Black Mask (Vol. 23, No. 4 — August 1940)

Casey and the Blonde Wren by George Harmon Coxe

There were two kinds of people that got the goat of the number-one photographer on the Express — the camera-crazy and the camera-shy. The blond little British wren was the latter — lens-leery though lovely, and she had a reason. A lead reason calibered to fit a blue-steel argument that couldn’t be refuted by words alone.

Flashgun Casey was bored. For the past twenty minutes, while the Ruthania’s gangplanks were being lowered, he had trailed McCall, the ship-news man, in the hope of getting a worthwhile picture or two. Instead, he had found the shipload of passengers singularly nondescript, with not even an actress or chorus girl to give him the opportunity to snap some leg art and break the routine.

And then, as the ship emptied and they were about to leave, he saw the man with the cane step out of a passageway and hesitate a moment, surveying the nearly deserted deck with cold, steady eyes.

In spite of the noticeable limp he stood very straight, his heavy ulster square across the thin shoulders, the lines in his lean face tight and deep. Gray, austere, and no longer young, there was something very British about him even before he spoke.

“Sorry,” he said coldly, as McCall stepped up and identified himself. He took a step as if to pass, then he saw Casey lift his camera. With that he turned on his cane and stepped back into the passageway.

“Hmm,” breathed McCall. “Touchy.”

Casey grinned, no longer bored.

There were, in his life, only two kinds of people who gave him trouble — professionally, that is. One was the publicity crazy lens lice who went everywhere just to get their pictures taken with people of some importance, and who frequently were circumvented only by wasting a flashbulb and forgetting to pull out the plateholder slide. The other class was made up of Morgans and Toscaninis who, for some reason or other, hated photographers and refused to pose.

Because the man with the cane was one of these, Casey was interested. Not that the picture would be printed necessarily, at least until he knew who his quarry was, but Casey liked a challenge. That’s why he was number-one camera for the Express.

“Come on,” he grunted, the grin still splitting his broad solid face as he started down the gangplank. “I’ll get him on the pier.”

He found a place beside a concrete pillar just inside the customs shed, and while he waited he adjusted his shutter and focus and made sure the flashbulb was screwed in. When McCall nodded he moved a half-step around the column, taking a quick glance toward the gangplank as he did so. Right then he realized that there was someone else aboard the Ruthania who was worth a picture.

She came down the gangplank a half-dozen steps behind the man with the cane, a slim, blond girl, tall and aristocratic-looking in her tailored tweed suit, one hand on the railing and poise in every movement.

Casey saw this much before the man with the cane stepped from the shelter of the canopied gangplank, limped across the pier and into the shed. When he stopped to orient himself, Casey stepped out in the open and snapped the shutter.

It was practically a full-face shot, and as the bulb exploded light in the shed, Casey noticed that in spite of the crowd milling about the concrete floor there were but three people in the range of his finder — his man, the girl, who was now but a step or two to one side, and a squat, dark fellow with thick-lensed glasses, who leaned idly against another pillar a few feet in the background.

Casey heard the clipped English accent of the man with the cane, his protesting, “Here! I say now—” and then he moved past, ignoring his sputtering victim for a last look at the girl.

Her reaction puzzled him. He had noticed the look of startled surprise as he lowered his camera, and now her smooth young face held an expression that seemed like consternation, or alarm. He was still wondering where she had been hiding and who she was when he came to the customs gate.

Tom Wade greeted him with a grin as he and McCall passed the uniformed official and Casey said: “You going back to the office?”

A curly-headed youth with a round, goodnatured face, Wade had ridden down with Casey and McCall, his pockets bulging with plateholders, to cover an assignment on nearby Fish Pier, and had agreed to wait for them if he finished first.

“Sure,” he said. “Aren’t you?”

“I got a call from Jake Cohen,” Casey explained. “He says he’s got a good buy in a second-hand six-inch lens. It’s almost five now and if I don’t step on it he’ll be closed.” He shoved his exposed plateholders at Wade. “Take ’em back for me, will you?”

When Casey came into the studio anteroom on the third floor of the Express Building, Egan was holding up a Racing Form in front of his face, but he wasn’t picking a horse, he was looking covertly over the top of the paper and eyeing the girl with frank admiration. She sat on a rickety chair near the door, her knees crossed and back straight. Her head came round as Casey stopped in the doorway. Her glance met his and held it.

Egan rattled the Racing Form and stood up. “She” — he nodded to indicate the girl and winked — “she’s been waiting for you, Flash.”

“It’s about that picture.”

She was on her feet now, a certain breathlessness in her manner, and Casey knew then that the impressions he had formed so quickly down at the customs shed were correct, but not complete. Her slenderness was softly curving in spite of the tailored suit. She was tall, and young, not more than twenty-two or — three. But until now he had not known that her eyes were clear gray — nor about the satin smoothness of her skin nor the texture of her straw-colored hair. She was not really pretty, her face was too thin and too severe, but Casey had the photographer’s eye for line and he knew the bone structure was good and that she would grow beautiful with the years.

“The one you took at the customs shed,” she added quickly when he did not speak.

