Murder for Two (10 page)

“I just wanted to be sure.”

He looked out across the darkened Common; beyond he saw the silhouetted rooftops on Beacon Hill painted black against the sky. He wasn't sure where he was going but he found a certain grim satisfaction in the knowledge that he was going to find out not only where he was going, but possibly what this was all about.

The car turned right on Boylston. Then Casey thought of something else less comforting. These two apparently did not care whether he knew where he was going or not. He wondered if that meant they did not intend to let him come back. The car turned right on Charles.

Chapter Nine

T
HE
M
ANILA
F
OLDER

T
HE CAR,
a small and rather ancient sedan, moved at a sedate twenty-five through the wide, deserted street. There wasn't a car in sight, nor a light that wasn't shielded. Blondie was humming some unknown melody and once he turned to grin at Casey and show his crooked teeth. Harry paid strict attention to business. He had drawn far back in the corner, the gun held close to him, and not for an instant did he take his eyes off the photographer.

The traffic light on the corner was black and they went straight on, their progress mirrored darkly in the shop windows that flanked them. Presently Blondie slowed the sedan and peered out at a street sign. He grunted and went on to the next one. Here he turned right, shifting into second as the car began to climb.

Suddenly something stirred in Casey's memory. He hadn't watched the last turn carefully but he was pretty sure where they were, and now there was a new stiffness in his muscles and the perspiration began to ooze down his forehead. He did not say anything. There was nothing he could do but wait, and as Blondie shifted to first, he held his breath, remembering only the address he had written down, knowing that they were approaching the house where Karen Harding lived.

There was a spotlight on the car and Blondie flicked it on long enough to pick up a house number. “Ought to be in this block,” he said and swung toward the curb.

“Okay,” Blondie said, and cut the motor.

Casey sat still and made his voice surprised.

“I don't get it,” he said.

“Now, he tells us,” Harry said. “Out, pal.”

Blondie slid from behind the wheel. He came round the front of the car and opened the door next to Casey, the gun in his hand again.

“Let's not wake the neighbors, bud,” he said.

Casey got out, bringing his plate-case with him.

“You can leave that,” Blondie said.

“Nuts,” Casey said and slid the strap on his shoulder.

Blondie thought it over as Harry joined him. “Okay,” he said. “This time we'll humor you. Know who lives here?”

Casey said he didn't. Blondie chuckled softly. “Then this ought to be quite a surprise,” he said. “Stay behind him, Harry.”

He went to the wooden door with the polished brass knocker, tried it, and found it locked. He took some keys from his pocket, and though he scarcely made a sound he had the door open in less than a minute.

Inside a light burned and they went into a tiny vestibule, climbed three steps, and opened a second door which was unlocked. That put them in a small, high-ceilinged hall that was warm and musty with age. Two doors opened from opposite sides of this, and directly ahead was a thinly carpeted stairway mounting stiffly along the left wall.

They climbed the three flights silently, Blondie ahead, Casey in the middle. He had stopped trying to guess the answer to this one. It was obvious that they had seen the note Karen Harding had left, getting the address the same way he had; but if they had wanted something from her why had they waited for him?

Well, that part didn't matter. He was here and now he was glad of it; for it was better that he should be with her now than let her face these two alone. Take care of her, MacGrath had said that morning. Was that a laugh?

Blondie stopped just short of the third-floor landing. “You get us in, friend. Just tell her who you are.”

“Suppose she doesn't answer?” Casey said.

“If she's got a doorbell, she'll answer,” Blondie said, “or else she'll get awfully damn sick of hearing it.”

He went on to the landing and Casey followed. When he reached it he tried to get his back to the wall but Harry jabbed with the gun and stayed behind and that was the end of the only idea Casey could think of. Harry might not shoot but he would certainly slug with that gun the first move Casey made, and if he was laid out here in the hall he couldn't be much help to Karen Harding. Of course he could yell a warning, but that might scare Harry into pulling the trigger a few times.

