Murder for Two (21 page)

Gifford did not move. His round face lost a half-shade of its usual color and began to tighten.

“What are you going to do about Dinah?”

“You mean the folder? I haven't done anything yet, have I?”

“Don't. And stay away from her, Casey. Don't bother her any more.”

Casey looked at him curiously, his dark eyes watching Gifford's hands and pockets. “Going around with a gun again?”

“No. I haven't any gun. I just came to tell you to leave Dinah alone.”

The telephone rang. Casey reached for it, his gaze still fixed on Gifford.

“Hello.” It was Karen Harding. “How are you?”

“I'm fine,” she said. “I've been trying to get you for hours.”

“I'm sorry. I was out.”

“I read about Byrkman in the paper.” There was a pause and Casey couldn't think of anything to say. “Could you come over?”

“Well,” Casey said, “it's kind of late.”

“I wish you would. For a little while, please?”

Casey's spirit, what he had left, sagged a trifle. If she knew about Byrkman she also knew that John Perry's best chance had been taken from him. And she was alone and probably had been all evening.

“All right,” he said. “Sure. Right away,” he said and hung up. He closed his desk drawers and rose and reached for his coat. “I've got to shove, Gifford.”

Russell Gifford stayed silent. He went to the door when Casey did, and down the corridor and into the elevator. Casey spoke to Al, pretending that Gifford was no longer there, and when they started through the downstairs foyer, Gifford touched his arm.

Casey stopped. There wasn't much light here but there was enough for him to see the reflected grimness in the man's eyes, the thin line of the mouth.

“Remember what I said about Dinah.” There was no bluster to the sentence but the words were incisive and deadly serious. The effect surprised Casey. It made him stop and think; then he got annoyed.

“Listen,” he said, “if you don't stop bothering me I'm going to take you over to Logan and swear out a complaint. And then where would you be?”

He pushed through the doors, and suddenly found that worry had replaced his annoyance. Gifford was obviously wildly in love with Dinah King. So much so that he wasn't even rational any more. And when men got like that—and they did—they did crazy, stupid things.

“Go home and get some sleep,” he said. “What I told you about the folder last night still goes—until I find out different.”

“Just stay away from Dinah King,” Gifford said, and started off down the street.

Karen Harding wore a simple cotton dress with a narrow belt and a round, moderately low neckline. Her legs were bare and she had on ankle-length socks and huarachos. Casey saw that her lovely legs were just as tanned as her face and almost as smooth, and she seemed so sweet and desirable that he nearly gave her an affectionate slap on her bottom when she turned away. Just in time he caught himself and remembered that she was very young and very much in trouble.

She tried not to show it. She gave him a smile and took his hand and said how nice it was of him to come. And when he saw the tray on the coffee table, with the full bottle of bonded rye and the ice bucket and the soda and glasses, he was suddenly jealous of John Perry and then annoyed that this should be.

“You shouldn't have done it,” he said, picking up the bottle, “but I sure can use a touch.”

“I should have had some for you last night. I guess you needed it worse then.”

“I guess I did.—What about you?”

“Just a teensy bit.”

“You don't like rye, do you? And I'll bet your friends don't either. It'll probably go begging.”

“But I'll still have it when you come,” Karen Harding said.

Casey grinned at her. “I didn't know they made girls like you any more. I wonder what happened to the pattern when I was young.”

“You can't be a day over eighty. There's still time.”

Casey chuckled and gave her her drink and they sat down on the sofa. When they had cigarettes going, Karen Harding said:

“Did the police find anything in Byrkman's things? I mean about John.”

Casey said he didn't think so. “I stopped in to see him this morning.”

“Oh. Did you?”

After that she did not say anything for a while and from the corner of his eye Casey could see her despondency grow.

“There's still a chance,” he said finally, and told about Morris Loeb. “If he was Byrkman's lawyer, there's a chance that he might know something. He certainly wasn't shot without good reason. Of course, it may have nothing to do with Byrkman, but then why should it have happened today?”

