“What story?”
“The one I turned in about you.” Casey shrugged. He was still sweating but his voice was right. “I thought I’d give you a break and kill it. Of course if you don’t care—” He broke off, shrugging.
Garrison squinted at him, suspicion filming his gaze. You could practically see his brain struggling. Finally he nodded. “Go ahead. I’ll go with you.”
Casey went into the bedroom. He picked up the telephone, watching Garrison stop at the door. He gave the number of the Express and when he was connected he asked for the desk, leaning back against the wall as he Waited, reaching down with his right hand, shielding his hand with his body as he felt for a corner of the pillow. There were two of these and the one on this side was so close that he did not have to lean down to touch it. He got his hand on the corner as Bennett, the day man, answered.
“Casey. Yeah. You know that story on Nat Garrison?” He could bear Bennett asking what the hell he was talking about, but he winked at Garrison and went right ahead. “Well, Nat’s here in my place now. He’s got a gun on me and I wanted to tell you, so if I get knocked off this morning you’ll be sure he burns for it.”
He held the telephone, hearing Bennett yelling at him. He kept grinning, watching only Garrison’s gun hand, the pressure of the finger on the trigger. He started to hang up, still holding to the pillow, every muscle tensed so that he could throw it and duck if he had to.
For an interminable second he watched the gun; then his glance struck at the man’s face and he saw the confusion and puzzlement there and knew somehow, that it was all right, that the crisis was past. He kept grinning, putting the telephone aside but making no other move. Finally Garrison added it all up.
“Why, you—” he snarled. “Why, you bastard! You double-crossing bastard!” His scarred face twisted and untwisted and his hand moved on the gun but his trigger finger did not tighten.
“You see?” Casey blew out his breath. He let go of the pillow. “It was a bad idea, Nat. Nobody’s going to frame you for anything. I had to make sure you I wouldn’t blaze away and burn for it.”
Garrison backed into the living-room. “All right,” he fumed. “But don’t think it makes any difference. This morning. Tonight. What do I care. I got time. Those cops ain’t gonna pick me up for a while.” He was at the door now, feeling behind him to open it, still clinging to the gun. “Tell the cops you made a mistake and have it in this afternoon’s paper or else.”
Casey watched the door slam. He got out his handkerchief and mopped his face. He still didn’t know whether Garrison had really intended to shoot or whether he’d come to throw a bluff; all he knew was that for a couple of minutes he’d been scared as hell.
Back in the bedroom, he called Bennett again and explained what had happened. Then he got his coat and hat and went down to the corner restaurant where he found he had an appetite and ate fruit and cereal, boiled eggs, muffins, and coffee. When he came out he felt a little better physically but this was offset by his sultry mood.
Ever since he’d started in Endicott’s office he’d been pushed around—by the police and Blaine and the two gunmen and Nat Garrison and Grant Forrester. It wouldn’t have seemed so bad if he had a few answers, if he was sure of the reason why all this was happening. That was the trouble. He had some hunches, nothing more, and as his thoughts flowed on he remembered something else and swung the convertible left at the next corner.
A three- or four-minute ride brought him to a solid row of brownstone fronts that, while old, managed to maintain a certain air of neatness and respectability.
Casey started to slow down in the middle of the block, and then he saw that by angling its nose to the curb and letting the rear stick put in the street, a taxi had hogged the space in front of the house he sought.
“Why don’t you park double?” he growled.
The driver turned irritably on the seat but the crack he was about to make was left unsaid when he saw Casey. The irritation dissolved in a grin.
“Hyuh, Flash Gun. If I’d a known you was comin’ I’d a run her up on the sidewalk.”
Casey went on by and wrenched the convertible into a parking-space. “You oughta be ashamed, Augie,” he said when he came back, but there was no sting in his admonishment.
“Sorry, pal,” Augie said. “I’m waitin’ for a fare.”
