“You fool!” she said, her voice shaking. “You complete and utter fool. You went to see this man Geiger and he told you your plan had flopped. So you had a bad break. Why couldn’t you accept it like a man?”
Mayfield turned on her. His once handsome face was distorted and the sweat that had been forming there left it shiny and gray. The blue eyes had a wild, haunted look and he spoke savagely.
“It’s all right for you to talk, you selfish, arrogant, wealthy bitch. You never had to earn a dime. You couldn’t even make it as a second-rate call girl. You don’t know what it’s like to be brought up properly and never have any money you could call your own. That fifty thousand dollars I could have had if it hadn’t been for that nosy little photographer wouldn’t mean anything to you, but it did to me. I’ve been sponging on people and saying yes sir and no sir, and please sir, ever since I got out of college.”
“You liked it that way,” his wife said coldly. “You wouldn’t work, or apply yourself, or stick with anything, even when you had the opportunity. You thought the world owed you a living, that you could get by on your good looks and charm, and your very great skill at being an accommodating house guest. You and your bridge technique and your three-handicap golf.”
“Look at the job you gave me,” Mayfield said, ignoring the remarks and turning on Farrington. “What did you pay me? A lousy eighty-five hundred a year. A man could make more than that as a house painter.”
Farrington, who had been listening to the argument with an air of bewilderment, was moved to protest.
“That was just your base pay, Arthur. You know that. You could have doubled it easily if you had worked. The other customers’ men make that much and more.”
Casey was aware that Mayfield was no longer listening. His self-pity had fed his anger to the point where he was no longer rational. The hand that held the gun had begun to shake, but now Casey took a slow forward step and got the man’s attention.
“Turn the gun this way, Arthur,” he said. “Just be sure you don’t pull the trigger. I’m not going to try to take it away from you. I just want to look at it a second.”
The gun swung toward him as he spoke, and he stooped slightly so that he was looking right into the muzzle. After a quick inspection of the cylinder, he straightened and spoke softly.
“If you get close enough to the business end of a revolver,” he said, “you get an idea about the load it’s carrying. You can’t see the whole cartridge but you can see the tips of the slugs, if there are any. That one holds six bullets. I can tell from here that four of those holes are empty. You can’t have more than two live shells left and my hunch says there’s only one because you used two at Geiger’s office and three at Marty’s place. So what do you think you can do with only one slug left?”
“I can drop anybody that tries to stop me,” Mayfield said.
“Stop you? Who’s going to stop you?”
“That’s what I mean. Nobody. I’m going out. Away from here. As far as I can make it … Which reminds me,” he added, as though this was the most natural thing in the world, “I’m a little short of cash, but you have some, Donald.”
He pointed the gun at Farrington and said: “You had twenty-five hundred dollars on you when you went to keep your appointment. Just put it here on the table. I’m going to need it.”
He gestured with the gun and Farrington did not argue. He took a sheaf of new bills that were held together with a paper band from an inside pocket. He tossed them on the table and stepped back and now Mayfield, circling so that no one could get behind him, picked them up. “Thanks,” he said and started to back from the room.
Delemater coughed and when Casey looked at him he saw that the detective had shifted his position. He seemed to be measuring Mayfield and the gun and he asked: “What do you say, Casey?”
“I say, Amen,” said Casey. “Let him go. It’s a police job now.”
No one added anything as Mayfield continued to back from the room, and when he was gone Casey stepped quickly to the telephone, dialed a number, and then asked for an extension.
“Hello,” he said. “Is the lieutenant there? … How about Sergeant Manahan? Tell him it’s Casey … Hello,” he said a moment later. “Has Logan gone home?”
“No,” Manahan said. “He just stepped out.”
“Do you know an Arthur Mayfield?”
“I know who he is.”
“Can you describe him?”
“Well enough. Why?”
“He’s the man you want on that Marty Bates thing. Geiger too.”
There was a pause and then Manahan said: “How the hell do you know? Where are you?”
“I’m at the Farrington house and you can take my word for it.”
“How long have you known about this?”
“About ten minutes.”
“Was he there with you? Why the hell didn’t you try to stop him?”
“Because he has a gun. Instead of arguing with me, why don’t you get word to the dispatcher? Maybe you can pick him up at the airport or a railroad station or a bus terminal. Just remember to pass the word that he’s carrying a gun.”
Casey hung up before Manahan could reply, and as he turned back to the room, he saw Ralph Jackson straighten his shoulders and button his coat.
“If the police want me they know where they can find me,” Jackson said. “If I don’t get back to the Lounge for the last couple of sets I won’t even have a job.”
“Wait a minute.”
Shirley Farrington, who had held herself aloof from what had been happening, took a deep breath and her breasts tightened the fabric of her dress. There was a tired, defeated look in the green eyes, but her beauty was unmarred and her voice was steady.