Casey stalled, amusement in the back of his eyes and his face blank. “Did I take a picture of you?” he asked doubtfully. “I don’t seem to remember—”

“It wasn’t of me exactly. It was a man with a cane, really, but I know I was in it and... well, I wondered—” She broke off and began again, with the charm turned on. “Could I have that picture, please?”

“Why?” he asked goodnaturedly, discounting the charm because he had faced such requests so often.

That stopped her for a second or two. Then she was speaking in a low, modulated voice that was soft with an accent that could have come only from London — or the stage.

“I’m not supposed to be here,” she said. “That is—” She broke off again and lines moved in her face and he saw that she was smiling. He didn’t believe the smile. It came only after an effort and was a studied, shallow thing that did not go with the eyes.

“As a matter of fact,” she went on, “I came over here to be married. I was supposed to leave Southampton today but I found I could get a cabin on the Ruthania and took it, and well, I’ll have a week or more, you see, before I’m really due here.”

The grin that was in the back of Casey’s eyes fled to leave them dark and probing and skeptical. “Oh,” he said.

“Yes. It’s just” — the smile faded and she lowered her glance — “one of those silly ideas one has. I’d like to have my week to myself and be by myself and do as I please. Not that I don’t love Paul. It’s only that I’d like to have this time as my own, and if the picture was printed in the paper it would be frightfully awkward.”

There was a little more of this, all of it leaving Casey strangely unconvinced. He didn’t know why. The words were not unreasonable and the eagerness to impress was unmistakable. But the melody was a little off key and presently he looked past her at Egan.

“Wade been in?”

Egan shook his head and Casey leaned over his desk, picked up the telephone and asked for McCall. “Wade come back with you?” he asked, and when McCall told him Wade had stopped on Washington Street for a beer, Casey added, “Oh, he did, huh?” and replaced the instrument thoughtfully.

Cohen’s pawnshop had been closed when he arrived and as a result he had come directly back to the Express. Wade, apparently, was taking plenty of time over the beer.

“You’d better leave your name and address,” he told the girl.

“Allison.” She hesitated, gray eyes doubtful. “Nancy Allison.”

“Where can I reach you?”

“At the Clark Hotel.”

“All right,” Casey said, “I’ll let you know.” He saw the quick concern in her glance and met it with steady speculation, knowing now that he would not have given her the picture if he’d had it — not until he was satisfied as to the real reason which prompted this routine. Since he had a good excuse, he used it, explaining how he had given his plates to Wade.

“So I haven’t got yours,” he said, “because Wade hasn’t come back.”

The gray eyes clouded and Nancy Allison’s, “Oh,” was keenly disappointed. “Then—”

“I’ll let you know,” Casey said again, and left it that way, so that the girl had no alternative but to leave.

“Nice,” said Egan approvingly when she had gone. “You’ll let her know, huh? At her hotel. My-my.”

Casey growled absently, stood for a moment with thick brows bent in thought. Then he went upstairs to the city-room, dark eyes narrowed by the puzzles in his brain.

McCall was tapping out a story at his desk. “Wade get back?” he asked, not looking up.

“No.” Casey hesitated, continued bluntly. “Did you check up on that guy with the cane? The one that didn’t want to be interviewed?”

McCall stopped typing, nodded, picked up a slip of paper from his desk. “Name of Banning,” he said. “George Banning. Came in on an English visa. That’s about all the purser knew about him.”

“Travel alone?”

“Yep. Single stateroom with private bath.” McCall glanced up, one brow cocking. “Why? You got something?”

Casey shook his head, his brow furrowed. “Not a thing. Not even my picture — yet.”

Casey found Wade as he came along the narrow alley from the parking space in back of the Express Building on his way back from dinner. Night was closing in fast over the city and here in the canyon between the grimy brick walls it was already dark so that Casey did not see what tripped him but only felt the limp form under his foot as he stumbled to one knee.

He struck a match. The flame flared briefly and the walls withdrew and a yellow glow bathed a round smooth face that was white and still. The hat had rolled aside, disclosing a matted patch in the curly hair behind the ear. A cobblestone was stained with dark red spots. The wind, cold and raw as it drove in from the ocean swirled down and eddied along the alley floor.

The match went out and Casey was suddenly cold with an inner chill that put stiffness into his muscles. He knelt that way for seconds, incredulous, while the dust swirled about his ankles. Then, with a savage grunt, he lifted Tom Wade in his arms and hurried for the lighted sidewalk ahead.

A group of pressmen coming in from supper drew back as he passed through the narrow foyer. They followed him into the classified room, huddling about and muttering as Casey put Wade on the settee by the windows.

“A doctor!” Casey ordered of the single clerk behind the counter, and the clerk had the good sense to reach for the telephone before asking questions.

When they found out that Casey had nothing to tell, the pressmen fell silent, watching him feel for a pulse beat and make a pillow of his coat. Suddenly he rose, and they moved out of his way.

He found Wade’s platecase in the alley close to his hat. He brought it inside and opened it. When he saw that all of the plateholders were missing, the muscles in his face got hard and anger made his dark eyes hot and bright.

The doctor was noncommittal, calling for an ambulance after his first quick inspection. “He’ll probably be all right,” he said finally, “but we’ll have to put him under observation until we know.”

