Silent Are the Dead

by George Harmon Coxe

  “Where the hell are we going?” he said finally.

  “Gettin’ anxious?” the man asked flatly.

  “I’m getting damned uncomfortable.”

  “We’ll fix that for. you,” the man said, and Casey didn’t like the way he said it.

  He looked at the rear curtain, wondering about its translucence and the light behind it. He studied it absently for a minute or so without getting any answer, or caring much. They turned a corner. The light beyond the curtain seemed to fall away and then, seconds later, became again more noticeable.

  Quick hope plucked sharply at his taut nerves. A car? Could that light he saw be headlights? He tried to swallow and found his throat dry. He stared at the curtain, yellowish now because of what was behind it. Then, as the hope began to build and his pulse quickened, the car swerved sharply and the light faded and no longer was the pavement smooth beneath him, but bumpy and uneven.

  Casey let his breath out and something inside him seemed to collapse and the weariness and dejection was on him again. There wasn’t any light behind them now. The car was slowing down. His knees were getting sore from the pounding of the rough pavement and he put his hands down to see if he could get those rollers out from under him. Suddenly it seemed cooler and the breeze that came through the lowered front window was fresher, somehow, and moist.

  Casey got hold of a roller and the instant he touched it he froze and his breath caught in his throat. He knew what the score was now. He knew why they hadn’t shot him back on the Avenue when he started to get stubborn, knew why the air sweeping through the window felt fresh and moist. He could smell it now. Salt and eel grass and marshes.

  The thing—that roller he had his hand on—was a sash weight!

  Something clammy crawled into his brain and coiled there. He could feel his scalp prickle. He slid his fingers along the sash weight. A big one—seven or eight pounds; there were a half-dozen of them, or more. There’d be rope, too. He could not feel it but he knew it would be there.

  The car had almost stopped. The thin man leaned forward on the seat. It was dark inside the tonneau now and Casey slid his hand along the floor in front of him, carefully, groping for a weight that he could get his fingers on, that was not pinned beneath him. He found one finally and knew what he had to do.

  This was a good old-fashioned ride. He had photographed such victims many times in the old prohibition days. These men had a similar job to do and their orders had been to put him away where he would not be found. A couple of slugs in the head and 50 or 60 pounds of iron on his ankles. What better way than that? By the time the ropes—or his ankles—rotted away nobody would ever identify him.

  All right. If that’s the way it was, it was the chance and not the odds that counted, and suddenly he found that he was no longer panicky and uncertain, but poised and confident and alert. Even his brain was cool and clear, now that he knew what he had to do; he even had time for a curious sardonic digression as he thought: If I muff this, old McCann is going to be out a 150 bucks. Boy, will he be sore— He slid his fingers along the sash weight and waited, muscles tensing.

  The car stopped. “This is it,” he said. But he didn’t swing the sash weight. He never even picked it up. Because just then something slammed him against the back of the front seat and there was a terrific crash of sound and he thought a gun had gone off, that he had been hit.

  What he did then was pure reflex. He still didn’t know what had happened. He may have been a little stunned by the suddenness of it but he wasted no time asking himself questions. Wedged against the cushion, he had felt the jar but kept his balance. That evened up the odds, which was all Casey ever asked.

  The thin man, knocked off the seat by the impact, was struggling on the floor and Casey forgot the sash weight and pounced on him, groping for the gun. Not until then did he see that both rear doors had been knocked open; that told him that another car had crashed into the back of the sedan and by that time he had found the man’s wrist and jerked the gun free.

  Still on his knees, he chopped with it twice, slapping it against the corner of a jaw and then bringing it down on the black felt hat. He swiveled, trying to swing at the man behind the wheel, but the other saw the blow coming and ducked and slid out from behind the wheel, stumbling as he hit the ground. Casey bucked backward through the open door. He wasn’t thinking much about himself then, because all the pent-up emotions that had been building inside him for the past few minutes broke violently, leaving anger and resentment a blind and driving force.

