Silent Are the Dead (13 page)

He made fresh developer and got a new fixing bath to be sure he could get the most out of the film. He wasn't worried about the one he had taken of the girl outside Austin's apartment, but the other, the one he'd taken the night before of the fleeing sedan, would need all the forcing he could give it.

He was pretty nervous, waiting for the film to fix. He could tell then that the quality of the negative was all right, but he could not be sure of details until he printed it. He chain-smoked while he waited for the film to dry and then put it in the enlarger and slid a piece of paper in the easel. He watched the image spring to life in the developer, timing it, shoving it into the water and then into the hypo, not daring really to examine it until it had been there a minute or so. When, finally, he held it up under the orange light he knew what he had: just what he had expected.

He dropped the print back in the hypo, cursing softly, feeling his hope and anticipation slip away and the weariness close down on him. It was a good print, all right. A bit thin because he'd only used one flash bulb and he'd been quite a distance from the sedan, but strong enough to show the car clearly, the edge of a man's hat, a thin slice of the face that was half-turned toward him.

“I could blow it up the size of the room,” he said bitterly, “and still I wouldn't have enough to know who he was.” He picked up the print again. “And look at the angle,” he added, inspecting the quartering shot. “Can't even see the license tag.”

After that Casey had a bad few minutes. It was tough to stand there and make prints when all the time you were thinking that Austin had been killed for nothing, that the picture that had cost him his life hadn't been worth a damn and that if you had hung onto it yourself, he would still be alive.

He made two more prints automatically—the one of Endicott that had been on the holder with the shot of the sedan, and the one he had taken of Austin lying there on the floor. When he came to the negative of the girl with the gun he had to think of other things and that helped.

This was a picture he expected to show here and there for purposes of identification, and he knew he couldn't offer it as it was because of the gun in her hand. So he masked off the lower part of her body, adjusted the enlarger, and made an eight-by-ten print of her head and shoulders. It came out nicely. Anyone that knew her would recognize her from this likeness.

Elsie Andrews, the society editor of the
Express
, was a smart-looking woman, no longer young, but with good features and a pleasant manner. She wasn't pretty, but she had a nice smile and gave it to Casey when he perched on the corner of her desk and handed her the picture of the girl.

“Ever see her before?”

Elsie Andrews inspected the photograph, reaching absently for a pack of cigarettes on her desk. Presently she looked up. “Yes, I have.”

“Know her?”

“I should.” She caught one lip between her teeth and stared. “At least I think I should. Wait a minute.”

She rose and left the office. When she came back she was smiling. “I thought I did,” she said. “Nancy Jamison.”

“Society?”

“Rather. She's General Jamison's daughter.” She looked at the picture again. “What'd you do to her? She looks pretty frightened about something.”

“Oh, that.” Casey swallowed and grinned. “I guess I startled her.” He reached out for the picture. “Thanks, Elsie— Oh, what's she do, anyway? Just another deb or—”

“She paints. And rather well too, I understand. She's had a couple of one-man shows.”

Casually, Casey pursued his questioning, and among other things he learned that Nancy Jamison had an apartment of her own somewhere on the Hill, that she had a brother only recently graduated from West Point, and that while she had the proper requisites, she did not seem to care greatly for the obligations that a strictly social life entailed. She was seldom in the news, seldom seen at first nights or charity affairs, seldom photographed.

“Just what,” Elsie Andrews asked, pushing her elbows on the desk as she finished and giving Casey that nice smile, “are you trying to promote?”

Casey colored. “Nothing,” he said. “She—she's sort of nice, that's all. I just wondered who she was.” And then he thanked her and backed out of her office, taking the photograph with him.

The telephone was ringing when he reached the studio. It was MacGrath, the managing editor. “Come on up,” he said. “I want to talk to you.”

