Casey added details and watched the color seep from Jackson’s face. When he finished, Jackson protested, his tone tight and ragged.
“I don’t know anything about Marty Bates,” he said. “All I did was dig up Gloria for Earl Geiger.”
“And brought her over to the table,” Casey said accusingly.
“All right. But that’s all.”
Casey eyed him for a silent moment, his dark gaze somber, his rugged face grim and uncompromising. He could feel the bitterness and distaste rising in him but he tried to keep his voice level.
“How much did you expect to collect, Ralph? Enough to finance that big band you’ve been wanting?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jackson said, his glance shifting quickly and no conviction in his tone.
“You will,” Delemater said and glanced at Casey. “Maybe it’s time to go see the Farrington crowd. Do you want to call first?”
Casey thought it over and decided the suggestion was a good one. He went over to the telephone and gave the hotel operator the number. The voice that answered was the same one he had heard when he asked for Shirley Farrington an hour or so earlier, and when he identified himself the reaction was identical.
“Yes. Mr. Farrington is here, Mr. Casey, but I don’t think—”
“What about the rest of the family?” Casey asked, cutting him off.
“Everyone is here. But Mrs. Farrington, Senior, is quite ill—”
“I know that,” Casey said. “Just deliver a message, will you. Tell Mr. Farrington that I’m on my way. And that I’m bringing Mr. Delemater with me.”
He hung up as he finished, and Delemater, glancing at Ralph Jackson, said: “What about him?”
“He’s invited too,” Casey said. “Is that all right with you, Ralph?” he added. “Or do you want to argue about it first?”
Jackson, shoulders still sagging and a look of defeat on his thin face, said nothing and now Delemater moved over to Gloria Vance.
“So far, you’ve done all right, honey,” he said quietly. “Keep it that way. Just stay put. You stick around and I may be able to scrape up a few bucks for you and put it on the expense account.”
He straightened, clapped on his hat, glanced at Casey, and made a final statement to the slack-jawed girl, who was still watching him uncertainly.
“Just remember this. If you try to move out on this, you won’t be talking to a couple of friendly fellows like Casey and me; you’ll be talking to the law. Am I getting through to you?”
Gloria Vance nodded. “I read you, mister,” she said. “Don’t worry, I’ll be here.”
Delemater smiled at her and said he was glad to hear it. He made a small gesture with his head and Casey opened the door and stepped into the hall. There was no protest from Jackson as he joined Casey, and now Delemater, closing the door behind him, made it a threesome as they started down the corridor.
19They rode in Casey’s car, with the police radio chattering softly in their ears. Jackson, who had come to the Warwick in a taxi, protested once. He said if he didn’t get back to the Melody Lounge there would be no one to lead the band, but when they told him the band would have to get along without him for a while, nothing more was said until Casey had parked down the street from the Farrington house and they started back along the sloping sidewalk.
Casey had expected the butler to open the door but it was Donald Farrington who answered his ring. He did not immediately invite them in but stood glancing from face to face, his expression grave and showing no surprise. After a long and awkward pause, he shifted his weight and spoke to Casey.
“This is a bad time for us. Mother’s in a coma. The doctor says it’s only a matter of hours.”
Casey said he was sorry, but the thought came to him that perhaps it was just as well that the old lady would not have to know what had happened to certain members of her family during the past two days.
“I don’t know of any other way,” he said. “Unless you’d rather talk to the police first.”
“Police?” Farrington said, his voice shocked. “For God’s sake, why?”
“A man named Marty Bates was killed early this evening.”
“Marty Bates? I don’t know any Marty Bates.”
“You may never have met him,” Casey said, “but he was the man you were supposed to meet on the corner of James and Cooper at eight tonight. He was killed before he could deliver.”
Ralph Jackson, sensing Farrington’s indecision, made one more try. “It was not my idea, Mr. Farrington. I think they’re bluffing. If they had anything important they’d already have been to the police.”
