Murder for Two (29 page)

Authors: George Harmon Coxe

BOOK: Murder for Two

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“You knew what to look for. And when you found the chair you knew you had it.” Logan paused to watch the big photographer with narrow-eyed amusement. “And if Furness and MacKay hadn't walked in on you, you were going to let me in on it, huh?”

“What do you think?”

“Damned if I don't think you were.âWell, I give up. You're too good for meâor too lucky. You were just as wrong as I was untilâ”

“I happened to see a couple of things you didn't.”

“But what counts is that you saw them and you remembered and nobody had to draw you a blueprint. There's just one other thing. That reward. It's five grand and I think those two cops in the cruiser ought to rate maybe five hundred apiece out of it, don't you?”

Casey said he did. “I'm glad you brought it up,” he said. “I want to make a deal with you on the rest of it.”

“There'll be no deal.” Logan shook his head.

“But lookâ”

“No.” And there was a definite finality in the word. “Nossek talked. That means we're going to put him and Harry away for quite a whileâand Lawson too because he hired themâon that Loeb shooting. The murder's your baby and that four thousand is strictly yours.”

“I don't want any reward,” Casey yelled. “I didn't get mixed up in it on that account.” He sat up, his voice aghast. “Hell, if I take the reward it'll all have to come out. Everybody'll know it. Do you think I want my picture in the paper? Do you think I want every camera in town yelling, âHey, Sherlock!' at me every time they see me. Hell, I've got to keep this quiet! And look,” he said when Logan started to interrupt.

“How'll it look for you, some lousy camera stepping in and getting lucky and walking off with the big dough. What I thought was that you could take the money and then ifâ”

“You're crazy.” Logan sat up too, his face a foot from Casey's. “Even if I earned it I wouldn't take it. I'm a cop and I get paid pretty well and what I get paid for is taking care of my job. If I did something on the side and there was a bonus for it, that would be different, but I'm damned if I'll take money for doing a job I would do anyway, whether Taylor was a big shot or not. No. Damned if I will.”

“My, my,” Casey said, and then he grinned. Suddenly he felt better. Logan was a cop and he was proud of the department and jealous of its reputation. For himself he had never taken a nickel he hadn't earned, nor asked for a line of publicity, and remembering all this now made things a lot brighter for Casey.

“Okay,” he said. “Just keep that big mouth shut a second, will you? What I thought was that since the dough's going to be paid out anywayâand those papers can afford itâwhy not see that it goes some place where it'll do some good, like maybe the U.S.O. or the Army and Navy relief? I thought you could take the check. If I take it, it won't look rightâfor the department; if you took it, well, it would be sort of officialâ”

He broke off, unable to express exactly what he meant. Logan watched him a moment and something happened to his eyes. In a woman the look he gave Casey might have been called affectionate or tender; in Logan it was a half-smile that was warm and benevolent and understanding.

“I might have known it,” he said. “You're awfully damned afraid somebody'll find out just what kind of a faker you are, aren't you? All right, you big ox. If that's the way you want it.”

Casey's grin cracked wide and he got right up, his broad face relieved.

“I'll tell MacGrath,” he said. He shouldered his plate-case but stopped at the door for a final thrust. “That way you might get some credit. You might even get to be a captain.”

“Sure,” said Logan. “The only way I'll get to be captain is to wait for a few guys to die off and you know it. On your way, fella. I've got reports to write.”

It was after twelve when Casey stopped in at the
Express
. There was no reason for this. It was just a habit, a sort of final inspection to see that everything was all right.

No one else was about and he sat for quite a while fighting off the fatigue that had been wearing him down and thinking about a lot of things he didn't want to think about. He pushed his hand across his rugged chin and felt the beard there and he was trying to decide where to go for a drink when the telephone rang. It was Dinah King.

“I've been trying to get you, Flash. IâI heard about Helen MacKay.”

“Yeah,” Casey said.

“A messenger came this afternoon with the envelope,” she said after a pause. “I just wanted to ask if you couldn't stop by the Club and have a drink with Russ and me.”

“Wellâ”

“It isn't very late.”