A burly truck driver had been stationed at the door and only those who had some good reason to be there were in the room. Among them were Blaine, the city editor, and McCall Blaine, with his lean, unsmiling face and prematurely gray hair and cold gray eyes, Blaine the disciplinarian who accepted sentiment only in a human interest story, who refused excuses and was the best desk man in the city. The moment he spoke, Casey knew that McCall had told him too much.

“Who would want to slug him?” Blaine asked curtly. And when Casey said he didn’t know, “Why didn’t you bring your own plates in?”

Casey told him, just as curtly and with more feeling.

“He had an assignment of his own, you know,” Blaine said. “If he’d come back with McCall—”

“You’d have had your plates, wouldn’t you?” Casey finished resentfully.

Blaine glared at him and spoke to the doctor. “See that he has the best,” he said, and left the room.

Casey stood beside the settee, a burly man with a broad rugged face and thick brown hair peppered with gray at the sides and shaggy at the nape. The ruggedness of his face stood out now because the set muscles made grim bunches at the hinge of his jaw. The look in his dark eyes was unpleasant to see, and his voice had a vicious edge.

“What’d they hit him with?” he asked.

The doctor closed his bag. “Something with a hard edge.”

Casey looked down at the still figure and then, suddenly, he saw that Wade’s eyes were open — vacant, pain-ridden eyes until they focused on Casey. The smile came, weakly but definite.

“You must’ve had something special, Flash. What was it?”

“I don’t know, kid.” Casey made his voice hearty, though his throat was thick from the smile. “But we’ll damn well find out.”

“I tried to give them an argument.” Wade’s eyes closed again and his voice trailed off. “They played kind of rough, pal.”

Casey’s hand closed on the arm of the settee, twisting with white knuckles until the dry wood cracked. “Five foot six and a hundred and thirty pounds,” he muttered, speaking to no one. “They didn’t have to slug him.”

He rode in the ambulance with Wade, hoping that there would be another conscious spell in which he could learn something about the “they” who had done this. When, after the youth had been put to bed, he found there was nothing he could do, he went back to the office. There he found waiting for him a chubby individual with a taxi-driver’s shield pinned to his cap. He had, he said, heard about Wade.

“And I been thinking about it, Flash,” he said. “Maybe I picked up the guys that put the slug on him. I’m parked down by the corner, see? And two parties come out of the alley. Just about the right time, too.”

“What did they look like?”

“Well” — the driver rubbed the stubble on his chin — “just ordinary-looking guys, sort of. One was thin and kinda tallish and the other was maybe a couple of inches shorter and heavier — a good-looking guy.”

Casey’s grunt was derisive. “That’s a big help, Hoxie. Just two guys named Joe, huh? Hell, didn’t you see anything?”

“I don’t know anything then, do I?” Hoxie said defensively. “They want a ride and they climb in.”

“Where’d they go?”

“They went — wait a minute. I did notice one thing. The thin guy had a scar across the corner of his mouth.”

“Where’d they go?” Casey pressed.

“Down to the corner of Stuart. I had to park while one of ’em made a phone call. When he came back he said he had to go to the Bradwyne Hotel, and that the other guy was to go back to Radnor’s. So I took him there.”

“Radnor’s?”

“An antique joint just off Boylston.”

“And the Bradwyne,” Casey said thoughtfully, dark eyes narrowing, “is right across from the Clark.”

A police car was parked a short distance beyond the marquee of the Bradwyne and Casey, bent on having words with the house detective, spotted it as he turned in.

The chauffeur, in plain clothes, said, “Hello, Flash,” and answered Casey’s question as to why he was waiting here matter-of-factly. “Somebody got shot.”

“Who’s handling it?”

“Logan.”

Casey strode into the lobby, folding a bill in his palm so the 5 on it showed as he came up to the bell captain.

“Twelve-five-o,” said the captain cupping his hand.

Casey rode up and turned down the twelfth-floor corridor. There was a man at the far end. He turned out to be a burly plainclothesman and he was leaning against the pastel-gray casing that framed the door of room 1250.

“Hi, Lafferty,” greeted Casey.

“What do you want?” said Lafferty, scowling suspiciously.

Casey was already reaching for the doorknob and he nearly broke his wrist when the plainclothesman blocked him. “You can’t go in there,” he stated flatly.

Casey looked surprised and hurt. “But the lieutenant sent for me.”

“Yah—”

“O.K.” Casey shrugged. “It’s up to you. I’ll have to tell him you wouldn’t let me in.”

It was a good act and Lafferty wavered. “Yeah?” he said doubtfully. “You wouldn’t try to kid me, would you, Flash-gun?”

Casey remained silent but continued to look hurt, and with a reluctant stare at the big photographer Lafferty turned and opened the door, intent on sticking his neck into the room and asking his question.

The instant the door moved Casey pushed forward. Lafferty strangled on a curse and arched his back, but Casey had a little momentum, and he was just as big as Lafferty. In the end the plainclothesman had to let go of the doorknob or lose his arm. He let go and the two of them stumbled across the threshold with Lafferty running interference.

Four men stood in the room. A fifth was stretched on the floor, a still slender figure with gray hair and mustache and a thin, lined face. There was a dark stain on his waistcoat and nearby lay a gun — and a cane.

