Silent Are the Dead (24 page)

Bernie Dixon was in the doorway of the inner hall. He had a heavy automatic in his hand. His coat collar was turned up and his hat brim was low; beneath it was a tight gray face and a hueless slash of a mouth.

Chapter Twenty-Two:
NEAT AND QUICK

C
ASEY STOOD VERY STILL,
some fragment of his brain sending out the curious thought that even now Dixon looked well-dressed and dapper. He was not exactly the Dixon of the Club Berkely, but he didn't have to be now. He moved slowly into the room with a sliding, flat-footed shuffle, his shrewd little eyes darting in all directions at once until he was satisfied they were alone. Only then did he relax and let his gaze become fixed.

“Turn around!”

Casey hesitated. He was still all tight and rigid inside, but he didn't want Dixon to know; he wanted to make him think there was all the time in the world.

“Hello, Bernie,” he said, and glanced down at the envelope in his hand. “There isn't anything in this, is there? You sent the kid up to give the bell a good long ring so I wouldn't hear you unlock the back door, huh? Very neat.”

Apparently Dixon didn't care for the digression. “I said, turn around!”

Casey took his turn deliberately.

“Hold your arms out!”

The gun hit him in the ribs as Dixon spoke and Casey put his elbows up, keeping his palms forward and bulging the muscles of his forearm against the little automatic in his sleeve. He felt Dixon's hand slap his hips and was curiously relieved, for this meant the man wasn't going to start shooting for a minute or so, not until he'd made his search.

The probing hand found the .38 special in Casey's hip pocket, withdrew it, continued patting his pockets and sides and armpits. When the pressure of the gun against his spine was removed, he turned.

Dixon had backed away; he was eyeing the gun he had taken from Casey, and the slash which was his mouth dipped at one corner. “I can use this one just as well,” he said, and shifted it to his right hand. “Waiting for me, huh. Didn't think I could get in.”

“You had a key,” Casey said. “You couldn't have picked that lock while that bell was ringing.”

“I came up the back way two days ago.”

“After you found out your two hoods had fluffed it.”

“Right. I didn't know what I was going to have to do and I like odds when I can get them. I made an impression of the lock and got a key. For a while I thought I wasn't going to have to use it— Who was that on the phone?”

“The office.”

“You sure?” Dixon pushed back his hat with the muzzle of the automatic and Casey saw the film of moisture on the forehead.

“What difference does it make now?” he said.

“None, I guess. You asked for this and now you're gonna get it, Casey.”

“And what happens to you?” Casey was keeping his voice level, now but all the time he was thinking, watching the narrow frames of Dixon's eyes, trying to read them, wondering how much time he had left. Where the hell was Logan? In another minute or two he ought to be outside with his men. But—how would they get in?

“Me?” Dixon grunted softly. “Nothing, maybe. Anyway, I have to take a chance, don't I? I might get away with this. I can hole up for a few months until I find out what the score is. What have I got to lose?”

Lamp light gleamed from Dixon's forehead now and made his skin look sallow. He was getting nervous and Casey knew it, knew that somehow he had to keep talking, keep Dixon's attention centered on what he said.

For Casey saw how the odds stood now. He had a gun up his sleeve but he couldn't hope to stand here and get it out and still have time to use it. The idea had seemed pretty cute at the time; now it didn't stand up so well. One bad move and Dixon would start shooting. That little automatic was no good unless he could shield his intention until he had it in his hand. Even then Dixon might beat him to the first shot.

“You'd've been all right, I guess,” he said, “if it hadn't been for that bond rap against Endicott. He knew they had him cold and he was going to sing for a light sentence. And then the judge would've thrown the book at you.” He went on, talking fast, never for an instant relaxing his study of the other's eyes. He told about Logan's theory, of the auto-accessory store and the wholesale jeweler who had served as outlets for stolen goods that Dixon and Endicott had provided.

“You know a lot,” Dixon said.

