“I’m going down to the Club Berkely. They’re having the finals in that ‘Most Popular Model Contest.’”
“How’s chances for a lift?”
“Now?”
Austin put away his nail file and shrugged. “All right,” he said finally. “I’m a little early but—”
Casey put some extra flash bulbs and fresh film holders in his case, slipped into his balmacaan. He watched Austin shift the red carnation from the dinner jacket to the buttonhole of his Chesterfield.
“Sometimes,” he said dryly, “I wonder if you aren’t wasting your time.”
“How?” Austin frowned.
“Instead of takin’ pictures maybe you ought to pose for ’em.”
“Just because a fellow’s a photographer—” Austin began.
“Is no sign he can’t be smartly dressed,” Casey finished. “You told me that before— Well, let’s get started.”
The building where Stanford Endicott had his offices was a small but neatly modern structure in beige brick and limestone, one of the growing row that had forced the neighboring ancient red-brick fronts to masquerade with false façades in a desperate attempt to recapture some semblance of smartness.
Austin parked his coupé beyond the entrance and as Casey was opening the door, he saw the man come through the arched doorway. The light from the foyer was behind him and Casey did not see the face until the fellow passed the window of a dress shop next door. By that time Casey was on the sidewalk, and as he stood there the man glanced over his shoulder. For just an instant their eyes met; then the fellow had disappeared in the shadows and Casey knew who he was: Nat Garrison, a onetime welterweight who had been sent to Charlestown some years previous for assault with a dangerous weapon.
So he’s out, Casey thought, and as Austin came round the car, he tried to think back, to recall whether Endicott had been the lawyer who defended Garrison, or whether Endicott had at that time been the prosecutor.
“I might as well go up as wait out here,” Austin said.
Casey said he might as well and they went along the foyer to the single automatic elevator. “Of course we’re liable to get thrown out,” he added. “I haven’t got an appointment, you know.”
“I’d rather get thrown out with you than anybody I know,” Austin said, and pushed the button marked 3. “Remember that Bund meeting?”
“Yeah,” Casey said, and thinking about it helped to re-establish Austin in his estimation. The guy was a smoothy and went for the night life and soft assignments, but when the chips were down he could handle himself. They’d both got their lumps at that Bund meeting, but they were battling back to back at the finish. “We had fun that day, huh?”
There were six doors opening on the third-floor hall and the three that made up the left-hand side were given over to Stanford Endicott, the rear two being of plain wood and the first bearing a frosted-glass panel which said, Stanford Endicott-—Enter Here.
Casey found this door unlocked. He opened it and went in. There was no direct light here, but he saw it was a large room and sufficient illumination came through the glass panel of the connecting door to make the layout discernible. There was a railed-in space to make a waiting-room of sorts, a settee, and some chairs; the balance of the floor was given over to desks and chairs and typewriters and filing cabinets.
Austin shut the door. Casey pushed past the gate ill the rail, crossed to the glass-paneled door and opened it. He took one more step; then stopped short, still holding to the knob, feeling Austin bump against his back, but not moving.
This room was smaller than the first, but not small. There were two room-high windows at one side, a leather divan, two leather chairs to match, a massive and expensive-looking desk in one corner, behind which was a high-backed chair that probably cost as much as the desk. The pile in the over-all, sand-colored rug was long enough to trip over, and almost in the center of it was Stanford Endicott.
He was on his back, one arm outflung, his knees straight and ankles crossed, as though he had done it on purpose. Casey didn’t think he had; Casey thought he was dead.
Behind him Perry Austin made a quick, sucking sound and began to curse with a curious, hushed intensity that seemed, in all that stillness, shockingly loud. When he tried to crowd past, Casey moved out of the way, stepping quickly to the lawyer’s side, seeing then the slowly widening puddle of blood inching from under the back of the coat. He dropped to one knee and picked up a limp wrist.
