much did he offer you?”
“Fifty dollars. He said it wouldn’t take long and I wouldn’t have to do anything except take some of my clothes off for a few minutes.”
“He told you to be at the Melody Lounge the other night.”
“He said I would be introduced to somebody, that he might be drunk but when it was time to leave he’d help me.”
“But Ralph Jackson brought you over to the table and introduced you,” Casey said. “Do you know who the man was?”
“No. All I know is that his name was Don.”
“And you got him drunk,” Delemater said.
“I did not,” she said heatedly. “He was drunk even before his wife left.”
“So when the time came,” Delemater said, “Geiger helped you take him outside. You put him in Geiger’s car and then you followed in this man’s car and left it outside the apartment house.”
“That’s right.”
“You went upstairs and took his clothes off—”
“Mr. Geiger did that,” she said indigantly. “I never even touched the guy.”
“Geiger put him in bed and told you to take your clothes off.”
“He said I could keep my panties on but he wanted to make it look good. He told me where to sit and what to do and how to look while he took those three pictures.”
“Then what?”
“I put on my clothes and we left.”
“Geiger paid you the fifty dollars?”
“You’re damn right he did.”
“You still didn’t know what it was all about?”
“I didn’t want to know. It was a job, like any other, and I did it. What’s so terrible about that?”
“Geiger didn’t tell you why he wanted those pictures?”
“No. And I didn’t ask. Can’t you get that through your thick head?”
“But you know what happened to Geiger last night, don’t you?”
“I read about it in the paper,” she said, and now her defiance was gone and her eyes had a frightened look as her face began to crumble. “But I don’t know anything about that. Honest.”
“Another fellow got into the act the other night,” Casey said. “He followed you and Geiger over to Wanda King’s apartment. His name was Marty Bates—”
“I don’t know any Marty Bates,” the girl protested. “I’ve never even heard the name.”
“He got killed tonight,” Casey said, ignoring the protest. “Somebody shot him in the back of the head. Probably the same one who killed Geiger.”
For a brief second she tried to meet Casey’s steady, dark gaze and then a small sob caught in her throat and she covered her face with her hands.
“I’ve told you the truth,” she said in muffled tones. “I only did it to get money to pay the rent. Why can’t you leave me alone?”
Casey believed her. The sound of her stifled sobs made him uncomfortable and when he glanced away Delemater, who now looked a little sheepish too, shrugged and spread his hands. Then, before anyone could think of anything to say, the growing silence in the room was shattered by a brisk knocking at the door.
They moved together as the knocking stopped. Casey’s head jerked round and he came to his feet. Delemater stepped to the girl and pulled her hands from her face. When he spoke, his voice was quiet but demanding.
“Tell whoever it is to come in,” he ordered. “Play it Straight.”
He star
ted for the door as the girl lifted her face and swallowed. Casey, knowing what Delemater had in mind, moved with him and when Gloria Vance said: “Come in,” they were both standing so that the opening door would screen them momentarily.
The door swung inward as they froze there and somebody started past, and a man’s voice Casey did not recognize said: “I’ve got three hundred for you. That should take care of you for a couple of weeks in New York and by that time—”
Ralph Jackson got that much out before he saw them and now he stiffened, his lean body recoiling visibly as he stopped. Delemater, slanting behind him, closed the door and Jackson, finding himself boxed in between the two men, stared bugeyed at one and then the other.
“Hello, Ralph,” Casey said.
Jackson stood very still, his long face pale and tight at the cheekbones. He finally looked at the girl on the bed, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he swallowed. He ran the tip of his tongue along the bottom of his mustache and then he blew out his breath in a noisy blast.
“Okay,” he said, shoulders sagging. “How much did Gloria tell you?”
“Enough,” Casey said.
“She’s been a good girl,” Delemater added. “Smart, too. I guess you wanted her out of town for a while.”
When Jackson made no reply, he added: “Why? You’re not worried about what happened to Earl Geiger, are you?”
“Why should I be?” Jackson said with a show of defiance.
“You hired him.”
“I did, like hell.”
“You know Marty Bates, don’t you?” Casey said.
“I know who he is.”
“Then maybe you remember seeing him at the Melody Lounge the other night when you put your little plan into operation. He followed Geiger and Gloria.”
“He took some infrared pictures,” Delemater said. “And tonight he got himself killed. What do you think of that?”
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