Authors: Helen Nielsen
“What are you after?” he howled.
And all of a sudden Casey knew. “The same thing you’re after,” he said. “All I can get.”
“Mr. Morrow—”
He’d almost forgotten about Mrs. Brunner, but she hadn’t missed a thing.
“I’ve been trying to understand your peculiar statements this evening. Now it seems to be a matter of blackmail.”
“You can call it that. You can call it a lot of things,—expenses, damages, or”—with a twisted grin aimed at Phyllis—”balm for breach of promise. All I know is that I’ve been worked over long enough. Now it’s going to cost somebody.”
“And if we refuse to pay?”
“I’ll raise an unholy stink. Oh, I know what you’ll try to do, I’ve been threatened before, but I’ve been doing a little arithmetic on the side and it seems to me that Gorden has more to cover than I have. Then, too, if I need funds I could always do an article for the newspapers about my honeymoon with the fugitive heiress. But don’t worry, Mrs. Brunner, I’d only publicize our most beautiful moments—”
“How much do you want?”
It was Phyllis, white with rage, who hurled that question at him. No longer a kitten purring on Gorden’s shoulder, no longer scared because her lies were catching up with her, but all woman and all furious.
“Make me an offer,” Casey said.
“Five thousand?”
“That was last week, honey, when I was young and innocent. I figure it’s worth at least twice that much to forget what I know about you, not to mention what I know about your boy friend here.”
“It’s a deal!”
“This is ridiculous!” Gorden interrupted. “This man has no proof for what he says. He wouldn’t dare go to the police!”
“I said it’s a deal. Pay him off.”
“But Phyllis—”
“You’re my lawyer, aren’t you? Pay him off. Get the money from the estate, get it from anywhere, but, for God’s sake, pay him off and get him out of here! I don’t want ever to see or hear of Mr. Casey Morrow again!”
There was a moment of awful silence as Phyllis finished, and then she rushed from the room slamming the hall door behind her. For some mad reason Casey wanted to follow. It was too easy this way. Take what you want when you want it and then sign a check when you’re tired of it—much too easy. But he couldn’t fight empty air and that’s all she had left him, a roomful of empty air and a couple of inconsequential people.
“This is ridiculous,” Gorden repeated hollowly, still unaware that nothing could be so ridiculous as himself.
“You heard what the lady said,” Casey reminded.
“Do you think I can pull ten thousand dollars out of thin air!”
“That’s your worry!”
“Perhaps,” Mrs. Brunner suggested, sounding strangely sane in this mad atmosphere, “Mr. Morrow would take a check.”
“Do you really intend to pay him?” Gorden echoed.
“Under the circumstances, Lance, it seems unavoidable.”
“I’m glad that somebody gets the point,” Casey said. “And I’m sorry but Mr. Morrow won’t take a check. Mr. Morrow takes only cash, and as soon as he gets it he’s off for parts unknown. You’ll appreciate that, Gorden, I know.”
“It’ll take time—”
“The banks open at ten.”
“But the estate is all tied up!”
Casey walked over to a little kneehole desk by the windows and wrote out an address on a piece of scratch paper. He’d almost forgotten about the walk-up but the rent had been paid for a month and he still carried the key. Since there would have to be a meeting-place somewhere, he preferred choosing his own ground, familiar ground with a front door and a back door, a way in and a way out. Not that he expected any trouble from Gorden, Mrs. Brunner held the whip now, and she had been visibly impressed with that publicity threat, but a man could never be too sure when he made deals with a murderer. Funny how unimportant Darius Brunner’s murder seemed now. Nobody gave a damn.
“There’s a train leaving about five-thirty tomorrow evening,” he said, handing the address to Gorden. “Whether or not I’m on it depends on how soon you deliver my going-away present. You, personally. I’ve met your friends and we don’t like each other.”
“Is that all?” Gorden snapped.
“I think so. I’ll get my own fruit and magazines.”
“Then I think I’ll go and look after my fiancée. She seemed rather upset.”
“That,” Casey observed, “is your funeral.”
Now there was just a roomful of empty air and one inconsequential person. Casey didn’t feel so sure of himself now. He wished somebody would give him a drink, knowing there wasn’t a chance of that unless it came equipped with arsenic. In any event, he had to get out of this place quick. The emptiness was closing in on him. He started toward the door.
