Murder for Two (12 page)

He'd know he'd never find a cab on the Hill at that hour but the first few blocks were downgrade so that wasn't too bad. The trouble was he hadn't reckoned with the dim-out, rationed gas, and non-cruising taxis. When he could find nothing on Charles he started along Beacon, turned left, and finally reached Marlborough.

It was the thought of the bottles in his apartment that really kept him going and when he paused at the bottom of the stone steps to gather his strength he knew how the guys that were always trying to climb Mt. Everest must feel when they got near that top they never quite reached.

Thankful that he lived on the second floor of this old brownstone instead of the third, he reeled upward, pulling himself along by the creaky banister and keeping his eyes fixed on the night-light on the landing. There were only two apartments to the floor, a short hall separating the flights of stairs that went up and down, and he fumbled for his keys as he headed for his door. He stopped in front of it when he heard the faint, brushing sound and knew he was not alone in the hall.

Instantly his weariness slipped from his shoulders and a cold breeze blew from somewhere. He got the plate-case from his shoulder, turned toward the stairs to the floor above. It was from here that the man appeared, a shapeless, indistinct figure in the half-light of the hall.

Casey waited, wondering, the tension still with him. He saw the upturned coat collar, the snapped-down brim of the hat, the hands thrust deep in the trousers pockets. Still not knowing who it was, but only that the man did not belong in this house, he said:

“Looking for someone?”

“You.”

Then Casey knew who it was.

The face between the hat and coat took shape. “Oh, hello, Gifford,” he said, and, remembering what Karen Harding had said about a gun, kept one eye on the righthand coat pocket. “Out late, aren't you?”

“Am I?”

Casey unlocked the door, deciding to keep everything casual. He went in, snapped on the light. He said he was sorry he was so late and hoped Gifford hadn't had to wait too long. He got out of his coat, shoved the plate-case into the corner, watching Gifford move slowly into the room, not seeing much of his face yet, but still concentrating on the gun.

He went over and shut the door. “What's on your mind?” he said and then, though there was tautness at his nerve-ends, he knew he was too tired to be further intimidated that night. So when he walked past the other, he pivoted sharply, grabbed the left wrist, grabbed the right, and pinioned the hand and gun in the pocket and swung Gifford back against the wall, holding him there with his hip.

Gifford never had a chance. A couple of inches shorter and thirty pounds lighter, he was no physical match for Casey, not even a tired Casey; caught by surprise this way, his struggles were futile. Casey held him, spoke wearily.

“Let go of the gun. Come on, be a nice guy, will you? Or do I have to break your arm?”

“All right,” he said. “Give me a chance.”

Casey relaxed his grip, feeling Gifford's fingers loosen, letting him pull the hand from the pocket, then holding the wrist until it was out of the way. He put his hand in and got the gun, a short-barreled .32 with a pearl handle. He let go and stepped back.

Gifford stayed right where he was, his mustache trembling and his lower jaw slack. He watched Casey smell the muzzle of the gun and finally pushed away from the wall, removing his hat and passing the back of his hand across his forehead.

“Where'd you get it?” Casey wanted to know.

“From Rosalind's desk. It was hers.”

“And you were going to plug me with it, huh? If I didn't hand over that folder on Dinah King.”

“You've got it.”

“Sure I've got it,” Casey said. “Sit down. I'll be right back.”

He went into his combination kitchen- darkroom and got a bottle of rye, two glasses, and a pitcher of water. When he returned to the living-room, Russell Gifford was sitting on the edge of a chair, elbows on knees and head hanging.

“Here,” Casey said and gave him a drink.

Gifford looked at him strangely, finally reached out and took the glass. “Thanks,” he said.

For himself Casey mixed half rye and half water. He drank deeply and sat down on the davenport. He flipped out the cylinder of the gun and tipped the six shells into his hand; then put both gun and shells on the table behind him.

“What're you going to do with that folder?” Gifford asked.

