Murder for Two (2 page)

Casey couldn't have done anything had he tried. He was too far away to come between the two, so he automatically threw his camera to his shoulder. What happened he saw through the finder. The husky was swinging when little Levy, who weighed maybe one-twenty with a camera in his hand, stuck out his foot.

The big blond went down. Casey pressed the shutter release, catching him practically full face, yet getting the youth as well. The other hit on his knees, and the burst of light made him look first in the direction of Casey's flashbulb.

That gave the fellow in the doorway a chance to see what the score was and he spun and hurried back through the outer office, and as the big man jumped up the others—reporters and photographers—got in his way and crowded about, blocking off the door. They didn't know what it was all about, but to a man they seemed to resent the big blond and made sure he stayed where he was.

“All right, all right.” Lawson bustled up. “Never mind,” he said to the blond and gestured him to one side.

“Who was that?” someone said.

“Some crank.”

“He looked sort of familiar to me,” a reporter said.

Lawson ignored this. “I guess that's all,” he said hurriedly. “I guess you fellows got the story. Thanks for coming in.”

“I know now,” the reporter said. “That was John Perry, wasn't it? I didn't know he was out.” He looked up at Lawson, squinting one eye. “Has he been around before, Matt? How about a statement?”

“Nothing to say,” Lawson replied. “The record speaks for itself. As far as I'm concerned the matter is closed. Now if you don't mind—I'm rather rushed this afternoon.”

Casey heard all this but he was still watching Karen Harding and digging back into his mind. John Perry. The name was vaguely familiar but that was all. And Karen Harding still stared at the open door, the paleness clinging to her face. He had to jog her arm to get her started and before he could say anything Levy sidled up and said:

“That ought to be a good shot, Flash.”

“Yeah,” Casey said. “That was nice footwork.”

Levy grinned. “He went down good, huh? Could you slip me a print?”

Casey said he could and would. They were in the outer office now, and with Levy gone, the last of the group to leave. They had started down the hall when a door opened behind them and the blond husky hailed Casey. He stopped, Karen Harding at his side.

“About that picture,” the man said. Casey just looked at him, wondering who he was, noting the coldness of the pale, almost colorless eyes, the crooked teeth that showed as he spoke. “I'd like to get the film of that, Mac. I'll pay you what it's worth.”

Casey shook his head, his dislike of the man mounting. “I don't sell pictures.”

“I wouldn't want it in the paper,” the other said. “I wouldn't want it printed.”

“I don't have anything to do with that part,” Casey said. “I only take 'em.”

The lashes narrowed. For a silent second the man looked at Casey and then at Karen Harding. “I wouldn't want it in the paper,” he said again.

“Tell the city editor,” Casey said. “The name is Blaine.”

He turned and moved down the hall with the girl, leaving the other standing there. And he found a curious uneasiness upon him now. Not about the man who wanted the film but about John Perry, and this girl who had seemed so shocked and hurt by what had happened. He still could not place the name, but he had the hunch that at some time these two had been close, and he wondered why.

Chapter Two

A B
ROKEN
A
PPOINTMENT

R
OSALIND
T
AYLOR
had an apartment in a gray brick building not far from Beacon Street and when Casey and Karen Harding arrived just after five, Rosalind opened the door and waved them inside.

“Hello, Flash,” she said. “I'm glad you could come.”

“This is Miss Harding,” Casey said. “Miss Taylor.”

Rosalind said hello, eyed the girl's uniform, and then glanced at Casey.

“She's trying to find out what makes press photographers tick,” he told her. “I've got a whole class of them. Twice a week I snarl at them.”

“Oh, good.” Rosalind Taylor indicated chairs. “Sit down. I think your organization is doing splendid work,” she said to the girl. “Do you like it?”

“Oh, very much.”

She asked other questions and Casey glanced about, seeing the office through the open doorway and remembering now that actually Rosalind had two apartments which she had combined for convenience. There were bedrooms and baths and a kitchen down a hall, and adjoining her office was another office and apartment used by Helen MacKay, her secretary. All in all it made a pretty nice arrangement, Casey thought. And Rosalind had come a long way since she descended on the
Express
that day more than five years ago.

