Dead on the Level (8 page)

“Anybody on duty here nights?” he queried.

“Supposed to be,” the attendant said.

“Not you?”

“You think I work all the time?”

“I was only guessing. Then you wouldn’t know what time Mr. Gorden took his car out that night Brunner was killed?”

“From what I hear, he didn’t take it out. It was out.”

“All night?”

“All I know is that he brought it in early next morning. I gave it a wash job before noon.”

“It was dirty?”

“Rain don’t make a car any cleaner, mister. Now, if there’s anything else you’d like to know—”

Casey grinned. “There’s plenty I’d like to know,” he said, “but I sure hate to keep a man from his work.”

Casey wasn’t feeling any happier as he walked slowly away from the apartment house; in fact, he was on the verge of talking to himself. “Find out why Lance killed my father,” Phyllis had said. Find out. As if it were no more than asking a stranger the time of day. What he had learned so far totaled exactly zero, and he was a long way from being flush on ideas of how to better that score. There were other addresses in his pocket, one of which wouldn’t be any good, probably, until after the funeral. But the other one was just right. He ducked his chin down into his coat collar and headed back into the wind. It wasn’t far. Considering the squeamish state of his interior, it wasn’t nearly far enough.

Three days had elapsed since the discovery of Darius Brunner’s body, but Casey took his time about going up to the apartment. He took his time outside, making certain from across the street that nothing remotely like a policeman was near; he took his time inside, moving quietly, watching all directions. He might as well have saved his time. The only footsteps on the carpeted halls were his own, and nobody answered when he rang the bell. Cautiously, Casey unlocked the door with the key Phyllis had given him and went in.

It was dark inside. The blinds were drawn and the murky light of an overcast day inched into the rooms in pale-gray slivers. The study was even darker, because of heavy drapes drawn across the windows, and Casey had to find the desk lamp and turn it on. The room was unfamiliar, and yet he knew exactly where to find the lamp, and where, too, to find the dark stains on the deep-piled rug. He tried to remember having been in the room before, but everything Phyllis had told of that night was still a blank. Yet, he knew how to find his way around. But staring at a bloodstain wasn’t reason enough to run the risk of coming to Brunner’s own apartment. Now that he was here, he wasn’t so sure what was worth that risk; but the desk seemed the logical place to start hunting.

Darius Brunner had kept a tidy desk. A silver desk set and a silver-framed photograph of Phyllis occupied the space not taken by the lamp and a phone. No papers cluttered the top or peeked from under the edges of the blotter, and the desk had been recently dusted and the calendar brought up to date.

The wide center drawer, which seemed the natural place to begin a search, yielded to Casey’s touch. Even the inside of the drawer was neat. Envelopes, writing-paper, stamp box all in place. Deeper within the drawer was something a bit more interesting—Brunner’s checkbook, and even from his first brief glance at the carefully kept stubs, Casey could see that Darius Brunner had been a busy man with the pen. The checkbook, although of commercial size, was obviously for his personal account. Most of the stubs were made out for bills, insurance companies, and such, with a few to Arvid Petersen who, Casey recalled, had been mentioned in the papers as his houseman. Quite a few stubs were to various foundations and were tabbed
Charities
, while those bearing Mrs. Brunner’s or Phyllis’s name bore the notation
Personal
. Casey went over each stub, but what he couldn’t find was anything made out to Lance Gorden. Either Gorden was on an annual retainer or was paid from Brunner’s business account.

So much for the checkbook. Casey had reached the last two stubs before he found anything interesting. These checks, the last Darius Brunner had ever written, were both dated on the last day of his life. One, for the sum of five thousand dollars, was made out to Phyllis Brunner—personal. Casey had a crooked smile over that. Surely she hadn’t told her father what she intended to do with that money. Had she given some sad story about being down to her last year’s mink, or had Brunner been that soft a touch? Some day he’d have to ask her about that. He looked at the other stub. This one was for a peculiar sum, twelve hundred, eighty-seven dollars and forty cents, and had been paid to a certain Carter B. Groot, also personal.

It was the
Personal
that caught Casey’s eye. An amount like that sounded very much like the payment of a specific bill, and yet all of the other bills in Brunner’s checkbook had been carefully designated. Why not this one? He ran over in his mind all the names he’d seen connected with Brunner in print, Petersen, Huntly, Gorden, but no Carter Groot. Maybe it was something, maybe it wasn’t, but at the moment Casey didn’t have time to dwell on it. Beyond the study door, he had caught the unmistakable sound of a key being inserted in the lock, and there was barely an instant to spare between the time he switched off the lamp and the opening of the outer door.