“You must have wanted it pretty bad to go hunting for it with a gun.”

“I—I didn't know what else to do. I knew the police didn't have it or I would have heard.”

“You scared hell out of Karen Harding,” Casey said.

“I'm sorry.” Gifford took some of his drink and Casey wondered how far the man would have gone if he'd been sure that Karen had the folder. “I've got to have it,” Gifford went on. “If you know what's in it, you know that.”

“Suppose you had it,” Casey said. “Miss Harding doesn't know what was in it, but I do. I could tell quite a story.”

“That's not the same—an unverified story—as the proof.” He put his glass down. “What are you going to do with it?”

“I don't know,” Casey said, which was the truth. “All I know is that with what's in the folder you and Dinah King have one sweet motive for the murder of your wife. Even without this—”

“What about the two men who searched the apartment and tied up Helen MacKay. I suppose I hired them too.”

“Somebody did. They wanted something in that apartment. How do I know it wasn't your folder. They could have missed it, you know.”

Gifford took a swallow of his drink and put the glass back, saying nothing.

“You wanted to marry Dinah King,” Casey said. “She wanted to marry you. Your wife wouldn't let you. When you rate murder motives that one is close to the top.” He paused. When he got no answer, he said, “Why wouldn't Rosalind let you go?”

Gifford looked down at his hands and began to worry them. “I don't know. Spite, I guess. She said she didn't like Dinah, she said she was cheap. She said I'd lost my head and she would not release me until I'd come to my senses.”

He made a throaty, bitter noise and his mouth hardened beneath the blond mustache. “There'd been nothing between Rosalind and me in over a year. She asked me to move out. I didn't start it. I handled her business affairs and she insisted I take an apartment close by so I'd be around when she needed me. I told her finally that I'd go to Reno on my own. I guess that's when she started to find out about Dinah.”

“You were her manager,” Casey said. “What did that mean? Did she pay you?”

“She gave me a quarter of what she earned. She would have had to pay an agent ten percent anyway and she gave me more because I did more for her and because at first it seemed a good arrangement. I gave up my start in law and she expected to pay for my services. We split household expenses. It worked out all right.”

Casey thought it over. His head ached from the lump Harry had given him, his body ached from weariness. Until now he had thought only of the two men who'd searched the dead woman's apartment as the murderers. But he could not quite overlook the motive that now reared its head.

“What do you intend to do?” Gifford said.

“I'll tell you,” Casey said. “I had a run-in with a couple of guys tonight. Maybe you know them and maybe you don't. Maybe they're the ones Logan is looking for. I don't know. I do know that they ransacked my desk and broke some of my plates. I know one of them slugged me with a gun.”

He felt the lump gingerly and turned his head so Gifford could see its location.

“If I can get those two—or the man behind them—I'm going to do it. But maybe the murder is something else. I don't know. I'm no detective and even if I were I wouldn't kid myself that I could do a better job than Logan with all his specialists, men, and equipment. If I can help, okay. I don't know anything about this eye for an eye stuff. I'm not equipped to say whether murder is ever justified or not and I'm not sure the moral issues bother me much. Mostly it's none of my business and I want no part of it. But this is a little different, Gifford. For two reasons—and I'm speaking only of myself now. One, Rosalind was shot in the back of the head; two, I knew her and that makes it a little personal.”

Casey hesitated. He wasn't looking at Gifford now, but at his empty glass.

“I thought she was all right. We were never buddies, understand? We used to scrap plenty when she first came to the
Express
—until she found out that with me it didn't do her any good. She wasn't hard to figure. She was resourceful and she had drive and ambition and she was out for Rosalind from the word go.”

“I know,” Gifford said.