  There was perhaps one instant when the man in front could have used his gun. That he did not may have been due to his befuddled condition; it may have been that he saw the gun in Casey’s hand and was afraid. Whatever the reason, he spun and fled into the shadows and Casey chased him, yelling at him to, stop.

  They ran past the car behind the sedan, a curiously familiar car to Casey, and then the man fired over his shoulder without slowing down and Casey stopped and squeezed the trigger, aiming low. The gun slapped back against the heel of his hand in recoil and the vague figure in front of him went down on his face as though his legs had been cut from under him.

  Casey heard the gun skid across the cobblestones and walked slowly toward it. He groped for it, put it in his coat pocket. He went back to the prostrate gunman and prodded him with his toe. The fellow began to writhe upon the ground. “Get up!” Casey said.

  “Oh, God!” the fellow whined. “I can’t.”

  Casey glanced back at the two cars. The door of the convertible was opening and he knew now why it had seemed familiar. It was his. And that would be that crazy Wade getting out.

  “Watch the guy in the sedan,” he called; then prodded the gunman again. “You got a bum leg, so what? I should’ve let you have it in the back.”

  He reached down and stood the man on his feet.

  “You’re the ones that slugged Finell, huh? And stole my plate, case.”

  The other remained mute and limped along as Casey pulled him toward the sedan. Wade was peering into the tonneau.

  “How is he?” Casey asked.

  “Tired,” Wade said.

  “Drag him out.”

  He looked past the sedan where the headlights cut into the blackness. Just beyond was a ramshackle building and a broken-down wharf. He wasn’t sure just where he was but he could see the decayed piles and the string pieces at the end. Beyond was nothing but blackness and water. He shivered and looked away.

  Wade had the thin man on his feet and Casey made the two of them walk down in front of the sedan and stand in its headlights, their hands up.

  “Where the hell were you?” he said to Wade, gruffly because his nerves hadn’t quite settled down. “Why didn’t you come to the club?”

  “Where was I?” Wade was indignant. “Out in the cold, you cluck. They wouldn’t let me in. Just mention my name, you said. That’s all. Just mention it. Go ahead. I dare you. You know what happens when you mention your name? They try to bounce you down the stairs.”

  “Who did?”

  “That tough little monkey in the vestibule with the patent-leather hair.”

  Casey almost grinned then. “So you waited out in my car?”

  “Where else?”

  Casey had backed up a step so he could look at the front end of his car. The bumper was twisted and bent but the fenders looked all right.

  “And you saw them grab me and followed us,” he said. “I thought there was a car behind us, but when we turned down here—”

  “The lights went off,” Wade finished. “I turned ’em off. When I started I thought we might scare up a radio car but we didn’t and I had to keep going. Then when I saw you were going to turn off, I got scared.”

  “You got scared?”

  “I switched off my lights and tailed you down. I didn’t know what would happen but when I saw the water and the car stop I knew I had to give you a chance.”

  “You did all right,” Casey said. “You did swell. Th
e only thing wrong is that things like this have to happen when I haven’t got a camera.”

  “That’s Casey for you,” Wade said. “He never gets the breaks.” He began to whistle softly and Casey scowled across the darkness, trying to see what he was doing. Wade opened the door of the convertible and leaned in. When he reappeared he had a plate case in his hand. “Ho hum,” he said. “You know this could make page one.”

  Casey just gaped at him. He watched Wade take out the camera and screw in a flash bulb. Finally he found his voice.

  “Where’d you get it?”

  “I had it,” Wade said. “I took it to the hospital with me. I brought it along in the cab. I used it for a pillow in your car— You think these are the two lugs that slugged Finell?”

  Casey shook his head and walked toward the front of the sedan. That Wade, he thought. What a guy. He looked at the two gunmen. They had their hands down now but he didn’t care. The wounded one was standing on one leg and leaning on his partner.

