Silent Are the Dead (16 page)

“Hey,” Wade said breezily. “Where are you? Logan's on his way down. Said he wanted to go over Austin's desk in case—”

“Austin's desk?” Casey yelled. He was squeezing the telephone now and his throat was hard and dry. “Are you alone? Then listen. There's a steel box in that desk. In the right-hand lower drawer. Get it out.… Yes, now. Put it in my desk. Shove it back behind something.… No, not there. That's where my bottle is. In another drawer. Go on now. Put it away. I'll hang on.” He waited, realized his hand was sweaty and loosened his grip. When he heard Wade's voice again some of the stiffness went out of his neck.

“Okay,” he said. “And get this. You've never seen that box. You don't know anything about it, or what he kept in his desk, or how the lock got broke.… Never mind. Just remember what I said … I'll call back.” He hung up and went into the front room.

Nancy Jamison was standing by the fireplace now, a certain breathlessness in her voice as she spoke. “What is it?”

“I don't know,” Casey said. “A hunch. Have you still got those keys?”

“Why—yes.”

“I'd like to borrow them. I think it's about time I took my coat and hat too.”

She was smiling a little when she came back with his things. She handed him the keys and he shrugged into his coat.

“Thanks,” he said and saw she was offering her hand, and took it. “I still don't think you're right about Austin but I'm going to find out. And anyway, I had a nice time at your party.”

She still held his hand. She looked right into his eyes and he could see how deep and clear and compelling were her own. “I'm glad you came,” she said finally. “I like you.” She walked with him to the door and held it open. “No matter what you find out, I hope you'll come again,” she said.

Chapter Fifteen:
THAT SICKLY FEELING

T
HERE WAS A RESTAURANT
on the corner. It wasn't much of a restaurant, but it was a place to eat and there was a telephone booth by the cashier's desk. Casey went in and was waved to a table at the wall by a waiter.

He ordered Scotch and when the drink came, asked for chops and baked potatoes. He drank the Scotch slowly, glancing at the clock over the door. He kept thinking about the steel box in Perry Austin's desk, and Austin, and the things Nancy Jamison had told him. He kept telling himself she was wrong, yet all the time he knew how very real were the opportunities for blackmail among news-photographers.

The waiter came with the chops and Casey looked at the clock again and went into the telephone booth. He waited impatiently for his connection, a nervousness striking through him until he heard Wade's voice.

“Has he gone? What about the box?”

“It's okay,” Wade said. “He wanted to know who busted the desk and I told him I didn't know. He said maybe it was the guys that busted yours. He searched hell out of it but he's gone.”

“Good,” said Casey, and relief flowed into the words.

“What's in it?”

“What's in what?”

“The box.”

“How the hell do I know?” Casey said. “And listen. Keep your hands off it, understand? I'll see you later.”

The marceled young man who sat behind the quarter-circle of desk in the dimly lighted lobby still smelled of hair tonic. He took one look at Casey, apparently remembered him from last night and, though his mouth bunched in distaste, said nothing. Casey stepped into the elevator. “Four, Sam,” he said to the Negro operator. “Mrs. Endicott in?”

“Yes, sir,” Sam said.
“Yes,
sir.”

“Company?”

“No, sir. Least I don't think so, sir.”

When Louise Endicott opened her apartment door, Casey was standing close. “Hello, Louise,” he said, and moved in, slowly, but wedging himself in the opening so that she had to step back or get pushed.

“Just a minute,” she said coldly.

By that time Casey was already in. He grinned at her. “You remember me, don't you?” he said, and walked past, leaving her to close the door. He waited for her at the entrance to the living-room.

She came up to him, eyeing him sullenly. She wore a black crepe dress. It had a high neckline but it wasn't especially modest because it was so tight and sleek around the waist and hips, and bias-cut above for extra room. He didn't think she wore a brassiere and decided she didn't need one.

“You've got a nerve,” she said.

“You know I have.” He glanced over the living-room and found it enormous. Most of the furniture was oversized; it had to be to keep the scale right. “This is what you had in mind when you used to go out with me, isn't it?”