“Mr. Morrow—wait.”
Casey stopped and turned around. The fire was almost dead now, which seemed appropriate enough, but Mrs. Brunner’s eyes weren’t. Now that he took notice, she seemed to have grown older these past few minutes, and that was a strange thought because Mrs. Brunner had never made him aware of age before.
“I want to have a word with you,” she added, “alone.”
“That’s easy,” Casey said. “That’s my natural state.”
If anyone had asked him Casey would have said that Mrs. Brunner nodded, gravely and unquestioningly, as if she knew all about Casey Morrow. All the time her gray eyes, shadowed and drawn with tension, peered into his own without wavering. Then, suddenly, she came out with it.
“You’re in love with Phyllis,” she said simply, “and that story about a marriage was true.”
They weren’t questions; they were statements of fact. “If you’re sure of that you know more than I do,” Casey said.
“I’m willing to concede that, Mr. Morrow.”
“I only told you what she told me. I haven’t had time to do any checking.”
Again the grave and knowing nod. “It sounds like Phyllis. She’s always been an impulsive child.”
The words sounded silly, even Mrs. Brunner must have known that. Phyllis Brunner was no longer a child, and she was a lot farther along than just being impulsive; but even as Casey’s jaw tightened for an offensive the woman anticipated him.
“The fact remains that you are in love with her,” she said. “I’ve known that since you came here yesterday.”
“That isn’t important!”
“Oh, but it is, Mr. Morrow. A man blinded by emotion seldom acts judiciously.”
“I’ve never acted judiciously in my life,” Casey protested, “in love or out of love, emotionally or unemotionally, but I’ve made a deal with Gorden, and if he doesn’t come through all hell is going to break loose. I’m tired of being hunted and tired of hunting. I’ll just scream my story to the housetops and see what happens next.”
It was easy to talk like that with a man named Johnson waiting in Ma’s kitchen and an armful of air where Phyllis had been. It wasn’t so easy to sidetrack Mrs. Brunner.
“I know how you feel,” she said quietly. “I’ve been fooled a few times myself.”
“Meaning Lance Gorden?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
But that wasn’t what she meant; not completely. Mrs. Brunner wasn’t a woman to have much difficulty finding words, but now she seemed unable to speak what was on her mind. She turned, for a moment, toward what was left of the fire and Casey was struck again by the proud line of her strong profile. Then he found himself remembering that crazy story of Phyllis’s about the beautiful prima donna and the lovesick nobleman. He’d never known Darius Brunner, but he could see where an imagination could lead to with a face like that to study.
Then she turned on him with a volley of words.
“You don’t understand even now, do you, Mr. Morrow? You’re hurt because a beautiful girl used you for her own conveniences, but you don’t understand why. You seem to forget that my husband was murdered.”
“I haven’t forgotten,” Casey protested. “I haven’t had a chance to forget.”
“And I haven’t forgotten. I never will!”
Mrs. Brunner stopped abruptly. It was one of those awkward moments, like opening the wrong door without knocking, when both parties are supposed to stare at the ceiling or start whistling or pretend that nothing showed. For to show an emotion, anger or hatred, love or sorrow, was against the rules of Mrs. Brunner’s league. For a moment Casey was afraid she might apologize, and that would be a little too much, but she didn’t. It was a struggle, but she didn’t.
“I wouldn’t say any more,” she added quietly, everything under control again, “but I, too, think something is owed to you. Something more important than money. My first impulse when you made your demands was the same as Lance’s—to call the police—but you’re right, of course. There are things people will pay to keep silent, especially about those they love.
“You’re puzzled now, aren’t you? But you must have noticed, Mr. Morrow, how emotionally unstable Phyllis can be. It’s worried me for years, and it worried her father. Perhaps you’ve guessed that it wasn’t a heart attack that drove him to the city after all.”
Casey tensed. Actually, he hadn’t given Darius Brunner’s heart much thought. Now he listened, remembering how the stories of the Nardis girl and Leta Huntly had failed to jibe.
“There was an attempt on Mr. Brunner’s life. A clumsy attempt and quite childish in character, but he thought it better to remove himself from the immediate vicinity until Phyllis seemed more stable—”
“Phyllis?” Casey gasped.
