by Otto Penzler
The automatic was cool in Casey’s hot fingers. As he snatched it up he went to one knee and swung his arm over. He saw the sweep of the stocky man’s gun, caught sight of the muzzle. Then the roar in his ears, the slap of recoil in his wrist told him the shot was his own.
The gun barrel that threatened him wavered, dipped. The automatic began to slide from limp fingers. Then Casey raised his eyes. The man’s mouth was open, quivering. There was a bluish hole over the one eye. He put one hand on the telephone table. The hand slipped off and he went over, crashing down with the table and the instrument under him.
Logan blew out his breath and let go of the unconscious gunman he had been holding for a shield. The fellow thudded down on his haunches, toppled over on his side. Logan pulled the telephone out from under the stocky man’s body and slipped the receiver into place before he spoke.
“I coulda smacked this egg before,” he said grimly. “Only I thought maybe we could learn something from the phone call.”
Casey had straightened up. Logan stepped over, took the gun away from him. He turned it over in his hands thoughtfully, and looked at Casey’s with eyes that were speculative.
“You’re handy with that thing. How’d you learn to put ‘em where you want ‘em?”
“In France,” said Casey absently. “I was a sergeant, and a .45 was the only gun I had. I did some practicing.”
He went across to the davenport and sat down, his mind relieved of the necessity of action, returning once more to Wade. Then the thin man stirred on the floor. Casey watched him until he sat up. He stepped towards the fellow, jerked him to his feet and jammed him back against the wall.
“What’d you do with Wade?”
The thin man’s eyes showed fear, but his lips tightened. Casey grunted, hauled off and threw a looping right that landed flat-handed against the side of the man’s head and knocked him down.
Casey pulled the fellow up again. He repeated the question and when he got no answer, repeated the dose. The fellow began to curse in a whining, yet vicious voice. Logan said: “Lay off.”
Casey knocked the man down again. The side of the face was beet-red now, but he was otherwise unmarked. “Where’s Wade?” He shook the fellow. “What’d you do with him?”
This time the answer blurted in his face.
“They took him out. Buck’n me stuck around to search the place, to see if there was anything around that might—”
“Who took him out?”
The man seemed to flinch, but his teeth bared and clenched.
“Where’d they take him? Where is he now?”
“Go to hell! I won’t—”
Casey lost his temper then. The right came over again, but this time the hand was a fist and it landed on the side of the jaw. The fellow stiffened and he was still stiff when he hit the floor. Casey started after him again, then Logan yanked him back, spun him around.
“I told you to lay off.”
“We gotta find Wade,” rasped Casey.
“Yeah. Sure. But you mark that guy all up and I’ll get blamed for it, and we won’t get a chance to work him over. It takes more than a wallop to make some guys talk.”
“Well?” Casey’s eyes got bright and glaring and his voice was thick. “What do we do, sit here and wait for something to happen?”
“You get down to the Globe and camp on the picture. I’ll be down after it inside of ten minutes—just as soon as I can get somebody to take over here.”
He picked up the telephone, barked a number. Casey, scowling, hesitant, watched Logan until the lieutenant said: “Go on get the hell out of here.”
Casey’s eyes slid to the girl in the orange dress, with the stain on the back. Then he turned quickly and left the room.
It was not until Casey reached the Globe that he remembered his camera in the rumble seat of the roadster, remembered that he had it with him all the time, and that he had taken no pictures in Alma Henderson’s apartment.
Ordinarily this would have rankled; his pride in his work would have taunted him. To have a chance like that and get no pictures. This time he did not seem to care. And it was not entirely that the affair was to be kept quiet for a while. The answer, he told himself, was that he did not give a damn whether he got exclusive pictures or not. What the hell good did it do to break your neck for pictures for a lug like Fessendon? And Blaine. In a mind that was already harassed with thoughts of Wade, there was room for further doubt and uncertainty. It wasn’t like Blaine to let even the managing editor pull a stunt like breaking that plate.