Startled by the entrance the quartet stared at Casey. Warbeck, the house detective, began to grin and so did the plainclothesman and the fingerprint man and photographer. Lieutenant Logan just bent an eye at Lafferty, and stared sourly.

“I shoulda known,” choked Lafferty, face purple and breath coming hard. “He said you sent for him. I shoulda—”

“You can’t come in here, Flash,” Logan said wearily, ignoring Lafferty. “Not till the M.E.’s been here. You know that. Go on, now, shove off.”

“If you say so,” Casey answered in mock regret, “but I thought you’d want to know some things, about him.” He nodded at the still figure on the floor.

“And you can tell us?”

“I took a picture of him this afternoon. Name’s Banning, isn’t it?”

He catalogued the condition of the room — the overturned chair and table, the broken lamp — as he spoke, and without waiting for Logan to voice his surprise, Casey told him what he knew, his voice flat and direct until he began to speak of what had happened to Wade. Then his tone took on an edge, and his eyes got sultry.

“You think there’s a hook-up between the two that jumped Wade and this?” Logan asked when the story was finished.

“I thought there might be,” Casey said. And, after a pause, “Know anything about him?”

“Not much.” Logan rubbed his chin and pushed out his lips. “He was shot twice with that Webly at close range, and his name on the register downstairs is Banning, all right. But — things we found on him say he’s Eric Kirkman, and he’s got some tie-up with the British navy. It could be phony. We’re trying to get in touch with the British consul.

“We may get a line when we find the woman.”

“What woman?”

Casey’s lids came down and he waited.

“She came up here somewhere around the time that a fellow across the hall heard what sounded like shots. And it just happened that the same elevator boy took her down. She was up here four or five minutes and she was like a ghost — so the boy says — when she rode down. Had to speak to her three times when the car stopped in the lobby before she got out.”

“Hmm,” Casey said, still waiting with nerves a little tight.

“We’ve got a pretty good description of her,” Logan went on. “Slender, blond, young, brown tweed suit and English accent. If she took a cab we might nail her.”

The door opened at Casey’s second knock. She had her hat and coat on and a handbag under her arm. She stiffened and paled when she saw him and for that first second or two her jaw sagged and many things battled it out in the depths of her gray eyes. In the end a mantle of distant politeness settled over her.

“Oh,” she said. “You — come in, please. You” — she hovered over him when she closed the door — “you have the picture?”

Casey looked right at her, not speaking until he saw her forces crumble and the color start to ooze from her cheeks.

“No,” he said, watching the fear come into her eyes. “I thought maybe you had those plates,” he added, and went on in clipped hard sentences to tell about Tom Wade.

She heard him out, the whiteness coming about her jaw. “But that’s ridiculous,” she said finally. “Why should I have come and asked for the picture if—”

“Because,” said Casey, “when you asked you thought I had already delivered the plates to the office and there was no other way of getting the one you wanted. That’s why you gave me your right name and address. Afterward, when you learned that Wade had the plate, and had not yet returned, it made things much simpler.”

He went on with his theory, guessing, bluffing, filling in gaps. “Wade wasn’t very big,” he said in the end. “And there were two of them. Are they the ones that shot the Englishman — or was that your job?”

She caught her breath, the recoil of her nerves a visible thing. He waited for her to speak, then tried again.

“You followed him off the boat. You were in that picture with him.”

She stood perfectly still, nothing changing in her face, and his dark eyes got morose. Abruptly, with a shrug and a half-audible grunt, he stepped to the telephone and picked it up. “Hello,” he said, and then her voice rose up behind him sharp and jerky, and something thudded softly to the floor.

“Put that down!”

Her very tone checked him, and when he glanced over his shoulder he saw the little automatic in her hand. On the floor near her feet was the open handbag.

Casey put down the instrument, his lips forming a tight little smile as he faced her. The gun was steady in her hand, and she was backing toward the door, her handbag forgotten. He stood watching her slow backward progress until, reaching behind her, she found the knob.

“Look,” he said, his voice no longer hard, “why don’t you tell me about it? You’re using a gun to run out, but what will it get you? The minute you shut the door I’ll call the desk. They’ll grab you before you can get out.”

That did it. The reasonableness of his statement penetrated the defensive shell she had built up and she had nothing left with which to fight. With a sob she dropped her arm and leaned back against the door while tears welled in her eyes.

Two long steps took Casey to her side. He put his hand under her arm and led her gently to a chair. Then, to give her time to gather her composure, he busied himself with other things. He shut the door, which had swung open. He picked up the handbag. He took the automatic from her limp fingers and put it inside. Then he swiveled a chair from the desk and sat down, straddling it as he faced her.

“I’m sorry,” she said huskily. “And... and thank you for stopping me.”

“You were there, weren’t you?” he said gently. “He was dead when you found him.”

“Yes.”

“Who was he?”

“Sir Eric Kirkman.”

“And he was in the British navy?”

“He was a captain — retired.”

“You came over with him. You came to ask me for the picture on his account, not on your own. Why?” He offered her a cigarette as he spoke, and after a slight hesitation she accepted and he held a light. After that she began to talk in a low even voice without further prompting.

