Casey had to grin as he understood the soundness of the little photographer’s foresight. “So what did you do with the negatives?”
Bates lifted an index finger and wagged it from side to side. “That, dear boy, must remain what they call classified information. The point is Saxton didn’t get a chance to spoil them.”
Casey chuckled again, and when he had put the prints on the ferrotyper to dry, he walked out of the anteroom with Bates. “If I see Logan,” he said, “I’ll probably tell him what happened. That means he may ask you down for a short question-and-answer session.”
Marty Bates was unperturbed. He said he was always happy to assist the duly designated authorities and then, with a small salute, he wheeled and scooted from the room.
Casey went back into the printing room to get his finished glossies and brought them to the anteroom so he could type out some captions. He had just finished and had put them into the circular container which would be shot pneumatically up to the city room, when the telephone rang. Because he had been expecting some routine office call or assignment, it took him a moment to understand that Sam Delemater was on the other end of the wire.
“Hello,” he said. “Yeah, Sam. Did you see my friends?”
“I saw them.”
“What do you think?”
“I’m working on it. That’s why I called. I’d like to talk to you for a couple of minutes.”
“I’m supposed to be working,” Casey said.
“So what’s fifteen minutes? Five minutes over here,” Delemater said and mentioned an address and an apartment number, “five minutes here and five minutes back. What have you got to lose?”
It was the address which changed Casey’s mind because, recalling the street, he knew that this was the number Don Farrington had given him when he told about waking up in a strange apartment. Delemater, it seemed, was already on the job and when Casey had called the city room to say that he would be out for a while he grabbed his hat and started for the door.
6Casey found the apartment house without difficulty, a three-storied, yellow-brick affair with basement windows on either side of the stone steps leading to glass doors, one of which stood open. One of a row of similar structures lining that side of the street, it had a narrow entryway with scarred stucco walls and a tile floor that was patched and broken and not very clean. The individual mailboxes recessed in one wall said there were four apartments to a floor and Casey checked 3-B with the name slot and saw that it was rented by a Wanda King.
The door to the front apartment on the left side of the third-floor hall was ajar and Casey gave it a quick rap and pushed on into a tiny hallway. Beyond this the living room opened up and Sam Delemater had parked himself in a slip-covered chair by the windows. He still had his hat on the back of his head and he was leaning over a small occasional table with the tools of his avocation spread out before him—a Racing Form, a Scratch Sheet, and some odd slips of paper on which he made his calculations.
“Come in,” he said, not glancing up. “Grab a chair. I think I got a sleeper in the fourth at Aqueduct.”
“Oh, Lord,” Casey said. “Another one of those?”
“This colt could take it all,” Delemater said. “Just let me double check it again.”
Casey could not suppress a grin as he saw the wrinkled forehead and the frown of concentration. He sighed loudly so Delemater could hear him, and though he tried to sound exasperated the good-humored amusement came through.
“Whose time are you working on?” he demanded.
“Mine,” said Delemater without annoyance. “It’s my lunch hour—almost.”
“And for this you get fifty bucks a day?”
“And expenses. Hang on one more minute, will you, Dad?”
Casey shook his head and glanced about the narrow room, which had no distinction other than an obvious feminine quality, but seemed neat and well ordered. There was a small kitchen in an alcove at one end and nearby was an inner hall that apparently led to the bedroom and bath. He started to move in that direction and then decided to wait for Delemater, who now stood up and began to gather his betting aids and stuff them into his pockets.
He was about average height, with, at first glance, a somewhat plump appearance, an impression fostered by the way his suits were tailored and the indifferent and careless way he wore them. For Casey knew that Delemater’s apparent plumpness had a solid and quick-moving quality that had often proved surprising to those doubters who tried to take advantage of him. His face was squarish, ruddy, and well fleshed, his gray eyes were shrewd and observant, and on the rare occasions when it became necessary to use his fists or handle a gun, he could do so with a practiced efficiency that was swift and compelling.
Now, moving toward Casey, he said: “Thanks for sending me in the business.” He put his hand into his trousers’ pocket and brought forth some bills, four of which were so new they crackled. When Casey looked closer he saw they were fifty-dollar notes. “Cash retainers are always highly acceptable in my business,” Delemater added cheerfully. “Farrington is my kind of client.”
“What do you think of him?”
“A very scared guy.”
“And sick too.”
“And I guess he’s got a right to be.”
“Those pictures prove he didn’t know what was happening,” Casey said.
“It looks that way.”
“He never moved a muscle.”
“That doesn’t prove he started out that way.”
“What do you mean?”
“A lot of drunks with sex on their minds have picked up girls and taken them home, only to find out they were a lot drunker than they thought they were.”
Casey admitted the possibility but he was not ready to buy it. He said so.
“I’ve known Don Farrington for ten or twelve years and I’d be willing to bet he never took a girl like that home in his life. My hunch says there’s something more to it.”
“Like somebody fed him a mickey?”
