“Louise told me,” Dixon said. “He’d popped off to her about getting even with me. I had an idea what he meant so I went down to make sure.”
“And Nat Garrison nearly walked in on you.”
“That was a break,” Dixon said. “I ducked into the next room and held a gun on Endicott through a crack in the door until he got rid of the guy.”
“And Harry Nye knew too much too, didn’t he?” Casey asked.
Dixon’s mouth screwed into a mean, hard line. “Nuts,” he said. “What’s all this stalling going to get you? Can you take it standing up?”
“What?” he said. “No music to cover up your blasting? I’m a little surprised at you, Bernie. This is an apartment house. You think you can turn it into a shooting gallery and walk out without being seen?”
He said other things, taunting things that had no particular meaning for him because he was trying desperately to find in which direction his best chance lay. For a moment he considered telling Dixon about Logan and the others, but he decided against that. Dixon had made his move. Like he said, he had nothing more to lose; if he suspected a trap he would shoot immediately.
No, that wasn’t it. He had to get at the gun in his sleeve. He had to have noise so that Logan could get in the back way without being heard. He felt a quick thrust of hope when he saw the man’s glance waver and stray to the radio cabinet, and was glad he’d thought to suggest it.
“Why not?” Dixon said. “You think of things.” He gestured with Casey’s .38. “Turn it on. Make it loud.”
Casey’s legs felt stiff and for the first step or two his feet seemed numb; then, suddenly, a change came over him. At first he did not understand it, but as he reached the radio he knew what had happened. Until this moment he had been too busy worrying about himself to remember that this was not the first time Dixon had hoped to kill him, and the thoughts of that other night came tumbling about him. The memory of that ride with Dixon’s killers was stark and vivid. He’d felt fear that night, a cold and numbing fear that ate away his insides and bathed him in cold sweat. Now, remembering, thinking of this man who had been responsible, he found instead of fear and uncertainty, a quickly mounting resentment that became cold and calculating and vindictive.
What was he crabbing about? This was what he’d asked for, wasn’t it? He hadn’t expected things to turn out in just this way, but he’d offered himself as a decoy willingly and with eyes open—and for a special reason.
He had never before admitted the presence of this particular reason. This was the thought he had kept crowded deep in his consciousness, vaguely aware of it somehow but never quite daring to consider it properly. Now that there was nothing left with which to keep it in check, he found the thought clear cut and definite. It left him a little amazed, even now, when he realized that the focal point around which tine idea revolved was the death of Bernie Dixon.
That morning, talking to Logan and MacGrath, he had suggested that Dixon might be trapped. Analyzing now, he knew why. Always in the back of his mind there had been that fear that Perry Austin’s black-mailing would become known, and everything he had done had been motivated by the desire to keep all that a secret. And so, believing that any trial involving Dixon would bring to light Austin’s career as an extortionist, he, Casey, had suggested a trap, a plant. And why? Because he hoped that Dixon, cornered, would resist arrest and be brought down by police guns and silenced forever.
“Well, what’re you waiting for?”
The light in the cabinet went on and the dials glowed. “We have to wait a minute for it to warm up,” he said and moved as naturally as he could to one side of the cabinet.
He was facing Dixon diagonally now, his right arm and part of his body blocked off from the other’s sight by the cabinet. He forced his gaze back to the dials and with what looked like an absent gesture, reached inside his coat and began to scratch his shoulder. It was a bad second or two and the sweat began to leak down his back. But nothing happened and he found the thread along his arm and snapped it without stopping that pretense of scratching.
Gradually the radio came to life. Casey straightened, let his right arm straighten, feeling the nose of the automatic touch his palm and then easing it down until he could get hold of the little butt.
“Well, come on. Music, stupid.”
Casey put on the grin again, not realizing until then that what he had was a quiz program. He turned the dial with his left hand, found a dance band.
“Louder,” Dixon said.
Casey reached the volume control, turned it. The music swelled through the room, the rhythm pounding and the brasses riding high and loud. He saw Dixon’s mouth set and the hand tighten on the gun, and thought, This is it.
