The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps

“And a damn’ good thing I did,” flung out Casey. He put both hands on the desk top and leaned on them. He held that position while he told Blaine the whole story about that picture, what it meant to the police, how it had been used to bargain with and the reason he had had a halftone made.

There was a peculiar gleam in Blaine’s eyes now. Casey saw it, but he could not fathom it. It was hard, intent, yet there seemed to be something in the background. It couldn’t be humor — a grim sort of humor—

Casey flung aside the thought, and with this mental effort some of his rage evaporated. That first hot burst at Blaine’s announcement came from impulsive reaction; but as the true character of the situation, as the underlying significance of the city editor’s attitude dawned upon him, a new kind of anger fastened itself upon him. Anger that was logical and mixed with weariness, disillusionment, resentment.

This feeling was strange to Casey, strange but not hard to understand. He had been going at top speed since four-thirty that afternoon. The past five hours had been crammed with action, and death, and a nerve-wracking tension that centered around the safety of Tom Wade.

Perhaps it was this strain that brought about that hollow feeling of discouragement; it might have been that he was tired, that his head ached, or that the wound in his side had left him weakened. More probably it was because Blaine had let him down. Blaine, the sharp-tongued, unsympathetic driver — who always backed up his men.

“All right,” Casey said finally. “I’ll be glad to go.” His voice was husky, a bit scornful now, his smoldering anger and resentment tinging each word.

“I only stuck here because you had something on the ball, and because I always thought you were on the level. I had you figured for the one newspaperman in town who would print the news as he saw it and not let some fat-headed guy with a lot of money call you.

“But if Fessendon’s got you, if you can’t take it, if you’re gonna do what he says and like it” — Casey breathed deeply, tightened his lips — “why, that’s okey with me. I knew damn’ well I had the right dope when you pulled that Judson gag. But I never thought you were a liar.”

“Who’s a liar? What about Judson?” said Blaine, and his voice got thin.

“Just like I said. He didn’t call here and tell you or Fessendon to kill that picture. I asked him.”

“He didn’t—” Blaine got up slowly, menacingly and leaned across the desk.

“It was that skirt-crazy Lee Fessendon that—”

Blaine spun about and started through the doorway behind his desk. Casey followed him, still talking. And Wade, goggle-eyed and with nothing else to do, tagged behind. Blaine moved to Fessendon’s office with stiff-kneed strides, threw open the door.

Fessendon looked up from his desk, started to smile. The smile faded when Blaine spoke.

“You said Judson told you we had to kill Casey’s picture.”

“He... he did,” said Fessendon, avoiding Blaine’s stare.

“Casey says Judson said no such thing.”

“Well,” Fessendon stood up and his pink face got red and scowling. “Are you going to take his word against mine?”

“Any time,” rapped Blaine, “and anywhere. I told you when I stayed on here I’d run this sheet my way or not at all. You framed up the Judson gag because neither you — nor your kid brother had guts enough to stand up and—”

“You can’t talk that way to me,” stormed Fessendon.

“You hear me, don’t you?”

Fessendon took a menacing step forward. “I’m running this paper. Suppose Lee did call me up and tell me about that picture? I don’t take orders from you, Blaine, and—”

“You said it.” Blaine’s lip curled. “Maybe you take them from that jelly-kneed brother who was afraid to face a bawling out from his wife.”

“You’re fired,” shouted Fessendon.

“That makes two of us,” said Blaine.

“Three,” piped up Wade.

“And I have one thing more to toss in the pot,” Blaine rapped. “Plenty of fellows think I’m a slave driver; I don’t doubt they hate my guts. But I’ve had one sort of a reputation. I played the game and I played it square. Casey’s the first man that ever said I wasn’t on the leveclass="underline" the first guy that ever called me a liar — and I can’t blame him.

“I hate a liar, too, Fessendon. I hate a double crosser. And that’s what you are, a lousy, lying, double-crossing—!”

Fessendon hit Blaine then. Hit him back of the ear and Blaine went down. Casey cursed and stepped forward, but Blaine sat up, said: “You stay out of this.”

He got to his feet and deliberately repeated his opinion. Fessendon, his face a livid mask, swung his right. This time Blaine was ready. He said: “I thought so,” as he moved inside that right and jabbed his left to Fessendon’s stomach.

Fessendon gasped and he seemed to gag as he crumpled. Then Blaine crossed his right. It landed flush and it straightened Fessendon before it dropped him.