“Sir Eric had rather a bad time when war was declared,” she began. “No one would have him and naturally he was furious. He’d been in the Battle of Jutland, you see — he was on the Barham — and he came out of it with his life and that’s about all. A shell splinter tore away part of his chest and most of one thigh, and he’s been practically an invalid since then. But now we’re at war he just had to do something and he stormed about the War Office until Alan got busy and finally managed to wangle something for him in naval intelligence.”

“Alan?”

Nancy Allison said, “Alan is his son,” and spots of color came back to her cheeks. “He was a cadet at Dartmouth during most of the first war and now he has a ship of his own — a destroyer — and of course that made it all the harder for Sir Eric to stand idly by. He could have had a berth of some sort in the Home Office but it would have been a courtesy desk job and he knew it. The job he took was a courtesy assignment, too, but it was Navy and that made a difference.

“Well” — she sat up, sparks kindling in her eyes — “he surprised them all. They didn’t pay much attention to him and so when he did get a bit of information that seemed promising he followed it up alone. In the end he was instrumental in breaking up an important espionage group. One of the men arrested was the head of the bureau and certain documents were found that not only contained a list of agents operating here in your country, but information about their objectives and methods of operating. He had copies of these documents — and some photographs — with him.”

“And somebody found it out,” Casey said.

“He was to deliver them to someone from the Embassy staff tonight, so that our intelligence bureau could combat the efforts of these agents, whose job it is to keep track of the movements of our ships. He also hoped that by revealing certain other information to your own naval intelligence he might offer additional facts that would be of vital importance to your country as well.”

A spasm crossed her face and tears welled up in her eyes as she spoke. “He tried to save them. He could have given up, but he tried to fight and he had nothing to fight with but one good leg and a cane.”

“And a heart,” Casey said, and found his throat hard and thick inside. He looked down at his cigarette, mashed it out savagely when he remembered Wade’s, “I tried to give ’em an argument, Flash. But they played kind of rough.”

A sullen, smoldering rage came over him and the muscles coiled at the side of his jaw. “And where do you come in?” he asked quietly.

“Come in?”

“How did you happen to come over with him? Why didn’t you stay at the same hotel?”

“Oh, I’m in the Women’s Royal Naval Service.”

“What they call a WREN?”

“Yes. We drive cars and do cipher work and decoding — that sort of thing. I was helping Sir Eric.”

“And you’re in love with his son.” Her eyes were enormous on his and he saw the answer there and said: “So you came along to look after him.”

“He thought it better that I travel separately and stay at a different hotel,” she explained dully. “He... he loved to be mysterious about things. He was so pleased that he could help. I came to you for the picture without his knowing it. If I had only stayed with him—”

Casey stood up. “There’s an antique shop in town called Radnor’s. Ever hear that name?” he asked.

“Why, yes,” she said quickly, her eyes widening. “Sir Eric mentioned that name to someone over the telephone once. That... that’s where I was going when you came.”

“All alone, huh?”

“I had to. I didn’t know quite whom to call, and the Embassy men weren’t coming until ten, and I knew the police would be around and... well, there are copies of those papers, but by the time anyone could do much about it the agents listed would be able to scatter. And it wasn’t only that.”

She broke off and he saw that the tears had stopped. She was looking beyond him at something which she alone could see. There was some strange and shining faith in her face but when she spoke he knew this dream of hers had slight basis in reality and he felt again the thickness in his throat.

“Maybe it sounds silly to you,” she said, still not looking at him, “but more than anything else in the world I want the envelope the murderer took. Not for what it contains, but because if I have it no one will ever know that Sir Eric failed. I could tell them he gave it to me for safe-keeping, that I had it all the time. And then Alan and the others he worked with... well... they’ll all know he carried on and that after all they made no mistake in trusting him. If I could only do that for him— You do see, don’t you?”

“Yes, I see,” Casey said.

“Only” — the fire of her desire and imagination went out of her eyes — “I guess there was nothing I could do. I wanted to find Radnor. I was going out to look — don’t ask me where. It was stupid of me. I knew it then. There isn’t even such a name in the telephone directory.”

Casey blinked his surprise. “Are you sure?”

Furrows appeared over his shaggy brows as he pawed through the telephone book and saw that she was right. He tossed it back on the stand, his eyes sleepy in a grim sort of way.

“There’s a fellow I want to see,” he said thoughtfully, “and after that maybe we can take a look together. Want to?”

“Very much,” said Nancy Allison.

Boylston Street was alive with light and the movement of mid-evening traffic. Around the corner, Lakeland Street was lifeless until morning, its shop windows dark and the sidewalks deserted.

Hoxie’s cab swung toward the curb in the middle of a block, stopping before a modernistic narrow front sandwiched between a book store and a milliner’s. The windows, closed off by wooden panels at the back and filled with chairs and vases and shawls, mirrored the progress of the cab against the darkness of the street, and across the glass panel in the door was the word Jerauld’s.

“Where do you see Radnor’s?” Casey demanded.

“I don’t see it,” said Hoxie, “but this is where I took the guy. He got out in front of the book store and when I pulled out from the curb I see him turning in here.”

“Could we wait?” Nancy Allison asked.

“Yeah.” Casey climbed out, pulling his camera and platecase after him.

