Dead on the Level

by Nielsen, Helen

  “Insurance?” Leta Huntly repeated coldly. “I’m really not interested—”

  “I’m not selling insurance,” Casey said quickly. “I represent the Midwest Mutual. I’ve come to ask a few questions.”

  That did it. Midwest Mutual was a company he remembered from Brunner’s checkstubs, and Leta Huntly wasn’t in a skeptical frame of mind. Judging from the spiritless pallor of her face, an attractive but certainly not sensational face, she was still under the strain of the funeral ordeal.

  “I know that this is a difficult time,” Casey added, helping himself to one of the straight-backed chairs flanking the convertible table, “but I’m sure you want to help clear up this terrible affair.”

  “Oh, I do!” she agreed quickly. “Mr. Brunner was such a fine man. I still can’t believe—”

  Leta Huntly’s voice broke abruptly and her mouth formed a tight, quavering line. Casey dreaded tears, but there was only a brief damp spell before she dabbed her eyes with a plain linen handkerchief, touched a nervous hand to her smartly clipped hair, and managed a wan smile.

  “I’m sorry, Mr.—”

  “Kelly,” responded Casey, for no good reason.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Kelly. As you say, it’s a difficult time. But now, what can I do to help?”

  At a less opportune time, Casey suspected, he wouldn’t get by so easily. Leta Huntly didn’t seem the type of woman who would buy shares in a gold mine from a street peddler, or take a self-designated insurance investigator at face value. But the moment was right, and the moment wouldn’t wait.

  “Naturally,” he began, trying to sound like a man who knew his way around double indemnities, “my company is anxious to apprehend Mr. Brunner’s murderer before any claims are paid, especially since one of the chief beneficiaries seems to be deeply involved.”

  “You must mean Phyllis.”

  “She’s still missing.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  Casey hadn’t forgotten that he was supposed to be concentrating on Lance Gorden, but it wouldn’t do any harm, he reckoned, to do a little checking on the girl who had somehow become his wife. “You must have known Miss Brunner,” he suggested.

  “Not personally,” she said. “Of course, I did see quite a bit of her at the office.”

  “She worked there?”

  “Worked!” It was amazing what emotion did to Leta Huntly’s face. Like footlights going up on a dark stage. “A girl like Phyllis Brunner doesn’t have to work, Mr. Kelly. All she needs to do is just hold out her hand for anything she wants. That’s all.”

  That wasn’t all, of course. What she was saying was that Phyllis Brunner belonged to the Other World. She’d never been troubled with alarm clocks and bus schedules, never washed out her lingerie in the lavatory at night, or had to do her own hair—never. But you didn’t say those things to strangers. Especially not to a stranger with knowing eyes. The footlights went out abruptly and Leta Huntly stared at her hands.

  “Mr. Brunner was very generous,” she said quickly. “With his family, I mean. With Phyllis and Mrs. Brunner.

  “I see,” Casey murmured.

  “And charities. They were Mrs. Brunner’s charities but Mr. Brunner gave her the money. Right now it’s this Green Pastures project—really a wonderful idea for getting underprivileged children out of the slums. It’s to be self-supporting in time, but it’s awfully expensive to get started.”

  She had to stop for breath sometime, but it was hardly a full stop. “Of course, all I know about it is what I’ve heard Mr. Gorden tell Mr. Brunner—”

  “Gorden?” Maybe Casey was getting touchy on the subject but it seemed that every woman’s voice softened a little when she mentioned Gorden’s name. “He’s in on this thing, this whatever-you-called-it?”

  “Of course. Mr. Gorden handles all of Mrs. Brunner’s financial affairs.”

  “What about Brunner’s?”

  The woman had gray eyes with little flecks of green in them. Casey hadn’t noticed until she looked straight at him. “Mr. Brunner handled his own affairs personally,” she said quickly. Almost defiantly, as if she’d been reading his thoughts. “He was just that way. He liked doing things himself.”