Casey saw then that the cab’s motor was running, and thought no more about it as he climbed the stone steps and walked through the open door to the vestibule. He went up the stairs along the wall as he had done the night before, turned right at the landing, and knocked at the door on the left, his thoughts returning once more to the grudge he had against the world.
Even Perry Austin had crossed him up the night before, not showing up with that film holder he was supposed to take to the office. He knocked again as he wondered if the fellow had returned to the Express after he, Casey, had gone in search of Bernie Dixon. In any event it did not look as if Austin was home this time either. He tried the door. It was unlocked.
He went in, through an entryway to the living-room that overlooked the street and smelled of staleness and cigarette smoke. Perry was here all right, and seeing him, Casey stopped cold and a sudden vacuum hit him in the pit of the stomach. For Austin lay on the floor.
He looked as if he had been there a long time. Except for the dinner jacket and the bloodstained shirt front, he looked almost like Stanford Endicott had looked the night before.
Chapter Ten: COMPANY FOR THE CORPSE
CASEY STOOD THERE QUITE A WHILE—until he remembered he had left the door open. By that time he felt he could move and went back and closed it. He returned to the living-room, glancing down at the body but not moving up to inspect it, and sat down in the nearest chair, feeling all weak and sick inside.
It was not the sight of death, as such, that brought the sickness, nor the fact that Austin, though not his friend, had worked beside him for two years; this alone was enough to sadden and dishearten him, but it was the frightful and inescapable explanation of the scene that left him crushed and defenseless before all that bitterness and nausea.
Perry Austin was dead and he, Casey, was responsible. He had taken a picture of the killer fleeing from Stanford Endicott’s offices. He had given that picture to Austin. Somehow the killer had found out about it and Austin had been killed because of it. There was no other answer. That had to be it.
He stirred in his chair, his broad face slack and miserable and despondent. Unable to shake aside that awful feeling of guilt, he forced his glance slowly about the room. There was a plate case on the floor near one wall but Casey was so convinced of his solution that he could not bring himself to inspect it. The film holder he had given Austin would not be there. It would not be in his Chesterfield which lay across a chair back on the opposite side of the room.
In one corner was a kneehole desk. He could see from here that the middle drawer was part-way open. The film holder would not be in the desk either. That film holder was gone— He made himself get up and move to the body. He put the back of his hand to the blue-white cheek. It was stone cold. He picked up a wrist and found the arm stiff and inflexible.
“A long time,” he said bitterly. “Last night. That’s why I couldn’t find him.” He recalled his trip here. When was that? A little after 12:00. Had Austinbeen here then, or had he come back to meet his death at some later hour?
Casey did not know and realized that speculation did no good. There were a lot of whys and wherefores vortexing through his brain but no escaping the conclusion. He looked down at the body again. There was a lot of blood on the rug, dried now and making an ugly stain. There was a gun too, a foot or so to one side of the right hand. A .32 Colt Automatic.
Casey wondered if this was the same gun that had killed Endicott but he did not touch it. He unbuttoned the dinner jacket and lifted it back. There were two holes in that starched shirt front. He straightened, eyes going back to the plate case. He took a step toward
it, felt something under his heel and stepped aside to look down and see what it was.
An empty shell. When he picked it up he saw that his weight had made an ellipse of the former roundness and left a sharp outline in the rug. Knowing there’d be another somewhere around, but not bothering to look for it, he tossed it on the desk and continued to the plate case.
It was closed but unfastened and he opened it. There were three film holders which had never been exposed but none that had been used. He went to the coat on the chair and slapped the pockets, knowing now that his original conviction had been right. There would be no exposed film holders. Whoever had murdered Austin had taken them all to make sure.
Habit was strong in Casey and without realizing it he took Austin’s camera from the plate case, inserted a film holder and screwed a flash bulb into the synchronized gun. He checked the shutter speed and aperture, walking around the body as he did so, his photographer’s eye searching for the best angle. When he had his picture he reversed the film holder, tossed the used bulb into the plate case and selected a fresh one. For this part was still a job, and pictures had to be taken when the opportunity presented itself, regardless of what went on inside you.
