Silent Are the Dead (15 page)

Logan turned back to his desk, a muscle twitching at the hinge of his jaw. “Okay, Bernie,” he said. “Beat it.”

Logan watched the door close, his lids coming down and the lines of his face set. He sat that way for quite a while before he said, “He could be our boy. He might have been with Mrs. Endicott—they say he's been cuttin' corners there—but he could still be our boy. Endicott had a pretty fancy organization, and Dixon is the kind of a guy that could have pulled a lot of strings.”

Casey waited, wondering what Logan meant by organization. When he saw that there wasn't going to be any further explanation he reached for his hat. He was thinking so hard he went out without bothering to say good-by.

Chapter Fourteen:
AN ORDEAL FOR CASEY

A
UGIE, THE TAXI DRIVER,
pulled to a stop halfway up the hill and waved proudly toward a somewhat dismal-looking red-brick house that was built flush with the sidewalk. “There you are,” he said. “Pay me.”

Casey got out and gave the house the once-over. It was a three-storied, age-crusted affair, plain, no different from its neighbors except for the color of the trim on the door. He took out a five-dollar bill, squinted one eye at Augie. “How do I know she's here?”

“That's where I brought her.”

“I said I'd give you a fin if you found out where she lived.” He paused, watching Augie's face cloud. “And anyway, you're not so damn smart. I even found out what her name is.”

“Well, hell—” Augie began.

“Here.” Casey gave him the bill. “If I'm not out in five minutes that means you're right. Only”—he winked—“you have to take the fare out.”

He tried the door, found it unlocked, and stepped into a flagstone-floored vestibule with six name cards on the wall. After a glance, he went up three steps to another door, opened it, and started climbing. Nancy Jamison lived on the top floor and Casey was wheezing a little as he knocked on one of the two doors at the head of the stairs. When he saw the knob turn he stepped close, not sure what he was going to say, but determined to get in.

She opened the door herself, and he saw the lashes snap back, the quick surprise in her hazel eyes. He saw her red lips form an O and heard her gasp; then he heard a lot of voices and looked into the room beyond.

There were at least 20 people there, mostly women, standing around with plates in their hands and talking their heads off, looking over at him and then letting the conversation trail off into silence. Casey got his hat off before confusion made him mute. He glanced at the girl and saw her shoulders come back and her chin lift. Her mouth tightened and then, suddenly, she was offering her hand and saying, loud enough for all to hear, “Oh, how nice. How very good of you to come.”

Casey wanted to run but he couldn't make his legs move. He felt her firm warm hand in his, knew he was being drawn into the room. As she closed the door he had to turn to get out of her way and she leaned toward him, spoke softly. “What's your name?”

“Casey.”

“I'll take your things,” she said, her voice normal once more.

She reappeared, smiling. “Now come along and meet some people, Mr. Casey,” she said. The next few minutes became a lifetime of sheer agony for Casey. He moved as in a trance, the girl's hand on his arm, mumbling names and saying, “How do you do,” over and over and feeling the sweat on his face and the burning in his neck and ears.

“You'd like a drink, wouldn't you?” Nancy Jamison said. “Or”—he wondered if there was a smile in her eyes—“would you prefer tea?”

“A drink, please,” Casey said.

“Cocktail or highball?”

“Scotch would be fine.”

“Scotch, Norine,” she told the maid and then, smiling up at Casey, “Now if you'll excuse me—”

He turned to look over the other guests. The four or five men present were sleek and middle-aged, and they had cornered every woman that was young and attractive. A trio of angular females drifted around him before he realized it.

“Do you paint, Mr. Casey?” one of them asked.

Casey said he didn't and for a moment that killed further conversation.

“Or sculpt?” an efficient-looking person with horn-rimmed glasses ventured hopefully.

“I'm a photographer,” Casey said.

“Oh.” The three exchanged glances and one of them tried again. “Portraits?”

“Newspaper.”