  “Hurry up,” Casey said. “Grab a couple and then take my car and find a phone. Call Logan.”

  “And just mention your name, huh?”

  Casey sat down on the bumper. He couldn’t think of anything to say. He just waited there watching Wade take his pictures.

  Chapter Nine: GOOD-BY, MR. GARRISON

  CASEY WAS TIRED. He knew he should get up, but he did not want to, and stretched under the covers and turned over to catch a little more sleep. He closed his eyes, but by that time the events of the night before had begun to flow through his mind. That made him start to think, and once he started, he opened his eyes again.

  He could see, in imagination, the two thugs. He remembered vividly the ride, the sash weights on the floor of the tonneau, the blackness of the water beyond the abandoned wharf. Then Tom Wade driving the convertible into the back of the sedan to give him a chance to fight for it.

  By now he was pretty sure what had happened. Someone had sent the two men to watch Stanford Endicott’s apartment after the murder. That someone was the man Casey had followed down the back stairs, the man who had been in the sedan when Casey snapped the picture. Whoever it was, he could not be certain how that picture would turn out. He had to have it. He had sent the two gunmen, and when Casey had come out with Lieutenant Logan and Sergeant Manahan, the two had followed the police car to Endicott’s apartment. While Casey was with the police questioning Mrs. Endicott, the plate case had been stolen.

  It would take the gunmen some time to find out what was on the exposed film in that plate case and when the picture they wanted was not there, they had come to the Express building in search of it. Somehow they had run into Finell, slugged him, jimmied Casey’s desk. They hadn’t found the picture they sought but had seen the shot of Lyda Hoyt—

  Casey sat up, a thrust of apprehension freezing his thoughts. He swung his feet to the floor, reached down beside the telephone box, pulled it off, and slipped out the piece of felt which was his silencer when he wanted to be sure his sleep would not be interrupted. He put the cover back, swept the instrument from the table, and gave the operator the number of police headquarters,

  A nerve jumped in his jaw as he waited. There was no longer any sleep in the corners of his eyes but only darkness and worry. He’d forgotten about that picture when he left Logan the night before. Suppose one of the gunmen had it on him? Suppose Logan had it now?

  “Hello,” he said. “What did you—”

  “Where the hell’ve you been?” Logan said curtly. “I tried to get you an hour ago.”

  “The phone’s been out of order,” Casey said. “What about those two punks? Did they sing for you?”

  “They didn’t have to. There’s fugitive warrants out on both of them. Maybe we ought to give you a merit badge.”

  “Nuts,” said Casey. “Who are they?”

  “A couple of guns from Jersey. They’re hooked up in the Murder Syndicate, remember?”

  Casey remembered. The case had broken about six months previous and the papers had been full of the fantastic details of the so-called organization whose business was murder for profit. Two or three of the mob had already been convicted, some were awaiting trial, others were being hunted down.

  “But what were they doing here?” he asked finally. “I mean how did they—”

  “That’s what we’re going to find out.”

  Casey waited. Logan went on to give some more details and Casey knew then that the picture had not been found; otherwise he’d be hearing about it now. He lay back on the bed, breathing a little easier as Logan continued.

  “It’s like I told you,” he said. “You always fall into the breaks. You saw the guy run out of Endicott’s apartment. You didn’t recognize him—” Logan’s voice grew thin and remote. “You say you didn’t, anyway.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “All right. But he recognized you. He gave those two rats a job to do and they’d have done it, if it hadn’t been for Wade— So watch yourself. You’d better stop in on your way down.”

  Casey put the telephone away, slipped out of his pajama coat and let the trousers fall. He went over and closed the window, stretched, and ran his fingers through his tousled hair. He stood a moment, breathing deeply, a powerful-looking figure, solidly muscled, his stomach hard and flat; then he went into the bath and turned on the shower.

  He had finished shaving and was putting on his tie when the buzzer sounded. Waiting long enough to run a comb through his hair, he left the bedroom and crossed the living-room. He snapped back the bolt and opened the door.

