Silent Are the Dead (8 page)

Casey swung back to the bar and ordered another drink. When it was put down in front of him he drank slowly and stared with troubled eyes at the row of bottles on the opposite counter. He still wondered about Austin, although he was not much worried since he did not believe the picture of the sedan would turn out to be of any value. He was much more worried about Finell, and the picture of Lyda Hoyt that had been stolen from his desk. It made him so discouraged thinking about it that in the end he gulped his drink and turned away, heading for the telephone.

Bernie Dixon was just crossing the room from the direction of the booth. He did not appear to see Casey, but continued to the stairs to the gambling-room above. Casey watched him go before he asked for the hospital

Wade opened up the moment he heard Casey's voice. “Listen,” he protested. “Do I have to sit here all night?”

“Has Finell come to yet?”

“No. And if I don't get a drink I'm going to crawl in with him.”

“All right,” Casey said. “We'll call it off for tonight.”

“What about the drink?”

“Quit crabbin' and I'll buy you one.”

“Yes, you will,” Wade scoffed. “At this hour?”

“Yes, at this hour,” Casey said and gave him the address of the house. “Grab yourself a cab and come on out. And listen, if they stop you at the door just ask for Nick and mention my name.”

He hung up and stood for a moment fighting off the pressure of weariness and dejection before he opened the door and stepped out. As he turned he bumped into a man and would have knocked him down had he not grabbed him in time. Then he saw who it was.

“Flash Casey.” A slender, angular fellow with rimless glasses and rumpled blond hair was grinning at him. His name was McCann and he was a free-lance, publicity man. Right now he was pretty drunk, but the most startling thing about him was the sheaf of money in his hand. “Ol' Flash, ol' boy, ol' boy.”

“Hi, Mac,” Casey said.

McCann patted him on the shoulder with a limp, double-action movement of his wrist. “Take a look,” he said and waved the bills under Casey's nose. “Smell it. Brother, am I hot.”

“Damned if you're not,” said Casey.

“Count it.” McCann slapped the bills into Casey's palm. “Go ahead. Tell me how hot I am.”

Casey took the money. There was a $20 and a $10 and 12 new $50's. “Six hundred and thirty bucks.”

“We'll double it.” McCann gave him that double-action wrist again and took his arm. “Come on. Up we go.”

“Wait a minute.” Casey pulled him to a stop. “Let's go home and celebrate,” he said. “We'll get a cab.”

McCann gave him a sly leer. He shook his finger. “No, you don't.”

Casey grinned in spite of himself. No one was dumber than a foxy drunk. He'd been that way himself, spending hours trying to outsmart himself just as McCann was going to do. “Get smart,” he said, making a last attempt. “You got yours, get out. Go back upstairs and you'll drop the works.”

“Who cares?” McCann said. “I like to see that little ball go round'n'round.”

Casey sighed and took his arm. In his condition McCann would never get out of the place with that money, but Casey made up his mind to see that he lost it legitimately.

They went to the rear of the room and opened a door and climbed the stairs; then they were in a narrow hall that had two abrupt angles in it, at the edge of which were sliding steel doors, now retracted. Beyond was a low-ceilinged room, smoke-filled, softly, lighted, and quiet. At the far end was a cashier's window; on either side were crap tables and in the center two roulette layouts. Only one was operating now and there were but five players, four men, one of them Dixon, and a woman.

One of the men looked up as Casey and McCann approached; the others were intent upon the wheel. No word was spoken as McCann tossed down two fifty-dollar bills. The croupier automatically stuffed them in a slot in the table and slid some chips to one side.

The ball came to a stop and he raked in the bets. Pausing a moment as new bets were placed, he spun it again. McCann put a quarter of his chips on 17. The woman looked at him. She was a bleached blonde of 50 or so with a diamond choker and a half-pound of diamonds on her two hands.

Casey lit a cigarette and watched McCann lose his $100 in four spins. He got more chips, cut down the size of his bets but made more of them; playing the 0 and the block around 17. He won twice but within five minutes the second $100 was gone. Casey took his arm. “Come here,” he said and dragged him to one side.