“Unfortunately there was no other conclusion to reach—at the time.”
It was Mrs. Brunner’s turn to grow thoughtful, as if trying to reconstruct a memory. “Of course, I never suspected Lance at the time. Now I wonder if she might not have used him, too.”
“But Phyllis loved her father!”
“Of course. I believe it quite possible that she may have loved you, too. That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Mr. Morrow. Don’t be too hurt. Don’t hate her too much. You’re too young to let something like this ruin your life.”
People didn’t usually worry about Casey Morrow’s life and he couldn’t help being a little suspicious when they did. But when he tried to put as much into words he noticed how difficult speech had become with Mrs. Brunner’s haunted eyes before him.
“I’m not that young,” he muttered. “Nobody’s that young any more.”
“No, I suppose not. Perhaps nobody ever was. As we grow older we like to imagine that the world was once innocent and beautiful, that people were once kinder and more grateful, but that doesn’t make it true, does it? And then I suppose that none of us are much worse than others. Some are just more fortunate.”
“And smarter,” Casey said.
“Yes, smarter. Which reminds me, Mr. Morrow, do you have a gun?”
All of this conversation had been surprising to Casey, but nothing quite so surprising as that question. And the surprise showed.
“I thought not,” she added.
She left the fireplace and crossed over to the desk, opened the top drawer and withdrew an extremely businesslike Luger. “This was my husband’s,” she explained. “He always kept it loaded in the event of housebreakers. Do you know how to use it?”
“I know,” Casey admitted, “but a man can get into a lot of trouble with one of those in his hand.”
“Yes, that’s true. On the other hand, I can’t help wondering if my husband might not be here today if he had kept this weapon in his study rather than in mine.”
Mrs. Brunner’s face was very grave. Casey had the swift realization of having underestimated this woman, which was never a safe thing to do with any female. “You see,” she added quietly, “I learned a great deal here in this room tonight. I watched Lance. You were too busy staring at my daughter, but you really should have watched Lance, Mr. Morrow. He is a frightened man and frightened men can be dangerous when they’re cornered. If he suspects that there really was a marriage, as I do, you’re not in an enviable position, for all your well-laid plans.”
She held out the gun. Her face said nothing, for all that needed to be said had come out in those plain and simple words. Even so, Casey hesitated.
“Not that I really want you to take it,” she added. “My advice would be for you to forget the profit and take the first plane out of town, but I’ve grown accustomed to having my advice ignored.”
Casey didn’t hesitate any longer. “Thanks,” he said, “for the gun.”
IT WAS GOING TO SNOW. Everything about the day said it was going to get mean and snow, the way the wind nagged at casements and the way the sky hung like a dirty gray blanket just about ready to drop. But first it would rain a little, the way it was doing now, and then turn to sleet so there would be a nice coat of ice under the snow and slush, nice for smashing fenders and for upsetting old ladies with both arms full of groceries. It was also going to get dark pretty soon, and Casey was still waiting for Lance Gorden to show.
He’d been waiting a long time—thirty years’ worth of time. He’d lain on his back on the short divan and stared at the ceiling through all the yesterdays, and especially through the brief yesterdays when Phyllis had cooked spaghetti in the kitchen and slept in the bedroom behind a closed door. And the yesterdays at Big John’s, which he didn’t like to think about now, and the last yesterday in Mrs. Brunner’s library.
He knew now what it was that Mrs. Brunner had been trying to tell him, but it didn’t help any. Maybe there was a reason, a sound scientific reason, for what Phyllis had done to him, but Casey didn’t think in terms of scientific reasons. He thought in terms of love and hate and hunger. And he thought much too much.
Look at this dive
, he thought.
This cheap, lousy dive. This is the way Casey Morrow lives—except for that beautiful fling on the Coast—but things are going to be different. Ten thousand dollars is going to make a lot of difference. Ten thousand dollars is a beginning again and if that’s not enough Casey Morrow knows where to get more
. That was dangerous thinking. Not because Gorden might blow his head off if he came back to the trough again, not because Lieutenant Johnson might not stop caring about who had murdered Darius Brunner, but because coming back might mean seeing Phyllis and seeing Phyllis was the one thing he must never, never do.
And thinking about Phyllis, too. That’s another thing he must never do.