Dead on the Level

by Nielsen, Helen

  “That’s tough,” Casey muttered. “Most of us got off easier than that. All my old man lost was a thirty-buck-a-week job and his life. But I suppose being up against it herself is what makes Mrs. Brunner so generous with her husband’s money.”

  There was no pleasing Audrey Nardis. She was, Casey decided, just plain contrary. No sooner did he tailor his attitude on Mrs. Brunner to match her own, than she did an about face.

  “And why shouldn’t she be?” she demanded. “She put up with him for twenty years, didn’t she?”

  “Was he that bad?” Casey wondered.

  “He was a man!”

  Piece by piece, things were beginning to fit; Casey was sure of it. Somewhere along the line, Darius Brunner had become suspicious of his wife’s confidant and protégé and called in an investigator, an obscure one who would work alone and keep his mouth shut. Somewhere else along the line, and by what means Casey could only guess at, at this stage, Gorden had found out. It was the evidence Carter Groot had unearthed that Casey needed now, and all he had to work on were a couple of vague leads and a young lady who was rapidly remembering how much she didn’t like him.

  “You still haven’t told me who you are or what you want,” she reminded belligerently. “First you start talking about Barney, and then about the Brunners and Mr. Gorden. When are you going to start talking about yourself?”

  “I told you what I wanted in the beginning,” Casey said. “I’m looking for Carter B. Groot.”

  It wasn’t a slip of the tongue. Carter Groot was an investigator. He knew how to go about getting information, but Casey only knew how to play poker.

  “Carter B. Groot,” he repeated, “otherwise known as Barney Carter. I don’t know what he told you his business was, but actually he’s a private detective hired by Darius Brunner to investigate the activities of your boss, particularly in regards to his management of Mrs. Brunner’s affairs.”

  He waited until Miss Nardis got through gulping air. “You’re lying!” she gasped.

  “Ask Gorden,” Casey said. “And while you’re at it, ask him whatever became of that copy of Groot’s report that was stolen from his office, or, for that matter, what’s become of Groot?”

  Even without Groot’s professional ken, Casey could tell that it was about time to get-lost. Another minute and the blonde would remember that policeman she was supposed to call if she ever saw him again, and he wasn’t quite ready for that development yet. He slid over to the aisle and stood up.

  “Incidentally,” he added, tossing in the third strike, “you might inform that body beautiful you work for that Groot didn’t handle this case alone. He isn’t the only one who knows what was in that report.”

  Casey wasn’t conspicuous as he made a sudden exit from the drugstore and merged into the noonday crowd; Chicagoans are always in a hurry. For the moment, his one idea was to put distance between himself and Miss Nardis, the startled, bewildered, and irate Miss Nardis who was, in all probability, dialing Gorden’s office by this time. Every word of that conversation was destined to reach Gorden’s ears, that Casey counted on. Let Gorden sweat for a while. Let him wonder. He might even betray himself if he got nervous. In the meantime, that last little masterpiece of fiction might relieve some of the pressure on Carter Groot, if the detective wasn’t already beyond being pressurized.

  It was safer on State Street, where normal congestion was complicated by flying wedges of early Christmas shoppers, and where the worried expression on Casey’s face would pass for concern over what to give Aunt Nellie this year. His mind kept returning to the illusive Mr. Groot. Maybe the attitude was no more than wishful thinking, but it seemed that his disappearance, if viewed in connection with Brunner’s murder, could lead the authorities to some interesting speculation that might sew up Lance Gorden much handier than any efforts by an amateur sleuth with an allergy toward policemen. But Casey couldn’t go to the police with his information. There had been times since the day Phyllis Brunner materialized out of a whisky fog and turned his world upside down that he had toyed with the idea, but not for long. Somewhere far back and deep inside of him there was a fear of the police that would not be routed by logic, hope, or desperation. No, he couldn’t possibly go to the police. But there was one thing he could do.

