Dead on the Level (18 page)

He could hear the latch click on the lock behind her; then she listened. If Johnson had heard her lock the door he would come bounding up the stairs, but he hadn’t heard. Nobody was coming.

“Is it bad trouble, Casimir?”

“The police think I killed a man,” Casey said.

“Did you?”

“No!”

If he hadn’t shouted she might have believed him. The way it was, it was all Casey could do to believe himself. For an instant he wished that he hadn’t blurted out the trouble that way, but that was foolishness. Some things you didn’t have to tell Ma; she already knew. Now she stared at his face for what seemed a very long time and then, without looking behind her, unlocked the latch again.

“Ma!”

She hesitated.

“I didn’t kill him, I swear to God! I could prove it if I had time. Just a little more time—”

But Ma’s face didn’t show anything. She had her hand on the knob and was turning toward the door.

“I got to see maybe the lieutenant wants more coffee,” she said. “He’s got plenty time. It takes a young girl like Paula a little while to get fixed to go downstairs—yah, Casimir?”

Casey couldn’t say anything. All of a sudden he wanted to bawl; he wanted to put his head on Ma’s shoulder and bawl like a kid, but there wasn’t time. What she had said meant that he should hurry and that he should be quiet going down those outside stairs. He should keep his head down going past the kitchen window and, above all, he should make tracks as fast as anything.

“You need money?” she asked.

“No, Ma,” he choked. “I don’t need anything. If Paula comes back—”

But now he was talking to the door because Ma had closed it behind her and was shuffling back down the stairs.

He knew that he should go right away, but he had to make sure. He went back to his room and it was true, all right; Phyllis was gone. Her things were there, all except what she’d been wearing that morning, but there wasn’t a note anywhere. She’d simply walked away. But where? Last night she’d begged him to take her away and now she was gone, as if some great fear had grown too much for her to face any longer. Casey stared at nothing and tried to puzzle out the answer, but this was a job that would have to wait. Right now there was another business to handle. Right now there was that back stairway to negotiate.

It’s a long ride from Big John’s to a farm outside Arlington Heights—especially on a raw, cold November night, but it couldn’t be long enough for Casey—not when he was coming empty-handed. Somewhere out on Milwaukee Avenue he stopped to phone Maggie, knowing it would do no good. No, she hadn’t seen Phyllis; what’s more, she didn’t care to see Phyllis or Casey Morrow, thank you. But all the time a little edge in her voice was worrying along with him and that was some help. It wasn’t quite so lonely that way.

The rest of the way out he could think. Surely he had it straight now. It had to be Gorden—or Vanno, which was the same thing—who had killed Darius Brunner. Somehow Brunner must have tumbled to what kind of a man Gorden was and put Groot on his trail to get the evidence. Casey could understand that, too. It would take plenty of proof to convince a woman like Mrs. Brunner that Lance Gorden was not more to be pitied than censured. And Gorden, once he had realized what was going on, must have known that nothing short of murder could save his chance of marrying the Brunner fortune.

It added up. All that was needed now was Mrs. Brunner’s admission that Gorden hadn’t been with her the night of the murder. That, together with what she had told him about the land deal, should convince even a hardheaded customer like Lieutenant Johnson, but now there was a hitch. Without Phyllis, without the promised delivery of her daughter, Mrs. Brunner wasn’t likely to be in a listening frame of mind.

And then Casey was turning in at the driveway of the farm with the white rail fence, parking, walking slowly up the gravel path, and ringing the bell.

The man Casey remembered in Levi’s and a red-plaid shirt was wearing a black suit; otherwise he hadn’t changed a bit. He opened the door, scowling still, and ushered Casey inside. He was expected, that much was obvious, but the welcome mat wasn’t out. Just before stepping into the library, to which he had been sullenly conducted, Casey sensed that something was wrong; but instinct was a poor preparation for the shock that awaited beyond that door.

It was the same cheerful room he had visited before. A fire was snapping brightly on the hearth and the artful spacing of softly lighted lamps made everything seem warm and inviting and cozy. Very cozy. Mrs. Brunner rising from a chintz-covered chair to meet him, Lance Gorden slouched deep in one of the wide divans, and Phyllis, most of all Phyllis, curled snugly against Gorden’s outflung arm. Cozy and cute and like a kick in the head. No, instinct could never cope with this.

