Silent Are the Dead Read Free Page A

brick and limestone, one of the growing row that had forced the neighboring ancient red-brick fronts to masquerade with false façades in a desperate attempt to recapture some semblance of smartness.
    Austin parked his coupé beyond the entrance and as Casey was opening the door, he saw the man come through the arched doorway. The light from the foyer was behind him and Casey did not see the face until the fellow passed the window of a dress shop next door. By that time Casey was on the sidewalk, and as he stood there the man glanced over his shoulder. For just an instant their eyes met; then the fellow had disappeared in the shadows and Casey knew who he was: Nat Garrison, a onetime welterweight who had been sent to Charlestown some years previous for assault with a dangerous weapon.
    So he’s out, Casey thought, and as Austin came round the car, he tried to think back, to recall whether Endicott had been the lawyer who defended Garrison, or whether Endicott had at that time been the prosecutor.
    â€œI might as well go up as wait out here,” Austin said.
    Casey said he might as well and they went along the foyer to the single automatic elevator. “Of course we’re liable to get thrown out,” he added. “I haven’t got an appointment, you know.”
    â€œI’d rather get thrown out with you than anybody I know,” Austin said, and pushed the button marked 3. “Remember that Bund meeting?”
    â€œYeah,” Casey said, and thinking about it helped to re-establish Austin in his estimation. The guy was a smoothy and went for the night life and soft assignments, but when the chips were down he could handle himself. They’d both got their lumps at that Bund meeting, but they were battling back to back at the finish. “We had fun that day, huh?”
    There were six doors opening on the third-floor hall and the three that made up the left-hand side were given over to Stanford Endicott, the rear two being of plain wood and the first bearing a frosted-glass panel which said, Stanford Endicott- — Enter Here.
    Casey found this door unlocked. He opened it and went in. There was no direct light here, but he saw it was a large room and sufficient illumination came through the glass panel of the connecting door to make the layout discernible. There was a railed-in space to make a waiting-room of sorts, a settee, and some chairs; the balance of the floor was given over to desks and chairs and typewriters and filing cabinets.
    Austin shut the door. Casey pushed past the gate ill the rail, crossed to the glass-paneled door and opened it. He took one more step; then stopped short, still holding to the knob, feeling Austin bump against his back, but not moving.
    This room was smaller than the first, but not small. There were two room-high windows at one side, a leather divan, two leather chairs to match, a massive and expensive-looking desk in one corner, behind which was a high-backed chair that probably cost as much as the desk. The pile in the over-all, sand-colored rug was long enough to trip over, and almost in the center of it was Stanford Endicott.
    He was on his back, one arm outflung, his knees straight and ankles crossed, as though he had done it on purpose. Casey didn’t think he had; Casey thought he was dead.
    Behind him Perry Austin made a quick, sucking sound and began to curse with a curious, hushed intensity that seemed, in all that stillness, shockingly loud. When he tried to crowd past, Casey moved out of the way, stepping quickly to the lawyer’s side, seeing then the slowly widening puddle of blood inching from under the back of the coat. He dropped to one knee and picked up a limp wrist.
    It was warm, as warm as life itself. But there was no pulse. He didn’t put his hand inside the vest to feel for a heart beat because just about where the heart should be were two tiny frayed holes in the gray fabric. Austin spoke softly behind