Silent Are the Dead (20 page)

Fay Borden had rooms on the top floor of a remodeled brick house not far from Charles Street. When she opened the door and saw Casey standing there she tried to shut it in his face, but he saw it coming and put his shoulder in the crack and gently but steadily widened it. For a moment or two she fought that pressure, leaning her weight against the panel, but in the end she had to fall back. That made her mad.

“Listen, you!” she shrilled. “Who do you think you are? What do you want?”

He closed the door and leaned against it. His crooked grin was not amused now; neither were the eyes that studied her. She was dressed for the street and wore a thin silk dress and four-inch spikes and a fox cape. Her hair was very yellow, except near the roots, and needed a rinse. Her skin was yellowish, where it wasn't caked with make-up, and her greenish eyes were hard and suspicious and just a little scared.

“You can't push in here,” she said. “I don't care who you are. I've got friends. You needn't think—”

“Okay,” Casey said, and looked over the room. It was messy and smelled of cheap perfume and cigarettes.
What a dump,
he thought. And then,
I hope she rents it furnished.
“Okay,” he said again. “I'm only here to do you a favor, sister. Recognize these?”

He offered the photographs but she couldn't pry her gaze from him right away, and accepted them automatically. She backed up. When he didn't attempt to follow, she glanced at the top picture. It was the one of Aileen Rogers.

“What about it?” she asked.

“Look at the other.”

She did. And then back at him, her sticky-looking lashes flicking wide.

“Know where that was taken?”

“No.”

“Think hard. You had a soldier boy. A lieutenant. You were sitting on his lap.”

For a second or two she made a show of defiance. “If you're one of those vice-squad chiselers.—” She couldn't finish it. “Where'd you get it?” she asked hollowly. “Where—where's the rest of it?”

“You got any money?”

That started her again. She was scared but she wasn't quitting. “What if I have?” she demanded. “Suppose I do go out with a soldier? What's wrong with that?”

Casey kept giving her that crooked humorless smile and it began to wear her down. “Harry Nye was in on that frame,” he said. “And a guy named Perry Austin took the picture. Did you read about Perry Austin in the papers?”

A sudden pallor showed through the make-up and he saw her wet her lips. When she made no answer he continued. “Do you know what happened to Harry Nye last night? I'll tell you. They found him in an alley around noon.”

“What do you want?” she asked finally.

“Where's Aileen?”

“In Philadelphia.”

“For good?”

“I don't know. She went out on the road with a unit.”

“You rent this place furnished?”

“Yes.”

“How much money have you got?”

“A couple of hundred.”

“That should be enough,” Casey said. He went over to the door, opened it. Her wide, greenish eyes were puzzled and uncertain. “You know what I mean, don't you?” Casey added.

“That I should—”

“Two guys who were mixed up in that picture business have been knocked off in the last two days. Aileen's gone, so she's okay. That leaves you.” He walked back and took the pictures from her limp fingers. He gave her a final glance and walked out.

He was halfway down the stairs when he heard the door open. She called down to him.

“But—who are you?”

He stopped and looked up. “Just a guy who dropped around to give you a tip and some advice: beat it while you can.”

A colored maid opened the dressing-room door and Casey saw Lyda Hoyt at the table and went in. Her face lit up at once and she held out her hand, bringing him to her. “I'm so glad you came,” she said.

“I thought I might not get another chance,” Casey said, feeling again her warmth and personal magnetism. “You close tomorrow, don't you?”

She said they did. That she was going to Hollywood for a picture. There was a chessboard on the table and he could see that a game was in progress, but apparently not for very long, since only four players had been removed—three pawns and a miter-headed bishop.

“I didn't mean to break up your game,” he said.

“It doesn't matter. I try to get a game in before a performance. It—helps me to relax.” She smiled. “But tonight I can relax with you. Sit down.” She waved him to a chaise longue. “Over there.”

“All right, Anna,” she said. Anna went out and Lyda got up for cigarettes, holding a light for him. “Now,” she said. “I want you to know how grateful I am for what you did.”

