Rogue Cop

2

Carmody drove from Beaumonte’s apartment to a drug store on Market Street and called his brother’s home. There was no answer. He replaced the receiver and remained seated in the booth, thinking coolly and without emotion of Beaumonte’s words: We want this peaceful... but if your brother won’t play ball we’ll have to do it our way.

Beaumonte meant that. There was no phoniness about him when it came to business. He squandered his bluff on paintings and horse shows and the Mayor’s council on human relations, catering generously then to his itch for approval and respectability. But this was business. His and Ackerman’s. And they’d order Eddie killed with no more emotion than they’d order a steak.

Carmody wasn’t worried yet. The confidence in his own strength and brains was the hard core of his being, impervious to strain or pressure. Somehow, he would save Eddie. He accepted Beaumonte’s deadly injunction as a factor in the equation. They — Beaumonte and Ackerman-meant business. Therefore, something else would have to give. That was Eddie.

After a ten-minute wait he dialed Eddie’s number again and let it ring. Eddie might be outside watering the lawn, or at the workbench in the basement, repairing a lock or mending a screen. Something important, Carmody thought.

The phone clicked in his ear. Eddie’s voice said, “Yes? Hello.”

“This is Mike. How’s the boy?”

“Mike? How are you?” Eddie’s tone was neutral, neither friendly nor unfriendly. “I was splicing a hose out in the back yard. You been ringing long?”

Splicing a hose, Carmody thought, shaking his head. “Eddie, I want to see you tonight.”

“I’m going out pretty soon,” his brother said.

“Well, I can meet you anywhere you say. This is important. Where will you be?”

“Vespers at Saint Pat’s.”

“Vespers?”

“Sure. You might remember if you put your mind to it.”

Eddie’s tone, hard and sarcastic, warned Carmody off the subject. “How about afterward then?” he said.

There was a short silence. Then Eddie said, “I’ve got a date later, Mike.”

“Well, something you’ve been keeping from me, eh?” Carmody said, trying for a lighter touch.

“I know what’s on your mind,” Eddie said shortly. “And the answer is no, Mike.”

“Don’t jump to conclusions,” Carmody said. This was no time for anger; that would tear it for good. “I’ve got something to tell you in person. So how about it?”

“Okay,” Eddie said, after a pause. “There’s a club at Edgely and Broad called the Fanfair. I can meet you there at eleven.”

“Fine.” He tried once more for a lighter mood. “You’re moving in swanky circles, kid.”

“It’s just a neighborhood joint,” Eddie said, keeping it cold and distant. “I’ll see you, Mike.”

Carmody left the booth and glanced at his watch. It was almost eight-thirty and there was no point in going back to Headquarters. He ordered a lemon Coke at the fountain and looked over the magazine rack while he drank it. Then he phoned in and left a message with the clerk for Lieutenant Wilson, saying he was on something important and would be in later. The clerk told him everything was still quiet, and added that the card game could go on all night if things stayed this way.

“Yes, we’ve got snap jobs,” Carmody said, and replaced the receiver.

With almost two hours to kill, he left the drug store and strolled down Market, trying to dismiss the memory of Eddie’s coldness. It hadn’t always been that way. Carmody was eight years older than his brother and as a boy Eddie had idolized him, which was inevitable, considering the difference in their ages. He had taught Eddie to swim, to play ball, to fight and had bought him clothes and lent him money for his first dates. Eddie had been a nice little guy, Carmody thought, walking along the bright crowded street. A serious kid, not bright or shrewd but straightforward and dependable. Almost too pretty in the soft, dark-pale Irish manner; flawless fair skin, long-lashed blue eyes, thick, curly black hair. In his cassock and surplice with the round white collar under his chin he had always stolen the show at St. Pat’s Christmas and Easter processions. But he’d never been spoiled, Carmody remembered. He was just a likable little boy, shyly earnest and direct, with a thousand little-boy questions always buzzing in his head. Carmody smiled slightly. Why don’t footballs float like balloons? Could the old man lick Jack Dempsey? How come you have to leave home when you marry an old girl? Carmody had always felt like smiling at him when he asked questions like that, his face serious, his long-lashed eyes staring at Mike as if he knew everything in the world. They’d got along fine then and maybe that was the only way two people ever got along — when one of them was so trusting that he accepted the other’s every word without doubt or resentment. But it couldn’t stay that way. Eventually, the dumb one got smart and saw that his idol was just another poor fool.

Time was standing still, Carmody thought, looking at his watch. The crowds went by him, charged with night time excitement and a traffic cop waved and gave him a soft, smiling salute. He crossed the street and stopped to look at the bright posters in front of a movie house. Buying a ticket, he went inside and took a back seat. The audience sloped down from him to the screen, a dark, intense unit. There was an irritating smell of stale smoke and popcorn in the heavy air.

