Dead on the Level (11 page)

“A couple?”

“Well, three or four, maybe; I don’t remember. He came up to the office one day wanting to see Mr. Gorden, but Mr. Gorden was out so he tried to make a date with me. About the third time he came back I said yes, I’d go out with him. I only did it to shut him up. Does that satisfy you?”

Casey grinned. “Did it satisfy Barney?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did you see him any more?”

He was beginning to tread on tender territory; her face betrayed that much.

“I can’t see how that’s any of your business!” she snapped.

“That’s because you don’t know my business,” Casey said. “And by the way, did Barney ever get to see Gorden?”

Now she wasn’t talking at all, but Casey had what he’d come after. He still couldn’t prove a thing, but he was dead certain in his own mind as to who it was that Carter B. Groot had investigated, and what method he’d used to gain access to Gorden’s office. It would have been easy to watch and make those excursions when he was certain that Gorden wouldn’t be in, and giving the rush to Miss Nardis gave him a good excuse for hanging around. Just what he’d found or heard—in the event he’d planted a recorder—was something else again, and Casey couldn’t help regretting that run-in with Lance Gorden. But for that, he might have used the same method. While he was busy trying to think up an alternative, a waitress came up and took their orders. The break helped bring Miss Nardis’s blood pressure down.

“I suppose you meet a lot of characters like Barney,” Casey began to muse aloud after the waitress left. “From the looks of Gorden’s office, he must be a busy man.”

“Who are you, anyway?” she demanded.

“I imagine Mrs. Brunner’s activities alone keep him hopping. I understand that she never makes a move without his advice. He must be a good man to have around.”

She was softening a little now, not too much, but a little.

“He even handles her charities, doesn’t he? I imagine she gives away a lot of money in a year’s time.”

“Why shouldn’t she?” Miss Nardis snapped. “It isn’t out of her pocket. I could enjoy giving money away, too, if my husband was Darius Brunner.”

That didn’t stack right, somehow. Casey thought back to that one glimpse he’d had of Mrs. Brunner, and she’d looked then like somebody with money growing on her family tree. “I thought she had her own fortune,” he said.

“Mrs. Brunner?” Audrey Nardis was beginning to enjoy herself; she even forgot to be angry. “She didn’t have a cent until she married Brunner. She was from one of those fine old families, Boston or some place, loaded with tradition and mortgages. Whatever was left of the family fortune by the time it got down to her was wiped out in the crash.” Miss Nardis grew thoughtful, a condition that was not her natural state. “I was too young to remember,” she added, “but that depression must have been terrible. Even Mr. Brunner lost almost a million dollars!”

“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.

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.