That fixed everything up. “How interesting,” they said and drifted off.

It was nearly dark when the last guest had gone and Nancy Jamison closed the door. The maid had started to clean up the room, but Nancy told her to forget it for now and get things in order in the kitchen. Casey, standing wearily by the big easel in the corner, watched her go to the table and pour herself a short drink. She came over to him, glass in hand. “Have a good time?”

He looked at her and grinned, studying the clean young line of her mouth, the smooth skin at her throat. She wore a simple black dress with a touch of white at the neckline and cuffs. Her hair, he saw, was parted at the side and falling softly nearly to her shoulders. She looked tired, and he thought about how he had come here and how expertly she had passed him off as a guest. He found himself admiring her spirit and ready self-reliance and knew that no matter what her story was, he was for her.

“Swell time,” he said. “Only these kind of things are hard on your feet.”

“Yes,” she said, and motioned him to a chair while she sank down on the studio couch. She looked at him, her glance appraising. After a few seconds she said, “How did you find me?”

He told her.

“I see,” she said. “Well—”

“I wanted to find out what you were doing in Perry Austin's apartment.”

“You're not a policeman?”

“No. But Perry worked on the
Express
with me. I think he was killed because he was doing something for me. I want to find out who did it.”

“And you think I did?”

“No, I don't. But you were at his place last night. You were there this morning. That sort of indicates you know something about him.”

“Does it?”

He made no answer, but waited, knowing she would speak again.

“I wasn't at his place last night,” she said. “I went there and knocked. I had already turned away when you came up the stairs.”

“How'd you get in this morning?”

She was inspecting her drink. He thought she smiled. “I was very nice to the janitor. I said Mr. Austin had asked me to wait for him. I smiled and fluttered my eyes. He unlocked the door for me.”

“Why?” Casey asked. “Why did you want to get in?”

“I wanted to search it.”

“For what?”

She finished her drink and put the glass aside. She asked if he had a cigarette and he gave her one. She inhaled and picked a piece of tobacco from her tongue before she said, “Was Mr. Austin a friend of yours? I mean, did you think a great deal of him?”

“No,” Casey said. “Why?”

“Because,” Nancy Jamison said, and now her voice was clipped and cold, “Mr. Austin was blackmailing my brother.”

Casey sat up, his face stiffening, incredulous. For a moment he could only stare and then his brows screwed down and he tried to laugh. It didn't come off because something in the girl's tone killed it, froze it in his throat.

“You're crazy,” he said finally.

“No.”

“Not Austin,” Casey said. “Austin was no blackmailer.”

“He blackmailed my brother—or tried to,” Nancy Jamison said flatly.

Casey stood up. He walked round the room and sat down again. It couldn't be. Nobody on the
Express
would blackmail anyone. Every news-photographer had plenty of opportunities but—

“I think you're wrong,” he said, his voice quiet now, measured, serious. “I wish you'd tell me about it.”

“My brother's in the army. He hasn't had his commission long,” Nancy Jamison said, and as she went on, Casey realized he had heard the story before. Not exactly this way, not with the same characters, but fundamentally there was nothing new about it.

Her brother, Fred, had been home on leave, had been one of a party of five that had gone night-clubbing. He was an odd man, his own girl having been asked out to dinner with her parents, and he'd been pretty glum about it so he had taken more to drink than he should. Later he had left the party and disappeared, and although he was not quite sure what had happened, he had apparently been picked up by some girl at the bar and had taken her home.

“He remembered that part,” Nancy Jamison said, “but he didn't know about anything else until he saw the picture.” She hesitated, continued with an effort. “A picture of a girl in negligee sitting on his lap with her arms around his neck. And Fred with his hair tousled and his coat open and— Oh!” She shuddered, clenching her teeth. “You could see he was drunk and didn't know what he was doing.”

“A frame, huh?” Casey's voice was sullen. He had known that was coming by the time she was halfway through. But Austin? No. He couldn't swallow it. “What's the rest of it?” he said.