It was warm, as warm as life itself. But there was no pulse. He didn’t put his hand inside the vest to feel for a heart beat because just about where the heart should be were two tiny frayed holes in the gray fabric. Austin spoke softly behind him.
“Dead?”
“Very dead,” said Casey, his face somber.
Chapter Three: CLOSE-UP OF A CORPSE
FOR A LONG MINUTE Casey and Austin stared silently at the inert figure. The long, plain-looking face was heavy in death, and Casey found himself thinking about how Endicott had looked that afternoon coming out of the courtroom. He could, in imagination, see the smiling, confident face again, hear the booming voice. He found himself looking at the bald streak which was no longer pink, but white and shiny and naked.
“You’re going to get a picture all right,” Austin said. “But not the one Blaine figured on.”
“Yeah.” Casey opened the camera and reached for a flash bulb.
“He hasn’t been dead long either.”
“Minutes. He’s still warm.” And as Casey screwed the flash bulb in the synchronized holder he thought again of Nat Garrison. How long ago had he seen him come out on the sidewalk? Three minutes? Four? No longer. Then Garrison was the killer. Either that or—
It was then that Casey heard the faint metallic sound. He looked at Austin, thinking he had made it, and saw Austin look at him with round, surprised eyes and knew he hadn’t. He knew, too, that the sound had not come from this room, but from the one beyond.
He glanced at the connecting door and what he did then was the result of one of those spur-of-the-moment decisions that showed better than anything else could why Casey was rated the best camera in town. He didn’t stop to worry about what might happen to him then; he wasn’t even sure just what he was going to do; all he knew was that the noise he heard sounded peculiarly like a door closing. Someone had been in that other room. If that someone was the killer, if he was sneaking out—
Austin stood motionless, looking first at Casey and then at the door. Casey put his finger to his lips and stepped quickly past him. “Keep talking,” he whispered, and with the tension winding up inside him, crossed swiftly to the door and palmed it.
“Maybe it’s lucky for us we didn’t come up here sooner,” Austin said loudly.
He said other things but Casey didn’t hear him as he twisted the knob silently and pushed on the door. Light followed him in, disclosing another room that seemed more sumptuous than the one he had just left. There were three doors here and Casey moved to the one giving on the hall, opening it as quietly as he could.
A growing stiffness slid along his joints as he peered out; then, still hearing vaguely Austin’s continuing monologue, he stepped into the hall. The elevator stood as they had left it, flooding light into the corridor. At his elbow the rear stairs wound narrowly down into darkness. He tiptoed to the stair well and listened.
He heard it then, the soft, hurried tapping. Below him. Growing rapidly less distinct, telling him he could not delay. He slipped off his oxfords, tucked them into his coat pockets, and started down, his stockinged feet making no sound as they sped over the stairs.
At the second-floor landing he paused to listen. There was no longer any tapping sound; for an instant there was no sound at all. Then a cold breeze spiraled up the stairs and slid along his ankles, and even as he felt it, he heard the solid click of a heavy door closing.
Casey ran the rest of the way. He groped in the darkness for the doorknob, found it, pushed against the steel do
or, and stepped outside. The door had a patent closing-device and he caught it just in time, a little angry that he should be so careless. He eased it shut and then, thinking of what might have happened, felt his first thrust of fear. Suddenly, with the blackness of the night all about him, he was cold and wondered about it until he realized he was sweating, that his nerves were tight and jumpy. It was so damned dark. He didn’t know which way to turn and waited, breathless, half expecting a gun to start blazing at him.
When he heard no sound but the pounding of his heart, he stepped out, feeling the cobblestones under his feet, looking first one way and then the other until, presently, the street light at one end of the alley made an abrupt silhouette of some moving figure.
Instantly he felt all right again, and started along the alley, his confidence regained. The silhouette had become an overcoated figure now, a slightly bent and hurrying figure that moved out on the sidewalk and turned diagonally left. Not knowing yet whether it was a man or a woman, he loped after it.