  “But he didn’t object to Gorden taking full charge of his wife’s dealings?”

  “Object? I can’t see why he should. Mr. Brunner was a very busy man and Mr. Gorden is practically one of the family.”

  Casey had to let things brew a little. He couldn’t afford to jump to conclusions, not this early, anyway, but for the first time he could begin to see an angle. It was just possible that Mrs. Brunner’s numerous charities included one of which even she wasn’t aware; somebody had to be paying Gorden’s rent. But this was something that needed studying, and Leta Huntly’s eyes were beginning to show a little curiosity through the grief.

  “I suppose Brunner’s relationship with Gorden was cordial,” he suggested. “I mean, he didn’t object to the impending marriage or anything like that?”

  It was immediately obvious that such an idea was foreign to the woman; she stared at him in complete amazement. “Why on earth should he?” she demanded. “Mr. Gorden is so well liked and so dependable, I’m sure we were all hoping he would have a steadying influence on Phyllis. As you’ve probably gathered, Mr. Kelly, she could use steadying.”

  There was no reason to resent what she was saying, it certainly wasn’t news, and yet Casey found himself objecting, mentally, of course, to the knowing smile on Leta Huntly’s face, and was relieved when she turned the subject back to Lance Gorden.

  “As a matter of fact, Mr. Gorden and Mr. Brunner had a luncheon engagement that very day—”

  It was irritating to have her stop that way without signaling. “Remember something?” Casey prodded.

  “Why, yes. It’s not important, of course, but Mr. Gorden and Mr. Brunner did have a luncheon date Monday, but it didn’t quite come off.”

  “Gorden didn’t show up?”

  “Oh, yes. Mr. Gorden is always very prompt—one o’clock on the dot; but Mr. Brunner had gone out. He went out about ten minutes earlier and completely forgot to notify Mr. Gorden. Of course, he was very nice about it.”

  “Mr. Brunner?”

  “Mr. Gorden. We agreed that it must have been because of Phyllis’s visit to the office a short time before. She did upset her father so at times.”

  “Let me get this straight,” Casey said. “You say that Miss Brunner came to her father’s office Monday, and after she left he went out?”

  “For about two hours. He seemed rather upset when he returned, but, as I say, Phyllis had been in wheedling more money out of him.”

  “He told you that?”

  The woman flushed. “Well, no,” she admitted. “But that’s usually all she came for, and I remember seeing her putting a slip of paper into her purse as she left. It looked very much like a check.”

  “And what did Gorden do when Brunner didn’t show for lunch?”

  “He waited in Mr. Brunner’s office for a few minutes and then went on alone. But he was very nice about it.”

  Casey was getting a little sick of hearing how nice Lance Gorden was about everything, but what little tact he possessed warned him not to say so. Something else, an instinct that came with danger, perhaps, also warned him not to stretch his luck too far. Before long, Leta Huntly was going to get tired of answering questions and ask a few that might be hard to dodge. But he had to chance one more.

  “I believe you told the police that you worked late the night of Mr. Brunner’s death,” he ventured. “Just what was the nature of that work?”

  Now it began. “I really don’t see—” she hedged.

  “I’m only trying to establish a motive, Miss Huntly.”

  Casey was beginning to wish that he’d stuck to the reporter routine. Maybe she would go for a prospective spread in a Sunday supplement; women like Leta Huntly could be funny that way. But it was too late to change faces now.

  “Well,” s
he said at last, “I don’t really know what Mr. Brunner was doing. He was alone in his office until about eight o’clock. I had some typing to do and stayed in the outer office until he was ready to leave. He had told me to go on home, but I didn’t like leaving him alone.”

  Casey looked interested. “Any particular reason?”

  “Yes. Mr. Brunner had been working awfully hard, and I didn’t think he should be left alone after what happened last summer. He had an attack, you know.”

  “No,” Casey said, “I didn’t.”

  “It was his heart. It happened one week-end when he was out at the country place. Later he took the apartment in the city; it was much easier on him.”