Casey picked up the two prints of Austin Wade had made for him, the one of the fleeing sedan, the one he himself had brought from Austin's apartment, the one of Endicott taken the night before. He put the one of the sedan with the one of the girl. He rolled them up, put them far back in the bottom drawer, and piled some books in front of them. The others he took with him, climbing the stairs and crossing the city room, practically empty at this hour, to a private office in one corner.

MacGrath was busy signing some letters when Casey entered, and did not look up but said, “Sit down, Flash,” and kept on writing.

Casey took the worn leather chair by the window. He looked out and watched a transport plane glide swiftly across the cloudless sky; then he looked back at MacGrath, watching him read the letters and swivel the half-smoked cigar that seemed to form an integral part of his features. Presently the letters were finished and put aside. MacGrath leaned back in his chair—or started to—and then he caught sight of the prints in Casey's hand.

“What are those?” he asked and looked at them quickly, interest kindling in his deep-set eyes. He glanced at Casey, looked at the prints again, pointing to the one of Endicott. “You're a little late with that one, aren't you? If we'd had that last night—”

“It would have been good, huh?” Casey said.

MacGrath took the cigar from his mouth, examined it, replaced it in the opposite corner. He was a blunt-jawed man, thick-necked, stocky. Like Blaine he was a driver, but his methods were different and where the city editor was sarcastic and ironic in manner, MacGrath was direct, impatient, but always fair because he had a vast understanding of men.

“Every time I get ready to ride you,” he said, “you show up with some pictures and make a chump out of me. Where've you been? What've you been doing? You were out all night on this Endicott thing and getting pushed around by a couple of thugs and not a picture do we get out of you.”

He reached for a copy of the final edition. On the front page was a picture taken the night before of the two gunmen standing in the headlights of their car. The caption said they were being held in connection with the murder of Stanford Endicott. “Wade took this,” MacGrath said. “Where were you?”

“Sitting on the bumper with a gun in my hand.”

“Wade said you wouldn't let him get you in the shot. Camera shy?”

Casey grinned and made noises in his throat. MacGrath sat up, a seriousness cloaking his blunt face. “What about Perry Austin?”

Casey told what he knew. He told about the picture of the fleeing sedan. He explained how Finell had taken it away and he said he believed Perry Austin had been killed because of it.

“Where is it?”

Casey hesitated, deciding not to show it because he was afraid MacGrath might print it anyway. Until he actually saw it, the killer could not know what was on the film and that uncertainty was something Casey wanted to maintain.

“It didn't come out,” he said.

“What?” MacGrath scowled at him. “Since when are you taking pictures that don't come out?”

“I was too far away. I got the car, but no number and it would never reproduce on newsprint anyway.”

MacGrath opened his mouth and Casey got ready for further argument when the telephone rang. “Yeah? Yes. He's here now.… For you,” he said, and handed the instrument to Casey.

“Casey?” The voice was Lieutenant Logan's and it came across the wire curt and hard. “I want to see you.”

“Okay,” Casey said. “As soon as I finish—”

“Finish, hell,” Logan snapped. “I want to see you now. Do you want to come or shall I send for you?”

Casey choked back an angry retort. What was the use of scrapping over a telephone? “I'll be over,” he said and hung up, glowering for a moment until he became aware of MacGrath's stare. “Logan,” he said. “He wants to see me. He sounded a little sore.”

MacGrath let him get to the door before he said, “About this Austin business. We're going to offer a reward. He was one of our boys. We ought to do what we can.” He paused, chewing on the cigar. “He wasn't my kind of man, but Blaine said he was a good camera.”

“He was,” Casey said.

MacGrath waved him out. “If you find out anything that might help, let me in on it. When they start knocking off my cameras it's time I did a little crowding on my own. Stick with it, Flash. Whatever you do, I'm backing you, understand?”

Casey said he did and went out, grateful that he had a man like MacGrath for a boss.

Chapter Thirteen:
SMOOTH SUSPECT

L
IEUTENANT
L
OGAN HAD A MODEST OFFICE
with a roll-top desk, three chairs—not including the desk chair—a table, and a hat rack, all in golden oak that had mellowed by usage and age into ordinary, nondescript wood. He was at the window staring out when Casey entered without knocking, and the instant the photographer saw the lean, tight face he knew he was in for a session.