“I only went out with you twice,” she said.

“My, how things have changed.”

“What do you want?”

“Five minutes of intimate conversation. And look.” He let one lid come down and his grin was amused but sardonic. “We're alone. Just skip the grand manner and be yourself, will you? This is old Casey speaking.”

She didn't want to smile but traces of it appeared in the corners of her eyes. She shrugged and Casey thought she did it well. “All right,” she said, and went over to the divan.

“Was Bernie Dixon here last night?” he asked casually.

She blinked once. “What a question.”

“Was he?”

“Well, really—” She drew herself up.

Casey sighed. “Listen,” he said patiently. “You can't get haughty with Casey. I knew you when. I'm proud of you. You knew what you wanted and you got it. I'm sorry about your husband and I don't want to intrude upon your sorrow any more than I have to. All I want to know is—was Bernie Dixon here last night between eight and ten?”

“Does he say he was?”

“He says he was with a woman.”

“Oh.”

Casey sensed the change in her. She wasn't looking at him, but at something beyond, and now her eyes seemed very wise and thoughtful.

“Was it you?”

She gave a little laugh, a deprecating sound to indicate that such a thing was ridiculous. “Of course not.”

“You know Harry Nye?”

“Y-e-s,” she said, and suddenly her mouth was tight and straight.

“Know Perry Austin?”

“I've heard of him. I think I may have met him at the Berkely.”

“Okay. Now was Dixon really here? And remember you can always deny it. All I want—”

“Excuse me.” The door buzzer had interrupted Casey and Louise Endicott smiled and rose.

Casey rose with her, stared glumly at her symmetrical back and swinging hips. He walked across the room and came back. He heard the door close and then the voices, Louise's and a man's. He was too annoyed at the interruption to listen closely and presently they stopped. When he finally turned and saw Louise she was backing slowly into the room.

Something about the way she moved brought a sudden quickening of his pulse and he started toward her. Then he saw Nat Garrison and Garrison saw him. There was a gun in his hand.

“Well!” Garrison stopped, and a grin twisted his punch-scarred face. “Back up,” he said to Louise. “Ain't this ducky?”

Louise Endicott stopped a few feet from Casey. Garrison looked from one to the other. He pointed the gun at Casey and his grin went away.

“You don't care what you do, do you?” Casey said.

“I want my dough,” Garrison said.

“But I don't know anything about it,” Louise protested.

“I'm telling you. I got five grand coming. I want it.”

“Where do you think she's going to get it?” Casey said. “Out of her stocking?”

“Shut up, you,” Garrison said. “I'll get you later.” He paused but his scrambled mind could accommodate but one thought at a time and remained with the one that came last. “They're still looking for me,” he said.

“Sure,” Casey said. “Why don't you give yourself up and tell your story?” He heard Garrison make some reply, but only with his ears; his brain was thinking of other things. And the more he thought the more annoyed he became. Who did Garrison think he was, going around with that gun? You couldn't argue with him. You couldn't tell what he'd do. It was like talking to a half-wit. He was just as likely to start pulling the trigger as not.

Thinking of these things, Casey moved over to one end of a refectory table behind the divan. It had a tapestry runner on it and a vase in the center and two silver dishes. He leaned his weight stiff-armed on one end of the table and glowered at Garrison.

“She'll give you your dough if you've got it coming.”

“You know she will—and I've got it coming.”

“But she has to get it from the bank, don't she?”

“Shut up,” Garrison said. “I'm gonna take care of you.”

“That's swell.”

“You're not gonna be around to put the finger on me.”

Casey sneered at him. “Going to rub me out right here in front of another witness?”

Garrison thought it over. He came to the opposite end of the table. His face got more twisted and he apparently found this new question a tremendous problem. “I could rub you both out,” he said.

“You don't care what you do with your dough, do you?”

“What dough?”

“The five grand you won't get if you rub Louise out.”

“I know what I'm doin',” Garrison said. He wiggled the gun at Casey and put his other hand on the table, leaning on it and sticking out his chin.