“Maybe not a mickey, but something that made him pretty damn helpless … What was so important about my running over here just now?”
“Two things,” Delemater said. “First I want to find out what you know. Farrington said you were at the Melody Lounge last night and saw part of it. What part? What happened?”
Casey swung a chair around and straddled it. He folded his arms on the back and put his chin down, a frown biting into his forehead as he began to concentrate. He told what he had seen the night before. He did not speak about the business with Tony Saxton but he said he had talked with Marty Bates, and he passed along the information, such as it was, that Bates had given him. Because he wanted to be thorough, he quoted his session with Earl Geiger, even though the memory rankled and a note of chagrin crept into his voice.
“Farrington said you told him Geiger was at the bar last night,” Delemater said. “But if he’s mixed up in this you know damn well he’ll stay clammed up. Unless I can stumble over something and put some pressure on him, he sure as hell isn’t going to talk to me, because he knows what I think of him.”
“What about this Wanda King who lives here?”
“She’s not the blonde in the picture, if that’s what you mean,” Delemater said. “I found the landlady and showed her the photo and she says no. This King dame is an entertainer of some kind—at least that’s what the landlady says. She left here a couple of days ago, the landlady thinks it was Sunday, and said she’d be in Buffalo for a couple of weeks.”
“No address?”
“No. Just said she had an engagement up there that was supposed to last two weeks and she’d be back when she finished.”
“Then she must have lent her key to the blonde.”
“That’s the way it looks.”
“The landlady doesn’t know about anybody coming here last night?”
“She says no.”
“Where do you go from here?”
“I haven’t had a chance to show t
he blonde’s picture around yet. If she’s local, I should be able to get a line on her before too long. If not, I’ll have to locate the other girl in Buffalo.”
“How?”
“I’ll find some way. That’s what makes me worth fifty bucks a day,” Delemater said and grinned. “It may take a little time, but I’ve got plenty of that.”
“So what else did you want to see me about?” Casey said as he came to his feet.
“I’ll show you,” Delemater said and started for the inner hall.
Casey followed him to the bedroom and stopped in the doorway as Delemater got out of the way. It was a fairly good-sized room with a double bed, a chest, a night table, and a skirted, kidney-shaped vanity that held a three-way mirror. The spread and blanket had been pulled down to the foot of the bed and the sheet had been thrown back at one side. There were two pillows, one of which looked clean and freshly laundered. Casey knew that the pictures he had seen had been taken from this angle, and then he saw something else and moved closer to the bed to examine the four used flashbulbs that had been put there. Three of these were identical; the fourth was a slightly different size and bore a different number.
“Did you put them here?” he asked, glancing at Delemater.
The detective nodded and pointed to a wastebasket that stood just inside the doorway.
“I found them in there and then I got to wondering. Four flashbulbs and only three pictures.”
“Yeah,” Casey said, his dark eyes full of thought.
“One of them is a different size. How would you figure that?”
“I can’t, unless the guy who took them had two cameras. Not all flash units use the same size bulb.”
“What kind of cameras do you newspaper people use? I thought flashbulbs had sort of gone out of style.”
“They have mostly,” Casey said. “For routine work a strobe unit with a rechargeable battery is a lot simpler. But flashbulbs have their place. I carry an old Graphic in the back of my car that still takes this land of bulb. A fellow that doesn’t take many pictures would still use flashbulbs.”
“Okay.” Delemater started to move from the room. “I just thought I’d ask. You got work to do. So have I. I’ll keep in touch. You do the same if you hear anything I ought to know.”
It was midaftermoon before Casey had a chance to stop at police headquarters, and when he went upstairs and through the outer office, where two detectives were working at typewriters, he saw that the door to Lieutenant Logan’s cubicle stood open. The detective stopped typing long enough to see who it was and then, nodding in recognition, went back to their work while Casey moved up to the inner office to find Logan tipped back in his chair, his head cradled in hands that were clasped behind his neck, his gaze focused on something outside the window that only he could see.
After five seconds of this, while Casey stood in the doorway, Logan’s head moved just far enough to identify his caller and then he went back to his window gazing. Casey, unabashed and schooled in the lieutenant’s ways, moved over to the chair by the filing cabinet and sat down. He relocated the chair, making plenty of noise as he did so. He got a cigarette out, worked his lighter, inhaled, and then blew smoke in Logan’s general direction.
“Quiet, hunh?” he said.
“Until now,” Logan said. “When I want some pictures taken I’ll give you a buzz.”
“How are you doing on the Lavelli thing?” Casey asked, hoping this would get a rise.
Logan swore under his breath but refused to change his position. “When we get anything on Lavelli the press will be the first to know.”
“I had a talk with Tony Saxton this morning,” Casey said. “He was seen with Lavelli last night around ten thirty.”
Logan sat up with a jerk and swivelled his chair to face Casey, a tall well-built man about Casey’s age, but with less bulk. His dark hair had less gray and was always neatly combed. His eyes were quick and dark and intelligent, he dressed conservatively and well, and there was a look of overall competence about him that had its foundation in a good mind and a great deal of experience. Now, leaning forward slightly, his gaze was both narrowed and suspicious.