He felt for a cigarette as he visualized his next shot, lit it, and dropped the match in an ash tray on the table. That he saw the cigarette butt at all was one of those things that make subsequent explanation difficult. In spite of his preoccupation, in spite of the fact that he gave it but a passing glance, something about that cigarette butt rang a gong inside his head and, frowning, he looked again and picked it up.
It was about half-consumed and much bent from being crushed out. He held it at the bend, seeing the stain of red where lips had held it, seeing something more. He touched the stain lightly, then pressed it between thumb and finger. That told him what he had suspected when he first saw it. This butt was fresh; the end was still damp.
His eyes came up and began to circle the room while a tightness grew in his chest. He was looking for hiding-places now, not knowing whether the woman who had left the lipstick on that cigarette was still here or not. But there was no place of concealment in this room and the only doorway, other than the one through which he had entered, opened to an inner hall almost directly ahead.’
The tightness was still with him as he moved silently forward. He had smelled smoke when he entered, but it had seemed stale then and now he knew it wasn’t. Somehow he had the feeling that the smoker was still in the apartment and, moving into the hall and seeing the closed door there, he decided he was about to get a few answers.
He took his time about it, seeing the open doorway leading to a bedroom, another doorway, and the kitchen beyond. He glanced into the bedroom but did not leave the hall. He looked into the kitchen. He came back to the closed door, deciding it was a closet, that if he was in a hurry to hide he might pick it as a likely place.
“Come on out!” he said abruptly, and reached for the knob. He yanked the door toward him, the camera still in his left hand. And then, drawn back against the coats that hung there, he saw her—the girl who had come to the studio looking for Perry Austin the evening before.
She wore a loose coat, a hat of dark green felt. Her face was white and set and that made her lipsticked mouth look scarlet; her eyes were wide and startled, but in their hazel depths was determination rather than fear. Under her left arm was an oversized handbag. In her right fist was a tiny automatic.
For a long moment the tight hard silence held them mute and immobile. She let her breath out slowly, waited, then caught it sharply. The silence fled and Casey’s mouth tightened into a thin, hard line. He looked at the gun, let his narrowed stare come back to hers, and found it steady and defiant.
“Hello,” he said finally. “Remember me?”
Something flickered in the hazel eyes and died away. Her voice came cold and distant. “Please step away from that door!”
Casey sized her up again, measuring the gun, not knowing what this was all about but deciding not to grab for it. He grinned crookedly and backed slowly into the living-room. “All right,” he said. “You finally found him, didn’t you?”
She followed silently, circling as he stood there, avoiding the symbol of death on the floor but not looking at it.
“What did you want with him last night? When I met you out in the hall you said he wasn’t in.”
“He wasn’t.”
“He’s been dead quite a while.” He was moving slowly toward the door as he spoke, trying to work closer and cut her off. Suddenly she saw what he was doing and stopped.
“Stand right where you are, please.”
Casey took another slow step, his eyes smoldering, speculative.
“I’m not afraid to shoot.”
He stopped, seeing her hand tighten on the gun. He didn’t know whether to believe her or not. He had no ideas about whether she had killed Perry Austin. He did not think she had, although this thought had no solid basis in fact. He did want to know who she was and what she knew. “Did you kill him?” he asked.
She caught her breath. “No. No, of course I didn’t. I don’t know anything about it. I just—”
“Then you’d be sort of silly, wouldn’t you? Starting in on me?”
“I wouldn’t kill you.” He saw her jaw set, the tightening of her mouth. “I’d—just shoot you in the leg.”
“Yeah, you might at that,” Casey said, and suddenly he knew what he was going to do.
She took another tentative step. He made no move and she took another. He held the camera on his hip, waiting. She was at the door now and he watched her open it and start to back through.
