Silent Are the Dead Read Free

the hazel eyes, the chestnut hair with auburn lights in it; he saw too that her mouth was still somewhat tight and determined, and he decided she would be a lot prettier if only she would smile. “You don’t know when he’ll be back?” she added finally.
    Casey said he didn’t. It might be any time, and was there anything he could do?
    â€œI’m afraid not.” She rose, smoothing out her suit, and her mouth relaxed a little. “Thank you just the same.”
    He watched her move to the door, suggesting tentatively, “You wouldn’t want to leave your name?”
    â€œI don’t believe so,” she said. “Perhaps I can see him later.”
    It was after 8:00 when Casey got back to the studio. His earlier attempts to get in touch with Endicott had failed, so he had declared a truce while he went down the street and put away three old-fashioneds and a steak. Now, coming through the doorway to resume his pursuit of the lawyer, he saw Perry Austin sitting at his desk manicuring his fingernails. Casey sat down and reached for the telephone.
    â€œThere was a dame looking for you,” he said.
    Austin glanced up. “What kind of a dame?”
    â€œHow do I know? I don’t run around with dames— much.”
    â€œWell, what did she look like?”
    â€œOffhand,” Casey said, grinning, “I’d say she looked a little too good for you.” And he went on to describe the girl as best he could.
    Austin could not seem to identify her. “Damned if I know who she is,” he said, frowning. “Funny she didn’t want to leave her name— She didn’t say what she wanted?”
    Casey answered absently as he got busy on the telephone again, and after a few minutes he located Stanford Endicott, the houseboy at his apartment informing him that the lawyer had gone to his office.
    â€œI thought you covered him this afternoon,” Austin said as the big photographer hung up.
    â€œI did,” Casey said, and, in no mood to explain, added, “I have to get some more.”
    Austin went back to his fingernails and Casey studied him a moment before reaching for his plate case. A symmetrically slender and regular-featured fellow in his late twenties, Austin had been dubbed the fashion plate of the Express because of his liking for society and night-club assignments and his penchant for sartorial splendor. He had come from somewhere in the West two years ago, and although Casey had never been particularly friendly with him, he recognized him as a competent man with a camera in spite of the wave in his hair and the small clipped mustache that did not entirely hide the suggestion of weakness about the mouth. Right now he was especially resplendent in a double-breasted dinner jacket, and as he lounged behind his desk he seemed out of place in the studio.
    â€œWhat’re you on?” Casey asked.
    â€œI’m going down to the Club Berkely. They’re having the finals in that ‘Most Popular Model Contest.’”
    â€œHow’s chances for a lift?”
    â€œNow?”
    Austin put away his nail file and shrugged. “All right,” he said finally. “I’m a little early but—”
    Casey put some extra flash bulbs and fresh film holders in his case, slipped into his balmacaan. He watched Austin shift the red carnation from the dinner jacket to the buttonhole of his Chesterfield.
    â€œSometimes,” he said dryly, “I wonder if you aren’t wasting your time.”
    â€œHow?” Austin frowned.
    â€œInstead of takin’ pictures maybe you ought to pose for ’em.”
    â€œJust because a fellow’s a photographer—” Austin began.
    â€œIs no sign he can’t be smartly dressed,” Casey finished. “You told me that before— Well, let’s get started.”
    The building where Stanford Endicott had his offices was a small but neatly modern structure in beige