“I was just going to send for you,” Logan said.

“Then I saved the city some dough,” Casey said, his tone as blunt as Logan's. “What do you want?”

Logan stepped past the desk to a door connecting with an adjoining room, and threw it open. “Come in, please.”

He stepped back and then Casey saw her, felt the cool sweep of her blue eyes as she hesitated on the threshold. After that he was too confused to grasp the full significance of Lyda Hoyt's presence here, and what happened after that was a complication of many things he did not understand until later.

He saw Grant Forrester behind her, even as he heard Logan say, “If you'll sit here, Miss Hoyt.” He saw Forrester reach out and take his arm. They were close to the doorway then and he heard the fellow say, “In here, if you don't mind.” Then he was suddenly being pulled into the next room and the door slammed behind him and Forrester was turning the key.

Not until then did Casey get a legitimate reaction. Surprise was still uppermost in his brain but he saw angry lights in Forrester's eyes, the thin, hard mouth, heard him say, “All right, Casey. This is where you take a licking. Put up your hands.”

“Wait a minute.” Casey's thick face warped in bewilderment. Before he could speak again the straight left caught him, jarring his cheekbone and knocking him off balance. “Listen,” he said.

The left jabbed again in his face, pushing him still farther off balance. He flung out his hand to steady himself, felt his wrist watch smash against the radiator; then he saw Forrester advancing, guard up, and knew he'd better quit talking.

He slipped the next jab, caught the following right on his elbow, and swiveled away. He circled, thinking about this crazy man and his record as a boxer, of his social position and background. Suddenly Casey was furious and as Forrester jabbed the left again, the fury became a cold and collected force that goaded him to action.

He could hear Logan pounding on the door and shouting. He slid his left foot forward. Forrester hit him twice without a return and Casey knew what he was up against. He moved in, watching the left, knowing Forrester was trying to set him up for a solid right-hand smash. When it flicked out again Casey did not try to block, but took it clean and crossed his right, the only way he knew to beat that kind of a punch.

It was a little high, that right; he knew that as it hit and he felt the welcome jolt in his forearm. But it was solid and Casey's weight was behind it, and Forrester went down, stiffly, his feet practically anchored and falling in one piece. He wasn't out. He rolled over and came to one knee. Casey waited, aware of a new noise and commotion behind him. Before Forrester could rise, Logan was between them, and somebody was helping Forrester, and two plain-clothes men were holding Casey's arms.

Logan was apoplectic and for a moment could not find his voice. He glared at Casey, glared harder at Forrester, snapped an order to the plain-clothes men, who then let go of Casey. No one said anything more until the others had left the room.

“I'm sorry, Lieutenant.” Forrester brushed himself off. “I couldn't help it.”

“We don't go for that sort of thing,” Logan said coldly. “It would have served you right if we'd let him cool you off.”

“I'm willing to let him try again,” Forrester said.

“Yah!” Logan jeered. “He'd knock you silly.”

“I still will,” Casey said.

Logan spun. “Not here, you won't,” he said, jabbing his finger against Casey's chest.

“We can find a place,” Forrester said, and somehow Casey liked him for that, in spite of what had happened.

“For now,” said Logan, “you'll go in the other room and sit down.” He went over to the connecting door and unlocked it. “Start something again and I'll have you both thrown in the tank. And if you don't think I can, Mr. Forrester—at least until you get a lawyer to spring you—”

“I'm sure you can,” Forrester said, and went into the other room and sat down beside Lyda Hoyt, who waited, white and composed.

“I'm sorry, Lyda,” he said, quietly. “I—I lost my temper when I saw him.”

“I know, darling,” she said, and slipped her hand in his.

Logan shut the door and sat down at his desk. His color was still high, his mouth taut. He picked something from his desk and handed it to Casey without looking at it.

“Ever see that before?”