  Casey proceeded to the nearest department store, located the postal station, and bought an envelope and a special delivery stamp. An anonymous note wouldn’t interest Lieutenant Johnson of Homicide, he’d probably received dozens by this time, but a certain page from Carter Groot’s expense ledger might.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CASEY FELT BETTER by the time he started back to Maggie’s. It seemed that something had started brewing; something was being done even if he wasn’t sure just what. He felt good enough to stop and pick up a late lunch and to speculate, with a crooked grin, how Miss Nardis must have reacted to being stuck with the check for that earlier lunch he didn’t stay to eat. And he speculated, too, about how Lance Gorden must be feeling at this late hour of a damp, gray afternoon.

  Now, by sharpening his imagination, Casey could almost see the end of this fantastic ordeal. He could almost feel the pressure lifting and see those beautiful headlines: Gorden Confesses Brunner Murder. It made nice dreaming except for the afterward; there the dream stopped cold. He couldn’t understand it. The afterward was all planned, a nice, quiet annulment in exchange for a nice, fat settlement; or maybe one not so quiet just in case there was any argument about the money. That was all Casey Morrow wanted. But even as he told himself these things, he knew they were lies. That strange, excited feeling he had was only because the bus was taking him to Erie Street, and from there he’d soon be going back to a dark little walk-up where a girl with taffy-colored hair was cooking up something in the kitchen. That was one dream Casey didn’t want to have. There was no future in it.

  With the exception of a lone sedan parked across the street from Maggie’s place, and that almost lost in the dusk, the block of tired old buildings seemed deserted. Casey had expected to see the car Maggie had rented waiting at the curb, but maybe she’d left it around to the rear. He didn’t bother to investigate but went on upstairs to where Maggie waited, an expression of exaggerated impatience wrinkling her face.

  “So you finally made it,” she observed, ushering him in. “Where have you been all day?”

  “Places,” Casey said. “Did you get the car?”

  Maggie nodded. “It’s in the driveway. The gas tank’s full and the rent paid up for a week. And from now on, little friend, you’re on your own!”

  She didn’t really mean that—not with all those questions showing in her eyes. Maggie Doone was as curious as any woman, even if she didn’t pump with both hands, and it didn’t seem out of line to bring her up-to-date. Besides, Casey’s feet hurt. He helped himself to a chair and dug a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. “A man could get old in work like this,” he muttered over his lighter.

  “Did you see him?”

  “Who?”

  “The man you said you were going to see.”

  “No,” Casey said, “and thereby hangs a tale.” He told her, then, about Carter Groot, and about the things he’d been doing the past two days. He even told her some of the things he’d been thinking. Maggie listened, her head cocked slightly sideways and her mouth fixed in a speculative pout.

  “I don’t like it,” she said at last.

  “I’m not crazy about it myself,” Casey admitted, “but I do the best I can.”

  “About this Groot, I mean. Where do you suppose he is?”

  “If I knew that I might know enough to wrap this thing up. Ever hear of something called the Green Pastures Foundation?”

  Maggie looked blank. “Green Pastures,” she echoed. “What is it, a pension plan for overaged spiritual singers?”

  “According to Brunner’s secretary, it’s Mrs. Brunner’s pet charity of the moment. It’s supposed to be a country home for would-be juvenile delinquents.”


  “Supposed to be?”

  Casey grinned. “I’m getting to be an awfully suspicious man. Right now, you couldn’t convince me that such a place exists.”

  One thing about Maggie, she didn’t need a road map to follow a line of thought. At times Casey was inclined to suspect that she was even a little ahead of him, as, for instance, when she innocently inquired, “You wouldn’t, by any chance, be suggesting that friend Gorden has been running barefoot through the clover?”

  “If I’ve got this thing figured right, he could be rolling in it.”

  “And Mrs. Brunner?”

  “She wouldn’t know anything about it. According to Phyllis, she limits her activities to endorsing the checks Brunner gave her and posing for the press with a bunch of dirty-faced kids. Gorden runs the whole show himself.”