McCann gave him a drunken grin. “How'm I doin'?”

“Terrific,” said Casey. “Look.” He lowered his voice and pulled McCann closer. “Can you let me have a couple of yards?”

“Sure. You wanna play?”

“No. I—”

McCann looked up at him, the foxiness in his eyes again. “No, you don't,” he said, wagging his finger. “I know you. You can't—”

“But listen.” Casey turned on the sadness. “I mean it. I'm behind on the payments on my car. I got a notice today. And the last installment on my income tax is due. I'm in a spot, kid.”

McCann weakened. “Now wait a minute—”

“If you can't make it two, make it a yard and a half.”

“Aw, here.” McCann wiped three 50's from the thin stack. “Here. Stop makin' me cry.”

Casey watched him stagger back to the table and then he saw that the croupier's assistant was watching him. The fellow was a jut-jawed husky and he knew what had happened and he didn't like it. He didn't know how much Casey had nicked McCann for, but he did know that whatever it was, the house wouldn't get it that night. He bunched his lips and glowered.

At the doorway he turned. The man was still glowering. Casey waved at him. He felt pretty good going downstairs, thinking how he'd saved something out for McCann, and then he thought about Wade and glanced at his strap watch.

It was well after two now and be turned toward the bar, mumbling to himself, determined to have one more drink and then go home to bed whether Wade came or not. He got the drink and drank it, neither hurrying nor taking his time; when Wade did not appear he went downstairs, bought his coat and hat back from the blonde, and went out with a good night for Nick and a chuckle for the youth with patent-leather hair who accompanied him to the outer door.

“You ought to watch yourself.” Casey said. “You hadn't ought to let people in here unless they show their card.”

The youth cursed as the door closed behind Casey. He buttoned his coat, standing on the top step and glancing up and down the street. When he couldn't
see
Wade, he went down the steps toward his car.

There was a man sitting on the bottom step of the house next door. He was smoking a cigarette:

“See you a minute?” he said hoarsely.

Casey paused. The man stood up. “You're Casey, ain't yuh?” he said. And then, before Casey could answer, he saw the gun and stiffened, hearing a sound of movement behind him, half-turning toward it as a second man walked from between two parked cars.

“Stand still!” the first man said. The other stepped up behind Casey and jabbed a gun in his back. The first man circled round so that he, too, was behind Casey and slightly to one side. ‘“Down the street, pal,” he said. “We'll tell you when to stop.”

Casey hesitated but a moment. If he'd had any chance to give them an argument it was gone now and he knew it. He started along the sidewalk.

Chapter Eight:
AN OLD-FASHIONED RIDE

C
ASEY DID A LOT OF THINKING
as he walked slowly along that darkened street. The first startled thought that had come to him at the sight of the gun was that he was being stuck up; then he remembered something and knew that there was more behind the attempt than that.

The man on the steps had asked his name. He had been waiting—not for just any victim but for Casey. And the way the other fellow had waited out of sight between the two parked cars, ready for any move that Casey might make, proved that these two were not amateurs. They had a special job to do, and thinking about it brought the perspiration out on Casey's brow.

They made him walk past two parked cars and stop opposite a third. It was a dark sedan, a three-year-old model. One of the men opened the rear door and the other said, “Get in, friend.”

The gun jabbed hard against his spine and was removed as he took a forward step. He stopped. A car raced by on the other side of the street, a girl's laughter drifting across to him from a lowered window. He looked up and down the pavement. Blocks away he saw the headlights of another car coming toward him. He turned slowly.

The two men were waiting, not close where he might make a pass at them, but a good four feet away, side by side, guns barely visible and hip high. He had never seen either of them before and wondered about it, noting now that they were about the same size, neither tall nor short, one—the one who had first spoken to him—somewhat thinner than his companion. Both wore dark, tight-fitting coats with the collars snapped up and folded across their throats. The thin man wore a dark felt; his companion had a light-gray one with a narrow band.

“In,” the thin man said. “Or do we have to lay you out here?” said the other.

