Free Silent Are the Dead by George Harmon Coxe Page A

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?”
    â€œHas Finell come to yet?”
    â€œNo. And if I don’t get a drink I’m going to crawl in with him.”
    â€œAll right,” Casey said. “We’ll call it off for tonight.”
    â€œWhat about the drink?”
    â€œQuit crabbin’ and I’ll buy you one.”
    â€œYes, you will,” Wade scoffed. “At this hour?”
    â€œYes, 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.
    â€œFlash 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.”
    â€œHi, 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.”
    â€œDamned if you’re not,” said Casey.
    â€œCount 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.”
    â€œWe’ll double it.” McCann gave him that double-action wrist again and took his arm. “Come on. Up we go.”
    â€œWait 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.”
    â€œWho 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