  It made a beautiful setup, Maggie could see that easily enough. But now she was seeing something else, something that made her face strangely grave. “Has it occurred to you that it might be unhealthy to go around snapping your fingers in Gorden’s face?” she said. “If you’re on the right track, that is.”

  “It has,” Casey admitted. “But then, when you get right down to it, it’s not going to be healthy for me no matter what I do until Brunner’s murderer gets around to giving his memoirs to the district attorney.” He considered a moment, studying Maggie’s face with a half-smile. “Sure now, and you wouldn’t be worryin’ for the likes of me, would you, Maggie Doone?” he asked.

  “Cut the dialect!” Maggie snapped. “My father’s a Scot and my mother part Cherokee; besides, it’s only the car I’m thinking of. After all, it’s rented in my name.”

  She reached over to the wall and switched on the lights. The overcast had darkened all day, and now, as though synchronized with the switch, the rain began to spill down on the skylight as if the clouds had been gutted. It was fine weather for staying in and swapping talk, but Casey was restless. Rain had a way of making him feel lonely, and he couldn’t help wondering what it did to Phyllis.

  “Well,” he said, heading back toward the door, “I’ll keep you posted.”

  “Casey—”

  He was already opening the door when Maggie’s call made him pause and look back.

  “Be careful,” she said, “—of the car.”

  Outside, the rain was a solid silver curtain dropped against the dusk. Casey hesitated a moment on the cement steps, turning up his coat collar and getting his bearings. Maggie had said that the car was in the driveway. He looked to one side, then to the other, and then, spotting the trunk of a gray coupé showing at one side of the building, left the steps and started across the wet patch of dead grass. He was moving fast, his head ducked down against the rain, and that was why he didn’t notice when the headlamps switched on on the sedan across the street and when the car began to roll. It rolled fast, swinging in a sharp curve that brought its long hood into the driveway just a step in front of Casey’s face. Even as he jumped backward, a spontaneous oath on his lips, he could see the rear door fly open and a man of amazing altitude lunge toward him with an arm upraised.

  Casey was moving away from the blow when it landed, the only circumstance that saved him from sudden oblivion. Even so, he fell, partly from the effect of the blackjack, and partly from the wet grass underfoot. He grabbed for the man’s legs as he went down, missed, and then crouched there waiting for the next blow.

  “Casey, you forgot the keys!”

  That was Maggie’s voice calling from what seemed a long way off, and those were Maggie’s footsteps running down the cement.

  “Casey!”

  So that’s why the next blow didn’t come. He struggled to his feet in time to see a tall shadow duck back into the rear seat of the sedan and slam the door; and as the motor roared into reverse, he caught one brief glimpse of the driver’s face etched in the glow of the dash light.

  “Are you all right?” Maggie was bawling now. “Casey what happened?”

  “I’m all right,” he said. “Give me the keys. I’m all right.”

  Maggie was trying to help, and he didn’t want her to help; not any more. She was standing before him, clutching his lapels, and not even a coat to ward off the driving rain.

  “You’re hurt!” she insisted. “There’s blood on your head—”

  “It’ll wash off. Give me the keys.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Gorden.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Casey hesitated. Had that giant with the blackjack really been Lance Gorden? Not unless he was awfully desperate. Gorden wasn’t the boy to take that kind of risk himself. But thinking like that was crazy. What was the risk of denting the skull of a nosy intruder if he’d already disposed of Darius Brunner? One thing Casey was sure of. “I saw the man at the wheel,” he said. “I’ve seen him before at Gorden’s apartment, a servant, I guess. Now, for God’s sake, Maggie, let me go. They might come back.”