“And that was okay, once you understood why. Married to her I probably would have cut her throat inside a month. But I wasn't married to her. To me she was a damn good newspaper woman and she didn't scare. She wasn't one of those big-name publicity seekers that go around covering sensational trials and write emotional slop for moron readers; she wrote about things that were important. She didn't care who you were or what your name was if you were promoting anything that she thought was bad for the people or the country. She went after big shots and racketeers and politicians, both shady and misguided, and especially she went after those union thugs who cheated and looted treasuries and bullied and held up the common members they were supposed to serve. She was a damned good American too, and if you weren't—brother, look out.”

He put more whisky and water in his glass. “That's a lot of talk,” he said and laughed without amusement. “But what I'm getting at is this. I don't go around making trouble for people if I can help it. I don't want to make trouble for you, and I'll tell you this: I'm not going to turn that folder in to the police—though if Logan ever finds it out he'll probably charge me as an accessory—until I'm sure. Detective work is for cops and if they crack this murder you'll get the folder. But right now you could have killed your wife. So could Dinah King—”

“She didn't.”

“So you say. And if you're right you've got nothing to worry about from me. If you're not—” He tossed off the drink and stood up. “Well, if you're not and it begins to look that way, and Logan needs a clincher—why, then he gets this folder and I take my chances he'll be grateful enough not to knock my ears off. I guess that's how it is.”

Gifford rose. He put on his hat and went to the door where he turned, his hand on the knob. Casey came up and handed him the gun and the bullets. Gifford looked at them, then spoke past stiff lips, his voice so quiet Casey could hardly hear him.

“Dinah King had nothing to do with this. If you turn her in I shall probably kill you, Casey.”

“I'll remember,” Casey said. “At least we know how we stand.—Watch the steps going down. They're tricky.”

He closed the door, went over to his coat and retrieved the folder and the photograph. He switched off the living-room light and took them both into the bedroom.

Chapter Eleven

D
YNAMITE ON
F
ILE

C
ASEY AWOKE
at eight-thirty the next morning. Ordinarily he would have stayed in bed awhile but today he had things to do and though it was a frightful effort, he rolled over, groaning and grunting, and reached for the telephone.

His call to the office was strictly routine. He intended to go over to Rosalind Taylor's apartment and see what the police had found and he wanted to leave word where he would be. Bennett, the day man, took the play away from him.

“That was a sweetheart you turned in last night, Flash.”

“What was?” Casey said.

“That Rosalind Taylor shot you took. The one of her car.”

Casey's face wrinkled up and he squinted at the mouthpiece.

“We're the only sheet in town with any picture,” Bennett said.

“Are we?” Casey said. “Yeah. Well—yeah, that's swell.”

He looked at the telephone suspiciously after he had told Bennett what he had called up for and then he sat up and went barefooted to the door, his fingers absently exploring the lump on his head that had gone down some but was still sore.

There was an
Express
outside in the hall. Page one carried a two-column head about the murder and he scanned subheads as he crossed the living-room, then turned to page three. When he saw what was there he stared and sat down weakly on the davenport, quite unable at that hour of the morning to comprehend the miracle.

It took him a while to get up. He lowered the paper, his rugged face a caricature of awe; he looked at the picture again, seeing the familiar details and battling with his incredulity. Suddenly he jumped up and headed for the telephone.

“Hello,” he said when he got his number. “This is Casey. Did you take that picture on page three of the
Express?
The one of Rosalind Taylor's car? Did you send that up to the desk last night?”

“Tom Wade did,” Karen Harding said. “I haven't seen it yet, but he wanted to use it. Did it—”

“Yeah,” Casey said. “It sure did. You were practicing, huh?”

“I thought it was a good time. When the lieutenant wouldn't let you take your camera I thought maybe I could use mine. No one paid any attention to me and those blackout bulbs weren't noticed, so—”

“Okay,” Casey said. “How much will you charge to give
me
lessons?”

Karen Harding's laugh tinkled in his ear. “And can I go with you today?”

“No.”

“But I—”

“No. I'll have trouble enough explaining those two you got yesterday to Logan. You do your A.W.V.S.-ing and let me take; some pictures for a change.”