Murder for Two

by George Harmon Coxe

  “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 cros
sed 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.

  “Hello,” Rosalind Taylor said. “Yes.” A long pause; then, in cool, level tones: “I’m afraid I’ll be busy this evening.… I have an appointment at nine and another at nine-thirty.… I really can’t say. Possibly, though I don’t believe I care to discuss my husband with you then or any other time.”

  Bang went the receiver and when Rosalind Taylor came out her face was grim and flushed at the cheekbones. She was looking at two slips of paper in her hand, one pink and one white, and for a moment did not seem to be aware of her company, but strode toward the windows, a thin, straight figure, almost mannish-looking in her tailored tweeds and short bob. Suddenly she turned, the tightness still about her mouth though she fashioned it into a smile.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Will nine-thirty be all right for you? There’s no point in your coming by for me; I’ll meet you in front of Perry’s place.” She glanced at the slips of paper and read an address off for Casey.

  “May I come too?”

  Karen Harding had moved up. Casey recognized the appeal in her voice but he tried to signal Rosalind to say no. He couldn’t catch her eye. She examined the girl, pursed her lips, shrugged.

  “All right,” she said. “If you like, though I won’t promise you can stay. I don’t want to get too involved, but—well, we’ll see.”

  “And you really think that you—that perhaps you can clear him?”

  Rosalind Taylor smiled, her glance still speculating. “I can try.”

  Karen Harding’s young face lit up. “Oh,” she said, softly, and speaking more to herself than to them, “oh, if you only could.”

  Casey just let his breath out slowly and cursed MacGrath. He didn’t know why. He liked this girl and yet the feeling persisted that somehow she was going to gum things up for him.

  The street was quiet and dark in the dim-out and after Casey had waited ten minutes he began to stamp up and down the walk, muttering under his breath.

  “Does she think we’re going to wait here all night?”

  “She’s probably been detained,” Karen Harding said.

  “Maybe, maybe not,” Casey grumbled. “If she got a hot lead on something it would be just like her to chase after it without even bothering to phone me and say so. She always was an independent dame and— Hey!” he said suddenly.

  He had moved a few feet down the street as he was speaking and when he turned to come back he saw a tiny and instantaneous red glow. Enough light filtered through the curtains of the house to glisten from the reflector of the flashgun in the girl’s hand and he knew now what she had done.

  “Let’s see,” he said. “That was a blackout bulb, huh? It won’t come out if you haven’t got infra-red film.”

  “I have though.” The girl moved to an ashcan in the areaway and deposited the used bulb. She was bareheaded, wearing a lightweight camel’s-hair coat and brown and white sport pumps, and at her feet was a patent-leather handbag about the size of an attaché case.

  Casey had noticed it at once when he picked her up but had not commented on it; now he realized that she was using it as a plate-case.

  “I wanted to practice,” she said. “You told us all about how we could take pictures in the dark without any giveaway flash if we used these new bulbs and infra-red film, and so I thought I’d see.”

  “Sure,” Casey said, his photographer’s interest erasing his grumbling at Rosalind Taylor’s tardiness. “Let’s see what you’ve got there,” he said, and was already inspecting her equipment.

  He could not see much but his fingers told him she had a Leica with a modern flashgun and reflector attached, and when he knelt and pried into the bag he found both kinds of flashbulbs and a chain tripod, an extra lens, an angle-view finder, an extra film magazine.

  “This is nice stuff,” he said.

  “It was my brother’s.” The girl put the camera away and tucked the bag under her arm. “You don’t think—I mean, perhaps Miss Taylor got here before we did. Do you think we should go up and see?”

  Casey looked at his strapwatch, twisting it so he could get enough light to read it. It said 9:43. “Come on,” he said and led the girl up the high stone steps to the darkened entryway.

  It was an old stone house, a Rooms to Let sign in the door. A light burned dimly at the foot of the stairs and when Casey had glanced at the cards on the doors on either side of the hall they started up, finding John Perry’s room at the second floor rear.