“But you wouldn't leave Endicott's wife alone, would you? And so he put Harry Nye on you and got the goods. That made it sure Endicott would cop a plea if he could. Did you go down to his office to kill him or make up your mind after you got there?”

“Louise told me,” Dixon said. “He'd popped off to her about getting even with me. I had an idea what he meant so I went down to make sure.”

“And Nat Garrison nearly walked in on you.”

“That was a break,” Dixon said. “I ducked into the next room and held a gun on Endicott through a crack in the door until he got rid of the guy.”

“And Harry Nye knew too much too, didn't he?” Casey asked.

Dixon's mouth screwed into a mean, hard line. “Nuts,” he said. “What's all this stalling going to get you? Can you take it standing up?”

“What?” he said. “No music to cover up your blasting? I'm a little surprised at you, Bernie. This is an apartment house. You think you can turn it into a shooting gallery and walk out without being seen?”

He said other things, taunting things that had no particular meaning for him because he was trying desperately to find in which direction his best chance lay. For a moment he considered telling Dixon about Logan and the others, but he decided against that. Dixon had made his move. Like he said, he had nothing more to lose; if he suspected a trap he would shoot immediately.

No, that wasn't it. He had to get at the gun in his sleeve. He had to have noise so that Logan could get in the back way without being heard. He felt a quick thrust of hope when he saw the man's glance waver and stray to the radio cabinet, and was glad he'd thought to suggest it.

“Why not?” Dixon said. “You think of things.” He gestured with Casey's .38. “Turn it on. Make it loud.”

Casey's legs felt stiff and for the first step or two his feet seemed numb; then, suddenly, a change came over him. At first he did not understand it, but as he reached the radio he knew what had happened. Until this moment he had been too busy worrying about himself to remember that this was not the first time Dixon had hoped to kill him, and the thoughts of that other night came tumbling about him. The memory of that ride with Dixon's killers was stark and vivid. He'd felt fear that night, a cold and numbing fear that ate away his insides and bathed him in cold sweat. Now, remembering, thinking of this man who had been responsible, he found instead of fear and uncertainty, a quickly mounting resentment that became cold and calculating and vindictive.

What was he crabbing about? This was what he'd asked for, wasn't it? He hadn't expected things to turn out in just this way, but he'd offered himself as a decoy willingly and with eyes open—and for a special reason.

He had never before admitted the presence of this particular reason. This was the thought he had kept crowded deep in his consciousness, vaguely aware of it somehow but never quite daring to consider it properly. Now that there was nothing left with which to keep it in check, he found the thought clear cut and definite. It left him a little amazed, even now, when he realized that the focal point around which tine idea revolved was the death of Bernie Dixon.

That morning, talking to Logan and MacGrath, he had suggested that Dixon might be trapped. Analyzing now, he knew why. Always in the back of his mind there had been that fear that Perry Austin's black-mailing would become known, and everything he had done had been motivated by the desire to keep all that a secret. And so, believing that any trial involving Dixon would bring to light Austin's career as an extortionist, he, Casey, had suggested a trap, a plant. And why? Because he hoped that Dixon, cornered, would resist arrest and be brought down by police guns and silenced forever.

“Well, what're you waiting for?”

The light in the cabinet went on and the dials glowed. “We have to wait a minute for it to warm up,” he said and moved as naturally as he could to one side of the cabinet.

He was facing Dixon diagonally now, his right arm and part of his body blocked off from the other's sight by the cabinet. He forced his gaze back to the dials and with what looked like an absent gesture, reached inside his coat and began to scratch his shoulder. It was a bad second or two and the sweat began to leak down his back. But nothing happened and he found the thread along his arm and snapped it without stopping that pretense of scratching.

Gradually the radio came to life. Casey straightened, let his right arm straighten, feeling the nose of the automatic touch his palm and then easing it down until he could get hold of the little butt.

“Well, come on. Music, stupid.”

Casey put on the grin again, not realizing until then that what he had was a quiz program. He turned the dial with his left hand, found a dance band.

“Louder,” Dixon said.