Descended was the word too. She was that kind. Restless, often irritable, with a tremendous vitality that was instantly apparent and had never left her. Even now she paced the floor as she talked to Karen Harding, offering cigarettes and lights and shoving ash trays about.

“Sit down, will you?” Casey said finally. “You're wearing me out.”

Rosalind Taylor stopped. She looked at him and then her mouth twisted in a smile.

“Hey, Mac,” she yelled.

A striking-looking brunette with a clear olive skin and a torso elegantly rounded and proportioned came in from the office.

“Hi, Flash,” she said, saluting casually.

“Hi, Mac.”

“Get a drink,” Rosalind said. “Miss Harding? Scotch? How about a coke then. Get her a coke, Mac.”

“Make mine rye,” Casey said.

“You'll drink Scotch and like it,” Rosalind said.

“I'll drink Scotch,” Casey said.

When Helen MacKay came back with the tray, Casey inspected her again. She was wearing a sweater and skirt and he liked the intimate fit of the sweater. He liked other things. He patted the divan beside him.

“Sit down and hold my hand, Mac.”

“With all this competition?”

“Why not? With them”—Casey grinned at Karen and Rosalind—“it's business. With you, it's strictly pleasure.”

“Tell me more.” Helen laughed. “You fascinate me.”

“Didn't I always?”

Karen chuckled and even Rosalind Taylor smiled. “Always,” Helen MacKay said. “But this time I'm resisting your charms.”

Casey made drinks after she had gone back into the office and when Rosalind had settled herself on the divan with her glass and a cigarette she looked at him and said:

“I was afraid you wouldn't come.”

“I almost didn't,” Casey said. “What gives? Another labor crusade? You've been slipping, haven't you? That guy Conti you got indicted beat the case.”

Rosalind Taylor's frown cut deeply into her thin, oval face. Her glance went beyond him and narrowed and her voice was suddenly remote.

“I know. Somehow Conti got to my witnesses. I don't know how he knew who they were. It happened with Matt Lawson last year. I would have had him if I hadn't slipped somewhere.—But that isn't what I wanted to talk to you about.”

She put down her glass. “I said I'd get Matt Lawson and I will. He's nothing but a racketeer and always has been. He systematically pilfered the treasury of that stevedores' local and paid some clerk to go to jail for him. When he had his trucking company he was the secretary of the drivers' association and he coerced and got tribute from every independent, every farmer that came in with milk or produce—and for that I nearly got a conviction. Now, because he's wangled some contracts and got stock in a few little companies and promoted an invention or two, he's a patriot. Well, he's not. He and his kind do more to hurt the war than any other single class.”

She went on with more of this and Casey remembered other things. She had always been this way; that was why she was a good reporter. Though none too fair in her personal dealings with others, she was a public champion of the underdog, a sort of a female Pegler who lectured and wrote with a white-hot pen. She had crusaded against industrialists who would not co-operate with labor unions, and against the unions themselves when run by unscrupulous leaders. She had practically single-handed run down a local fascist organization two years previous, and more recently had exposed a manufacturer who had violated the priorities ruling. What made her effective were her contacts and her many pipe lines of information denied to others.

He realized she had stopped talking. She was sitting up, leaning forward, and when she spoke her words were deliberate.

“Do you know John Perry? Do you remember anything about the case?”

Casey's glance slid to Karen Harding. She was staring at Rosalind Taylor, her lips parted and the color oozing from her face. Then, before Casey answered, Helen MacKay came back into the room. She was dressed for the street now, with a black cloth coat and a pert black hat. Casey, admiring a silken ankle, let his glance slide upward, finding the rest of her figure neither too slender nor too voluptuous.

“Hmm,” he said. “Not bad.”

Her red mouth smiled at him and when she stopped beside him she put a gloved fist against his jaw and shoved gently. “I'm off,” she said to Rosalind. “I think I've taken care of everything.”

