Silent Are the Dead (21 page)

Louise Endicott yawned to show she wasn't interested. Logan reached in his pocket and brought out two slips of paper. “Do you know anyone named Adele Dixon?”

“No.”

“No? Then you didn't know that Mr. Dixon has been paying her twelve hundred a month for the past several years?”

Louise Endicott stared at him. She wasn't thinking about yawning now; her blue eyes were bright and narrow as they watched Logan move up to her and hand her the slips of paper.

“Those are photostatic copies of one of his checks,” he said. “Front and back. We checked with the Traders' Trust and then with Adele Dixon to find out what the relationship was.”

He held his hand out for the photostats. He went to his chair and sat down again, eyeing Louise Endicott steadily, saying nothing.

Casey watched him; he liked to see Logan work, when it was on somebody else. After a while he said, “Mr. Endicott was going to divorce you—until he got himself in a jam. And then you say you were going to divorce him. But you didn't figure on marrying Bernie Dixon, did you?”

Louise Endicott's face stiffened inch by inch and little by little the color seeped away.

“I guess he told you he couldn't marry you. He told you he was already married and—”

“That's a lie!”

“He's been married to Adele Dixon for ten years,” Logan said. “She wouldn't divorce him and— I don't know, I'm only guessing, but I guess he could have divorced her on grounds of desertion if he'd wanted to—or maybe he couldn't.”

“I don't believe it.”

“About Adele Dixon? Why, that came straight from New York, Mrs. Endicott. I got that in black and white. She was his wife. Is his wife. And he was playing you for a sucker. He had no intention of marrying you. He was going to stall you until he got tired of the arrangement and then—”

“You're a dirty liar!” Louise Endicott jumped up. The house coat fell open to show a pink thigh and she flipped it about her angrily. She grabbed a cigarette from a box, tapped it so hard it broke. She threw it in the fireplace and took another. She got a light and sat down again, her color high, jaw rigid.

Logan gave her a few more seconds of silence; then he said, innocently, “No, Mrs. Endicott. Why should I lie to you? I thought I was doing you a favor. I thought this was something you ought to know.” He hesitated and Casey watched in admiration. He was good, Logan was. When he continued his tone was almost hurt, it was so patient. “I just wanted to show you you were making a mistake about Dixon. I have his wife's address here, and her phone number. You can call her in New York if you don't believe me.” He started to reach in his pocket.

“Never mind,” Louise Endicott said. She was tapping one foot, hugging her breasts, her face tight.

Logan's lean face relaxed. He leaned back in his chair. “You'll only get yourself in trouble, trying to protect him,” he said. “There's such a thing as perjury, even for a good-looking woman like you. Bernie Dixon wasn't here the other night between eight and ten—”

“No, he wasn't,” Louise said.

Logan continued instantly: “But you sent the house-boy away?”

“Yes. Because Bernie phoned and asked me to. He got here just after eight and said something had come up and he couldn't stay after all.”

“He went right out again?”

“Yes. And then he phoned later and said Stanford had been killed and it might look bad for him and that he might have to say he was here for an hour or so. He said he wouldn't offer the alibi unless he absolutely had to.”

“Did you ever think he killed your husband?”

“Why”—the woman's eyes went wide and her surprise seemed genuine—“no.”

“What did Dixon say about it?”

“He said it must be the ones who were mixed up in that—that bond business with him. They were afraid he'd talk. He said he knew how it might look—I mean, people might find out we'd been—friendly—and so he might need an alibi.”

“I see,” Logan said. He stood up. “Just one thing more, Mrs. Endicott. Did your husband accuse you of any, ah, intimacy with Dixon? Did he let you know he suspected anything?”

She looked at him a moment, then lowered her lashes. “Yes. He said he'd had this man, Nye, watching me.”

“Thank you.” Logan said. “Thank you very much.”

Louise Endicott watched him move to the door with Casey, finally called, “But you don't think—”

“We don't know,” Logan said. “We may have to ask you to make a statement later. If I were you I shouldn't mention this to Dixon. You've been his sucker long enough.”

When they got out in the hall, Casey said, “Was that nice?”

“I just wanted to leave her in the right frame of mind,” Logan said. “That is what I call a fine morning's work.”