There was no measuring the time that nobody said anything at all. It was Mrs. Brunner who finally dared to disturb the silence. (Casey had almost forgotten her presence. All he could see, all he could even begin to realize, was the way Phyllis rested like a contented kitten on Gorden’s arm. He could almost hear her purr.)

“Come in, Mr. Morrow,” she said, “we’ve been expecting you. I don’t think you’ve met Mr. Gorden, my daughter’s fiancé.”

There was swift recognition in Gorden’s face as he sprang to his feet. “So it’s you!” he snapped. “I thought as much—”

“Lance!”

Casey still hadn’t recovered enough to defend himself against Gorden’s lunge, but Mrs. Brunner’s command was effective. It might have been even more than Mrs. Brunner that stopped him in his tracks for suddenly, with great comprehension, Casey began to see light. All that he knew about Lance Gorden was right there in his eyes and Gorden, for just an instant, seemed a little smaller.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered. “This isn’t the place, of course, but after what he’s done—”

“Mr. Morrow will answer for what he’s done in due time. I think Mr. Morrow will answer for a great many things.”

“Let’s not be so timid,” Casey said, surprising himself with a voice. “Just what is it that I’m supposed to have done?”

The question was for anybody, but his eyes were on Phyllis. For a moment, barely a moment, her gaze faltered, and somehow Casey knew that this one moment was all the victory he was going to have. She was Phyllis Brunner again; she was the girl of the Cloud Room, of the mink coat, of the sultry perfume. Yes, the perfume was there, along with a Parisian gown and a fancy hair-do, and the back bedroom at Big John’s was a universe away.

Gorden stepped toward the doorway, but Mrs. Brunner yanked the leash again. “Where are you going?” she demanded.

“To the telephone. This is a matter for the police.”

“Wait. We’ll hear what Mr. Morrow has to say.”

Smart boy, Gorden. He’d known very well that Mrs. Brunner would do that. It was the gesture that counted.

“You’ve already heard what Mr. Morrow has to say,” Casey spoke up. “I told you the straight story Sunday morning.”

Yes, I was here Sunday morning. That’s what you knew, isn’t it, Phyllis? That’s why you wanted to run away last night. But we didn’t. You did the running, straight back to Gorden. Why?
There was no answer to the question in Casey’s eyes. Not so much as a hint.

“My daughter tells quite a different story,” Mrs. Brunner said quietly. “Phyllis says that you have been holding her prisoner since the night of my husband’s death.”

Casey’s mouth twisted into a grotesque smile. It was too late for surprises now; now he expected anything. “Is that all?” he asked.

Gorden flushed. “Isn’t that enough? If not, maybe she can supply a little information about the murder, too.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Casey remarked dryly. “But what do you need with information, Gorden? Amnesia?”

The room wasn’t cozy any more; even the fire seemed cold.
Make noises, Casey Morrow, come back with the cracks and sound like a man who isn’t breaking apart inside because the boom is lowering, lowering fast
. But all the time he knew how the game was going; now, when it was too late, he knew. The beautiful, beautiful double-cross. Or was it? That was where the hell came in, for, despite that fact that Phyllis was lying, how did anybody know for sure that Casey Morrow hadn’t killed Darius Brunner? He’d stopped thinking that way a long time ago, but now all the old doubt rushed in and Casey was scared. The only thing he knew to do with fear was to fight back.

“You don’t have to give me the details,” he blurted. “I can imagine what kind of a tale you’ve been hearing. The same one she threatened me with if I didn’t string along and help her pin this murder on you, Gorden.”

“You’re lying!”

“Sure I’m lying. Everybody’s lying. Maybe there wasn’t any murder at all; maybe that’s a lie, too. Maybe this whole thing is just one of those ingenious yarns Phyllis loves to spring on people. What about it, honey, did you tell your mother the big news?”

Phyllis seemed even smaller without Gorden’s shoulder behind her. She drew her legs up under her wide skirt and stared at Casey with some incomprehensible message in her eyes, but it was too late for messages now.

“News?” Mrs. Brunner repeated. “What news?”

“Then you didn’t tell. Really, sweetheart, I think Mother should know about us. Maybe she won’t approve of such a quick marriage. Maybe she won’t like that five-thousand-dollar dowry, either, but she’s entitled to know.”