  The story had a familiar ring. Lance Gorden had said much the same thing, and the evidence against his secretary’s gossip looked weaker all the time. Casey took a moment to study Leta Huntly’s face. It wasn’t bad. Her nose was a little too large and her mouth a little too thin, but she looked easy on the nerves. Still, she wasn’t in Alicia Brunner’s class at all, and from his pictures in the newspapers, Darius Brunner had looked quite normal.

  Casey got up and took his hat from the table. “Well, I guess that about covers it,” he said. “I won’t bother you any more, Miss Huntly, and I do appreciate your cooperation. I don’t suppose you have any personal theories on this thing.”

  But Leta Huntly was being discreet, despite a sudden brightness in her eyes. Casey had a pretty good idea what that indicated. She wasn’t blind; she’d read in the papers all about that man in gray.

  “One thing more—” He had reached the door now. “I wonder if you could tell me where I might reach Carter Groot?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Groot, Carter B. I believe he was a friend of Mr. Brunner’s. You might have seen him at the office.”

  But this time the score was exactly zero. “Groot,” she repeated slowly. “I’m sorry, I can’t seem to recall the name. No, I’m sure that I’ve never heard it before.”

  It was late afternoon when Casey returned to the walk-up. He’d done a lot of walking since morning, and his feet were killing him. He had a folded newspaper under one arm, a fagged-out expression in his eyes, and anybody would have taken him for just another beat-down husband returning home after a hard day at the office. Even from the hall outside the apartment, he could smell the onions frying.

  “I hope you like spaghetti,” Phyllis said as he came into the kitchen. “It’s practically the only thing I know how to cook.”

  “I like spaghetti,” Casey said dully.

  She turned around and looked at him. She was wearing a cheap skirt and blouse, and her hair was done up, but she was still beautiful. “What did you find out?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. Nothing, I guess. I’m tired.”

  He went back into the living-room and dropped down on the divan, and went to sleep almost immediately. When he awakened, his tie was loose, his shoes were off, and Phyllis was standing over him munching on a bread stick. “Spaghetti’s on,” she said. “Come and get it.”

  So they sat down together in the kitchen and ate the spaghetti, with nobody saying anything. With nobody daring to say anything. On one corner of the table, the newspaper was opened to the story of Darius Brunner’s funeral, with pictures, but there was no trace of emotion on Phyllis’s face. Casey found himself remembering the profile of Mrs. Brunner outlined in that study doorway, and everything seemed wrong. Somebody should cry a little; somebody should give. As for Phyllis, no matter what she hoped to prove by hiding out this way, it didn’t seem right to do it without even a word to her mother. It was a strange, almost frightening thing to have her sitting there so calmly.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked, catching his stare. “Why aren’t you eating? I make good spaghetti.”

  “I’m not hungry,” Casey said.

  “You have to eat.”

  You have to eat. That’s what Petersen, the houseman, had said to Mrs. Brunner. Remembering, Casey suddenly knew what it was that he wanted to do. He wanted to go down to the corner drugstore and ring up a number he’d seen on the phone on Darius Brunner’s desk. From a phone booth a call should be safe enough, and he wanted to tell Mrs. Brunner that her daughter was safe. That might help a little until he could figure what to do next.

  “I think I’ll take a walk,” he said, shoving back from the table.

  “To Maggie’s?”

  There was a peculiar edge on Phyllis’s words that just matched the concern in her eyes. Casey hesitated. “Why Maggie’s?” he asked.

  “Because you’ve found out something and you don’t want to tell me.”

  “That’s silly.”

  “Is it?”

  Casey got his hat and coat from the hall closet and stomped downstairs, still trying to think of an answer to that one. It was colder out than he remembered, and darker, but down at the corner a yellow square of light marked out the drugstore windows, and he was reaching for a dime as he walked.

  Darius Brunner’s phone rang a long time before anybody answered.

  “Hello?”

  It was Petersen’s voice. Casey recognized his slight accent. “I want to speak to Mrs. Brunner,” he said.