To Casey, Blaine had always been the sort of fellow who would quit a job, rather than compromise with his duty or his scruples. And quitting would entail no hardship. He was the best desk man in the city—could get a job in any office.
Casey took the photograph from his desk, studied it. Then, cursing softly, he went down to the photo-engraving room, spoke to a sturdy looking man in blue jumpers and shirt sleeves.
“This is the only print Mac. I’ve gotta turn it over to the police, so make me a cut of it, will you, just in case this gets lost?”
Mac said sure, and Casey waited while the fellow set up the print and made his negative. As he returned the picture he said:
“What size you want it?”
“Same size, I guess.”
“What’ll I do with the cut?”
“Oh—” Casey hesitated, not caring particularly what was done with it. All he wanted was to have something to fall back on, some margin of safety in case something happened to the print. Blaine or no Blaine, he was going to hang on to it, until Handy and Nyberg were rounded up, until he found Wade. “Just pull a proof and keep it on hand for me,” he finished.
5
Casey was slouched down behind his desk when Logan came in five minutes later. The lieutenant took the print, scanned it eagerly.
“It’s gonna help,” he said. “And it’s about all we got, because I couldn’t find anyone in that gambling take that remembered seeing anyone come out of that washroom.”
“What’re you gonna do?” Casey asked morosely.
“I’ve got that skinny guy outside. I’m takin’ him down to work over.”
“Well damn you, Logan, put on the pressure! He knows where Wade is—make him talk and hurry it up!”
“I’ll crack him,” Logan said resentfully. “Hang on till you hear from me.”
When the lieutenant left an office boy stuck his head in the doorway. “Hey, Flash. There’s a guy here wants to see you.”
“Tell him I’m busy,” grunted Casey.
The boy went out. But he came back a few minutes later, said: “That guy won’t go,” apologetically. “He says Wade told him to come and see you, that Wade owes him for the trip an—”
“Jeeze!” Casey’s eyes widened in sudden hope and amazement. “Get him up here!”
The taxi-driver, a beetle-browed husky, came in a moment later and immediately took the offensive.
“Somebody owes me some dough,” he barked. “I want it.”
“Maybe you’ll get it,” said Casey. “Where’s Wade?”
“I drove him to Pratt Street. He told me to wait, but he acted kinda nervous about something. He started in the house, then came back and said that if he didn’t come out in half an hour I was to come to you and tell you, that you’d pay.”
“Nervous, huh?” wheezed Casey. “Boy, am I glad I threw a little scare into him before he left.”
The driver blinked, said: “What?” and Casey snapped:
“Never mind—never mind.”
“Well,” the driver shrugged, “anyway, he came out about twenty minutes later—with a couple guys I’d seen go in before. But he didn’t come near my cab. They got in another bus. Well, it shaped up kinda screwy to me so I followed that other car. Then I came back here. I been waiting for—”
Casey blew out his breath and a tight smile pressed his lips against his teeth. “Where’d they go?”
The driver gave an address on
Alson Street, and Casey said:
“Did you see ‘em go in the place?”
“No. I didn’t want to stop. But I saw ‘em get out of the car before I turned the next corner. Now how about my dough? It’s two-forty, waitin’ time and all.”
Casey took out a five-dollar bill, and as he passed it to the driver his brain focused on one thought. He knew where Wade had been taken. He might have been moved since; he might not be there now. But it was a red hot lead.
The driver said: “I can’t change that.”
“Who said anything about change?” snapped Casey. Then, before the driver could do more than grin, the telephone rang. Casey answered it and a harsh baritone said:
“Casey?”
“Yeah.”
“You got a picture of that raid this afternoon. The kid buddy of yours says it hadn’t been developed when he left the office. Is it still that way?”
Casey was not long in making up his mind. Wade, knowing no one would believe him if he said the plate was smashed—that would be too much like a stall—had sold somebody on the idea that the plate had not been developed.