“A few days later a man came around to see Fred and showed him the picture.”

“Austin?”

“Yes. That is, I think so.”

Casey's face lit up. “Hah! You think so.”

“Please,” Nancy Jamison said. “Let me finish. This man came to Fred. I never saw him. He said Fred could have the negative and print for a thousand dollars. Fred came to me because it was the last day of his leave. He had no thousand dollars; neither did I, but I told Fred to tell the man I could get it.

“When me man called up, Fred said he had to return to camp, but that I would pay. He left a number for me to call and I did. Yesterday afternoon late. The man who answered understood the whole business. He said he wasn't the one who took the picture but that it had been given to him, and if I'd bring the money he'd hand over the negative and print. I wanted to do it then, but he said he was busy and that I should come around twelve or a little after. I told him that was awfully late but he said it was that or nothing— Well, he gave me the address and so I went right out there and asked the lady about him.”

“What lady?”

“Oh—I forgot. The one who has the apartment opposite him. She told me his name was Austin and that she thought he worked for the
Express.
That's why I went there, why I was waiting when you saw me. I tried to phone him again later but he wasn't in that time either.”

For a moment Casey forgot Austin and remembered only his admiration for this girl and her spirit and nerve. “And you went? With that little gun in your pocket?”

“What else could I do?” There was no answer to this and she continued. “But no one answered when I knocked and then I heard you coming up the stairs and—I guess you frightened me off. So I went back this morning. When I couldn't get in I thought he was out. That's why I got the janitor to let me in. I thought I could find the picture myself and not have to pay. And when I went in he—he was there on the floor.”

Casey started to interrupt and thought better of it.

“I started to look. I made myself search the room. When I found the desk was locked I—I took his keys from his pocket.”

Casey just stared at her.

“And I'm glad I did,” she said, a sudden defiance in her tone. “Because I found them.”

“Found what?”

“Pictures. A whole stack of them.”

“Wait a minute.” Just thinking of what this slip of a girl had done made Casey a little groggy. He felt as though someone had clipped him on the chin and that these things he was hearing were part of a dream. He went over to the table and poured a swallow of Scotch and downed it. “What kind of pictures?”

“All kinds. My brother's was there. There were a few more quite like it and others I didn't understand.”

“What did you do with them?”

“I took them. I had them in my bag when you came. That's why I was so afraid.”

“I'll be damned. I'll bet you'd have plugged me too.”

“Yes, I think I would have,” Nancy Jamison said.

Casey ran his fingers through his hair. He went over to the mantelpiece and propped an elbow there. He was thinking about Austin now and finding that he could not yet accept that blackmailing theory. There was still no proof but this girl's word. He found himself studying her aslant, weighing the things she had said. He liked her. Her personality did things to him. And yet—

“Where are those prints now?” he asked.

“In there.” She pointed at the fireplace.

He looked down at the ashes, finding traces of paper ash among the lighter gray of the wood. “All of them?”

“All of them.”

“What about the negative?”

“That's there too.” She tipped her head and a frown bit into her forehead. “But that was the only one. There weren't any negatives for the other pictures. There was a print and a negative of my brother in an envelope, and there was an elastic around this and the other pictures, and when I looked through them I found another print of my brother.”

“Just in case, huh?” Casey said disgustedly. “Holding out an extra print.” And then he stared over her head, thinking about that stack of pictures she had mentioned, wondering about the negatives. Suppose they had not all been destroyed, those negatives? What about the pictures that didn't sell? Not even that racket was a hundred percenter—

Suddenly he straightened. He stared hard at the girl, not seeing her, but something else a long way off. Then he asked for the telephone, a snap in his voice.

Nancy Jamison eyed him curiously, pointing toward an inner hall. He went to a table there and asked for the
Express
number. When he was connected, he demanded the studio. “Hello,” he said, when Tom Wade's voice came back to him.