Two cars sped by while they were talking, and after Hoxie had driven off Casey saw a man smoking in the doorway of a brownstone front across the street where a Rooms To Let sign hung in the window. Other than this they were alone in Lakeland Street.

They lit cigarettes as they stood there on the sidewalk, and it was not until Casey moved through the entrance and up to the door that he noticed a crack of light squeezing past the drawn shade.

“Hah!” he grunted softly and angled around until he got his eye to the crack. Gradually a section of the interior emerged from the shadows and he saw that beyond the darkness in the foreground a light gleamed, its beam focused upon some sort of screen. When his eye adjusted itself he identified a silhouette before the screen as a man — on his knees — doing something to the screen.

“What is it?” Nancy Allison breathed.

“Somebody’s in there,” said Casey, and knocked loudly on the door. He had to knock again before the lock clicked back and the door inched open, framing a face that had no substance in the shadows.

“What is it?” The voice was gruff, irritable.

“Is Mr. Connolly here?” Casey asked casually.

“No.”

“That’s funny. I was told he worked in one of these stores. You don’t happen to know—”

“No. He doesn’t work here. I don’t know any Mr. Connolly.”

Casey kept one eye on the door. It had opened perhaps a foot during the conversation and he made out certain details — the solid blond face, the deep-set eyes, the hand that remained steady in the coat pocket, fashioning a hump that pointed straight ahead.

“O.K.,” he said. “Sorry to bother you.”

Behind him Nancy Allison made a sucking sound. Casey backed a half-step, his eye still on the door as it started to close. He waited until the last instant, until only an inch crack remained. Then, before the lock could click, he drove his lowered shoulder against the door.

The door flew open a foot or so, checked suddenly against the body behind it, bounced, then went wide as the drive of Casey’s powerful legs knocked the man over backwards. Carried off balance by his charge he went down on top of the fellow, grabbing for the hands and pocket as he dropped and trapping the gun. He took a wild, futile punch on the cheek, then he was on his feet, dragging the man with him, ripping the gun from the pocket.

That ended it and he asked Nancy Allison if she could lug his platecase into the shop and close the door. He found a light-switch and snapped it on. They went along a thick carpet between rows of miscellaneous furniture and pottery and tapestries to a cleared area at the rear where there was a desk. The single light focused upon a large oriental screen standing a few feet in advance of several others like it.

All this had happened without a sound from the blond man. Even now, as Casey studied the handsome sullen face, he said nothing, but stood immobile, his eyes wild with hate and frustration.

“Take a look through the desk,” he told Nancy Allison.

When the girl bent over the desk Casey stepped up to look at the screen, noticing a small easel, a glassful of tiny brushes, a pot of varnish. He felt of the screen, found it sticky to his touch. Then, as he started to circle the blond man, he saw the piece of paper sticking from his coat pocket.

The fellow jerked about but when he felt the thrust of the gun he bit his lip and stiffened. Casey unrolled a thin, tissue-like piece of paper. Upon it was drawn a plan of some sort. He could make nothing of it. It did not seem complete, but rather a part of some larger unit, the central points being designated by numbers. Frowning, he put it on the desk and asked Nancy Allison if she had found anything.

“Yes,” she said without enthusiasm, “but — not the envelope.”

Casey’s lips tightened and he let his eyes move about the room. A topcoat thrown over a chair held his gaze and, moving to it, he put his hand in one of the pockets. Instantly a quick gleam shone in his eyes. Then the lids narrowed and got sleepy and he took out six or seven plateholders. When he had slipped them into his own topcoat pocket he called Nancy Allison over and gave her the gun.

“Watch him,” he ordered, and shrugged out of his coat.

The blond man stood perfectly still at first, but as Casey approached his eyes darted from side to side, and he began to back up. He kept moving backward, eyes held by Casey’s now, until he touched the wall. Then, with a quick, desperate shifting of weight, he whirled and lashed out with his right.

Casey took the blow on his forearm, grabbed the fist and spun the fellow, at the same time driving his own right hard against the mouth.

“That’s for Wade,” he said, and caught the man as he slumped, dragging him over to lower him into a chair. “Where’s Radnor?” he demanded when the man opened his eyes.

The eyes blinked. For a brief instant fire flashed, but some inner impulse quickly quenched it, leaving them dull and stubborn. Casey slapped him twice, hard, rocking the man’s head. He looked over at the girl, who stood watching him with eves wide and face stiff.

He sighed regretfully, stepped back.

“I guess we’ve got to wait for Mr. Radnor,” he said. “But now I think I know the guy I’m looking for.” He paused, seemed reluctant to finish. “Only I think maybe we ought to have some help.”

He picked up the telephone as he spoke and called police headquarters. When he was told that Lieutenant Logan was out he left word to have him call this number, and then looked up the listing of the local office of the F.B.I. He knew the agent in charge here, but it did not help because there was no answer.

“I’m glad,” Nancy Allison said quietly when he hung up, and he eyed her curiously, not quite understanding, until she said: “Now we’ll have to wait right here, won’t we?”

“For a while,” Casey said, remembering now the goal this girl had set.

The odds against success and the risk involved meant nothing to her. This, it seemed, was a better chance than she had hoped for, and nothing mattered now save that she find the envelope for Sir Eric.