  There was more to it than that, but he didn’t want to get delayed by an elaborate explanation. After the first fright of having Maggie rush up and spoil the party, Gorden, or whoever handled his dirty work, might decide to hang around and follow him. They must have seen the coupé in the driveway; they must know that he was on his way some place. Maggie’s grip loosened, and Casey shook free. He grabbed the keys from her hand and paused only long enough to retrieve his hat from the soggy grass. Outside of feeling as if the top of his head might fly off at any moment, the blow didn’t bother him at all.

  “Get in the house!” he yelled as he sprinted toward the coupé, but Maggie was still standing motionless in the downpour as he drove away.

  It was that time of evening when nothing has any definite shape or form. The gray of the dusk and the gray of the rain washed the city with a monotone of dripping shadows, but it wasn’t until the first intersection, where he turned north, that Casey dared to switch on the lights. A moment later he hit a busy boulevard and merged with the heavy homebound traffic. If anybody was following now they’d have quite a job on their hands.

  But maybe they didn’t have to follow. Maybe they had been doing that all along and knew exactly where to go to find a man who knew no better than to boast about knowing what was in Carter Groot’s missing file. Casey had hoped to give Gorden a prod with that piece of misinformation, but he hadn’t counted on so drastic a reaction. And how did Lance Gorden know where to find him? That must have been the question Maggie was trying to get across when he left her standing in the rain. It was a question Casey didn’t particularly relish answering, even to himself, because the answer was all too simple. He might as well have given Gorden a map marked out in red crayon as to have betrayed, as he did betray in the lawyer’s office, his knowledge of Phyllis Brunner’s runaway. Since it was Gorden who found her at the Erie Street place before, he could only assume that Casey hung out in the same vicinity.

  Casey drove carefully, taking a few false turns until he felt sure that he wasn’t being followed. By this time he had decided that Gorden wouldn’t have bothered waiting outside Maggie’s place if he’d known about the apartment, and wouldn’t have waited so long to make a call, either, but he wasn’t taking chances. He drove past the apartment building, parked, and ran for cover under the canopy of a near-by store. From there he watched the traffic until he was sure that no other car had parked in the vicinity, and only then did he go back to the walk-up.

  The first thing Casey was aware of as he ascended the stairs to the apartment was the music. It sounded as if Phyllis were entertaining a local of the musicians’ union. He unlocked the door and stepped inside. She was alone, thank God, but she’d gone somewhere or other and bought a table-sized radio that perched on the kitchen cabinet, and she was dancing to something Casey didn’t recognize but figured to be Hungarian. All through the apartment she was dancing, her hair hanging loose again and her shoes kicked off. She didn’t even notice him for several measures, and then she stopped slowly—like a little mechanical doll running down.
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br />   “I—I got lonesome,” she stammered, seeing the hardness in his eyes. “I didn’t pay very much for it.”

  She looked like a kid, a shoulder-high kid who’s expecting a scolding but doesn’t exactly know why.

  “I’ve got supper in the oven. The man at the grocery store gave me a recipe.”

  Casey walked swiftly into the kitchen and shut off the radio. “That’s fine,” he said. “You must be getting real chummy with the neighborhood. The butcher, the baker—”

  “Not the butcher,” she corrected. “It’s Friday and I forgot to ask whether you eat meat on Friday, so I got the recipe for the casserole. Casey!”

  He had taken his hat off and she was staring, white-faced, at the blood. Now he had to tell her everything, but first they must go into the bathroom and make a great fuss about washing off the wound.

  “We don’t have anything!” Phyllis wailed. “No tape, no gauze, no anything!”

  “I don’t need anything!” Casey snapped. “I’m not hurt.”

  He deliberately shoved his hair forward over the small cut and gave her the story as briefly as possible. She didn’t say anything at all. She just stood there in her stocking feet, sucking on her lower lip and looking as scared as Casey felt.

  “Has anybody been around today?” he demanded. “Anybody asking questions?”

  “No—not that I know of.”

  “Or has anybody followed you when you went out?”

  “I don’t know. Casey, what are you driving at? Nobody knows that we’re here!”