Casey reached the volume control, turned it. The music swelled through the room, the rhythm pounding and the brasses riding high and loud. He saw Dixon's mouth set and the hand tighten on the gun, and thought,
This is it.

All right, then. Things had changed since this morning, but one thing was still the same. Dixon on trial for murder would ruin everything Casey had tried to do. If Logan couldn't get here to do the job, then Casey had to do the best he could. Well— In a way this was what he wanted. He hadn't fired a gun in a long time but it was only ten or twelve feet and he could pull the trigger just as fast as Dixon.

“Okay,” Dixon said. “Let's see if you can take it. Step out, Casey.”

Casey looked into the muzzle of the .38. He was still thinking about the little .25 in his hand. That .38 was heavy and the first slug that hit him would slap him around some.

“All right, Bernie,” he said and found he had to raise his voice against the music. “But this is a job you'll never walk out on.” He started to move away from the cabinet and raise his gun hand, knowing he was going to pull the trigger twice and keep moving, dropping down if the first slug missed him and firing again from one knee. “The others didn't have a chance but this time—”

Casey was never quite sure what made him stop. He was watching Dixon and talking and tightening his trigger finger before he showed the gun, and then something happened he could not understand.

Dixon, standing near the center of the room, and in such a way that he could not see the hall doorway without turning his head, had leveled both guns. The right hand was already tensing as Casey moved out and then, incredulously, the hot, bright eyes wavered and darted to one side.

For some reason he could never explain Casey stopped, his gun up, the sharpest of sensations tearing along his nerves. The dance music was pounding his eardrums now, and hearing nothing but the hot, wild beat of the rhythm, with no warning but that quick flicker of alarm in Dixon's eyes, he waited, knowing that he could squeeze the trigger safely but obeying some intuitive command that stayed his finger.

Afterward he knew that Dixon had never seen that little automatic, that Dixon had heard some sound in the hall and, discounting Casey's presence, had turned to face it. For that was exactly what the man did, glancing over his shoulder first, never looking at his victim again, but wheeling toward a blur of movement in the doorway and a voice that yelled, “Drop 'em!”

Casey froze, his finger tight on the trigger but not quite tight enough, seeing Dixon try to get both guns around. He caught the gleam of Logan's service pistol, watched Dixon throw a quick, desperate shot before he was ready; then Logan's gun jumped and roared, and as the dance music faded into a softer chorus, Casey counted three shots so close together they were almost one.

Bernie Dixon stiffened with the first shot and the others seemed to make no difference. He began to fold in the middle as the echoes died away. The guns dropped from his hands; then he went down joint by joint, slowly, gracefully, with hardly a sound until he fell forward from his knees.

Logan walked into the room, his eyes on Dixon. Manahan and a plain-clothes man followed, guns hanging from their hands. They looked at Dixon and then up at Casey. Suddenly Manahan stopped. “Hey,” he said. “Watch where you're pointing that.” And not until then did Casey realize that he still had his arm out, the gun extended.

He looked at it curiously as he brought it over in front of him. He put it on the radio cabinet and looked at that a moment before he reached down and snapped off the current. His breath came out in a gust before he was aware that he had been holding it, and then reaction set in and he saw his hands were trembling.

“Where the hell were you?” he said, his voice an angry growl deep in his throat.

“Where was I?” Logan stared at him. “Where do you think? Out back. We didn't dare try to rush it. If it hadn't been for that radio—” He broke off, the scowl deepening. “Where'd you get that toy automatic?”

Casey interrupted to tell him about his plan of concealment.

“Well, I'll be damned,” Logan said; then, angrily: “Why didn't you use it when he turned on me?”

Casey had an answer for this but he didn't state it. He'd wanted Logan with his authority to do it.

“When I saw you I forgot—or maybe I was scared.”

“Yah!” jeered Logan. He pushed back his hat, walked around Dixon, picking up the fallen guns and putting them on the table. “What is this?” he asked, pointing to Casey's drink.

“That's mine,” he said. “Give it to me. I need it.”