After twenty minutes he lost interest in the picture and left. It was the kind of junk that annoyed him thoroughly, a sticky, phony story about a man and woman who ran into trouble because they ignored the standards of their society. Who in hell made those standards? A group of frightened ninnies who clung for protection to the symbols of reversed collars and nightsticks, and wanted only a kind boss, an insurance policy and a two-room apartment with babies.

There was no penalty for smashing the rules made by these timid people; Carmody had proved that to his satisfaction. The truth they gave lip-service to didn’t exist; there was no mystery about life, no hidden value, no far-away beauty and happiness. The true life spread around every human being, a dog-eat-dog slaughter for money and power. Those who didn’t see it were blinded by fear; they closed their eyes to the truth because they were afraid to fight. They wanted a handout, a pension, a break, from some other world. They can’t take this world, and that’s why we take it away from them, Carmody thought.

Finally, he turned into a night club on Fifteenth Street, a big splashy place with a name band and a Hollywood star doing an M.C. turn between pictures. Carmody had a drink with the owner, a worried little man named Ventura, who was going into court the following month to explain some tax irregularities. They talked about the case and Ventura wanted to know if Carmody had heard anything about it, or did he know the judge, and how the hell did things look anyway?

“That’s all Federal,” Carmody said, relieved that there was no way he could help. That was odd; normally he didn’t mind doing a favor. Maybe I want a favor, he thought. But what? And who can help me? While Ventura was off greeting a chattering bunch of expensive-looking college kids, Carmody paid the check and left.

Now it was time to see his brother.

Eddie was sitting at the bar, his broad back to the entrance, and Carmody came up behind him and slapped him on the shoulder. His brother turned, smiling awkwardly, and they exchanged hellos and shook hands.

“What’ll you have?” Eddie asked him.

“It doesn’t matter. Scotch, I guess.”

“I’ll coast on this,” Eddie said, nodding at his half-filled glass of beer.

The Fanfair was a pleasant spot, several notches above a neighborhood tavern. There was a piano on a dais at the end of the long bar and beyond that double doors led to the dining room. The lighting was soft and the decorations were attractive; it was the sort of place a young man would take his girl after the movies, or where a married couple would bring their in-laws for Sunday dinner. There was no bouncer, no drunks or cigarette girls, no unescorted women.

“Let’s take a booth,” Carmody suggested.

“Sure.” Eddie picked up his beer and crossed to a row of dark-wood booths, moving with solid strides that were in sharp contrast to Carmody’s easy but powerful grace. Eddie was several inches shorter than his brother, but his shoulders were heavier. At twenty-eight he was in good shape, but he would have trouble with his weight in a few years. There was still the suggestion of the choir boy in his square pale face and in the shyly earnest expression around his eyes. Despite his bulk, there was a vulnerable look about him; he had never learned to camouflage his emotions. His hopes and hurts and disappointments were nakedly apparent, mirrored for everyone to see in his embarrassingly clear and honest eyes.

“What’s on your mind, Mike?” Eddie said, after a quick glance over his shoulder at the piano.

“Does your girl work here?”

“Yes, she’s a singer and plays her own accompaniments.” Eddie smiled. “She’s pretty good, I guess.”

He was very proud of her, Carmody saw. “Well, let’s get this over with,” he said, moving his glass aside, fixing Eddie with his hard eyes. “You got yourself into a mess on this Delaney business.”

“That’s your version of it, not mine.”

“Damn it, let me finish,” Carmody said. “Delaney’s in a position to embarrass the men who run the city. He’s threatening to talk unless they take the heat off. You’re the heat, Eddie. Do you understand?”

Eddie put his elbows on the table and leaned closer to Carmody. “You want me to say it wasn’t Delaney I saw standing over Ettonberg with a gun in his hand? Is that what you want?”

“I want to keep you out of trouble,” Carmody said.

“Thanks all to hell,” Eddie said shortly. “I don’t need your help.”

“Kid, be sensible. Why be a hero for a bum like Delaney?”

“If he’s such a bum, why are the big boys worried?”

“He can embarrass them; put it that way.”

“They embarrass real easy, don’t they?” Eddie said.

“Be a humorist,” Carmody said dryly. “But see if this strikes you as comical. Unless you testify sensibly, you won’t testify at all.”

Eddie stared at him for a few seconds, his big chest rising and falling rapidly. “I’ll get killed for doing my job,” he said at last. “Is that what you’re telling me?”

“I’m just a carrier pigeon, a Western Union boy,” Carmody said. “I’m delivering a message. But you wouldn’t be getting this treatment if it weren’t for me. They’d step on you like a bug if you weren’t my brother.”

“I owe you a lot,” Eddie said bitterly. “I get a reprieve because my brother works with the big boys.”