  Casey knocked and was about to knock again when the door opened. It did not swing wide but moved just enough to frame Perry’s thin figure against the light of the room. That way the face was in shadow and behind the glasses Casey could not see the expression of the eyes though he saw them dart to Karen Harding.

  “Oh,” John Perry said.

  “Hello,” Casey said. “We were supposed to meet Rosalind Taylor out front. We thought maybe she’d come up.”

  “No.” John Perry shook his head. “No, she hasn’t.”

  Five seconds ticked by silently.

  “Aren’t you going to ask us in, John?” Karen Harding said.

  “Why—” Perry began, and right then Casey made up his mind. Somehow he knew that these two had once been in love, and he had an idea that feeling still remained in the girl. Somehow he could not face the awkwardness he knew would follow if they went in and waited. He would be out of place; he would be miserable sitting there watching them. So he said, abruptly:

  “Never mind. If she comes, tell her we couldn’t wait.” And with that he turned, took the girl’s arm firmly, and started down the hall.

  She started to say something but she didn’t finish it. He saw her glance back over her shoulder, but she didn’t protest. He heard the door close as they went down the stairs.

  “We’ll stop by her apartment,” he said when they started toward the Avenue, looking for a taxi, “and if she isn’t there, to hell with it.”

  On the ride down, Karen Harding was subdued and silent and Casey did not prompt her. He was uneasy over what had happened, annoyed that Rosalind Taylor had not appeared. It was her fault that Karen Harding had come and he felt as though he were holding the sack.

  There was no one behind the desk in the apartment lobby. He glanced at his watch while they waited for the automatic elevator and it was then 9:55.

  They got out at the third floor and as they started along the corridor Casey looked ahead. When he saw that the door of Rosalind Taylor’s apartment stood part way open, something made him quicken his steps. Forgetting the girl with him, he barged through and into the little foyer, his plate-case banging his hip.

  He was just entering the empty living-room when he heard the cry. It wasn’t loud. It conveyed nothing except that a woman had made it—and from the office beyond.

  He started for it, a prickly sensation crossing his shoulders, hearing a man’s voice now but not understanding what it said; then he was in the doorway, seeing the bent figure of the man, the back turned, and beyond this a woman, her skirts hiked above her knees and something knotted about her silken ankles.

  The plate-case slid from his shoulder and two silent steps brought Casey close. But he wasn’t prepared for what he saw t
hen, he wasn’t prepared at all.

  Beyond the bent shoulder of the man he found the upper part of the woman’s face, the startled eyes, the black hair awry. And that was when surprise struck back at him, when he realized that this was not Rosalind Taylor on the floor but Helen MacKay.

  After that he didn’t think. He didn’t ask questions, he just reached for the man’s collar and jerked. The man unfolded and came up straight, struggling, trying to turn. He was young and chubby-faced and Casey spun him and reached out with his other hand.

  “No,” Helen MacKay cried. “No, Flash! He’s the night operator. He’s not the one.”

  Casey let go reluctantly and saw the youth pull himself together again. He looked at the girl. That’s when he saw the taped wrists, the white patch, sticky at the edges and covering her mouth from cheek to cheek, where other tape had been. Not until then did he notice that the room had been thoroughly ransacked.

  Chapter Three

  THAT WOULD BE MURDER

  FOR PERHAPS FIVE SECONDS Casey stood there, dark eyes taking in the night operator, the scattered papers, the opened drawers of the desk and filing-cabinet. Behind him he heard Karen Harding’s hurried breathing, realized that they were all waiting for him to do something. He put aside the confusion in his mind and dropped to one knee beside Helen MacKay.

  “Where’s Taylor?” he demanded.

  “I don’t know. She left here quite a while ago. A half-hour or so.”

  “What happened?”

  “Two men came in. One came right after she’d gone. He had a gun and dark glasses, and about five minutes later a second one came—”

  She went ahead in jerky, breathless sentences as Casey worked on the dampened, knotted towel on her ankles. When he had it free he looked at her wrists. Someone had done a job with inch-and-a-half adhesive. It wasn’t very neat but it was smooth and tight. He guessed there were a good two yards of it wrapped about the wrists and he could see the teeth marks where Helen had tried to unwind it.