FROM A QUICKLY ATTAINED POSITION behind the study door, Casey listened to the voices. There were only two at first, then, moments later, another. The first voice was a man’s.

“I’ll turn on the light,” he said, as the hall door opened. “It’s terribly gloomy in here. Are you sure that you want to stay, Alicia? You could wait at my place just as well.”

Casey tensed. The man behind those words was Lance Gorden, and running across an old sparring partner under such circumstances wasn’t on his schedule of activities for the day. He hadn’t counted on Brunner’s funeral being over so quickly.

The answering voice was a woman’s. “There’s no reason why I shouldn’t stay. I’m not a child, Lance.”

“But you’ve been under such a strain.”

“I’m quite all right. After all, things have to be faced; no matter how unpleasant. I might as well start facing them right now.”

It was a voice Casey had never heard before, and there was strength in it; breeding, poise, and strength. He had its identity pretty well tagged when a third arrival came into the entry and confirmed his suspicions by saying, “Why, Mrs. Brunner, are you staying in?”

“For a little while, Petersen.”

“I—I want you to know how I feel about things.”

“I understand, Petersen, and thank you. Your flowers were lovely.”

There was an awkward silence, the kind that finally realizes there can be no adequate words for death, and then: “I’ll see about fixing some lunch,” Petersen said.

“Thank you, but I’m not at all hungry.”

“I know, Mrs. Brunner, but you have to eat. I’ll fix something, anyway.”

“He’s right, Alicia,” Gorden said quickly. “I can’t stay myself—want to check with Lieutenant Johnson again, but do try to get some rest. I’ll call you as soon as I can.”

From the sound of the outer door reopening and then closing again, this speech seemed to constitute Gorden’s farewell; and that was a relief. Casey heard the houseman shuffle off toward the kitchen, making noises like a man whose feet suffered from wearing new shoes to a funeral, and, by leaning flat against the wall and peering through the crack between the study door and the doorframe, he could catch a fleeting glimpse of the man’s retreating back and shoulders and a crest of silvered hair. After he was gone, nothing remained between Casey and the freedom of the outer hall except the faintly perfumed presence of Mrs. Darius Brunner.

He waited for her to move, to go some place, any place except into the dark study, but his luck was running thin. Her shadow came first, then, through that narrow opening, Casey watched her come and stand in the doorway, staring silently in at the darkness. She was too close for him to get a full view, but the glow from the overhead light in the hall made a classic, proud profile of her face. Mrs. Brunner was a beautiful woman, a startlingly beautiful woman, but not at all like her daughter. Where Phyllis was gold and copper and sometimes fiery, her mother was black velvet and pearls. In fact, Casey realized, that’s what she was wearing now, black velvet and pearls, and an inscrutable expression that generations of self-restraint must have perfected. For the first time since this walking nightmare began, Casey was aware of tragedy. He had to fight the crazy impulse to step out of hiding and tell Mrs. Brunner that her daughter wasn’t dead, that she was safe and well. But what then? The question had a sobering effect. He waited, hardly daring to breathe.

There was no reckoning time; seconds seemed like hours under such pressure, but at last the woman turned away. Without entering the room, and with God alone knew what thoughts, Mrs. Brunner turned and walked softly down the hall. Casey waited a little longer, still listening, until he felt it safe to chance an escape; and then stepped out from behind the door and crossed the bright hall as quickly as his shaking knees would allow. He didn’t really take a deep breath again until he had reached the street below.

Leta Huntly lived in a one-room kitchenette on Diversey just off Sheridan Road. The apartment was on the third floor, rear, overlooking a narrow alleyway, none too clean, and a tiny flag of lawn that was sometimes green—but never in November. It was called a studio apartment because the bed made up to look like a divan, the table made up to look like a desk, and the kitchen closed up like a closet. It was neat, clean, and like Miss Huntly herself—who made up to look like a secretary—very efficient. All of these things merited Casey’s attention as he edged his way into the room, for they seemed highly relevant. If Gorden’s Miss Nardis had been correct in her none too subtle inference as to Leta Huntly’s relationship with Darius Brunner, then Brunner must have had very simple tastes and no visible evidence of generosity.

“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.”