Murder for Two (11 page)

Casey sighed again, deciding that only a woman would think of such reasoning—and who was he to understand a woman's mind. Then he thought of something else.

“Why?” he asked. “You didn't go back there just because you were stubborn. Was it the murder of Rosalind Taylor? Did you think you might get a lead? Or was it John Perry?”

“I—I guess it was John Perry. Miss Taylor was going to see Byrkman. She intimated she had found out some things. And if Byrkman was running away, why then maybe we'd never find out the truth for John and—I couldn't let him get away without trying to do something, could I?”

“I guess you thought a lot of John Perry once.”

Karen Harding huddled a little deeper in the corner of the couch. In that green robe, with her hair pushed back and her shiny face and nose, she looked about sixteen, Casey thought, all but her eyes, which seemed even older than her years as they fastened on something near the windows and the distance came into them.

“Yes,” she said simply. “I think we would have been married. He'd gone to M.I.T. with my brother and he was three years older than I and he was out to the house a lot. It wasn't anything sudden. It just seemed to grow, being together like we were, until it seemed to be the thing we wanted most.”

She paused, twisting her lips. “My family didn't like the idea much. John was an orphan and his people had been—well, just folks, and he'd never had much in a material way. He had to work his way through school and when he finished he hadn't anything but prospects—as if that weren't enough—and Dad tried to break it up. John was terribly proud. He wouldn't let me run away; he said we'd have to wait and that probably my father was right.

“He had a job with a paint company in Somerville and evenings he worked on this formula at the plant and sometimes at Tech. Finally he thought he had it. He was in debt then, from going to school and from carrying on his experiments, and he didn't go to one of the larger oil companies because he thought it would take so much longer and that perhaps he would be lost in the shuffle. Mr. Lawson had a small oil company not far from John's factory and somebody suggested him, so John went to him.”

Her mouth twisted in a smile that seemed too bitter for her young face, and her eyes were suddenly dark.

“I guess you know what happened. John got five thousand dollars. The papers he thought he signed also gave him fifty percent of any royalties Lawson collected—that was because Lawson had to advance money for a small plant and to take over the marketing of the product. Only the papers that John really signed—at least the one he brought home and the one Lawson had a copy of—said that for the five thousand he relinquished all rights. He didn't find it out right away. We were making plans to get married when he discovered what had happened. Of course he went to Mr. Lawson. I don't know what happened. John said Lawson knocked him down twice and in desperation—he was much smaller—he hit back with the ash tray.”

She spread her hands and looked back at Casey. “But who would believe him? Lawson had him arrested. He had money and influence, and he had the signed agreement.—John wouldn't see me when he was in jail. He wouldn't answer my letters. Dad hustled me off to Florida—bodily, practically. I was only twenty then and—well, tonight I thought—”

“Yeah,” Casey said, and seeing her try to smile at him now he felt a thrust of compassion that left him deeply moved. Remembering the smiling eagerness she wore as a bright protecting garment for the unhappiness within her, he found himself wishing he could do something to help. “We'll find Byrkman,” he said. “If Rosalind Taylor had something maybe we can find out what before we get through. It's too bad we lost that picture—”

He broke off when he saw her jump up and go to the secretary. He watched her open her handbag and take something out.

“I saved this,” she said. “Will it help? Can we make other prints from this?” she asked, and handed Casey the duplicate of the one she had left in his desk.

He looked at it and then at her. He shook his head, rolled up the picture and put it in his topcoat. “All right,” he said, his grin wry but respectful, “I give up. I've got a nerve, teaching you anything about taking pictures. You and Wade made two prints, huh?”

She nodded, the brightness coming back in her smile. “One for you and one for me.”

“You think of everything,” Casey said and rose, reaching for his coat. She sat down again, watching him, frowning now, and finally she said:

“Do you think those two men were the ones who killed Miss Taylor?”

Casey said he didn't know. He said it sort of looked like it.

“Then why,” Karen Harding said, “did they wear dark glasses when they tied up Helen MacKay and leave them off when they brought you here? Why should they go to all that trouble to get the picture when we can identify them anyway?”

“It's a little different,” Casey said. “If they—or one of them—killed Taylor and went to the apartment afterward, they knew they were dealing with murder. Helen won't be able to identify them—at least I don't think she will. It's tough enough when you're scared and keeping one eye on a gun to identify anyone even when you get a good look at him. Dark glasses, especially big ones, make a lot of difference. She never really saw the two men and any good defense lawyer would discredit such an identification even if she tried to make it. There would have to be something else to make it stick. This thing here is nothing but assault.”

He put on his coat, thinking as he spoke. “If these two guys are what I think they are—hired muscle men or killers—they won't worry much about an assault rap. With Lawson behind them they could do a stretch like that standing on their heads. They might even beat the charge—it's been done before. As for the pictures—well, people are funny about pictures. Lawson knows we saw this blond guy in his office this afternoon. You and I saw him there, but without this picture, only you saw him with Byrkman. Suppose Lawson doesn't want these two hooked up with Byrkman? You saw them at night. You didn't even have a real flashbulb. You can say you're positive they were with Byrkman but in court I doubt if that identification—under the circumstances—would stick.”

“Yes,” Karen Harding said. “I see.”

“Anyway, that's Logan's worry. I know damn well he'll be glad to see that picture.” He buttoned his coat, moved toward the door. “Well—thanks for the first aid and don't worry too much about John Perry.”

He turned, waiting for her to say something. She was still sitting down and now she was watching him with troubled eyes.

“What's the matter?”

She did not answer. Instead she got up, said, “Wait a minute,” and went into the bedroom. When she returned she had a manila folder in her hand. She held it out to him, a curious look of guilt upon her face.