Casey looked uncomfortable. “It wasn't much,” he said. “Only for a while you had me in a spot. You called Forrester that night, and he came around for the picture and I couldn't tell him—”

“I know. It
was
stupid of me. But I was terrified. I really was.”

“Sure,” Casey said. “I chased you out of Endicott's office.” He grinned. “You put that chair in front of me and I fell on my face.”

“Did you?” Her eyes flashed their smile again. “I'm sorry.”

Casey blew smoke at the ceiling. “I stopped in to see Jim last night,” he said. “I wanted to be sure he knew how Logan got that extra print.”

Her face sobered and she examined the tip of her cigarette. “I wonder,” she said slowly. “I wonder if we're doing the right thing. Trying to keep it all a secret.”

Casey studied her. “You mean about your uncle?”

“My uncle?” She hesitated and returned to her regard of the cigarette. “Yes. I wonder what would have happened if Grant had found out.”

“Jim wouldn't like it, would he?”

“No. When I told him I was going to announce my engagement he made me promise never to let Grant know. He—he said he'd kill himself rather than have it come out that—we were related—that there was a jailbird, that's what he said, in the family.”

Her eyes were deeply troubled now and Casey couldn't think of much to say.

“I don't know,” he said finally. “I think I'd let it ride if I were you. Jim's happy. Why not let well enough alone? If he knows you're happy he's glad because he can know he hasn't spoiled anything for you. If you fool around, if something should happen he'd be sure to think it was his fault—”

“I'm sorry.” Lyda Hoyt rose and smiled wistfully. “I didn't mean to get so involved.”

Casey got up with her and looked at the traveling-clock, realizing he'd have to go. He told her so.

“Yes, I suppose so,” she said, glancing at the clock. She held out her hand and pressed his firmly. “You're right, of course. About Jim, I mean. It's just that I feel such a beast sometimes.”

“I don't think you should,” Casey said. “Well—”

She opened the door. “All right, Anna,” she said and then, to Casey: “Good-by, Mr. Casey. I'll not forget your kindness—ever. And I'm sorry I've made you so much trouble.”

“Nosey guys like me have to expect trouble,” he said, and found his throat a little thick. “Good-by. I hope you'll be very happy.”

Chapter Nineteen:
A FINE MORNING'S WORK

W
HEN
C
ASEY STOPPED IN
L
OGAN'S OFFICE
the following morning on the way to work, he found the young lieutenant just putting on his coat.

“Ah, my friend,” he said. “And how are you this bright and cheerful morning?”

Casey blinked and dropped on the nearest chair. He screwed his brows down and eyed Logan aslant. When the lieutenant began to arrange things on his desk to the accompaniment of a soft whistle Casey gave up.

“What is this?” he said. “You been eating those vitamin pills?”

“It is a bright and cheerful morning, isn't it?”

“Maybe you got this case all wrapped up,” Casey said.

That stopped the whistling. Logan looked at him. “There you go,” he said. “Always belittling.”

“Give out,” said Casey. “And where are you going?”

“I thought I'd call on Mrs. Stanford Endicott shortly.”

“Oh-oh.” Casey grinned. “So that check I gave you was something.”

“It was indeed.”

Casey sighed. “Now wait,” he said. “Relax. Quit talking like Philo Vance. This is old Casey, the guy that gave you the lead. Keep it simple and unaffected.”

“Okay,” he said finally. “In this business a lot of things can happen in a very short time—thank God—and some of the leg work we've been doing is starting to shape up. First, Nye was killed—according to the M.E.—between one and two o'clock the night before last. By the same gun that killed Endicott. And while we're sweating our ears off trying to break an alibi Bernie Dixon said he had, a little old guy by the name of Cafferty who has been walking himself bowlegged for thirty years out of the Milk Street station comes up with the crusher.

“Cafferty, now, is a good cop. Dumb, you understand, but reliable. He's standing on a corner holding up the side of a building around 1:05. He's sure of the time because he called in at one—which is a break for us—and this was about five minutes later. All right. He's standing there when he hears a car take the corner pretty fast. The tires are squealing and that wakes him up. He lets the building stand there by itself and steps to the curb, and the street light gives him a gander at the car and who's in it. Guess who?”

