"She says she has to finish a story".
He shrugged.
"I asked her why she couldn't do it tomorrow, but it seems the muse is working good tonight and she's afraid to let it go".

Casey made some comment, but his mind was busy as he considered the man.
His name was George Needham and he, too, had come from a good family.
He was perhaps thirty-two, nicely set up, with light brown hair that had a pronounced wave.
He was always well groomed and well tailored, and he had that rich man's look which was authentic enough and came from two good prep schools and a proper university.
An only child, he had done all the things that young men do who have been born to money and social position until his father double-crossed him by dying broke.
Since then he had worked at this and that, though some said his main interest was gambling.

All this went through Casey's mind in the first instant, but what held his interest was the fact that these two should be together at all.
For he had understood that Betty had been engaged to a boy named Barry Jenkins.
She had grown up with young Jenkins, and he had heard that they had been at the point of getting married at least twice.
He wanted to ask her about Jenkins now, but he knew he couldn't do so in Needham's presence.
And so, still wondering and a little perplexed, he grinned at the girl and spoke lightly to make sure that she would know he was kidding.

"Where did you pick him up"?

"Oh, I've known him quite a while".
She glanced at her companion fondly.
"Haven't I, George"?

"I've been after her for years", Needham said, "but I've never been able to get anywhere until the last few days".

The girl's eyes were softly shining as she reached out and touched Casey's hand.
"Can I tell you a secret?
We're going to get married.
Do you approve"?

Casey kept his smile fixed, but some small inner disturbance was working on him as he thought again about Needham, who was eight or ten years older than the girl.
He wondered whether Needham was going to swear off gambling and get a steady job or whether he was counting on the income from Betty's estate to subsidize him.
None of this showed in his face, and he tried to keep his skepticism in hand.
He made a point of frowning, of acting out the part of the fond father-confessor.

"I'll have to give it some thought", he said.
"You wouldn't want me to say yes without making sure his intentions are honorable, would you"?

She made a face at him and then she laughed.
"Of course not".

"I'll get my references in order", Needham said, and though he spoke with a smile, Casey somehow got the idea that he was not particularly amused.
"Stop by any time, Casey".
He stood up and touched the girl's arm.
"Come on, darling.
If you're really serious about working on that story, I'd better take you home".

Casey watched them go, still frowning absently and then dismissing the matter as he called for his check.
As he went out he told Freddie the dinner was perfect, and when he got his hat and coat from Nancy Parks and put a fifty-cent piece in the slot, he told her to be sure that it went toward her dowry.

A taxi took him back to the bar and grill where he had left his car, and a few minutes later he found a parking place across the street from his apartment.
Because his mind had been otherwise occupied for the past couple of hours, he did not think to look and see if Jerry Burton's car was still there.
In fact, he did not think about Jerry Burton at all until he entered his living room and closed the door behind him.
Only then, when his glance focused on the divan and saw that it was empty, did he remember his earlier problem.

Even from where he stood he could see the neatly folded blanket that he had spread over Burton, the pillow, the sheet of paper on top of it.
Then he was striding across the room, his thoughts confused but the worry building swiftly inside him as he snatched up the note.

Jack:

Look in the wastebasket.
I knew the only way I could beat you was to play possum, but it was a good try, kid, and I appreciate it.

The wastebasket stood near the wall next to the divan, and the instant Casey picked it up he knew what had happened.
The discarded papers inside were sodden, there was a glint of liquid at the bottom, and the smell of whisky was strong and distinct.
He put the basket down distastefully, muttering softly and thoroughly disgusted with himself and his plan that had seemed so foolproof.
For he remembered too well how he had brought back the loaded drinks to Burton and then returned to the kitchen to get weaker drinks for himself.

For another second or two he gave in to the annoyance that was directed at himself;
then his mind moved on to be confronted by something far more serious, and as the thought expanded, the implications jarred him.
It no longer mattered that Burton had outsmarted him.
The important thing was that Burton had gone somewhere to meet a blackmailer with a gun in his pocket.
And that gun was empty.

Even before his mind had rounded out the idea, he thrust one hand into his trousers pocket and pulled out the six slugs he had taken from the revolver.
He considered them with brooding eyes, brows bunched as his brain grappled with the problem and tried to find some solution.
He said: "The crazy fool", half aloud.
He put the shells on the table, as though he could no longer bear to hold them.
He thought: Where the hell could he have gone?
How can I find him?

