Free Dead on the Level by Helen Nielsen

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