The words came out just the way he wanted them—let someone else’s mouth hang open for a change—but Phyllis’s stark white face kept telling him that it wasn’t going to work; when this was all out and over with things would be worse than before. And then she answered, and he was right.

“Marriage?” she echoed. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, Mr. Morrow, but I’m beginning to suspect that you’re mentally unbalanced.”

EVERYBODY LOOKED at Casey. He could feel their stares, dark and questioning, but all he could actually see was the way Phyllis’s eyes had widened with every syllable of that incredible statement. He tried to remember what words were like—to make some protestation—and then, suddenly, it didn’t seem worth while. Phyllis Brunner knew what she was doing, all along she had known, and if he didn’t understand, well, that was just his tough luck. Now he was beginning to get the picture, the beautiful picture with the beautiful frame, and then Gorden was flexing his muscles again.

“What are you trying to say?” he shouted. “What is all this about a marriage?”

“I don’t know,” Casey said. “I thought I knew, but now I’m not so sure.”

“Isn’t there something about a wife not testifying against her husband?” Phyllis suggested. “Maybe that’s what he has in mind.”

Casey grinned. “There’s a Mann Act, too. I wonder how it works in reverse.”

Surely nobody could lie, deliberately, pointedly, lie that way without some sign of faltering. He kept his eyes on Phyllis, waiting for her to slip up, and then Mrs. Brunner, rising from her chair by the fire, got in the way. “Mr. Morrow,” she said quietly, “will you please finish what you started to say?”

“I said it,” Casey answered.

“You inferred that you had married my daughter.”

“Correction—she inferred it. All I know is what she told me, being a little drunk at the time.”

“At what time?” Gorden demanded. “Just where and when is this alleged marriage supposed to have taken place? It should be easy enough to verify.”

It should be, of course. Strange he’d never thought of that, not since that rainy afternoon at Maggie’s when Phyllis had first made the declaration. Her story had holes in it a mile and a half wide. She had said they were married in Indiana, never mind where. She’d never produced a license, never had a ring, but Casey hadn’t questioned. He was too busy trying to run down Darius Brunner’s murderer and that, too, was Phyllis’s idea. She’d threatened him at Maggie’s and now she was carrying out that threat.

“It’s a lie!” she insisted. “I don’t know anything about a marriage. I don’t know what he’s talking about!”

“I think this is a matter for the police,” Gorden said.

“For once,” Casey agreed, “I think you’re right.”

He wasn’t supposed to say that; the surprise on Lance Gorden’s face made that clear. He hesitated and for Casey that was a nice green light. “Why don’t we make a party of it?” he added. “We could invite your friend Vanno, who wasn’t feeling so good when I left him a couple of hours ago. You remember Vanno, don’t you? That old business associate you sent after me with a blackjack.”

Lance Gorden reddened to the roots of his golden-blond hair. He threw a frantic glance at Mrs. Brunner but she wasn’t saying anything. Just waiting.

“Vanno,” Casey repeated just for emphasis, “and, if we can find him, Carter Groot.”

“You’ve been talking to this man,” Gorden shouted at Mrs. Brunner. “What’s he been telling you?”

“Don’t shout at me, Lance,” she said coolly.

“But he’s lying. Phyllis says he’s lying. He’s nothing but a kidnaper—”

“That’s another thing,” Casey said. “I can think of a few more guests to invite to our party. Quite a few. Most of them were at another party Phyllis and I gave Saturday night and I doubt very much if you could convince any of them that she was being held prisoner. Incidentally, Phyllis, one of the uninvited guests at that party was a police lieutenant with a reputation for being skeptical about these things. Too bad I didn’t get around to introducing you.”

Now it showed; now she was scared, and it did Casey’s heart good to see it. Scared and silent, her lips parted slightly and her eyes wide. This moment was almost worth the long, long ride. “I don’t think your skirts are clean enough to be yelling copper,” he finished, “but if anybody wants to try it I’ll play along.”

It was funny, Casey thought, how you could run from something so long, build it up so big in your mind, and then, when the facing-up time came, it would dwindle down to size. Here they were all gathered together at last, Phyllis scared, Lance Gorden white with fear, and Casey Morrow feeling fine. No, not fine exactly. He couldn’t kid himself that much on such short notice. There was still that sinking feeling whenever he looked at Phyllis, and not looking at her was more than he could manage, but at least he had anger for an ally and enough pieced-together knowledge to sound formidable. At least Gorden seemed to think so.