There was no answer to this and he began to pace back and forth across the room, his imagination out of control.
He tried to tell himself that maybe Burton had sobered up enough to get some sense.
Maybe he only intended to scare the blackmailer, whoever he was, in which case an unloaded gun would be good enough.
He thought of other possibilities, none of them satisfactory, and finally he began to think, to wonder if there was some way he could reach Burton.
Then, as he turned toward the telephone, it rang shrilly to shatter the stillness in the room and he reached for it eagerly.

"Yeah", he said.

"Casey"?

"Yeah".

"Tony Calenda".

Casey heard the voice distinctly and he knew who it was, but it took him a while to make the mental readjustment and control the disturbance inside his head.
When he heard Calenda say: "What about that picture you took this afternoon"?
It still took him another few seconds to remember the job he had done for Frank Ackerly.

"What picture"?
He demanded.

"You took a picture of me at the corner of Washington and Blake about three thirty this afternoon".

"Who says so"?

"One of my boys".

Casey believed that much.
Calenda was not the sort who walked around without one of his "boys" close at hand.

"So"?

"With my trial coming up in Federal Court next week I wouldn't want that picture published".

"Who says it's going to be published"?

"I wouldn't even want it to get around".

Under normal circumstances Casey was a little fussy when people told him what to do with pictures he had taken.
Even so, he generally listened and was usually reasonable to those who voiced their objections properly.
Right now, however, he was still too worried about Jerry Burton, and the gun that had no bullets, and the story Burton had told him, to care too much about Tony Calenda.
His nerves were getting a little ragged and his impatience put an edge in his voice.

"Look", he said.
"I was hired to take a picture.
I took it.
That's all I know about it and that's all I care".

"Maybe you'd better tell the guy who hired you what I said".

"You tell him".

"All right", Calenda said, his voice still quiet.
"But I meant what I said, Casey.
If that picture gets around and I find out you had anything to do with it, I'm going to send a couple of my boys around to see you".

"You do that", Casey said.
"Just be sure to send your two best boys, Tony".

He hung up with a bang, annoyed at himself for running off at the mouth like that but still terribly concerned with the situation he had helped to create.
As soon as he could think logically again he reached for the telephone directory and found Jerry Burton's home number.
He dialed it and listened to it ring ten times before he hung up.
He called the bar and grill where he had picked Burton up that afternoon.
When he was told that no one had seen Burton since then, he thought of three other places that were possibilities.
Each time he got the same answer and in the end he gave up.

By the time he had smoked three cigarettes he had calmed down.
He had done all he could and that was that.
And anyway Burton was not the kind of guy who would be likely to get in trouble even when he was drunk.
He, Casey, had been scared for a while, but that had come mostly from the fact that he felt responsible.
He should have stayed here and watched Burton.
He didn't.
So he made a mistake.
So what?

He kept telling himself this as he went out to the kitchen to make a drink.
Only then did he decide he didn't want one.
He considered opening a can of beer but vetoed that idea too.
Finally he went into the bedroom and sat down to take off his shoes.
He had just finished unlacing the right one when the telephone rang again.
When he snatched it up the voice that came to him was quick and urgent.

"Casey?
You don't know me but I know you.
If you want a picture get to the corner of Adams and Clark just as fast as you can.
If you hurry you might beat the headquarters boys".

Casey heard the click of the distant receiver before he could open his mouth, and it took him no more than three seconds to make his decision.
For over the years he had received many such calls.
Some of them came from people who identified themselves.
Some telephoned because he had done them a favor in the past.
Others because they expected some sort of reward for the information.
A few passed along a tip for the simple reason that they liked him and wanted to give him a break.
Only an occasional tip turned out to be a phony, and, like the police, Casey had made a point of running down all such suggestions and he did not hesitate this time.

He was in his car with his camera and equipment bag in less than two minutes, and it took him only three more to reach the corner, a block from Columbus Avenue.
It was a district of small factories and loft buildings and occasional tenements, and he could see the police radio car as he rounded the corner and slammed on the brakes.
He did not bother with his radio -- there would be time for that later -- but as he scrambled out on the pavement he saw the filling station and the public telephone booth and knew instantly how he had been summoned.

The police car had pulled up behind a small sedan, its headlights still on.