“By whom?” he demanded.
“Marty Bates.”
“Look Casey. If you’re putting me on—”
“Who me?” said Casey with studied innocence.
“What’s the rest of it?”
“It’ll take a while.”
“I’ve got time.”
“Also, it probably won’t do you any good.”
“Never mind the prologue. If you’ve got something, I want it.”
He listened without interruption as Casey related the story of Tony Saxton’s call and described the two men who came with him. He made no comment when he heard the details of the subsequent conversation with Marty Bates. And when Casey finished he reached for the telephone and made two calls within the building to make sure that the information was dispatched to all interested parties so that the search for Lavelli could be intensified in this particular area. When he hung up he continued to look at the telephone, his face grim and his eyes brooding.
“With that picture and Marty Bates’s story, we could give Saxton a hard time. Without it, we haven’t got a damn bit more than we had before.” He swore softly and gave an impatient slap to the arm of his chair. “We already had a pretty good idea that Lavelli was the trigger man. We know he’s done jobs for Saxton before. What Bates saw last night is no damn good without corroboration. Saxton had an alibi for the murder and he’ll have an alibi for the right time last night. He’ll even have an alibi for this morning. If we could only file some charge—” He stopped and again there was a narrowing in his eyes. “Did you let them in this morning?”
“Sure.”
“No rough stuff?”
“No.”
“Well, there’s nothing there then. Did they lay a hand on you?”
“No,” Casey said. “No assault, if that’s what you mean.”
“You’d never seen the guy with the gun?”
“Not that I remember.”
“If you looked at enough mug shots, and if you finally recognized the guy, and if we could pick him up and found a gun on him, and if he didn’t have a permit to carry it—Aw, the hell with it.”
“You could talk to Bates,” Casey said. “They leaned on him a little. He’s got a beef. He could make a legitimate complaint.”
“Oh, I’ll talk to him all right,” Logan said without enthusiasm. “But even if he did file charges—and he won’t, with Tony Saxton breathing down his neck—whoever twisted his arm would be out on bail before the ink was dry on the blotter. Damn it all, if you could only have hung onto that picture—”
“Sure,” Casey said dryly. “I should have jumped the three of them, and the gun. I should be able to handle a situation like that before breakfast any time.”
Logan started to say something, stopped, and then a slow smile broke through his irritation and he waved one hand emptily.
“Don’t be so touchy. I know you did all you could. It’s just that it burns the hell out of me to think that a guy like Tony Saxton can get away with that strong-arm stuff where we can’t do a damn thing about it.”
“Sure.” Casey got up, straightened his jacket, and grinned. “I know you wouldn’t want to deliberately hurt my feelings.”
“Get out of here!” Logan said, not unkindly, and picked up some papers on his desk. “Thanks for coming in.”
“I’ll see you,” Casey said as he moved through the doorway.
“Yeah,” Logan said, “but not too soon—I hope.”
7The way things turned out, Lieutenant Logan saw Casey a lot sooner than he expected. For it was about nine thirty that evening when Casey, about to park his car down the street from his apartment, got the call on the company radio that came in over the chatter of the police dispatcher.
“Where are you?” the city editor asked when Casey answered.
“Out in front of
my place.”
“You want to take a run over to Meridian Street? The way we got it, there was a shooting, or a body—something like that. Connolly wasn’t sure either, but he’s on his way.”
Casey thought it over, but not for long. Connolly was assigned to the press room at police headquarters. This meant that whatever had happened on Meridian Street was not exclusive, but if there was a picture in it the short trip would be worthwhile.
“Sure,” he said. “I’m on my way.”
There was little traffic in the downtown district at that hour, and when Casey turned into Meridian Street five minutes later there was no activity in this area of small office buildings and ground-floor shops except for the congestion of cars a block and a half ahead. Even so, it was not until he was passing the excavation where he had photographed the overturned crane that morning that he had the faintest inkling as to where the trouble was located or who the victim might be. The street number, by itself, had meant nothing to him, but now, slowing down and looking for a place to park, his imagination began to work. By the time he had stopped, he realized that the center of activity was the doorway which led to Earl Geiger’s office.
Because this was a neighborhood where business was done during the day and off the beaten track at night, there was no crowd of curious onlookers. A night light burned dimly here and there in a shop window and the customary deserted darkness of the block was now illuminated by the headlights of many automobiles.
Three police cars had been carelessly parked near the doorway. Across the street Casey recognized the radio station wagons of the Bulletin and the News. As he moved up to join the little knot of newsmen on the sidewalk, an ambulance rolled up to double park, its red-and-white roof lights winking. On the sidewalk a uniformed officer blocked the doorway and Connolly filled Casey in.
“A private investigator named Earl Geiger. Got an office on the second floor. The janitor found him when he went in to sweep up.”
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