He was still in the alley when he heard a car door slam. He was nearly to the sidewalk when he heard the motor start and he reached the street just as a small sedan angled swiftly from the curb diagonally across from him. After that he did not think but acted automatically, throwing his camera to his shoulder, seeing tile blue-white explosion of light as the flash bulb went off, catching a fleeting glimpse of the driver’s face as he turned to look back; that was all, for the car, moving swiftly and with lights out, had disappeared around the corner.
Casey lowered the camera. He did not have much hope for that picture. It was too far away for one thing, and the face had been partly hidden by an upturned coat collar. If he couldn’t identify that fragmentary glimpse, how could the camera capture it? He stood there disappointedly until he remembered his shoes; then he untied them and put them on.
Perry Austin was rocking gently in Endicott’s high-back chair when Casey returned. He had a big cigar in his mouth and he removed it and flicked ashes on the rug before he spoke. “What happened?”
Casey told him.
Austin pursed his lips. “You crazy fool! That could have been the killer.”
“Looks like it was.” Casey reversed his film holder and got another flash bulb from his case.
“I’ve been looking around,” Austin said. “This is quite a layout. The guy must have really been in the chips.” He pushed a heavy humidor across the desk. “Have a cigar.”
“Leave it alone,” Casey growled. “You’ll have your prints all over the joint.”
Austin raised his brows. “That’s right, I will.” He looked down at the cigar, frowning. “How do you figure this, Flash?”
“I don’t,” Casey said. “That’s for the cops. All I want is a couple of pictures.”
“You going to call in?”
“Certainly.” He gave Austin an irritated glance. Something about the man’s attitude nettled him and he could not forget the fact that they had nearly trapped the killer. Looking back, he realized that he had taken a fool chance in trying to follow the man. If the fellow had known about it in time Casey might be stretched out in the alley as Endicott was on the floor. He went over to the dead man, walked around him until he got an angle he liked. He took a picture.
“Look.” Austin had moved up to him. “This is your baby now. If I hang around I’ll get tangled up with Homicide and maybe get stuck for a couple of hours here. If I’m going to get any shots at the Berkely I’d better shove off now.”
“Okay,” he said. “Stop at a drugstore and phone Lieutenant Logan; then I won’t have to use this phone and maybe smudge up some prints for them. I’ll tell him you were here with me, but Logan’s all right, and he probably won’t bother you until morning— And wait a minute,” he said as Austin started for the door. “Take this with you.” He handed over the exposed film holder. “You’ll probably get back to the office before I do. But don’t leave it around for somebody else I to develop.”
When the outer door closed and he heard the hum of the elevator he went to his plate case and got a fresh film holder and two more flash bulbs. He took two pictures of Endicott from different angles, put the film holder and burned-out bulbs in the case and got fresh ones. He looked about then, studying the furnishing of the room anew, and in, the end went back to the third room in the suite.
Here he turned on the light, noting that this room looked more like the library of some rich man’s home than an office. There was a large fireplace, an oversized leather divan in front of it. Two of the walls were given over almost entirely to books. In addition to the hall door there were two others, one leading to a closet, the other to a private bath and dressing-room.
“Some layout,” he said softly and then, with the words on his lips, he stiffened, holding his breath, listening. When the faintly humming sound which had attracted him continued, he stepped quickly to the hall door, opened it a crack, and listened. Sure, now, that the elevator was moving, he stayed there until he saw the light in the car flash past the crack under the door.
Now what? he thought, and closed the door. There was a chance that the passenger might be going to one of the offices across the hall. If not— He snapped off the room light as he heard the elevator door clang back. He went over to the door connecting with the center office, opened it a three-inch crack, and from the light that streaked in, looked again at the shutter and focus of the camera.
For the next second or two he could hear nothing at all. He waited. Presently a doorknob rattled. Then, too late, he realized that the crack he had opened would not permit him to view the opposite door, that he had better not risk further movement until he knew who was coming.