“Do you really think so?”

“Sure, I do,” Casey said, his tone implying a confidence he did not feel. “If Loeb was shot because of Byrkman, then Loeb knows something. Probably by morning, when he'll be able to talk, we'll know what that something is. And even if he doesn't there's still one other guy that knows the truth about John Perry and that's Matt Lawson.”

“Of course he'll confess to the whole thing.” Her voice was bitter now and there was bitterness upon her mouth.

“He may have to before Logan gets through.”

“You don't believe that,” Karen Harding said. “Not for a minute do you believe it.” She looked into her glass, put it aside. “Henry Byrkman was John's only chance and he's dead, and that's that. That's all there is to it.”

Casey watched her covertly. A nerve jumped in his chest and a tightness came there when he saw how disconsolate and dejected she looked. It made him feel lousy, and he knew it would do no good to sympathize and offer platitudes.

“All right,” he said, his voice suddenly gruff. “There's worse things than that.”

“Name just one.”

“Suppose Lawson gets away with it,” he said, as though he had not heard her remark. “Suppose Loeb doesn't know a thing. That doesn't mean you have to go all to pieces over a young squirt who has got—”

“He's not a squirt.”

Casey felt better. He kept his voice blunt.

“Call him what you want then. He's lost his rights in the formula. He went to jail and he served his time and he's out. He's young, isn't he? He's got his health. He's still got the ability he had. He told me he had another process nearly perfected but what's he doing about it? Nothing. Moping. You know what I think? I think the guy's a quitter.”

Casey had seen the change come as he spoke. Without looking at her he had seen her start to sit up and spots of color touch her cheekbones. Now she turned and struck back at him, because she was young and reactions were direct and fundamental.

“He's not a quitter.”

“Sure he's a quitter. From the word go—and you'd know it if you could stop feeling sorry for yourself long enough to—”

“Oh—I—hate you.”

“Do you?”

Her lashes snapped back and her wide eyes finally penetrated the depths of Casey's.

“No. Oh, Flash, I'm sorry.” She put her head against his shoulder and he slid his arm around her. “But you—”

“Sure,” Casey said, the thickness rising into his throat. “And now that you're snapped out of it, stay that way. Let things ride. Quit worrying. I needled him some this morning. I think I snapped him out of it a little bit.”

He went on to speak of the process Perry was working on and what he had said to MacGrath.

“If it makes any difference,” he said, “the guy still loves you. He's not crying about the formula Lawson got any more. The thing that bothers him is the jail business. He feels he's got to get a pardon, to clear himself before he can speak to you again.”

“But I don't care about that, Flash.”

“I know you don't. But he does. I guess I would too.” He finished his drink. He didn't want to go but he thought he'd better. He eased her upright and withdrew his arm. “Just let it ride a while, Kay. Stop worrying. It's no good the two of you moping.”

“I know,” the girl said.

“Wait'll we find out about Loeb before you do any crying on my shoulder.”

“All right, Flash.”

“And don't forget, we've still got Lawson. Perry—well, just give him a decent break and I've got an idea he'll come crawling back.”

“I don't want him that way.”

“Oh, you're getting fussy now,” Casey cracked. “All right, I'll fix it so he'll come on a charging white horse.”

“Yes,” Karen Harding said, and opened the door for him. “You're sweet, Flash.”

Casey said, “Ahh—” and then she kissed him lightly on the mouth and somehow he was in the hall and stumbling toward the stairs.

He walked all the way home without realizing it, not thinking of the kiss because he understood that and knew it came from gratitude, but about Perry and Lawson and Loeb. He was sure now that when the pattern of Rosalind Taylor, Henry Byrkman, and Morris Loeb was straightened out the killer would be known. It was only a hunch—that and nothing more—that told him that when this had been done there would be an answer for John Perry and Karen Harding.

Chapter Nineteen

L
OGAN
G
ETS A
B
REAK

L
IEUTENANT
L
OGAN
and Sergeant Manahan were waiting at the hospital the next morning when Casey arrived with his camera and plate-case.

