Silent Are the Dead (11 page)

“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 that 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.

Chapter Eleven:
A MAN WITH A PAST

T
HE ROUTINE BUSINESS
that immediately follows the discovery of a murder was going on in the living-room, and Lieutenant Logan had left the details in the hands of the headquarters experts while he took Casey and Harry Nye to the kitchen so they would not be bothered. He had accepted Casey's statement as to why he was looking for Perry Austin, but he was not at all satisfied with what Nye had to say.

“You just happened to stop in, huh?”

“That's right, Lieutenant.”

“Last night you said Endicott
told
you to stop and see him. This morning it was just coincidence?”

Nye nodded. He was sitting in a chair he had tipped back against the wall, examining his fingernails.

“When'd you see him last?” Logan went on.

“A couple of nights ago, I guess it was,” Nye said. “At the Club Berkely.”

“A good friend of yours, was he?”

“Well, yes.” Nye caressed his mustache. “He knew a lot of good numbers.”

“So do you.”

Nye grinned. “We'd sometimes go out on dates together.”

Logan opened a kitchen cabinet and took out a glass. While he drew a drink of water Casey, sitting there on the kitchen table, decided Logan was getting exactly nowhere with Harry Nye. As for himself Casey had a lot of things he intended to give out, but hot in front of the private detective. Somehow the conviction had taken root that Nye had come to Stanford Endicott's office the night before to find out just what progress the police were making and he wondered if the same thing could be true now. Such a supposition presupposed that Nye had either committed the murders, or knew who had. Still—

“We checked on you from eight-thirty till nine last night,” Logan was saying.

“Does the alibi stand up?” Nye asked mildly.

“For now it does. Where were you when Austin got his?”

Nye grinned. “I don't know. When did he get it?”

Logan never batted an eye. He must have expected some such answer but Casey gave him credit for trying and for passing right on to the next question.

“You want to give me a statement now or at headquarters?”

“About what?”

“Where you were after nine—until you went to bed.”

“It's okay with me any way you want it.”

Logan went to the door and yelled down the hall. A sandy-haired fellow with glasses appeared, pulling a stenographer's notebook from his pocket.

“Nye's going to make a statement, Mert,” Logan said. “Take it down—if you can find a place to sit. In the bedroom, maybe.” He nodded to Nye. “When you finish you can shove off. And if you should happen to remember why you happened to drop in here this morning, let me know.”

Nye said okay and trailed out after the stenographer. Casey got up and shut the door.

“He's lying.”

“What makes you think so?”

‘There's a lot more to this than you know. I can't give any reasons. It's only a hunch but—” He broke off, cocked one brow at Logan. “How do you feel?”

Logan scowled. “What's that got to do with it?”

“I'm going to fix you up good,” Casey said, and went on to tell about the picture he had taken the night before and how he had given it to Austin.

A flush crept up Logan's neck and a look of exasperation came over his face. “You held out on me, huh?”

“I didn't know if it would turn Out.”

“Sure. Somebody swipes your plate case from our car so you sound off to me. Oh, no. You didn't know any reason why anybody should take it. You couldn't think why those two hoods should try to knock you off last night. You were going to play cagey and crack this all yourself. You were going to outsmart the whole damn Department.”

Casey let him go until he ran out of breath. He was in the wrong and he knew it, and for once he was willing to accept Logan's wrath without argument.

“I told you how it was,” he said. “I got a quick shot of the guy in the sedan. I didn't think it would be much. There wasn't any point in telling you about it until I found out what I had. I told you I'd seen him, didn't I?”

“And didn't know who he was,” Logan said.

“I still don't know.”

“And when do I start believing you?”

The lash of Logan's anger began to stir Casey's own resentment. “When you get damn good and ready,” he said. “I couldn't have turned the picture over to you anyway, could I? I didn't have it, did I?”

“You could have told me Austin had it. We could have started looking for him.”

The answer sobered Casey. There it was again. Maybe Austin would be alive if he could have been found in time. If Casey hadn't given him the film holder in the first place— He tried to shake off that overwhelming feeling of guilt, to tell himself that no matter what had happened there was only one thing to be done now: find who killed Austin.

“I'm not going to argue with you,” he said. “I didn't give you the picture—”

“Then what're you telling me about it now for?”

“To show you why he was killed.”

“Oh.” Logan nodded, his tone edged. “Is that it? Well you know how it looks to us, don't you? Austin was up in Endicott's offices alone—when you were out chasing the killer. He'd snoop around, wouldn't he? And suppose he found something that looked good to him. Suppose he went out later with the idea of picking up a little dough on the side?”

Casey looked at him. His broad face was red now and his dark eyes were cold and disgusted. “I understand Navin's building a new house,” he said quietly.

Logan took a step forward and stopped, jaw tightening. Casey could have hurt him no more had he slugged him. Navin was attached to the vice squad. Navin was only a detective, but had a better car than Logan's, and a better house. The inference was there and people who got around knew that such things happened. So did Logan. That's why he was bitter about it, knowing that most men in the Department were as honest as himself. “That big mouth'll get you in trouble some day,” he lipped.

“Sure,” Casey said. “It don't sound so good, does it? Okay. Then lay off Austin. He was no blackmailer. He was no pal of mine but he worked with me. He was a good camera.”

Logan went over to the kitchen window and looked out. When he turned much of his wrath had evaporated. “Let's start over,” he said. “You don't have to throw that Navin business in my face. I don't say Austin was a blackmailer, I'm only saying it was the only motive I had—until you finally come up with this picture story.”

Casey leaned back and felt better. “I didn't hold out because I was trying to outsmart you,” he said. “If it had come out, you'd have had it.”

Logan nodded. “That must be it,” he said. “Somebody found out that Austin had that film holder.”

“How did those two hoods get in on it? The killer couldn't have known all this was going to happen. They must have already been in town.”

“And the killer knew where to get in touch with them,” Logan said. “This thing is beginning to look like something.”

Casey told about the call from Nat Garrison.

“That guy is punchy,” Logan said.

“It won't stop him from taking pot shots at me. When're you going to pick him up?”

“We'll get him. We need him. If he's tellin' the truth, if he left Endicott alive—and I don't say he did, mind you—he may know plenty because that must mean the killer was already up there in that office.”

A knock came on the door then and Sergeant Manahan entered. He had handkerchiefs spread on each palm. In one was the .32 Colt. “This ain't the gun that killed Endicott,” he said.

Logan nodded. “The other was a .38.”

“And Austin had a permit for a .32 Colt. I don't want to gum things up looking for the number on this until Len gets through, but this might be Austin's.”

He put the gun down and spread the other handkerchief. It had two empty shells in it and the rouge-tipped cigarette Casey had seen. Both shells had been bent. Casey recognized the one he had stepped on; the other was practically flat.

Logan grunted disdainfully. “Look at 'em,” he said. “A fine crew I've got. The only way they find clues is to step on 'em.”

Manahan grinned. “I don't know. We didn't do 'em both. I found one on the desk.”

Casey saw no point in saying he had stepped on it and put it there. He kept still, waiting for the reference to the cigarette butt. It came immediately.