Murder for Two by George Harmon Coxe Page A

mean,” she said. “I—I never saw it before.”
    Blondie stopped grinning and his pale, hooded eyes got mean. “Sit down,” he said, taking a threatening step. Karen Harding felt for a chair behind her and dropped into it. “You, too,” he said to Casey.
    â€œYou heard him, pal,” Harry said.
    Casey looked at him. It was the first time he had really seen this one, and he didn’t like what he saw. Harry was swart and slender. His clothes were new-looking and too tight except in the shoulders. He had thick black brows that practically touched over the bridge of his nose and beneath this thick black line his beagle eyes were small and bright and pitiless.
    Casey perched on the arm of the couch, craning his neck now to get a look at the print in Blondie’s hand. He remembered what the girl had said in her message. She had put a picture in his drawer. This was it. But it wasn’t the one she had taken of him.
    â€œNow,” Blondie said, “let’s start straight. You took this picture, sis. We saw you lean out of the cab but the hacker turned his lights on and we got the number. It took us a while to find him. He said he dropped you at the Express and when we got there we saw your note and found this thing”—he held up the print—“in the drawer. We want the film. It wasn’t in this guy’s desk. Now do you hand it over like a nice little girl or do we get tough about it?”
    Karen Harding looked at Casey again and now there was something a little desperate in her eyes. Casey recognized it, knew she had the film. He tried to stall.
    â€œLet’s see it,” he said.
    Blondie tossed it over. It slid to the floor and Casey picked it up. He took one look and then nearly fell off the couch. He gulped fast and tried to put down his incredulity, knowing at once from the light values of the print that the film was infra-red. Artistically it wasn’t much of a picture. It wasn’t too clear, but it was clear enough to show Harry and Blondie, each one with a suitcase; it was clear enough to show the thin, small form of Henry Byrkman between them.
    Beyond that Casey could not go. He heard Blondie talking to Karen Harding, heard her answer, but it was several seconds before he could swallow his amazement and concentrate on what was being said. He saw, finally, that Harry had moved closer, that Blondie had stepped toward the girl.
    â€œSit down,” Harry said when Casey started to rise.
    â€œOkay, sis,” Blondie said, “if that’s the way it is. Watch him, Harry,” he said and reached for the girl, pulling her to her feet, holding her closely with one arm while the other hand pried in the pockets of the robe.
    This time Casey came up. From the corner of his eye he saw Harry chop at him with the gun, but he swiveled away and lunged at Blondie.
    Karen Harding said, “No!” in a hushed, frightened voice and Blondie swung her quickly into Casey’s path and stepped back, the gun jumping into his hand.
    Casey stopped. He heard Harry behind him and turned slightly and Harry stopped too. Blondie studied the situation a moment, his mouth ugly and a flush suffusing his face. Finally he moved away from the girl and toward Casey.
    â€œI guess,” he said, nodding to Harry, “I guess we’ve got to take care of this guy first.”
    Casey half turned, shifting his weight and getting his feet the way he wanted them. He winked at the girl and put on his hat. “Okay,” he said to Blondie, “let’s go.”
    â€œNo,” Karen Harding said. “I’ll give you the film.”
    â€œSo—” Blondie grinned and stepped back.
    Casey let his breath come out and some of the stiffness slid away from his legs when he realized that his anger had nearly led him into something he probably could not have finished.
    â€œWe had an idea you had it here,” Blondie said.