Casey said no, it wasn't. He said he'd like to but he wasn't sure he could make it. Maybe he could if something didn't come up but not to count on him.

“If I can't make it tonight I'll make it some other time,” he said.

“All right. And you'll never know how grateful we both are.”

Casey mumbled something and hung up. He leaned back, resting. He didn't want to have a drink with Dinah and Russell Gifford. Three was a crowd, wasn't it? Gifford had Dinah and young Perry had Karen Harding. What did he have? Some telephone numbersâbut who didn't?”

And then he thought of Stanley Furness. That was what bothered him. That was why he needed a few drinks tonight. He couldn't go to bed yet. He tried to tell himself it was better for Furness this way, that no matter how hard the guy had been hit it was better than facing his remaining years under Helen MacKay's dominationâ

He heard footsteps behind him but he did not turn until someone stopped at his desk. He looked up and found it was MacGrath. The managing editor had a paper in his hand.

“I can think of a few thousand questions I'd like to ask you about what happened,” he said, “but I guess you've probably answered enough today, and besides, if you're in your usual form you'd probably tell me to go to hell anyway. Seen this?”

He spread the paper out, turning to an inside page. Here were two of the pictures Casey had taken that morning, one of Nossek being carried out on a stretcher, and the other showing Harry and Mugsie in the hands of the law. MacGrath flipped the paper back and on the front page was the shot Casey had taken of Helen MacKay pulling the trigger while the dazed and horrified Furness tried to grab the gun.

“This could be one of the best prints of the year in the next press photographers' show,” MacGrath said.

Casey barely glanced at it. Later he would perhaps think differently, but now he saw the subject rather than the photographic values of the print.

MacGrath looked at his number-one photographer narrowly and bunched his lips; though not for long. For he was a keen judge of men, MacGrath, and he sensed how it was with Casey now.

“What're you going to do with the reward, buy bonds?”

“I've got bonds,” Casey said, and explained the deal he had made with Logan.

MacGrath nodded. He did not attack Casey's judgment or tell him he was crazy for passing up the money or anything like that. He just said, “Swell. It's a good idea.” And then: “By the way, that Perry chap came in this afternoon and if he's got what I think he's got we're going to get a lot more mileage on tires made from reclaimed rubber.”

Casey listened absently while MacGrath went on with more details. Finally some of MacGrath's enthusiasm injected itself into Casey and he began to perk up, to think more about Perry and the Harding girl and less about Furness and himself.

“Good,” he said. “I'm glad of it.”

“And it just goes to prove my point,” MacGrath added.

“What point?”

“About your doing more good here than in the Army. You straighten out a young couple's life, and give the kid the lift he needs to perfect this rubber toughener so that instead of getting five thousand miles at forty on reclaims we may get seven or eight; you wrap up a murder and turn four thousand bucks over to the Army and Navy Relief. What the hell, if that isn't more important than going out and doing what the Army can train any other young squirt to doâ”

He stopped to watch Casey pull himself out of the chair and reach for his hat. Casey tried to punch some shape into it and ran his fingers through his hair before he put it on.

“Where you going?” MacGrath asked.

“Out. I think I'm going to get a little drunk.”

MacGrath smiled, his eyes wise. For just an instant he hesitated.

“Any special place?”

“Any place.”

“Maybe you've got something.” MacGrath went to the door, turned. “And damned if I don't think I'll go with you. I may get hell when I get home but it's been a long time since I bought you a drink, Casey, and tonight I'm going to buy you two. Wait'll I get my hat and coat.”

Casey came back to the desk as MacGrath went out. His glance touched the paper as he waited and before he realized it he had opened it to the two pictures he had taken that morning. They would have been better if that damned engraver hadn't cropped them so much, he thought. And then, realizing he was getting interested, he pushed the paper away.

“To hell with it,” he said softly. “It's still a lousy job.”

But by the time he reached the hall he knew he was lying. Taking pictures for a big city newspaper might be a headache, but for him it was the only job in the world and there way no other that could compare with it.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

cover design by Mumtaz Mustafa

This edition published in 2011 by
MysteriousPress.com
/Open Road Integrated Media
180 Varick Street
New York, NY 10014
www.openroadmedia.com