Pity fused his thoughts as he sensed how very real and steadfast was her conviction and how little the likelihood of success. Thinking about this made him ashamed of his own selfishness. Someone had grabbed some of his plates, had slugged Wade in doing it. And he was sore and he’d set out in a bull-headed, they-can’t-do-that-to-me mood to get back those plates and pay off. Watching Nancy Allison he knew that he was witnessing a drama of far greater importance than anything he himself had ever done. One man had given his life. This girl stood ready to forfeit hers if necessary — and for something that had no reward beyond that of doing one’s duty.

Troubled deeply by such thoughts he stared for a long time at the screen and paints and varnish, and gradually his concern moderated and an enigmatic brightness kindled in his dark eyes.

“Can you watch him all right?” he asked the girl, and when she nodded, he opened his platecase. Held together by an elastic he found the cut filmholders he sought, but he muttered softly when he was unable to locate the filters he wanted.

He went back to the telephone, called the Express, and talked with Eddy, one of the office boys. “Go down to my desk, Eddy,” he directed. “Top right-hand drawer. You’ll find a box of filters. They’re all marked. Bring down the ultra-violet and infra-red ones.”

He gave Eddy the address, and had started to explain his idea to Nancy Allison when it happened. Actually it happened right before his eyes. He saw the whole thing develop, yet he was powerless to stop it or to give any warning.

One second he was talking to Nancy Allison and watching the blond man in the chair. The next he was staring at a door in the rear wall behind her that had opened a silent foot and now framed the snout of a heavy automatic. Before he could speak the man behind the gun was in the room and a thick deep voice with a snap to it said: “Drop it, lady!”

Casey froze as he saw her hesitate. She stood stiff and straight, brows high, her hand tight on the gun. But she did not drop it. She started to turn.

“No!” yelled Casey. She looked at him and stopped, bewildered and hesitant. “Let go of it!” he ordered. “It’s O.K. Drop it.”

He relaxed and began to breathe again when the gun thudded to the floor. After that the man in the door took on individuality — a thin, dark man with a long pointed jaw and a scar across his mouth.

“He’s the one!” Nancy Allison’s voice rose sharp and bitter. “He did it!”

Casey stared, incredulous. No! This could not be Radnor. This was the man Hoxie had described, one of those who had slugged Wade. This wasn’t the man who.......Not until then did Casey realize that Nancy Allison was not looking behind her, but straight ahead.

He wheeled. There, coming through the front door, a key in one hand and a gun in the other, was a squat, dark man with thick-lensed glasses. Casey knew then that the girl was right, for this was the man who had been in the background of his finder when he had taken the picture of Sir Eric.

“Yeah,” he said thickly as the man advanced. “It had to be that way. You were the one who didn’t dare have your picture printed. You were at the dock to follow Sir Eric, huh? And you sent your two guns to get the plate back. One of them saw me give the plates to Wade and—”

“He did it!” Nancy Allison said again. She hadn’t moved and her eyes were still wide. “I saw him come around the corner of the corridor when I went to see Sir Eric.”

The squat man’s shoulders moved in a shrug. “It was too bad,” he said in a voice that was curiously soft for his bulk, a softness that seemed unhealthy and menacing as he continued. “We had little time.” He glanced at the girl. “Not until this morning was I notified by radio that Franz had been taken and that you and Sir Eric were due today.”

“You murdered him,” she said.

“He attempted to struggle.” He said this regretfully.

“He was practically a cripple,” Casey said grimly.

The man shrugged. “He tried to use his pistol.”

“You took the envelope,” Nancy Allison said. “You are Radnor.”

“Yes,” the man said, and there was a certain cold pride in his manner.

From the corner of his eye Casey saw the blond man move. He had seen him retrieve the gun Nancy Allison had dropped, but his attention had been focused on Radnor. He turned too late.

He saw the hate flame in the eyes, the swinging hand that ended in the gun. Nancy Allison screamed and he pulled away — but not enough. The barrel whipped against his jaw and something exploded in his head and he sagged to one knee. Through the hum of noise and the pounding of pain he heard a soft voice say: “That can wait, Philip. Please. We haven’t time now. Waldo has the light truck in the alley. Load the screens.”

Philip sulked. A pout appeared on his handsome blond face and reluctantly he put away his gun. “I haven’t finished this one,” he said, and, picking up the brush and varnish pot, resumed his work.

Casey got to his feet, the inflection of the squat man’s, “That can wait, Philip,” ringing in his ears. It was spoken softly, but with a dispassionate clearness that hit him with a sickening jolt. He looked across at Nancy Allison, looked at her and knew that he had involved her in something more desperately fantastic than he had ever imagined.

There was more at stake here than assault and murder. This time he had stepped out of his class. This was big-league. And when Radnor was ready to leave, Casey was aware that he and Nancy Allison would not be left behind. And yet, somehow, he did not think she minded as much as he did.

He watched Philip finish with the varnish and put aside his painting paraphernalia. Waldo, meanwhile had started to carry the other screens to the alley. Then Casey remembered something, and, remembering, knew that there remained one chance that he would have to take.

Casually he moved his hand toward his pocket, checking the movement openly when Radnor said: “You will keep your hands where I can see them.”