“I can call Lieutenant Logan right now,” Casey said. “If that’s the way you want it.”
“No.” Farrington shook his head. “No. Come in.”
He moved out of the way and turned, and Casey followed him into the hall, letting Delemater take care of Jackson. They went past the small room on the right where he and Logan had come the previous evening, and started up the broad, curving stairway. At the second-floor landing a squarish hall led to two small rooms on the right, but the greater part of the floor was divided by a thick chimney-like wall that made two separate sitting rooms, one facing to the rear and the other overlooking the street. Farrington turned toward the front without glancing round, and when Casey entered the broad, thickly carpeted room he saw that Louise and Shirley and Arthur Mayfield were waiting.
Louise was wearing a light-blue, sheer-wool hostess gown with a full skirt and a tight bodice. She was sitting on a love seat close to the front windows, her black hair pulled back to expose her ears, and as she watched the new arrivals nothing changed in her thin aristocratic face. Shirley, standing next to Arthur Mayfield, wore the same dress Casey had seen earlier, and Mayfield was his usual bland, immaculate, and well-groomed self. Once in the room, Farrington turned to look at Casey and when nothing was said Casey understood that he was supposed to make the introductions.
“I guess you all know Ralph Jackson,” he said, “except perhaps you, Mr. Mayfield.”
Louise did not bother to acknowledge the introduction and Casey turned to Delemater. “This is Mr. Delemater—Mrs. Farrington and Mrs. Mayfield.”
Delemater nodded and his observant gray eyes seemed impressed not only by the women but by his surroundings.
“What is it they want?” Louise Mayfield said, addressing her brother.
“Casey says a man named Marty Bates was killed tonight. I tried to tell him that we didn’t know anyone by that name, but he seemed to think otherwise.”
“Marty Bates was a free-lance photographer,” Casey said. “He was a cocky little guy who didn’t scare much and he didn’t always play by the notebook. Sometimes when he was hard up he’d indulge in a little polite blackmail. He was in the Melody Lounge the other night and he’s been a press photographer long enough to have a pretty well developed sense of curiosity. Before he got through, he jammed a monkey wrench into a plan to make Don Farrington a patsy.” He turned to Delemater and held out his hand. “Let’s have those pictures, Sam.”
Delemater produced the three prints that showed Farrington and the nearly nude figure of the blonde Gloria Vance.
“Now wait a minute, Casey!” Farrington said angrily. “I came to you because I needed help and because I thought you’d respect a confidence. I turned those photographs over to Delemater because he said he might need them.”
“Sure.”
Casey glanced about. An oversized divan had been placed to face the fireplace, and directly behind it was a long refectory table. Now he stepped up to it and put the three prints down so that anyone who was interested could see them.
“But who was it that told the story of what happened to you that night? Who spread the word? You got yourself in a jam and you were scared and you told Arthur. Then you came and told me. You needed help and I suggested Sam Delemater and you told him.”
“He told me too,” Louise Mayfield said, “after I’
d bullied it out of him.”
“But Shirley—” Farrington glanced at his wife and tried again. “The whole point of my coming to you was to keep Shirley from knowing.”
“You were afraid this would give her the evidence to divorce you and force a good settlement?”
“Well—yes, if you put it that way.”
“Well, Shirley already knew,” Casey said flatly. “Maybe not exactly what happened, but what was going to happen.”
“You’re a liar.”
“Ask her,” Casey said. “Who else could get you to the Melody Lounge when Earl Geiger and that blonde were there? Who else could spike that first drink so you’d ask for a second and a third?”
“I don’t believe it,” Farrington said, a note of anguish in his voice as he turned to his wife.
Shirley took a breath and straightened her shoulders. “You might as well, Donald,” she said calmly. “Because it’s true. I’m afraid it’s a little late now for pretense.”
“What did you put in the drink?” Casey asked.