Casey backed up a step, measuring them, feeling the stiffness in his muscles. The headlights of the car he had noticed down the street swept by, outlining the three of them briefly. Down the block a manhole cover banged hollowly as the car sped over it; then the darkness came again and nothing had changed. He felt his way into the back of the car.

“Now down, pal,” the thin man said. “On your knees.”

“Nuts,” said Casey.

“‘Nuts,' he says,” said the one with the gray hat. “If he moves a whisker let him have it,” he said, and walked around the car. He opened the rear door, leaned in and cocked his wrist. Casey thought he could duck away from the blow that was coming, but he still had one eye on the other man's gun and didn't dare.

“Okay,” he said and slid off the seat.

“You see?” Gray Hat said. “What do you have to argue for?”

Casey was on his knees now, wedged in between the back of the front seat and the cushion of the rear one. The thin man got in and sat down in the opposite corner, slamming the door; his partner climbed in behind the wheel.

From his spot on the floor Casey couldn't see much of the outside scenery—tops of trees and the upper stories of houses and apartments at first and then, after a few turns, sections of stores and office buildings. The thin man had pulled down the rear curtain soon after they started and remained hunched far back in the corner, his short-barreled revolver resting on his knee and slanting at Casey.

They were moving moderately fast with no traffic lights to bother them and presently Casey's knees began to get sore. There were some long, rounded objects under him that felt like rollers and no matter how he shifted his weight he could not seem to get away from them.

He watched the thin man. He could see him more distinctly now, and as the car whipped past street lamps, reflected segments of their rays would flick through the tonneau, highlighting briefly the fellow's face. It looked smooth and sallow and tightly drawn across the cheekbones. The nose was flattened across the nostrils but narrowed sharply and where the bridge should have been was a sharp depression, as though someone had chiseled out a piece of the bone.

“Where the hell are we going?” he said finally.

“Gettin' anxious?” the man asked flatly.

“I'm getting damned uncomfortable.”

“We'll fix that for. you,” the man said, and Casey didn't like the way he said it.

He looked at the rear curtain, wondering about its translucence and the light behind it. He studied it absently for a minute or so without getting any answer, or caring much. They turned a corner. The light beyond the curtain seemed to fall away and then, seconds later, became again more noticeable.

Quick hope plucked sharply at his taut nerves. A car? Could that light he saw be headlights? He tried to swallow and found his throat dry. He stared at the curtain, yellowish now because of what was behind it. Then, as the hope began to build and his pulse quickened, the car swerved sharply and the light faded and no longer was the pavement smooth beneath him, but bumpy and uneven.

Casey let his breath out and something inside him seemed to collapse and the weariness and dejection was on him again. There wasn't any light behind them now. The car was slowing down. His knees were getting sore from the pounding of the rough pavement and he put his hands down to see if he could get those rollers out from under him. Suddenly it seemed cooler and the breeze that came through the lowered front window was fresher, somehow, and moist.

Casey got hold of a roller and the instant he touched it he froze and his breath caught in his throat. He knew what the score was now. He knew why they hadn't shot him back on the Avenue when he started to get stubborn, knew why the air sweeping through the window felt fresh and moist. He could smell it now. Salt and eel grass and marshes.

The thing—that roller he had his hand on—was a sash weight!

Something clammy crawled into his brain and coiled there. He could feel his scalp prickle. He slid his fingers along the sash weight. A big one—seven or eight pounds; there were a half-dozen of them, or more. There'd be rope, too. He could not feel it but he knew it would be there.

The car had almost stopped. The thin man leaned forward on the seat. It was dark inside the tonneau now and Casey slid his hand along the floor in front of him, carefully, groping for a weight that he could get his fingers on, that was not pinned beneath him. He found one finally and knew what he had to do.

This was a good old-fashioned ride. He had photographed such victims many times in the old prohibition days. These men had a similar job to do and their orders had been to put him away where he would not be found. A couple of slugs in the head and 50 or 60 pounds of iron on his ankles. What better way than that? By the time the ropes—or his ankles—rotted away nobody would ever identify him.