The quick, sharp gasp that followed was loud and startling. From where he stood he could see about one half of Endicott’s body and for what seemed like minutes he saw nothing more. It was a temptation not to try and inch open the door a little farther, but he made himself wait, and presently a woman’s white evening shoe came into view, and a long white dress—half of a dress, really—topped by a mink wrap.
He could not see her face, for when she moved again her back was toward him, and he realized suddenly that she had started away and was moving swiftly toward the door through which she had come. He stepped out just as that door opened, throwing up his, camera and calling, softly, “Hey.”
The woman jerked to immobility, freezing with her hand on the knob. He could see her shoulders stiffen under the mink wrap and he waited, knowing that she would turn her head. She did, giving him a quick, over-the-shoulder glance. That’s when Casey let off the flash gun, getting a fleeting glimpse of the blond hair, the startled, frightened eyes, and smooth, high-cheek-boned face. Even then the sight of her struck some responsive chord in his memory, but there was no time for anything more, because she had opened the door and was running through and slamming it behind her.
Casey started an instant later, crossing the room in long strides, hearing something scrape across the floor of the adjoining office. He grabbed for the knob, jerked at it, and went through the opening, seeing the fleeing silhouette framed in the door ahead. Then, as he leaped forward in the darkness, something caught his shin, dipping him, and he fell heavily, clumsily, as he tried to save the camera, knowing now what the scraping sound had been, that the woman had had the sense to spin a chair in his path as she fled.
He rolled to his knees, still protecting the camera, and stood up. Pain clamped round his shin and he hobbled over to the hall door, cursing bitterly. He went into the hall. The elevator was still there but he knew he’d never catch her now.
“Okay, sister,” he said aloud. “But don’t forget I got a picture, and this one’s going to be good.”
Chapter Four: CASEY GETS COOLED OFF
SERGEANT MANAHAN SAT ON THE EDGE OF THE DESK smoking one of Stanford Endicott’s cigars and, from the look on his broad ruddy face, enjoying it. The fingerprint man was assiduously dusting everything in sight that might conceivably hold a latent print, an
d the photographer, who had already taken pictures of the body and outlined it in chalk on the rug, was waiting for its removal, a tape measure in his hand. Lieutenant Logan stood by the examiner’s physician while he completed his preliminary inspection.
“So here’s once,” the doctor said, “when I don’t have to figure out the time of death for you.”
Logan glanced at Casey, who had slumped down on the divan, and shook his head. “Just give me the slugs this time, doc.”
The doctor stood up and packed his bag. “If they were all like this, life would be a lot simpler for me. I’ll have him out of here in a few minutes.”
Logan strolled over to Casey. “You and Perry Austin came up here, found the door to the outer office unlocked. You came in and here he was. That all?”
“No. There are a couple more things. I saw Nat Garrison.”
Interest kindled in Logan’s dark eyes. “Where?”
“Outside. Just coming out of the building.”
“The hell you did! When?”
“Just as we drove up.”
Logan put his hands on his hips and looked disgusted. “Well for— Why didn’t you say so?”
“I just thought of it.”
“Austin see him?”
Casey said he didn’t know; he didn’t think so. Logan stepped to the desk and scooped up the telephone. While he rumbled out the orders that would start the search for Nat Garrison, Casey studied him.
Tall, straight, and good-looking in a lean, dark way, Logan looked more like a successful young business man than a lieutenant of detectives, and only around the corners of his eyes and mouth was there any reflection of the ten years he had spent in the Department. He liked good clothes and kept them well, his linen always looked fresh, his shoes polished. He had the faculty of being as tough and hard as the occasion demanded, but this acquired hardness was not a quality that he flaunted indiscriminately, and he tried to keep in mind the fact that he was a public servant and not a dictator. Now, coming back to Casey again, his gaze was narrowed in thought.
Silent Are the Dead Page 2