All right, then. Things had changed since this morning, but one thing was still the same. Dixon on trial for murder would ruin everything Casey had tried to do. If Logan couldn’t get here to do the job, then Casey had to do the best he could. Well— In a way this was what he wanted. He hadn’t fired a gun in a long time but it was only ten or twelve feet and he could pull the trigger just as fast as Dixon.
“Okay,” Dixon said. “Let’s see if you can take it. Step out, Casey.”
Casey looked into the muzzle of the .38. He was still thinking about the little .25 in his hand. That .38 was heavy and the first slug that hit him would slap him around some.
“All right, Bernie,” he said and found he had to raise his voice against the music. “But this is a job you’ll never walk out on.” He started to move away from the cabinet and raise his gun hand, knowing he was going to pull the trigger twice and keep moving, dropping down if the first slug missed him and firing again from one knee. “The others didn’t have a chance but this time—”
Casey was never quite sure what made him stop. He was watching Dixon and talking and tightening his trigger finger before he showed the gun, and then something happened he could not understand.
Dixon, standing near the center of the room, and in such a way that he could not see the hall doorway without turning his head, had leveled both guns. The right hand was already tensing as Casey moved out and then, incredulously, the hot, bright eyes wavered and darted to one side.
For some reason he could never explain Casey stopped, his gun up, the sharpest of sensations tearing along his nerves. The dance music was pounding his eardrums now, and hearing nothing but the hot, wild beat of the rhythm, with no warning but that quick flicker of alarm in Dixon’s eyes, he waited, knowing that he could squeeze the trigger safely but obeying some intuitive command that stayed his finger.
Afterward he knew that Dixon had never seen that little automatic, that Dixon had heard some sound in the hall and, discounting Casey’s presence, had turned to face it. For that was exactly what the man did, glancing over his shoulder first, never looking at his victim again, but wheeling toward a blur of movement in the doorway and a voice that yelled, “Drop ’em!”
Casey froze, his finger tight on the trigger but not quite tight enough, seeing Dixon try to get both guns around. He caught the gleam of Logan’s service pistol, watched Dixon throw a quick, desperate shot before he was ready; then Logan’s gun jumped and roared, and as the dance music faded into a softer chorus, Casey counted three shots so close together they were almost one.
Bernie Dixon stiffened with the first shot and the others seemed to make no difference. He began to fold in the middle as the echoes died away. The guns dropped from his hands; then he went down joint by joint, slowly, gracefully, with hardly a sound until he fell forward from his knees.
Logan walked into the room, his eyes on Dixon. Manahan and a plain-clothes man followed, guns hanging from their hands. They looked at Dixon and then up at Casey. Suddenly Manahan stopped. “Hey,” he said. “Watch where you’re pointing that.” And not until then did Casey realize that he still had his arm out, the gun extended.
He looked at it curiously as he brought it over in front of him. He put it on the radio cabinet and looked at
that a moment before he reached down and snapped off the current. His breath came out in a gust before he was aware that he had been holding it, and then reaction set in and he saw his hands were trembling.
“Where the hell were you?” he said, his voice an angry growl deep in his throat.
“Where was I?” Logan stared at him. “Where do you think? Out back. We didn’t dare try to rush it. If it hadn’t been for that radio—” He broke off, the scowl deepening. “Where’d you get that toy automatic?”
Casey interrupted to tell him about his plan of concealment.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Logan said; then, angrily: “Why didn’t you use it when he turned on me?”
Casey had an answer for this but he didn’t state it. He’d wanted Logan with his authority to do it.
“When I saw you I forgot—or maybe I was scared.”
“Yah!” jeered Logan. He pushed back his hat, walked around Dixon, picking up the fallen guns and putting them on the table. “What is this?” he asked, pointing to Casey’s drink.
“That’s mine,” he said. “Give it to me. I need it.”
He took it away from Logan and drank half of it, spilling a little on his chin. He saw a near-by chair and it looked awfully good to him. He sat down.