  Nat Garrison stood in the hall. Casey saw that much in the first general glimpse; after that his gaze centered on the muzzle of the gun in Garrison’s hand.

  “Back up.”

  Casey’s nerves began to stretch but he pretended he didn’t see the gun. He put on what he thought was a grin and made his voice indulgent. “Oh, hello, Nat. Come in.”

  He turned his back on the man and walked to the center of the room. There was an enameled cigarette box on the table. He picked it up, hearing the door close behind him. He selected a cigarette and turned to offer the box. Garrison watched him narrowly, saying nothing. After that Casey had to notice the gun. He acted surprised, as though he’d just seen it.

  “Hey. What’s this? Put that thing away, will you? I haven’t had breakfast yet.”

  “They’re lookin’ for me.” Garrison’s lips didn’t move when he spoke and his eyes were ugly. “You told ’em.”

  “Wait a minute.” Casey lit the cigarette and sat down. “Told who what?” he stalled.

  “You saw me come out of Endicott’s building last night. I didn’t think you pegged me but you did. You squawked. Every flattie in town is lookin’ for me.”

  Casey didn’t say anything, but studied the man a moment through the smoke screen he blew out. About average height, stocky, but not so solid-looking anymore. Like most fighters he had put on weight when he left the ring; he had put on more weight in prison. “All right,” he said bluntly. “They’re looking for you. What do you want?”

  Garrison blinked, as though he hadn’t expected the question and wasn’t ready for it. “I didn’t knock off Endicott,” he said.

  “All right. You didn’t knock him off”

  “He was alive when I left.”

  “Okay.”

  “He had some dough of mine. Five G’s. He was holding it for me while I did my stretch.” Garrison twitched his shoulder and rubbed the back of his hand across his nose. “He was out of town when I came out. So last night I went up there. He told me he didn’t have the cash, that he’d get it today.”

  “What do you want?”

  Garrison’s eyes grew more obscure. The heavy automatic moved in his hand. “You ain’t goin’ around sayin’ you saw me come out of that building.”

  Casey put out his cigarette and waited.

  “All I got to do is squeeze this thing a couple times,” Garrison said, moving the gun again.

  �
�Sure.” Casey rose, carefully, unhurriedly. “So then they burn you for it.”

  “Un-unh. Nobody saw me come up here. Nobody’s gonna see me leave. I’m not gonna get framed for that Endicott thing. With you out of the way I can go down and take my beating from those headquarters bastards, but that’s all. Nobody’s gonna be around to put the finger on me.”

  Casey looked at him. It was pretty hard to believe, but recalling other things, he felt a growing stiffness come over him and the faint tightening of his scalp. The guy was crazy. Yeah. That was the trouble. He’d been a pretty fair middleweight. He’d fought for the title once, but he’d always been a puncher, an iron man, and like all the rest he had taken a terrific pounding because of that. Even after he’d been knocked out a couple of times, he’d gone on thinking his defeats had been flukes and that he was better than he ever was.

  Thinking of these things, seeing the mean mouth and the glassy narrowness of the man’s eyes, Casey began to sweat. He still couldn’t believe the fellow would shoot, and yet he could not predict the course of safety. He took a chance at pretending the whole thing was ridiculous.

  “You’ve been hittin’ the weed again,” he jeered.

  “Who?”

  “You. Beat it, will you? I haven’t had breakfast.”

  “You think I’m kiddin’?” Garrison took a slow forward step. “You think I ain’t got what it takes to make this talk?”

  “Sure you have. But you got good sense too. If you could do it and get away, sure. But you can’t. Not here. You can beat the Endicott thing but you couldn’t beat this, Nat.”

  He turned away as he spoke, turned back slowly as Garrison snapped, “Stand still, damn you!”

  Casey took pains with his words. “I got to make a phone call.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “I have to call the office and tell them not to run the story.”