“You were lucky,” Casey said, as they got in the car.

“Plenty lucky. It was that check. If Adele had been Dixon's mother or something I couldn't have got to first base. I still needed luck but I figured if Louise
didn't
know he was married—” He broke off, continued thoughtfully. “I think I've got the setup, now,” he said. “I can't prove it yet, but things fit. See if this makes sense. Endicott and Dixon are in this business of peddling stolen property—of all kinds. Back of them are the mobs that do the work, but they're independent outfits spread all over the East and we can't help that now. All right. Dixon is probably the guy with the contacts and Endicott is the business man. Nye is probably in it too, but only like you said—a runner.”

“He worked for both of them?”

“Endicott, I think. He may have known about Dixon, and after Endicott was knocked off we know Nye contacted the auto store and jewelry guy, so that time he was under orders from Dixon. But up to then I think he was Endicott's man, otherwise he wouldn't have made those reports about Dixon and Mrs. Endicott. Anyway, we start with Endicott getting nabbed for the hot bonds. I don't know if you know it, but the D.A. had him cold on that charge. They got him with his pants down and he knew it.”

“So?”

“So he's got two angles. Fight the case and lose and take the big rap, or cop a plea and get maybe a couple of years. Now follow me. He's got six hundred grand in a vault. He's mad at his wife and Dixon and he's got proof, through Nye, that they've been two-timing him. He knows he's got to take the rap some way. Which way would he do it, assuming these angles of mine are right?”

“He'd sing,” Casey said. “He has to do time so he takes the two years. He put Dixon on the spot to get even.”

“Right. With Endicott turning State's evidence, Dixon would wind up with plenty years. What better way to get even with him for playing around with his wife? Especially when Endicott does himself all the good? He gets a light sentence. He's got plenty of jack in the vault when he finishes it. His wife doesn't know it and she'll probably divorce him and that won't cost him anything much.”

“I'll buy that,” Casey said.

“You know you will.” Logan grunted softly and stretched his legs. “Endicott made one bad mistake. He was so sore at Dixon and his wife that he told Dixon what he was going to do. When I don't know. I don't know if Dixon went to the office to kill him or just went and was told off and shot him then and there. Anyway it was his only chance. Endicott wasn't kidding. Dixon would take a good stiff rap and he knew it. I figure if this cluck Garrison is telling the truth, that Dixon and Endicott were going at it when Garrison came. Dixon stepped into the next room and when Garrison beat it, he pumped two into Endicott's vest.”

“And Austin and I damn near walked in on him. Boy, wouldn't that have been something?” Casey thought it over and gradually digressed to something else. “And Austin?” he asked.

“Probably like you said,” Logan replied. “You got the pictures of Dixon. He sent those two hoods he'd been hiding to the office and they tailed you. Dixon knew Austin was with you. When the hoods didn't get the right plates from the case they swiped, and when they couldn't find it in your desk, they phoned Dixon. He either rubbed Austin out or they did. Anyway, they stole the film, didn't they? It wasn't at Austin's place.”

Casey thought it over, and decided to let it ride. Logan didn't know that he had since got that film holder from Finell. But the theory was still reasonable. Austin might have been killed because the killer believed that he had the holder. Either that or the thing Casey was afraid of—Austin found something in Endicott's office that incriminated the killer and tried to make a deal. Well, it didn't matter. Logan didn't know Austin was a blackmailer; he wasn't going to know.

“What about Nye?” he asked. “You think he knew Dixon was the killer?”

“Could be. Doesn't have to be that, though. Nye was the only guy around that could still send Dixon to the pen for the other business. Nye knew about the auto store and the jeweler. If Dixon sent him around to get those guys out of town, and if Nye wanted to talk— Hell, he had plenty of reason to put Nye away.” He sighed. “I only wish I could've got to Nye first.”

“What're you going to do?”

“Talk it over with the Inspector. If it's okay we'll pick up Dixon on suspicion of murder—we can hold him twenty-four hours anyway—and get a warrant and go over his office and home. He's our boy.”