“How’d he get in?” Manahan asked.
Casey told him. “And what was your trouble?” he added when he finished. “You were supposed to have a guy call me—”
Logan began to curse and out of the profanity Casey got the explanation. The man watching the rear door had seen Dixon, but when he picked up the telephone the operator had delayed him just long enough to give Dixon his chance.
“A fine thing,” Casey said. “I oughta sue the company.”
Logan went to the telephone and began to rumble orders into it. Manahan looked at Casey’s drink and pointedly licked his lips. “Any more of that?”
Casey sighed and got up. He went into the kitchen and got a bottle and glasses. Logan hung up and watched the sergeant and plain-clothes man pour drinks.
“Just one now,” he said, “and then put that bottle away. It don’t look good.”
Casey emptied his glass and picked up the telephone.
“Who you calling?” Logan asked.
“The Express.”
Logan opened his mouth as though to protest, thought better of it and closed it again. Casey asked for MacGrath and got him. “We got Dixon,” he said. “Yeah. Right here in my apartment.… Dead.… Logan …” and for the next five minutes he answered the questions MacGrath asked. When he hung up he went to the entryway closet and took out his plate case.
“Now wait a minute,” Logan said irritably.
Casey gave him a long hard look.
“You know what the regulations are, Flash.”
Casey kept looking and pulled out the camera.
“I ain’t kiddin’.”
“Neither am I,” said Casey. “You got Dixon, didn’t you?”
“Sure, but—”
“That cleans up three murders, don’t it?”
“Yeah, but—”
“And it’s a lot better than trying to convict him in court, ain’t it?”
“Sure, but—”
“You sound like Jack Benny,” Casey said. “I’ll answer my own questions. Did I help you? Yes. Could you have got Dixon without me?”
“We refuse to answer,” Manahan said.
“I promised MacGrath some pictures,” Casey said. “And he’s going to get them. What do you think of that?”
Logan checked his reply and watched Casey open a tripod. He glanced over at Manahan and shrugged.
Chapter Twenty-Three: AMONG FRIENDS
THERE WAS A CRACK OF LIGHT showing under the door and Casey knocked, and that started a wheezing and grunting that was loud enough to filter though the panel. A chair creaked and presently the floorboards took up the sound and he glanced down, half-expecting to feel the actual vibration. He did not hear the Capehart, so low was it turned, until Jim Bishop opened the door.
“Hello, Jim.”
Bishop just stared at him for a moment, hanging onto the doorknob, the other arm propped against the jamb. He was wearing slippers and a shirt open at the throat. His fat face looked puzzled. “Well,” he said finally, “Casey.”
“I was coming by,” Casey said. “I thought I’d see if you were up.”
“Come in.” Bishop walked away from the door and lowered himself laboriously into the chair, sighing loudly when he made it. Casey closed the door and tossed his hat onto the table. He unbuttoned his balmacaan and fanned it out as he sat down.
“I just finished up a three-hour session with Logan. They got Bernie Dixon tonight. I thought you’d like to know.”
A second or two ticked by before Bishop replied. He slid his hands along the chair arms, his eyes intent but lost in shadow. “They did, huh?” he said at last. “Alive?”
“Logan got him,” Casey said, and went on to explain what had happened at his apartment and how Dixon had died.
Bishop listened without interruption, nothing moving in his face. Finally he said, the old familiar hoarseness in his voice, “You took an awful chance, didn’t you? You knew Dixon would gun you out if he could. Why should you do a thing like that?”
“I had a reason.” Casey took a folded envelope from his coat pocket and balanced it on his knee. “It all goes back to Perry Austin. He was a blackmailer, Jim. He and Harry Nye were shaking down people all over town. I couldn’t let anybody find out about it.” He looked down at the envelope, picked it up. “This is something you’ll probably want.”
Bishop sat up and took the envelope, not looking at it but watching Casey and opening it by touch. He took out four photographs but it seemed to require quite an effort on his part to pull his gaze from Casey and look at them.
“Where did you get these, Flash?”