“I’m not sure what it’s called,” Shirley said. “I got a few pills from a psychiatrist a long time ago. I think they were similar to, or some compound of, that LSD drug. It was supposed to give you a mild feeling of euphoria and well being and make you forget your inhibitions. It worked for me; I thought it would work for Donald and it did. He never had a better time in his life while it lasted.”
Farrington sat down on the edge of the nearest chair. He put his left fist into the palm of his right hand and squeezed.
“I never knew you disliked me that much, Shirley,” he said.
“I don’t dislike you. I never did. But I told you our marriage wasn’t working, at least for me. I tried to explain why. All I wanted was a friendly divorce and a reasonable settlement but you couldn’t see it. You couldn’t make yourself believe it.”
“I didn’t understand,” Farrington said, his voice hardly more than a whisper.
“You never would. I told Casey, and I told you, that there was some moral deficiency in my character, a lack of whatever it is that makes people go along with the conventions. I’d make up my mind I was going to leave, but not empty-handed.”
“Jackson here,” Casey said, indicating the orchestra leader but addressing Farrington, “lined up the little blonde who put on the act for the camera.”
“Jackson?” Farrington’s head came up and his expression was again attentive. “What was he going to get out of it?”
“Me,” Shirley said. “I told you what happened in Florida.”
“Oh.” Farrington nodded slowly. “Then he’s the one.” He leaned forward slightly, the hurt and bewilderment still showing in his eyes. “You wanted to leave me and marry him?”
“Ralph always wanted a big band. I had to find some way to finance him. You know I wanted to sing … Marry him?” she said as ‘though considering the possibility. “I don’t know about that. I only know that I was willing to go with him and take my chances. I didn’t expect any guarantee. I just wanted to see if I could make it with the right kind of backing and help.” She looked at Jackson. “Isn’t that the way it was, Ralph?”
Jackson, who had been standing next to Delemater and shifting his weight from one foot to the other, sighed and said: “That’s the way I understood it.” He looked at Farrington. “She said you could afford to pay, that you wouldn’t make any trouble.”
Farrington looked at Jackson as though he was some creature from outer space. Then Casey spoke up to get Farrington’s attention.
“Your wife got you to the Melody Lounge at the right time,” he said “and Jackson lined up the blonde. The next question is—who lined up Earl Geiger?”
“I did,” Jackson said.
“You knew him before?”
“I knew who he was and the kind of work he did. But I didn’t hire him. I didn’t pay him. Mayfield did.”
Someone said: “Oh, my God!” in a strange hoarse voice, and Casey had to look around before he realized the words had come from Louise Mayfield. “You bastard,” she said, glaring at her husband. She took a deep breath and her angry glance swept the room. “I don’t need any explanation,” she said. “I can believe it.”
She looked back at her husband. “It sounds just like you, Arthur. All your life you’ve sponged on people, getting by with that well-known charm, and your blond good looks, and your easy manners. And you knew it was over with us. You knew you were on the way out as soon as Mother died. You also knew you’d wind up without a dime.”
Casey, watching Mayfield, thought he weathered the attack rather well. He passed the palm of one hand over his light brown hair and gave a small hitch to his shoulders. There was a hint of sheepishness in his expression, but there was some defiance, too, when he replied.
“You’re right on all counts, sweetheart. I’ve warmed your bed and run your errands but that wasn’t enough and we both knew it. Shirley and I have more in common than you and I ever had. Maybe because we both have that moral deficiency she was speaking of. We talked about it before and one night when we were sharing our troubles we went to the Melody Lounge. Jackson sat down with us. We all knew what we wanted and we started to figure some way out that would suit all of us. If that proper, stiff-necked husband of yours had any sense, it would have worked. But no,” he added bitterly. “He had to run to his old pal Casey and then get Delemater in on it.”
“You hired Geiger?” Casey asked.
“For two hundred and fifty dollars. Two hundred for him and fifty for the blonde. There’s probably a canceled check at my bank to prove it.”