“Sure.” Casey hunched forward, then, seeing the taxi-driver edging towards the door, he motioned him to wait. “What about it?”
“I want it, that’s all.”
“Who’s talking?” Casey, grasping for some idea, tried to stall.
“Don’t give me that,” rasped the voice. “You got the plate. I want it. And if I get it, the kid’ll be okey.”
“What’s all the fuss about?” Casey made his voice bored, indulgent. “You can have the plate if that’s the way it is. We weren’t gonna use it anyway. I’ll bring it out myself if you say so.”
“You’ll do as I say if you know what’s good for the kid.”
“Sure,” said Casey.
“Then shut up and listen. You say the plate hasn’t been developed. Okey I’ll believe you because if you cross me, it’s your tough luck, not mine. I’ll have somebody pick up that plate. Don’t try to tip off the cops, don’t worry about havin’ this call traced because it’s a pay-station. If we get the plate and things are on the level, we’ll have it developed. If it’s the right one, the kid’ll be okey.
“We’ll hold him for a few days—to make sure you don’t shoot off your mouth about this—and let him go. But try anything screwy—give me the wrong plate—and do you know what’ll happen to this guy Wade?”
“I can guess,” said Casey bitterly.
“And with your experience you oughtta be pretty close.”
Casey glanced up at the taxi-driver and the germ of an idea caught in the recesses of his brain, expanded. He pulled a pad of paper across the desk, began to write hurriedly—a note to Potter, a leg man, telling him to take Casey’s roadster and go to the Alson Street address the taxi-driver had given him, and wait outside.
He could take no chances on that angle. That address had to be watched—until he could get in touch with Logan—and Potter could do that much anyway.
“What’s to prevent me from callin’ the cops and have ‘em here waiting for your hoods when they come for the plate?” he said into the phone as he wrote.
“Just this. If my plan is okey—and I don’t miss many—my men are outside your door waiting for you right now.
“I’m timin’ it close. You’ve got thirty seconds to go out, get them—without an argument—and let one of them speak to me. I’ll hold the phone for that thirty seconds. Don’t hang up, because if you do; if I don’t hear from my men; if they don’t come back—I know I’ve got to run for it, and I won’t be takin’ the kid. Now make up your mind, and step on it. I’m startin’ to count.”
Casey put the receiver on the desk and jumped to his feet. The sweat was creeping out on his forehead now, because he knew the man on the telephone was speaking the truth. The idea was thought out in detail. It was wild, but that voice made it convincing.
In the interval that he stepped towards the taxi-driver, he thought of many things. He had—Wade had—from now until a fake plate was developed. Blaine—Fessendon, damn them, had ruined forever any possibility of bargaining with the real plate.
Logan had the picture. It might convict Handy. But that would be damn’ small satisfaction to Wade. It was too late for Grady, the private dick; for Alma Henderson. But Wade—
Casey grabbed the driver’s arm, spoke in a hoarse whisper. “Take this note out to the city room. Find Potter. I don’t know where he is, but find him. Give him this note. Then go out and wait for me. I’m gonna need you.”
He gave the driver a shove, waited until he disappeared down the corridor; then he walked quickly along the same path, stepped into the noisy, light-flooded city room.
Two men stepped close to him. One was tall, foppishly dressed, handsome in a thin, swarthy way. He had a mustache and he smiled as he spoke, and showed large, even teeth.
“You got a phone call for us?”
Casey glanced at the other man, saw that he was a long-armed, puffy-eared fellow with a bullet head and no neck; then he said:
“Yeah. Step on it, will you?”
“After you,” the swarthy man said.
Casey led the way. The men had apparently been warned to try no rough tactics. That alone showed how surely the layout had been planned. If they carried guns, they did not show them.
They hurried down the corridor to the deserted anteroom, and the idea in Casey’s head, in full bloom now, put a grim smile on his lips, hope in his heart. Potter could go to Alson Street. Wade had been taken there from the Henderson woman’s place; he was not necessarily there now. But if Potter covered that address, if he, Casey, could follow these hoods….