“I have to go back a couple of days,” Casey, said. “That morning when we were in Logan’s office, he wanted to know why your niece went to see Endicott in the first place, and she told him about this friend of hers who had been in a jam years ago. She said this friend was married now and going to have a baby. She said this friend was afraid of an old sentence hanging over her and that she—your niece—had gone to Endicott to see if he could get a pardon and close the case.”
“Oh,” Bishop said, his voice curiously soft.
“But Lyda Hoyt didn’t get that envelope that night Endicott was killed because I scared her off. And it couldn’t have been there, anyway, because Austin had already picked it up—while I was out chasing Dixon. He took it back to the Express and made these copies. The trouble is, the film holders got lost—I don’t have to tell you how—and I didn’t get ahold of them until today. When I developed them this afternoon I thought you’d want them.”
“God, yes.” Bishop tucked the photographs and negatives back into the envelope with fat, trembling hands. “These could make a lot of trouble for that girl.”
Casey reached for a cigarette. He tapped it thoroughly, rolled it gently between thumb and fingers, and pulled a flake of tobacco from one end. “Is that all, Jim?” he asked, not looking up.
“All?”
“Don’t you care about the original envelope? The one Austin photographed?”
“Why—why, yes,” Bishop stammered. “Of course, but—”
Casey looked up, seeing the shiny, twisted face, the silent working of the lips. He spoke quietly. “No, Jim. You’re not worrying about the original. What did you do with it? Burn it?” He waited a moment. Bishop’s eyes came into sharp focus and his mouth grew keen and hard. “And the key, Jim. You brought that away with you, didn’t you?”
“The key?”
“Yes. To Austin’s apartment.” Casey stood up. He walked across the room and came back, stealing a glance at Bishop and finding the heavy face set and impassive, the eyes watching every move he made. The reply was a while in coming, but in the end it came on the heels of a flat and scornfu
l laugh.
“By God, you are serious, aren’t you? Maybe you’d better let me in on it.”
“It’s going to take a while.”
“All right.” The chair creaked and Bishop hoisted himself erect. “Then I’d better get me a beer,” he said. “You?”
Casey said he guessed not and watched Bishop waddle through a doorway. He walked over to the chessboard that was laid out as it had been the other night, and picked up one of the figures. He took it with him to his chair and sat down, waiting until Bishop returned with his beer and settled himself.
“There were things that should have made me think of you a long time ago, Jim,” Casey said. “Little things, but I guess a good detective would have been able to use them. Only I’m just a dumb camera. Until Austin was found I didn’t care much about the murder of Endicott one way or the other. I thought I might have a picture of the killer but I didn’t think it would be good enough to count, and I couldn’t find it anyway. I had a picture of Lyda Hoyt, too, but that only complicated things and made more grief for me. But when I found Austin I jumped to conclusions because I thought he’d been killed for the picture I took of the killer in the sedan.”
He went on to explain what had happened to the film holder, and how Finell had kept it in his coat pocket. “Then, a little later,” he said, “I got the dope on Austin. I got some films—how I got them doesn’t matter—that proved Austin had been blackmailing ever since he’d been in town. Not big stuff, but he’d apparently hooked up with Harry Nye, and they did some framing and made quite a thing out of it.” He spread his hands. “But even then I figured Dixon had killed him. I figured he’d got some dope on Dixon from Endicott’s office and tried to collect. When Harry Nye was found that was all right too, because Logan had a sound theory about Endicott and Dixon and Nye.”
He explained this theory, told of the stolen-property racket that had made so much money for Endicott, and how Endicott, finding out about Dixon and his wife, had apparently decided to turn State’s evidence and send Dixon to prison.
“Endicott was caught on the bond charge,” he said, “and he could help himself and make it worse for Dixon by singing. That’s why he was killed. And Nye was the last link with Endicott and the racket and he had to go too. He may even have known that Dixon murdered Endicott. Anyway, it all fitted in and Logan accepted my motive for Austin’s murder—that he had been killed because Dixon thought he had the photograph I took.”
Silent Are the Dead Page 19