“I think I’ll go with you,” she said. “I could use a couple of drinks and a change of scene. Wait downstairs for me while I get my coat.”
Jackson nodded and left the room and now the girl moved in front of her husband and looked right at him. “I don’t imagine there’ll be any trouble about a divorce now, will there?”
“There will be no trouble,” Farrington said, no longer looking at her.
“But no generous lump-sum settlement.”
“Hardly. I’ll tell my lawyers to arrange a reasonable monthly payment until you marry again.”
“Yes—well, I suppose that will have to do.” She gave him a small, mirthless smile. “I’m not leaving just yet, you know. I’m ony going out for a little while.” She nodded at Casey and Delemater, ignored her sister-in-law, and moved gracefully from the room.
Louise Mayfield came up to the table and examined the various photographs that had been left there. “Thank God, Mother doesn’t have to know about this,” she said and then turned to Farrington. “Well, brother dear, it looks as though our marital problems have been taken care of. Not perhaps the way we’d like it to be, but on the other hand we’re not too old to try again.” She looked at Casey and Delemater. “Would you two like a drink before you go?”
Casey said no and moved up to Farrington, “You got Marty Bates’s pictures, but you actually haven’t paid for them, have you?”
Farrington blinked and his eyes grew puzzled as he grappled with the question. “How could I? He’s dead.”
“If you had paid him that money, it would be part of his estate,” Casey said. “What I mean is, he’s got a wife. I’ve known her a long time. She’s a wonderful girl. When she gave me those pictures tonight, I told her you’d probably want to give her the money. I’m not sure she’ll accept it but I thought you might want to make the gesture.”
“Oh.” Farrington nodded, and because his instincts were right his uncertainty vanished. “I see what you mean. Yes, I think maybe I should make the gesture. I’ll write a check tomorrow and you can—”
“Not me,” Casey said, interrupting. “You ought to talk to her yourself. I know you’ll like her and you could work it out between you. I’ll be seeing her soon. If she’ll agree, we can all have a drin
k sometime … Ready, Sam?” he said, not waiting for a reply.
They went out quickly and got into Casey’s car. He did not bother to turn on the two radios because he wanted to brood a little and do some thinking. He said he wanted to stop by the office and Delemater said that was okay; they could pick up his car at the Warwick later.
“We might even go by and see how little Gloria’s doing.”
“Not me,” said Casey.
He drove slowly down the hill and continued at the same unhurried pace. He turned automatically into the company parking area and just then a station wagon lurched backward ahead of him, stopped on skidding tires, turned and roared past him, wheels spinning as it careened into the street.
“What the hell,” Delemater said. “One of your guys?”
“Haskell. A photographer.”
“I wonder where the fire is?”
“Let’s go upstairs and find out.”
When they turned into the studio, Casey sat down and asked for the city desk. “Clancy?” he said. “Casey. I just saw Haskell tearing out of the parking lot like a bat out of hell. What’s up? Does he need any help?”
For the next minute or two Casey listened, with no more than two or three one-word interruptions. He took his hat off and ran his fingers absently through his tousled, graying hair. Lines of fatigue had begun to show beneath his dark eyes and at the corners of his mouth. A slackness was working on his rugged face and beard shadows were showing at the angles of the jaw. When Clancy finished he hung up slowly and looked up at Delemater.
“The police department was really on its toes tonight,” he said wearily.
Delemater half closed one eye and then the other. “Mayfield?”
“Two precinct dicks tried to grab him at the airport.”
“Tried?”
“He took a shot at them. They didn’t know he only had one bullet left, and they opened up. Between the two of them, they hit him three times.”
“Dead?”
“Yeah.”
Delemater walked over to the doorway, turned, and came back. “The guy must have been out of his mind,” he said. “He knew he only had one slug in that gun. He had to know that if you peg a shot at a couple of cops they’re going to shoot back.”
“I don’t think so,” Casey said.
“You don’t think what?”
“That he was out of his mind. In a sense, yes. But my guess is that Mayfield knew exactly what he was doing.”
“Oh.” Again Delemater walked over to the door and came back. “Yeah,” he said thoughtfully. “You could be right. The guy sure as hell had no future … Yeah,” he said again, stopping beside the desk. “Any of those drawers hold any whisky?”’
“No,” Casey said, rousing himself. “But I sure could use some.”
“Me too. Let’s get some. You’re going to have some trouble with Logan later so—”
“I know it,” Casey said.
“—so let’s get out of here,” Delemater continued. “Let’s get lost. Let’s stop at three or four or five bars and sample their wares. We only got about an hour drinking time left. If Logan wants you, he’ll find you.”
Casey silently admitted the truth of the statement but found it did not bother him. He put his hands on the desk and levered himself out of the chair. He pushed his hat in place. Then, grateful for Delemater’s company, and a tired grin working on the corners of his mouth, he took the detective’s arm and started silently for the doorway.
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copyright © 1963. 1964 by George Harmon Coxe
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