“Dixon.”

“And Harry Nye.”

Casey grunted. “Dixon's lawyer'll have something to say about Mr. Cafferty's eyesight before he gets through and don't you think he won't. Night. Two guys in a coupé—”

“Okay,” Logan cut in. “But he got the number. He identified the car and he'll swear that Dixon was the passenger because he was riding on that side. He says the driver was Nye, but he won't swear to it. But Dixon. Listen, when an old-timer like this Cafferty makes up his mind he's seen something, you can keep him on the stand four weeks and you'll always get the same answer. That's why they call us stubborn cops.”

“It ain't enough,” Casey said.

“Nye had a secretary,” Logan said, as though he had not heard. “Name of Taber. Florence Taber. She phoned me yesterday afternoon after she'd read about what happened in the papers. She phoned me from the Statler.”

Logan put on his hat, adjusted the angle of the brim carefully. “Nye had called this Taber up the night he was killed. He said he wanted her to get a room at a hotel—she lived alone—and stay there until she heard from him. He said he had to see Bernie Dixon and there might be some trouble and that's why he wanted her out of the way. If anything happened she was to get in touch with me—She did.”

“That all she knows?”

“That's almost enough. Nye was scared. He had to see Dixon but he figured he was safe since he'd have the girl as an ace. If Dixon got tough, he'd tell him that he'd already tipped off the girl as to who he was going to see, figuring that would make Dixon lay off.” He shrugged. “Whether he didn't get a chance to tell Dixon, or whether he told him and Dixon thought he was bluffing—or didn't give a damn—we don't know.”

“Um,” Casey said. “Or else Nye told him to lay off or the girl would go to the police, and Dixon killed him, figuring he would go to the girl and see that she kept her mouth shut—and then he couldn't find her, not knowing Nye'd told her to hide out— Not bad. It don't prove anything but—”

“It does to me,” Logan said. “Let's go see Mrs. Endicott.”

The Filipino boy who opened the door of the Endicott apartment told them Mrs. Endicott was not up yet and tried to convince them that he dared not disturb her. Logan pushed in, saying he was of the police. “Just tell her Lieutenant Logan is here,” he said. “Tell her I have to see her. I'll wait.”

They went into the living-room and sat down. Logan was impressed. He looked carefully about him, lit a cigarette, and leaned luxuriously back in his chair. “Not bad,” he said. “A guy could have a lot of fun in a place like this.”

They had to wait about a half-hour before Louise Endicott appeared. She was wearing a long black house coat with a sort of train and Grecian lines. It went well with her full-blown blondness. She would have been beautiful if it hadn't been for the annoyance in her eyes and the sullen droop of her painted lips.

“Good morning,” Logan said cheerfully as he and Casey rose. “I'm sorry to disturb you but—”

“What is it you want?” Louise Endicott cut in, sitting down on the divan.

“Casey tells me that you were with Mr. Dixon at the time your husband was killed,” Logan said.

“Really?” Louise gave Casey an icy stare. “I don't remember.”

“That would be between eight and ten—eight-thirty and nine actually. Casey says you sent the houseboy out at eight.”

“I told Mr. Casey not to quote me,” Louise Endicott said. “I'm afraid I don't remember anything about it.”

“We've been going through some of the records in Harry Nye's office.” Logan was still polite, unconcerned. “There were some carbon copies of reports he had made about you.”

Casey sat up. Louise Endicott leaned back and looked bored.

“You and Mr. Endicott were on the verge of separating, weren't you?” Logan asked.

“I don't see how that concerns you,” Louise Endicott said. “As a matter of fact if those charges against him were true, if he was sent to prison for receiving stolen bonds, I should have divorced him in any case.”

“These reports,” Logan said, “were made to your husband. They concerned the movements of yourself and Mr. Dixon. They indicate that your husband was suspicious of you and that he had evidence enough to sue on his own account. Of course this happened before he was arrested.”