“Sure.” Casey shrugged and turned to Nancy Allison. “Have you any cigarettes in that bag?”

He stepped slowly, idly, toward her as he spoke and his eyes signaled as best they could. She moved her lips to speak when, suddenly, something flickered in her gray eyes, bringing a gleam of understanding and hope. She began again, saying: “Yes, of course.”

Casey held out his hand to receive the bag, but she made no move to give it to him. Then a sudden thrust of fear hit him hard.

“Just toss it over,” he said quickly.

“I’ll get one for you,” she said, fumbling with the catch.

Things happened so fast then that only in retrospect could he put together the proper sequence. She stood there very straight and slim, with her shoulders pushed back hard and her young face white and stiff with her determination as she defied her fears.

He took one long step towards her, saying: “No, wait! Nancy!”

Behind him he heard Philip’s ugly warning. But he couldn’t stop. She had her hand inside the bag now. He reached out to grab it as she tugged at the gun and then, when he saw he couldn’t stop her, he lunged forward.

His hand found the bag and his shoulder hit her arm, knocking her down behind the desk. Still moving, he went to one knee and the automatic was in his hand, and something hit the desk throwing splinters in his face and there was an explosion of sound behind him.

He pivoted, gun up. Somewhere in the distance there was the sound of commotion against the background of a crisp, incisive command.

Again a gun roared. Amazed that he had not been hit he fired. A second, louder explosion answered him back and then he saw that Philip had dropped his gun and started to sag toward the floor.

Not understanding, nor knowing if his shot had hit Philip, he saw that Radnor had his hands up. Just inside the back door were two men with guns in their hands and moving in behind them came two more. One was Waldo, his arms raised. The other held a gun against his spine.

“Just hold everything,” one of them said while a second started for the front door.

They were hard-eyed, efficient-looking men, these three newcomers, strangers to Casey, so that he stared at them without knowing what the score was until the front door opened and he saw McManus, the F.B.I. agent he had tried to telephone.

Not until then did he look back at Nancy Allison. She had come to her feet. She was staring at Radnor and suddenly something in her eyes reminded him of one more job that had to be done. Quickly, while he still had time, he put the automatic on the desk, stepped up to the man, spun him over behind the desk and let go with a hard left hook.

Radnor went down, toppling over backward, and Casey said, “One for Sir Eric,” and fell on top of him. In that same falling movement he arched himself so that he could slip one hand inside the unconscious man’s coat. He had jammed the bulky envelope up under his vest before hard hands grabbed his shoulders and a voice said, “Lay off!” and he was dragged to his feet.

“Don’t you hit them when they’re looking any more, Flash?” McManus said dryly.

“This was an extra-special case,” Casey said. “And where’ve you been? I tried to call you.”

“Did you?” McManus cocked one brow and blew out his breath. “We weren’t quite ready but maybe it’s all right.”

Casey, remembering now the man who had lounged diagonally across the street after the taxi had left them on the sidewalk, said, “Oh.”

Before he could continue, a pounding shook the front door and when it was opened in popped Eddy, the freckle-faced office boy, with Casey’s filters.

“Have they heard from Wade?” Casey asked.

“He’s going to be all right,” Eddy said. “He’s come to already.”

Quick relief shone in Casey’s dark eyes. “Hah!” he said gratefully, and moved toward his platecase.

“Forget it,” McManus said. “No pictures of this, Flash.”

Casey saw that argument was useless, but he opened his platecase nevertheless, saying: “But I can get a couple shots of that screen, can’t I?”

He knew from the way McManus grinned at him that he couldn’t, so at last he slipped on his topcoat and reassured himself by wrapping his hand around the half-dozen plateholders in the pocket before he said, crabbing in a tolerant sort of way: “My pal, huh? O.K. But they’ve got pictures on them — those screens. Underneath those fancy figures. They ought to show up with the right kind of filter.

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” McManus said. He picked up the tissue sheet Casey had tossed on the desk. “Harbor defenses,” he said. “The screens came in a month ago, about thirty of them. When customs found out they had reshipped a few, we checked up.” He glanced at one of the other men. “We’ve been working it out with naval intelligence.”

After that Casey had to do some talking. It took him quite a while, but what he said was convincing and after Nancy Allison had corroborated him McManus seemed satisfied.

“But I still don’t get it,” Casey said as he finished. “You didn’t know about Sir Eric or the dope he had.”

“Not a thing,” McManus replied. “The English are working on their problems and we’re working on ours. It just happens that this time we’re bucking the same outfit. Radnor had to reach Sir Eric to protect his bureau — if what you say is true. At the same time he was doing this on the side” — he gestured toward the screen — “for possible future use. And that’s where we come in.”

He glanced at Nancy Allison. “You’ll want to get in touch with your Embassy. If they want to cooperate it’ll be a help.”

He moved to the telephone and Casey said, “I’ll have that cigarette now,” and drew Nancy Allison into a corner. He took her bag, opened it, slipped the envelope into it from under his vest. “You’ll have to see this thing through, I guess,” he said quietly, “but here’s something for you.”

“For Sir Eric,” Nancy said, her eyes shining and her mouth soft.

“For Sir Eric,” said Casey, “and for you.”