Casey watched her, scowling.
Now what the hell has she done?
he thought, and was afraid for a moment to look inside the folder. While he was making up his mind, she said:

“Russell Gifford was here tonight.”

“Gifford?” Casey's scowl bit deeper and his brows were twisted. “When? What for?”

“He left ten or fifteen minutes before you came. He—he came to get that.” She pointed at the folder. “It's something I took from Rosalind Taylor's apartment. I—maybe I shouldn't have done it.”

“That I guarantee,” Casey said dryly. “How come he didn't get it—if that's what he came for?”

“I”—Karen Harding bent her head and looked up at him like a twelve-year-old—“I told him you had it.”

Chapter Ten

A L
ONG
W
ALK
H
OME

C
ASEY LET HIS HANDS
swing down to his sides. If it had been a man he would have been sore, just on general principles. With this girl he was exasperated until he realized how young she was and how lovely.

“You stuck your nose in a lot of things tonight, I guess,” he said. “And after that promise you made in front of MacGrath, too.”

“I know,” Karen Harding said. “I am rather a brat, aren't I?”

Casey cocked a brow at her and opened the folder.

“Do you know what's in here?”

“A little. I'd started to read it when you rang.”

Casey went back to his chair and sat down. Inside the folder was a long typewritten report, a series of reports, really, under the letterhead of the Northeast Detective Agency. In addition there were copies of affidavits, a photostat or two, miscellaneous papers.

Casey didn't go over these thoroughly, but he read enough to know the reason for them, and the knowledge left him deeply worried. For these reports had to do with Dinah King and they said in fact that Dinah King had entered the country illegally in 1937 from Austria via Mexico, and that in 1939, when she had gone to South America on a three months' singing contract, she had falsified passport statements.

“I guess you know Dinah King,” Casey said quietly.

“I know who she is.”

“And you know what Gifford said about her to Logan—that he had wanted to marry her.” Karen Harding nodded, avoiding Casey's narrowed gaze now as he continued. “How did you get this? How did you know anything about it?”

“I didn't.”

“I suppose somebody hid it in your coat,” he said, his concern expressing itself in bluntness and irritation. “You must know something, damn it.”

“I didn't know what it was though. I just saw Mr. Gifford put it under his own coat and—”

“Where?”

“In the library—the office, rather. Just before Lieutenant Logan arrived. Mr. Gifford went into the office and I was sitting where I could look in there if I wanted to. Someone else was talking but I did look in and I saw him get the folder from a filing-cabinet and slip it under his coat. He came into the living-room and went to the magazine table and when the police came I watched him and he slipped the folder between two magazines.”

Casey recalled the scene and tried to figure the sequence as it happened. He remembered Gifford at the magazine table; he remembered Gifford coming back as Logan and Casey were about to leave and saying he wanted to take some magazines upstairs. And then he knew when Karen Harding had taken the folder.

“You went over to that table when we came back from looking at Taylor's car. You slipped it in your bag. Gifford saw you over there and when he found it was gone—” Casey leaned forward, his rugged face a little grim, his jaw tight, because he was worried and because he knew this girl didn't realize what this folder meant.

It meant more than the probability that Dinah King faced arrest. It meant a lot more. The information in that folder had taken time to collect. It was a good job and Northeast was a good Agency and Rosalind Taylor had spent a lot of money for the work that had been done.

It was important enough to her for that, and either Gilford or Dinah King—or both—knew of this folder and knew what would happen if Rosalind Taylor chose to expose the woman who wanted to marry her husband. Casey thought of all this now, and when he continued to Karen Harding he wasn't thinking about how young and lovely she was but only that she had done some foolish things without regard for the consequences.

“What the hell did you mess around with this for?”

“Why I thought—that is, no one was sure who had murdered Miss Taylor and—”

“Then why didn't you tell Logan if you thought Gilford was involved?”

“But I didn't know that he was. I didn't know what was in the folder. I didn't want to make trouble for him if he was innocent and yet if he wasn't, and I didn't take the folder, why then he'd have it and it would be too late.”

Casey thought it over. He didn't want to believe it because he was still annoyed at her, but he had to admit that her reasons made sense. He had, he realized, been guilty of the same sort of thing himself in times past and further, now that
he
had the folder, he had the same choice. He could go to Logan or he could keep his mouth shut and wait. The thing was he didn't like the alternative; he didn't like anything about it. He folded the folder and stuffed it in an inside pocket.

“I'm tired,” he said. “I'll take this along. I still say you did a crazy thing but it could be the right thing at that. What did Gifford do when he came?”

“He scared me,” Karen Harding said. “I thought it might be you or I wouldn't have opened the door. He came in and he stood there with his hand in his pocket—I'm sure he had a gun—and looked at me until my knees were jelly. I asked him what he wanted and he told me. He said he knew I was the one who had taken it and he had to have it.”

Casey went to the door. “Damned if I know how you do it,” he said, “but you do. You told him the one story he could accept and then made him believe it.”

“I had to,” Karen Harding said. “I told him I didn't know what was in the folder, that I'd taken it on impulse and that I'd given it to you because you'd know better what it meant and what should be done. I told him he could search the place if he didn't believe me, but I was petrified all the time. I kept thinking about the gun—and if you could have seen his face, all white and stiff, with eyes that stared and stared—” She broke off and shivered, clasping her elbows across her breasts.

“It serves you right,” Casey said. “You ought to be scared. And listen,” he said as he opened the door, “if anybody asks you about this folder, or what's in it, you don't know a damned thing about it. Understand?”

She said she did in a small, hushed voice and when he started down the stairs he could hear her bolting the door.

Casey had to walk home and for a time he wondered if he ought to keep trying or whether it wouldn't be better to lie down in the gutter with the plate-case for a pillow until a police car came along and picked him up.