“Don’t try to follow me. Please. I don’t want to have to—”
She did not finish, but slipped into the hall. Casey leaped forward. When he opened the door again she was nearly to the stairs and spun about as she heard him, the tiny automatic coming up and desperation in her eyes.
“It’s okay,” Casey said and then, not holding up the camera but wedging it on his hip as he had so often done before, he pressed the shutter release.
The sudden explosion of light blinded her. Before she could move, Casey had stepped back into the entry-way and slammed the door. For just another second or so he waited, listening to see if she would come back; when he heard her on the stairs he strode toward the windows at the front of the room and opened one.
“Hey, Augie,” he called, sticking out his head. The taxi driver looked up. “Your fare a dame? Okay. There’s a fin in it for you if you can find out where she lives.”
He closed the window quickly and stood back, peering from the edge of the curtain as the; girl came out and ran to the cab. Seeing it roll away and thinking of his picture he said softly, “Let’s see what kind of jam this one gets me into,” and would have grinned had he not remembered where he was and what lay behind him on the floor.
The bitterness was hard and implacable in Casey’s thoughts as he moved back to the center of the room. Somehow the girl did not worry him as much as he had expected. A guy like Perry Austin would know plenty of girls and if this was one of them she looked like a winner. Later, when he heard from Augie, he’d know where she went and after he’d developed the picture he might find someone who could identify her. Then, if the setup looked sour, he could find out the rest of it. Until then the only thing to do was call Logan and let him get started.
He went over to the desk, wondering if he should call the office and deciding against it when he realized that this would be an afternoon story. He reached for the telephone and then stopped as his eye fell on the center drawer. It was open a couple of inches and he pulled it wide. He could tell from the confusion of papers inside that someone had searched it. The girl? Or someone before her? He was still thinking about it when someone knocked on the door.
Now what? he thought. He took the film holder from the camera and put it in his pocket; then went over and opened the door. Harry Nye was standing there. He looked surprised and sounded th
at way.
“Oh—hello,” he said.
“Hello.” Casey just looked at him for a moment, a jumble of new thoughts tangling inside his head as he remembered how Nye had walked in during the police investigation the night before.
“Perry in?”
“Yeah,” Casey said, and opened the door. “Come on in.” He stood out of the way. Nye passed in front of him and Casey closed the door quietly, watching the man gain the doorway of the living-room and then stop with a jerk that stiffened his neck and shoulders. He did not move until Casey came up beside him. Even then he did not speak, but fixed him with a narrowed stony stare and then moved silently up to the body.
“Twice, huh?” he said finally, as though talking to himself. “And quite a while ago.” He walked round the body after he had felt the wrist. He looked at Casey, inspected the room as he reached for a cigarette. Finally he went over to the desk and glanced at the drawer Casey had opened.
All this time Casey said nothing. He watched Nye, thinking, sizing him up, smelling the faint odor of barber’s lotion the man had brought into the room. He wore a light camel’s-hair coat and an expensive-looking herringbone suit of light gray. His wing-tipped oxfords were nicely polished. He pushed back his hat slightly and brushed his pointed mustache with the knuckle of his forefinger, turning those amber-colored eyes on Casey as he spoke.
“How long you been here?”
“About half an hour.”
“How’d you get in?”
“The door was open.” Casey moved over to the plate case and took out a fresh film holder. “You get around, don’t you?”
“I was thinking the same thing about you.” Nye gestured toward the drawer. “Who searched the desk?”
“Who would you think?” Casey watched speculatively, aware of a growing distaste for this man.
“The guy that killed him. Unless it was you.”
“it wasn’t me.”
“Called the cops yet?”
“I was just going to,” Casey said. There were more questions he wanted to ask, but he knew Logan could ask them more efficiently. He picked up the telephone and asked for police headquarters.
Silent Are the Dead Page 8