He watched the man press the button, the feel of the gun on his spine. The little hall was hot and humid.

Presently the faint sound of movement filtered through the door and Karen Harding's voice said, “Yes? Who is it?”

Harry punched with his gun. Casey said, “Casey.”

The latch clicked back. “Stand still, pal,” Harry said. The door began to open and Blondie moved in, widening the crack with his shoulder and pushing the gun ahead of him.

“It's okay, sis,” he said. “Just don't make any noise.”

Casey heard the girl's startled, “Oh,” and moved up. She was backing into the living-room and over Blondie's shoulder he could see she was wearing a green flannel robe, one hand holding it tightly at the throat.

“Hi,” Casey said, trying to make his tone reassuring. “These guys sort of had me over a barrel.”

Harry closed the door and stayed there. Blondie waved the gun. “We were coming without Casey,” he said to Karen Harding. “We figured we could imitate his voice, only”—he looked at Casey and showed his crooked teeth—“just as we're leaving the
Express
some guy drives him up and out he gets. So we stuck around and brought him too. Where's the film?”

Karen Harding looked at Casey. Pajama legs showed beneath the robe and she had her blond hair shoved back of her ears and her face was grave and shiny with cold cream.

Casey tried to pretend that everything was all right. “I told these guys they were nuts,” he said.

“What film?” Karen Harding said.

“The one that goes with this,” Blondie said and brought out a print that had been folded once.

Karen Harding glanced at it and a tightness came about her cheekbones. She put up her chin and looked right at Blondie. But there was something besides defiance in her gaze and Casey saw it. Suddenly that prickly sensation crawled along his scalp and he was scared. What the hell had she done now? What could she know about any prints?

“I don't know what you mean,” she said. “I—I never saw it before.”

Blondie stopped grinning and his pale, hooded eyes got mean. “Sit down,” he said, taking a threatening step. Karen Harding felt for a chair behind her and dropped into it. “You, too,” he said to Casey.

“You heard him, pal,” Harry said.

Casey looked at him. It was the first time he had really seen this one, and he didn't like what he saw. Harry was swart and slender. His clothes were new-looking and too tight except in the shoulders. He had thick black brows that practically touched over the bridge of his nose and beneath this thick black line his beagle eyes were small and bright and pitiless.

Casey perched on the arm of the couch, craning his neck now to get a look at the print in Blondie's hand. He remembered what the girl had said in her message. She had put a picture in his drawer. This was it. But it wasn't the one she had taken of him.

“Now,” Blondie said, “let's start straight. You took this picture, sis. We saw you lean out of the cab but the hacker turned his lights on and we got the number. It took us a while to find him. He said he dropped you at the
Express
and when we got there we saw your note and found this thing”—he held up the print—“in the drawer. We want the film. It wasn't in this guy's desk. Now do you hand it over like a nice little girl or do we get tough about it?”

Karen Harding looked at Casey again and now there was something a little desperate in her eyes. Casey recognized it, knew she had the film. He tried to stall.

“Let's see it,” he said.

Blondie tossed it over. It slid to the floor and Casey picked it up. He took one look and then nearly fell off the couch. He gulped fast and tried to put down his incredulity, knowing at once from the light values of the print that the film was infra-red. Artistically it wasn't much of a picture. It wasn't too clear, but it was clear enough to show Harry and Blondie, each one with a suitcase; it was clear enough to show the thin, small form of Henry Byrkman between them.

Beyond that Casey could not go. He heard Blondie talking to Karen Harding, heard her answer, but it was several seconds before he could swallow his amazement and concentrate on what was being said. He saw, finally, that Harry had moved closer, that Blondie had stepped toward the girl.

“Sit down,” Harry said when Casey started to rise.

“Okay, sis,” Blondie said, “if that's the way it is. Watch him, Harry,” he said and reached for the girl, pulling her to her feet, holding her closely with one arm while the other hand pried in the pockets of the robe.

This time Casey came up. From the corner of his eye he saw Harry chop at him with the gun, but he swiveled away and lunged at Blondie.

