Murder for Two by George Harmon Coxe Page B

“Well—”
    Karen Harding belted her robe anew and went quickly to the secretary. She knelt and pulled the bottom drawer, opening her patent-leather bag and taking out the roll of film.
    â€œHere,” she said.
    Blondie unrolled it. He held it up to the light. “Umm,” he said approvingly. “Now you see how simple it was?” He slipped the film into his coat pocket, moved around Casey, and picked up the print that the big photographer had dropped. “Thanks,” he said, and looked at Harry and winked as he started for the door.
    Casey saw the wink, realizing too late that Harry was behind him. Before he could turn, the room fell in on him and the last thing he heard was Karen Harding’s frightened cry.
    At first the voice was dim and faraway but as it grew stronger Casey decided it was a very nice voice, and through the pain that hammered at his brain he thought he recognized it, he thought it was calling his name. He knew he had to answer somehow and tried, but no words came and so he opened his eyes and found himself on the floor with his head in Karen Harding’s lap.
    â€œFlash,” she said, wiping the moisture from his forehead. “Oh, how could they. Oh, damn them—” She saw his eyes open and gave a little joyful cry. “Flash. Oh, Flash. Are you—”
    â€œNah,” Casey said, and grinned. He felt relaxed and comfortable and the pain didn’t seem so bad. “I’m okay,” he said, but he didn’t get up right away. He waited until he was sure his head would stay on and then he remembered what had happened and the grin went away.
    He sat up, struggling to his feet in spite of her protests. She rose with him, holding to his arm and telling him to come with her into the bathroom.
    â€œHow long have they been gone?” Casey wanted to know.
    â€œOh—three or four minutes. And please let me fix your head. Take that coat off. Please. Now you come with me.”
    Casey was seething but he went, letting her help to support him though he needed no help now. She made him sit on the bath tub. She draped a towel around his neck and then made cold compresses for his head and in spite of his protests she insisted on bathing the lump on his scalp and applying mercurochrome because, she said, the skin had been broken.
    â€œI had my hat on,” Casey said. “I’ve had worse lumps than this. It doesn’t even hurt now,” he lied.
    Karen Harding said she was glad. She said she had been practically sick with fright. She put the soiled towels away after Casey had dried his hair and face and smiled at him. He looked at her with one eye and said severely:
    â€œAll right now. Come clean. How’d you get that picture? You went back to Byrkman’s after we put you in the cab.”
    She lowered her glance and then looked up through her lashes. “Yes,” she said, and told him all about it when they went back into the living-room.
    Casey listened, his amazement mounting as he realized what this slip of a girl had done. When she had finished he leaned back in his chair and sighed heavily.
    â€œLook,” he said. “You haven’t got a drink here, have you? I didn’t think you would,” he said when she said she was sorry. “All right. You sat there in Byrkman’s living-room and saw the bags in the bedroom. Why didn’t you say so? Why didn’t you tell Logan?”
    Karen Harding had curled up on the couch, her feet tucked under her; now she shrugged and began to pick at the hem of her robe.
    â€œI intended to,” she said, “as soon as we got out. And then—well, the lieutenant said I had to go home. He made it quite plain that he couldn’t be bothered with me and so I thought, all right, I’ll find out for myself.”
    Casey sighed again, deciding that only a woman would think of such reasoning—and who was he to understand a woman’s mind. Then he