  “Mrs. Brunner isn’t here. She’s gone back to the country place. Could I take a message? … Hello?”

  Casey slid the receiver back on the hook. So much for his good deed. And then he got to thinking about the country place, and about the fact that Mrs. Brunner wouldn’t know him, if he suddenly put in an appearance, any more than Leta Huntly or any of the others had. But for a trick like that he needed a car. Maggie? No, she didn’t have a car, but she could get one. He could give her the money and she could rent a car at a drive-yourself garage. He pushed back the door of the phone booth and made for the classified directory.

  Halfway through the D section Casey remembered that he should be looking under Automotive—Rentals instead of a nonexistent Drive-Yourself. It was a mistake he always made with the yellow book, and he was about to flip back the pages when his thumb seemed to grow to the paper under a certain bold typed line. Groot, Carter B., he read, civil and criminal.

  It was in the D’s. D for Detective Agencies.

  CHAPTER TEN

  IT WAS TOO LATE to do anything about seeing Carter Groot then, but Casey penciled the address on a card in his billfold and went back to the apartment. Phyllis had gone to bed. The bedroom door was closed, the extra pillow and blanket in place on the divan, and something about the whole setup made Casey feel lonely and a long way from home. He snapped off the light and made ready for sleep, but sleep wasn’t ready for him. He smoked a couple of cigarettes, chain-fashion, and asked himself a lot of questions that had no answers, including one about why Darius Brunner would have hired a private detective, and all the time he kept staring at the oblong of light the street made on the ceiling because he didn’t want to look at the bedroom door.

  “You again!” Maggie said, early the following morning. “It’s getting so a gal doesn’t dare open her door to take in the milk.”

  “I’ve got to see you, Maggie. I won’t be long.”

  Casey brought the milk in with him. The studio smelled of coffee again, and Maggie was wearing the paint-smeared smock over her pajamas and the woolly slippers on her feet.

  “All right, what is it this time? What dirty work do you have lined up for me today?”

  Maggie’s eyes didn’t quite match her terseness. “You’re getting suspicious,” Casey said, and she wagged her head.

  “I’m getting jumpy,” she corrected. “Every time there’s a knock on my door I expect the boys in blue to swarm in and drag me off to the Bastille. You’ll have to make allowances for me. I’ve never been mixed up in murder before.”

  She would talk like that. She would look at him with her head cocked sideways and one eyebrow hitched up, but in the end, after he’d talked up the proposition, she would say, “Oh, all right. I’ll rent a car for you, if that’s the way it has to
be, but this is positively the last—”

  “You’re a sweetheart,” Casey said.

  “You don’t have to tell me what I am. I’m a lunatic and know it. What about money?”

  Casey peeled off a couple of bills, big ones to cover a deposit, and then turned back toward the door. “I’ve got to see a man,” he said. “I’ll be back later for the car. And get something inconspicuous, something that looks like every other car on the street.”

  “Shucks!” Maggie pouted as he started down the stairs. “I was thinking of a yellow convertible with ‘Just married’ painted across the trunk and a couple of old shoes bouncing from the bumpers.”

  Until he could get the car, Casey was a paying guest of the transit lines, his destination a small office on the second floor of a brick building permanently coated with soot. From the street it was a front window with Carter B. Groot Detective Agency lettered in ageing gold leaf; from inside it was a frosted-glass door that wouldn’t give. A few steps farther down the dingy hall, a short-legged janitor in long-legged overalls paused in his efforts to place a stepladder under a dead light bulb and regarded Casey’s manipulations with the doorknob in a highly skeptical manner.

  “No use,” he remarked at last. “Groot ain’t in.”

  “I was beginning to suspect something like that,” Casey said. “When will he be back?”

  “Can’t say for sure.”

  “Well, when did he leave?”

  The janitor removed a light bulb from his hip pocket, studied it and then: “Monday, Tuesday, maybe. Can’t say for sure.”