He grunted softly. He had pulled a stunt like that once, gone through a window to an adjoining two-story roof. And that taxi guy should be outside. He’d had some such half-baked idea when he told him to wait. The hoods would take the plate to the boss. If they went to Alson Street, he’d be sure; if not, he’d at least have two chances—and this time he could overlook neither.
The swarthy man said: “Watch him Russo,” and bent down to lift the receiver.
“Hello. Yeah—this is Jaeger. Yeah, looks okey to me. Sure, I know what to do.”
He hung up, smiled at Casey, and there was something hard, merciless in the smile.
“Let’s have the plate.”
Casey went to his platecase, took out a plate-holder which held one unexposed plate.
Jaeger took it, slipped it into his pocket. “Okey. I like the way you’re behavin’. See if you can keep it up.” He turned to Russo. “Get goin’. Out in the hall and see that she’s clear.”
Russo went out, and Jaeger said, “I’ll lock the door from the outside. Don’t make too much noise—too soon.” He stepped to the telephone and a vicious yank ripped the cord from the box at the baseboard. He did the same with the instrument across the room. Then he took the key from the door and went out.
Casey waited until the key clicked in the lock. Then he yanked open the drawer of his desk. Reaching far back, he drew out his .38 automatic, slipped it into his pocket. Then he crossed the anteroom to a green-shaded window and threw it open.
He’d hoped they’d forget the telephones. Then he could have called Logan, tipped him off. Well, Logan could get in on it later. Right now, and for the first time, he had something he could sink his teeth into, something tangible to work on. He had played his hand the only way he knew how, and the time left him depended on how soon that plate was developed. He did not think any more about Wade, because nothing but action could save him now, and Casey knew it.
He went through the window, and the staggered line of the downtown city looked as if it had been cut out of stiff black cloth and hung there against the muddy blue of the sullen sky.
Casey clung to the window sill a moment with his fingertips, to steady himself, let go. He hit the gravel roof one story below, hit on his heels and went over backward. The fall shook him, but that was all, and he rolled to his
knees, ran towards the fire-escape at the rear of the building.
Less than a minute later he was back on the street, huddled in the darkened doorway of a music shop, watching the Globe entrance. Jaeger came out first with Russo at his heels. They crossed the street to a small sedan.
Casey sidled down along the building front. He had already located his taxi. And as soon as the sedan pulled out from the curb, he was on the running-board, pounding the dozing driver, who shook himself, scowled at Casey, said:
“What the hell’s the—”
“Follow that sedan,” barked Casey, swinging open the rear door.
“Oh,” growled the driver. “It’s you, huh?” He stepped on the starter, craned his neck to get a look at the sedan as he shifted into low. “What’s all this screwy followin’ about?”
“About five bucks for you.” Then, crisply, “Find Potter?”
The cab roared into the street and the driver said: “Yeah,” and cramped the wheel for a U turn. The clock above Park Street said 11:55. There was enough traffic to screen them, but not enough to confuse their quarry with any other car.
The sedan had turned right at Boylston; the lights changed as the cab approached them, but they got a green arrow and made the turn. The theater front on the left was dark; beyond the high spiked fence on the right, the Common looked even darker. Casey leaned forward, knocked on the glass and the driver slid back the partition.
“Not too close, but if they give you the slip—”
“Give who the slip?” The driver snorted contemptuously. “Don’t be crazy.”
Casey grunted, took the gun out of his pocket and inspected the clip. He slipped off the safety, fondled the cold bulk of the automatic, let it rest gently in his palm. When he looked out the window again the railroad yards were slipping by on the left, and the sedan was a block and a half ahead.
They crossed the avenue, and Casey’s brain fought with questions and answers. When he looked up again it was because the cab had started to slow. He saw then that the sedan was slanting in towards the curb, still a block and a half ahead. Then he saw his roadster—at least he thought it was a roadster. Yeah. They were on Alson Street.