Rosalind Taylor cocked her head and her smile was crooked. “Why,” she said good-naturedly, “don't you marry him?”

“Maybe I will,” Helen MacKay said. “He hasn't asked me yet, but—”

“You could arrange that.”

“Yes—perhaps. Would you advise it?”

“You could do worse,” Rosalind said. “He's a pretty nice guy, Stanley. Of course I'll expect the customary two weeks' notice.” She watched Helen go out, still smiling, then said, “You know, it's funny, but I think probably Helen is going to marry my ex-husband.”

Casey waited. Rosalind fitted a cigarette into her long holder before she continued:

“He came in out of the west ten days ago, I don't know why exactly. I hadn't seen him in years. But he has money now and he'd seen my column and I don't really think he knew I'd married again. I think he was surprised to find out I was Mrs. Russell Gifford.”

Casey watched her light the cigarette. He looked at Karen Harding. She hadn't moved since Helen MacKay had entered, and that brought him back to John Perry and he knew that this was more important than Rosalind's husbands, present and ex.

“What about John Perry?” he said. “I don't know him but I think Miss Harding does.”

Rosalind Taylor came to attention. “Oh?”

“Yes,” Karen Harding said. “I—that is, he went to school with my brother.”

“Oh,” Rosalind said again and for a moment watched the girl, speculating. She tapped the cigarette-holder between her teeth; then continued to Casey in crisp, incisive words:

“John Perry went to prison fourteen months ago for assaulting Matt Lawson. John Perry invented some new compound which makes lubricating oils flow at extremely low temperatures. It's licensed now to most of the big companies and it's called
Everflow
and John Perry was swindled out of his interest by Matt Lawson.”

Casey remembered then, and the scene he had witnessed in Lawson's office a short while ago made sense. Lawson owned a small independent oil company and he had backed John Perry in his experiments. The details escaped Casey but he did know that Matt Lawson was now the sole owner of the formula.

“John Perry is out on parole,” Rosalind Taylor said. “He came to me three weeks ago because he'd read my stuff and thought perhaps I could do something.” She paused, glancing at Karen Harding. “I think I have. Lawson had a secretary named Byrnes. I've found him. He lives out Allston way under the name of Byrkman. But I don't have to tell you all the details now.”

“No,” Casey said. “All you have to do is tell me where I'm supposed to come in.”

“I'm seeing John Perry tonight—and Byrkman. I want you to come with me.”

“Why?”

“Well”—Rosalind Taylor shrugged with her cigarette-holder—“for one thing I want a picture of Byrkman. And I want you to sit in. I want you to hear the story, and tell me what you think. I've got quite a lot of facts but I'm not so sure of myself on this and, well, when a person isn't sure, you're a pretty nice guy to have along.”

“Oh, sure,” Casey said.

“It's the truth. I need somebody and there aren't many I'd trust. This could be pretty important, you know, and—well, will you, Flash?”

Casey knew what he was going to say, though he didn't know whether it was because of Rosalind, or Karen Harding, or just because the thing intrigued him and he wanted to know what was behind it.

“This is on the level? No double-crossing?”

“I never double-crossed you but once in my life and that was the first time we went out.” Rosalind grinned at him. “I learned better.”

“Okay.”

Rosalind jumped up. “Good,” she said, and crossed the room to her office. Casey stole a glance at Karen Harding. She was looking into her glass, twisting it in her hands, and because he didn't know what to say to her he rose and strolled toward the office. Rosalind was rummaging through her desk.

“Damn it all,” she said, “I never can find anything.” And then she went into the adjoining office and Casey strolled away. He walked up to Karen Harding.

“What do you think of her?” he asked.

“She's exciting, isn't she? I've always thought she'd be this way.” She paused, seemed about to ask him something else, and then turned to inspect a print on the wall.

Casey moved away, hearing drawers slam in the other office and then a moment or two later the telephone rang. He heard most of the conversation because he had strolled that way in his inspection of the room.