“Sure you do,” Casey said, keeping one eye on the gun.

“I'm gonna rub you out, that's what I'm gonna do. She ain't gonna talk.”

He gestured toward the woman with the gun and Casey wrapped his fist in the tapestry runner and yanked hard. Garrison's stiff arm slid with the runner, jerking out from under him. He fell across the table on his face, the gun spinning from his other hand as the vase and dishes crashed to the floor.

Casey took two steps, and when Garrison cursed and pushed upright, hit him twice, a left and a right. Garrison may have been an iron man once, but that was a long time ago; then too, he'd never been hit by Casey. He went over backward and landed on his neck. Casey didn't even look at him. He picked up the gun and put it in his pocket. He was still sore. He picked up Garrison roughly and propped him in a chair.

“Just so I can watch him,” he said. “Where's the phone?”

Louise Endicott let her breath come out and her breasts sagged. She fanned her face with one hand and the color crept back into her cheeks. “He scared hell out of me,” she said. “I guess that calls for a drink— The phone's in there.”

When Casey came back Louise Endicott had two highballs waiting, one of which was already half gone. She looked at Garrison. He hadn't moved. “What's his trouble?” she asked.

“Ahhh—” Casey took a swallow of his drink. “He's been smoking opium.” He cocked an eye at her, studying her. “Was Bernie Dixon here last night between eight and ten?”

“There you go,” Louise said. She'd lost her dignity now. She wasn't high-hat any more. She looked him over carefully and sighed. “All right,” she said. “Because if you hadn't come I guess I'd have been even worse off. Yes, he was here. Only don't forget. I can retract that if—well, you know.” She smiled up at him crookedly. “For the sake of my reputation.”

“Um-um,” Casey said dryly, and realized that for all his trouble he had no way of knowing whether she was telling the truth.

Jim Bishop looked Casey over for a full five seconds after he had opened the door before he said, “Hello, Flash. Come in.”

“I just wanted to see if you'd crossed me off the list,” Casey said.

Bishop shut the door. He waddled over to a walnut Capehart and turned down the volume. Casey glanced about. It was a small, cheap apartment, sparsely furnished with pieces that looked as though they had come from a second-hand store. All except the Capehart, which had probably cost more than all the rest of the furniture even when new.

“No,” Bishop said. “I crossed you off for an hour this morning and then Lyda called back and I put you on again—in thirty-six point caps. Beer?”

Casey said he guessed not.

“How about one game of chess?” Bishop indicated an expensive-looking chess set that was laid out on a square table by the window, and looked hopeful.

“My game's rusty,” Casey said. “And anyway I've got to get back. I just stopped in to tell you about the picture so you wouldn't—”

“Glad you did.” Bishop was in shirt sleeves and slippers. He went over to a Morris chair which had been adjusted to an upright position so he could be sure to get out of it again. He lowered himself, grunting, sighed with relief. “And don't think we don't appreciate what you did,” he said.

“She must have called Forrester after she called you last night,” Casey said, and explained how Forrester and his two helpers had ganged up on him. He sat down on a chair arm and told what had happened to the print he had locked in his desk. “And then this morning,” he said and spread his hands, “I was in the middle. All the way. That's why I don't like to hand out pictures. I couldn't tell the truth without giving you away.”

“I know.” Bishop looked at the floor and his voice was tired. “That's the hell of it. And it's not Lyda's fault, you know. I had to fight her plenty to make her agree to keep me out of it. It would've been all right except for that jail business. But for that, I guess it would be all right if Forrester and his crowd knew about me. I wouldn't embarrass the family. I'd keep low and nobody else'd have to know. But when you kill a man, when you're the kind of a fat slob that gets in barroom fights and hits a guy with a bottle—”

“Yeah,” Casey said, and felt deeply sorry for this man who had become reconciled to spending the rest of his days alone and who thought so much of the happiness of his niece. “That was a bad break. Still, if you hadn't been plastered, if you'd known the guy and what you were doing, it would have been worse. You'd still be doing time. And you wouldn't have any Capehart, either.”