“Look at him,” Manahan said, eying the plate-case, “an optimist.”

“In my racket you've got to be,” Casey said. “How's Loeb?”

“He pulled through the operation,” Logan said. “They aren't making any promises but the doc says I can probably see him for a few minutes.”

“I've got my fingers crossed,” Casey said. “A few minutes should be long enough.”

Logan nodded. They were in the downstairs waiting-room. There was no one else there at the time and that gave the lieutenant plenty of room to pace. He used it all, his lean face impassive and his dark eyes brooding.

“Five minutes should do it,” he said, “and I hope to God the guy has got good eyesight.”

He took a rolled photograph from his pocket, pursing his lips and looking at it for a long time. “If you could only get a decent picture once in a while,” he said to Casey.

The photographer looked over the lieutenant's shoulder and saw that it was the one Karen Harding had taken of Byrkman, Harry, and the blond Nossek.

“Did you show it to Helen MacKay?” Casey asked.

“We drew a blank,” Manahan said.

“Not that we didn't expect it,” Logan added. “Those two had murder on their minds then and they were being damn sure she wouldn't be able to identify them.” He paused, glancing at Casey. “There was another guy who came upstairs about that time. The clerk said you were around with a picture. It was Byrkman, huh? You get around, don't you? And the MacKay woman said someone buzzed when the smaller of the two hoods was tying her ankles—buzzed but didn't come in.” Logan looked back at the picture. “The little guy—”

“Harry,” Casey said.

“—in this picture could be the one that came in first, according to her. But Loeb ought to be different. He probably got a look at the one who took that shot at him—”

“If the fellow didn't have dark glasses,” Casey said.

“This time,” Logan said, “I've got an idea he didn't. I think he hadn't figured on doing any shooting. There was an unfired gun under the desk. There was a drawer of that desk part-way open, and the number on that gun checked with a permit issued to Loeb.”

“You think he tried to get it out?”

“I'm pretty sure of it. He'd been forced to open the safe and while his caller was searching it I think he opened the drawer to sneak out the gun. That's why he got shot.”

He stopped as an intern came in.

“Lieutenant Logan? You can see Mr. Loeb now.”

They climbed a flight of stairs and went down a hall. Halfway along its length a doctor stood in front of a door.

“You can have five minutes,” he said, “if you don't excite him. I shouldn't even allow that, but if you say it's important—”

“He may be able to help solve two murders, that's all,” Logan said, “and we won't excite him. That's a promise.”

The doctor opened the door and as they went in Logan looked down and saw Casey's plate-case.

“You heard the doc,” he said. “So for God's sake don't go popping bulbs in the guy's face.”

“Not unless he says I can,” Casey said.

Morris Loeb looked exceedingly chipper considering what he had been through.

“You had a close one,” Logan said.

Loeb turned his head to look at Casey and Manahan.

“Which is the one who found me?”

Logan said, “The big lug, there.”

Loeb held his hand up and Casey took it.

“I guess I owe you something for that,” Loeb said.

“The cleaning-woman found you,” Casey said.

“But you're the one who knew what to do. If you hadn't got a doctor right away they tell me it would have been a different story.”

Casey opened his plate-case. He did not dare look at Logan and as he picked out a flashbulb he moved up to the bed.

“You know you're news now, counselor. Is it all right?”

The request was like a tonic. The man in the bed actually beamed and Casey thought,
Hell, the guy likes it
. “Swell,” he said, “just hold that smile.”

“For you,” Loeb said, “anything.”

Casey got the picture and stepped back. Logan gave him a disgusted stare and Casey grinned at him.

“You see?” he said. “With my personality, anything is possible.”

“Then order up a miracle, will you?” Logan pulled up a chair and sat down. “We've only got five minutes, because you need rest,” he said to Loeb, “So I'll put the questions and all you have to do is answer. Now, do you know the man who shot you?”