Karen Harding said, “No!” in a hushed, frightened voice and Blondie swung her quickly into Casey's path and stepped back, the gun jumping into his hand.

Casey stopped. He heard Harry behind him and turned slightly and Harry stopped too. Blondie studied the situation a moment, his mouth ugly and a flush suffusing his face. Finally he moved away from the girl and toward Casey.

“I guess,” he said, nodding to Harry, “I guess we've got to take care of this guy first.”

Casey half turned, shifting his weight and getting his feet the way he wanted them. He winked at the girl and put on his hat. “Okay,” he said to Blondie, “let's go.”

“No,” Karen Harding said. “I'll give you the film.”

“So—” Blondie grinned and stepped back.

Casey let his breath come out and some of the stiffness slid away from his legs when he realized that his anger had nearly led him into something he probably could not have finished.

“We had an idea you had it here,” Blondie said. “Well—”

Karen Harding belted her robe anew and went quickly to the secretary. She knelt and pulled the bottom drawer, opening her patent-leather bag and taking out the roll of film.

“Here,” she said.

Blondie unrolled it. He held it up to the light. “Umm,” he said approvingly. “Now you see how simple it was?” He slipped the film into his coat pocket, moved around Casey, and picked up the print that the big photographer had dropped. “Thanks,” he said, and looked at Harry and winked as he started for the door.

Casey saw the wink, realizing too late that Harry was behind him. Before he could turn, the room fell in on him and the last thing he heard was Karen Harding's frightened cry.

At first the voice was dim and faraway but as it grew stronger Casey decided it was a very nice voice, and through the pain that hammered at his brain he thought he recognized it, he thought it was calling his name. He knew he had to answer somehow and tried, but no words came and so he opened his eyes and found himself on the floor with his head in Karen Harding's lap.

“Flash,” she said, wiping the moisture from his forehead. “Oh, how could they. Oh, damn them—” She saw his eyes open and gave a little joyful cry. “Flash. Oh, Flash. Are you—”

“Nah,” Casey said, and grinned. He felt relaxed and comfortable and the pain didn't seem so bad. “I'm okay,” he said, but he didn't get up right away. He waited until he was sure his head would stay on and then he remembered what had happened and the grin went away.

He sat up, struggling to his feet in spite of her protests. She rose with him, holding to his arm and telling him to come with her into the bathroom.

“How long have they been gone?” Casey wanted to know.

“Oh—three or four minutes. And please let me fix your head. Take that coat off. Please. Now you come with me.”

Casey was seething but he went, letting her help to support him though he needed no help now. She made him sit on the bath tub. She draped a towel around his neck and then made cold compresses for his head and in spite of his protests she insisted on bathing the lump on his scalp and applying mercurochrome because, she said, the skin had been broken.

“I had my hat on,” Casey said. “I've had worse lumps than this. It doesn't even hurt now,” he lied.

Karen Harding said she was glad. She said she had been practically sick with fright. She put the soiled towels away after Casey had dried his hair and face and smiled at him. He looked at her with one eye and said severely:

“All right now. Come clean. How'd you get that picture? You went back to Byrkman's after we put you in the cab.”

She lowered her glance and then looked up through her lashes. “Yes,” she said, and told him all about it when they went back into the living-room.

Casey listened, his amazement mounting as he realized what this slip of a girl had done. When she had finished he leaned back in his chair and sighed heavily.

“Look,” he said. “You haven't got a drink here, have you? I didn't think you would,” he said when she said she was sorry. “All right. You sat there in Byrkman's living-room and saw the bags in the bedroom. Why didn't you say so? Why didn't you tell Logan?”

Karen Harding had curled up on the couch, her feet tucked under her; now she shrugged and began to pick at the hem of her robe.

“I intended to,” she said, “as soon as we got out. And then—well, the lieutenant said I had to go home. He made it quite plain that he couldn't be bothered with me and so I thought, all right, I'll find out for myself.”