“Geiger didn’t give you any argument?”
“Hell, no. He said he’d handled jobs like this before. He said he’d talk to the blonde and set things up and all we had to do was bring Don to the Melody Lounge at the right time and make sure he got drunk. He said he’d take care of it.”
“He did too,” Casey said. “It worked just the way he planned it. He took his three pictures and paid off the blonde. He developed the films and made some prints. He put three of them in an envelope and addressed it here and slapped enough stamps on it to send it special delivery. I guess you were waiting for the boy to deliver that envelope, weren’t you?”
“You know I was. I wanted to see how Don reacted.”
“And then,” Casey said, speaking to Shirley, “you were going to come to Don and say that you had your divorce evidence and how about it. You were going to show him your set of pictures, figuring that to avoid a scandal he’d go for the divorce. How much did you intend to ask?”
“A hundred thousand,” the girl said calmly.
“I wanted to hold out for two,” Mayfield said. “Don could afford it and I was pretty sure he’d pay, but Shirley wouldn’t go for it. I guess she’s not the greedy type,” he added wearily. “She didn’t want to bleed him. She just wanted to get away. She said her half—fifty thousand—was all she and Jackson needed to get a start.”
“Where are Geiger’s negatives, or prints, now?” Casey asked.
“I have them,” Shirley said.
“Mayfield gave them to you?”
“Yes.”
“Then you got them from Geiger,” Casey said, his glance shifting to the man.
“Naturally. That’s what I paid him for.”
“When?”
“When what?” Mayfield said, a scowl showing.
“When did you pick up the negatives?”
“That next morning. As soon as I could.”
“And what time was that?”
“Around twelve or twelve thirty, I guess.”
“Are they here now, Shirley?” Casey asked.
“Yes.”
“Would you mind getting them?”
She shrugged one shoulder as she considered the question and then said: “I don’t know what makes them important now, but no, I don’t mind.”
She started to move away and Mayfield touched her arm to stop her. “I’ll get them, Shirley,” he said.
“I know where they are and we must humor Mr. Casey, mustn’t we?”
20When Arthur Mayfield left the room his wife moved from the love seat to the table. She glanced at the three photographs of Donald Farrington that Casey had put there. She took a cigarette from a silver box and when Casey gave her a light she thanked him with her eyes, turned, and stopped in front of her brother.
“We do real well with our marriages, don’t we, Donald?” When there was no answer and Farrington refused to look at her she continued over to Shirley. “I always knew there was something missing in your make-up, darling,” she added.
“You mean it shows?” Shirley said with no annoyance.
“I sensed it when you used to hang around the house and play with my sister.”
“You wouldn’t be mildly jealous, would you, Louise?”
“Of you?”
“Not all of me. Just my face and my figure.”
Before there was a reply, Farrington came out of his chair and stepped between them. “Cut it out,” he said angrily. “Aren’t things bad enough without getting into personalities?”
The harshness of his tone was sufficient to end the discussion and when Louise Mayfield turned toward the window Casey felt Sam Delemater move up beside him.
“You know what you’re doing?”
“Sort of,” Casey said.
“Then maybe you can tell me what I’m doing here.”
“You’re here to listen, observe, and stand by in case you’re needed.”
“Needed for what?”
“Who knows,” Casey said and glanced round as Arthur Mayfield came into the room and put three four-by-five negatives and matching prints on the table. As he stepped back, Casey took the prints he had made from Marty Bates’s negatives from his pocket and arranged them in sequence on the table.
“You know about Marty Bates,” he said. “Maybe you’d like to see the pictures he took.” He hesitated and as the others started to move toward the table he said: “Earl Geiger did his job well enough, bu he didn’t know about Marty. Neither did anybody else. I’ve known Marty a long time,” he added and went on to explain his own theory as to why Bates decided to investigate a situation that his newspaperman’s instinct told him was wrong. He had their complete attention when he finished and it was Donald Farrington who broke the silence.
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