Chapter Twenty:
FRONT-PAGE TRAP

B
Y 11:30 THAT MORNING
the word had gone out to all precincts to pick up Bernie Dixon, and by one o'clock it became apparent that Mr. Dixon was not to be found. At 1:30 Casey telephoned Logan and was informed that it looked very much as if Dixon had gone into hiding temporarily, and at 2:00, Casey and Logan were in the office of MacGrath, the managing editor.

“All right,” MacGrath said, swiveling his half-smoked cigar to the opposite corner of his mouth. “What's on your mind, Flash?”

Casey indicated the telephone. “Tell the girl you don't want to be bothered for fifteen minutes.”

MacGrath eyed him curiously a moment, but when casey stared back at him, he gave the necessary order. He looked at Logan. “What's this all about?”

Logan shook his head impatiently. “I don't know. I wouldn't have come at all only—” He sighed and glanced at Casey. “When he gets mysterious like this, sometimes he comes up with an idea. I could use one. Any kind of an idea.”

“You think Dixon's holed up?” Casey asked.

“Hell, yes.”

“What're your chances of finding him?”

“Damn small. A guy with his dough and his contacts could lay low for months. He probably wants to find out what the score is. If he finds out we got a case he'll stay low until he gets Nye's secretary and that cop, Cafferty, taken care of. If he thinks we haven't, he'll give himself up. We'll never nail him for the Endicott job or the Austin one. But the Nye thing is different. We got a couple other little things now. We've got a chance on that one.”

Casey took a photograph from his pocket, unrolled it, and laid it on the desk. It was the picture he had taken that first night of the killer in the car, the one he had got from Finell's coat pocket.

Logan took one look at it and his neck bulged with anger. “Why, damn you!” he snarled.

“What is it?” MacGrath asked.

“You had it all the time,” Logan said.

“No.” Casey shook his head. “What I told you was right—at the time. It's the shot I took after the first murder.” He told Logan the same story he had told MacGrath earlier, and then went on to explain what had happened to the film holder and how he eventually got it back from Finell.

MacGrath took the cigar from his mouth and squinted both eyes. “I've been thinking about that since you told me,” he said. “Austin never had that picture—except to bring it here and give it to Finell. He was murdered for nothing.”

Casey did not deny this, but it wasn't what he thought. It wasn't his opinion at all. All that morning he had been sitting in the studio, brooding.

There was a great loyalty in Casey, not only to the
Express,
but to his profession. He had been a photographer a long time and for all his crabbing and profanity, his clashes with Blaine, his grumbling over the injustices he suffered, he would not have changed jobs with the President. He could never have explained why, of course, because almost everything seemed to be on the debit side of the ledger. Backbreaking work much of the time and often routine, it meant being out in all kinds of weather, crawling out of bed in the middle of the night; it meant lugging a plate case wherever you went and taking chances that even reporters did not have to take.

That's how it was. Day after day. Picturing the contemporary drama of life but never thinking of it that way; thinking of it only as a job you liked and always knowing one thing: if you got a picture, no one could ever deny it. Stories could be faked but to get a picture you had to be there. There was no glory, other than this, but there was a kick in walking up to Blaine's desk once in a while when he had a tough assignment and everyone thought it couldn't be done—a kick in walking up and slapping down that picture and saying, “What the hell do you care how I got it? This is it, isn't it?”

He'd watched the others while he had been sitting there brooding and he knew they all felt the same way. O'Hearn, tough, dependable, a veteran at 30; Klous, the sports man for 20 years, who made $50 a week and was sending his daughter through college; Wade, cocky and irrepressible; Finell, Naherny, Potchek, and Austin—

Always now there was that faint nausea in his stomach when Casey thought about Austin. He didn't want these other men who had worked with him to know; he didn't even want MacGrath to know. What had MacGradi said? That Austin wasn't his kind of man? How well MacGrath had sized him up. But no one was going to know the truth; no one was going to point a finger at the
Express
or its photographers and say they'd worked with a blackmailer. Casey was pretty sure now that Austin had not been killed because of that picture which now lay on MacGrath's desk. He had no proof, but he was convinced that Austin had found something in Endicott's office and had been killed by Dixon because of it. He looked at MacGrath and answered his statement, not believing what he said but making it sound convincing.