Free Silent Are the Dead by George Harmon Coxe

pictures.”
    â€œHe did.”
    Casey sipped his drink. “How was the contest?”
    â€œGreat. Only they had me on the air from twelve to twelve-thirty introducing people and making speeches. You should’ve dropped in.”
    Casey studied Dixon carefully over his glass. He was a lithe, wiry man of 35 or so, with thinning brown hair, which he wore parted in the middle and plastered back, and small, deep-set eyes that were as opaque and fathomless as well water. The dinner jacket he wore must have cost a $150 and looked it. His collar and tie were immaculate, he wore a platinum wrist watch, and on his little finger was a platinum ring set with a star sapphire. His trousers had lots of pleats and a fine gold chain was looped from his pocket. The only thing wrong was the aggregate effect—he was too smooth, too immaculate, too studied.
    â€œI wish I could have,” Casey said. “Only I got hooked up in that Endicott murder.”
    Nothing moved in Dixon’s face. He was examining his highball glass, turning it as he did so. “I heard about it. What happened?”
    â€œHe was stretched out on the floor when I got there.”
    â€œWhen you got there?”
    â€œMe and Austin.”
    â€œOh.” It was just a word with no inflection. He was still inspecting his glass. “He was a nice guy, Stan. It’s a hard one to figure.”
    Casey waited, watching covertly. Dixon took some more of his drink. “Has the law got any angles yet?”
    â€œThey think maybe he was killed before he could talk.”
    â€œAbout what? That bond rap?”
    â€œUm-hum. They think he wasn’t the only one in it and maybe knew too much. They think maybe the guy that did it beat it down the back stairs and got away in a small sedan.”
    â€œThat’s a good start,” Dixon said. He’ said other things too, but Casey replied automatically because he was thinking about Dixon and not what he said. What his racket had been in New York, Casey did not know. In fact no one had paid much attention to him until he started the Club Berkely four or five years ago. Now everything was changed. The Berkely was the place—and apparently it had netted Bernie Dixon a fortune. People made a fuss over him these days, and fought for ringside tables and the publicity attendant upon their getting them. He catered to personalities of all kinds.
    Yet there had never been any unpleasant publicity connected with the establishment. Nothing rowdy was tolerated and what few fights occurred there were of the one-punch variety peculiar to the breed of nightclub cavaliers. Casey remembered all these things and more. He remembered what Logan had said about Dixon and Mrs. Endicott, that Dixon had been a client of Endicott. And all of a sudden Casey was wondering whether this was the man he had seen behind the wheel of the little sedan when he had taken that picture.
    He realized Dixon had become silent and said, “When did Austin leave?”
    â€œI didn’t see him. He was there earlier. Around ten-thirty, I know, because he took some pictures. After that I was too busy to notice. We had five girls in the finals. They all had to do a turn—you know, sing or dance or something.”
    â€œWas he there when you got there?”
    â€œI think he was.”
    â€œAnd when was that?”
    â€œAbout ten o’clock.”
    â€œOh. You got there at ten.”
    â€œYes.”
    Casey hadn’t realized he, was staring until he caught the inflection of that word; now he saw that the man was watching him, his little eyes half-hidden, his smile tight and mirthless. He put down his glass. He looked up at Casey with those prying, fathomless eyes and his voice was clipped but measured.
    â€œYes, I got there about ten, Casey.” He turned away, stopped to say, “Why don’t you stop in some time? I’ll see that you get a good table.”
    Casey swung back to the bar and