“Don’t talk like a fool.” They were both becoming angry and Carmody knew that would ruin everything. He lit a cigarette and drew a long breath. This always happened with him and Eddie; he could handle other men without his emotions interfering, but this kid brother of his always got under his skin. Eddie was too stubborn to see the truth, and that made Carmody furious. “Now look,” he said, keeping his temper in check. “You’re not just getting a reprieve. You’ll get ten thousand bucks to go with it, which is more dough than you can save in twenty years pulling police boxes. You get that for just saying, ‘I’m not sure’ when you look at Delaney in court.”

“I’ll tell the truth so to hell with you,” Eddie said, his big hands tightening into fists. He was bitterly angry but beneath that was a deeper feeling; his soft clear eyes were like those of a child who has been hurt by a trusted adult.

A chord sounded from the piano and he turned his head quickly.

The big baby, Carmody thought helplessly. He doesn’t understand how the world is run, he doesn’t know anything except the nonsense the old man pounded into him. Carmody wondered how he would handle this as he glanced past Eddie to the girl at the piano. She was older than Eddie, thirty or thirty-two maybe, a slender girl with brown hair and a small serious face. She began to sing a sentimental ballad in a voice that was low and pleasant, but not much else. Carmody wondered what her appeal was to Eddie. What would his brother want in a woman? Carmody didn’t know. They had stopped communicating on all but superficial levels long before he got to know Eddie’s needs and taste in women. This one didn’t seem to be the party type. She looked brave and thoughtful, but that might be part of the act. She wasn’t voluptuous or sexy, in fact she didn’t even look very strong; her arms were white and thin against her black evening gown, and he could see the deep shadowed hollow at the base of her throat. A demure clinging vine maybe. Would Eddie like that? Someone he could baby and protect? Carmody sipped his drink and shook his head. That would be a great union. Two babies hugging each other in the big windy world.

Something about her touched a faint responsive chord in his memory. There was a teasing familiarity in the way she sat at the piano, her back perfectly straight, thin shoulders squared and her small head raised as if watching for something on the horizon. Carmody ran her face and body through his mind as if it were a fingerprint card in a selector machine. He tried to match her up with friends and enemies, with places and crimes, but the effort produced no answer to the little query in his mind.

“She’s good,” he said to Eddie, making it warm and friendly. “What’s her name?”

“Karen Stephanson.”

That meant nothing to Carmody. “Is she a local product?”

“No, she was born in New York. But she’s worked all over the country, I guess.”

“How did you get to know her?”

“Well, this place used to be on my beat. I came by one night when it was raining and she was waiting for a cab. She lives near here, at the Empire Hotel. I called the district from the pull box and got one of the squads to drive her home.”

Carmody smiled. “Very neat!”

“Well, I stopped in to hear her sing a few times, and then asked her for a date. That’s all there was to it.”

“Is this a serious deal?”

“With me it is. I don’t know about her.”

Carmody patted his brother’s shoulder, still smiling. “Look, if any ninety-eight-pound female thinks she is too good for you just tell her about the Kings of Ireland. Hell man, we’re direct descendants.”

“Don’t forget the family castles and hunting lodges,” Eddie said, responding to the lighter mood. “There must be castles every square yard over there. I never met a Mick whose family didn’t own one or two at least.”

Smiling at him, Carmody thought, he’s serious, all right. And with Eddie that wouldn’t mean one-night stands. He’d want it all the way, with an apartment, babies, diapers on the radiators, the works. “You want to marry her?” he asked.

“I guess I would,” Eddie said, coloring slightly.

“Good, keep that in mind,” Carmody said. “Now without getting sore, let’s go back to Delaney.”

“We’ve settled that,” Eddie said shortly, his mood changing.

“Listen to me, Goddamnit. You won’t marry anybody unless you play ball. Get that through your thick head. You’ll be dead.” I’ve got to sell him this, Carmody thought, but for the first time he felt a tug of anxiety. Supposing he couldn’t? What then?

“Let’s drop it,” Eddie said angrily. Then his face softened, and his eyes became helpless and vulnerable. “I’m not judging you, Mike. Maybe you’re the smart one. And maybe I’m a dope, like you say. But I like it the way I am. Can’t you see that? I don’t like fighting you. It gives me a charge to see you, and to kid around about the Kings of Ireland. That’s fine, for some reason. But let’s drop this other thing.”

“If I do you get killed.”

Eddie smiled crookedly. “Well, I haven’t anything too big on my conscience.”

“Damn it, stop talking like the old man,” Carmody said, snapping out the words. “What about this girl? Will you do her any good lying on a morgue slab?”

“Leave the old man out of this,” Eddie said.

“Okay, forget him. But stop talking like a child.”

“I’m no child. I can handle myself.”

“Dear God,” Carmody said, raising his eyes to the ceiling. “Now you’re going to be a hero. Stand right up to a crowd that just about holds the whole state in its hands.”

“Maybe I’m not so alone as you think,” Eddie said. “Supposing I go to Superintendent Shortall with your deal. What about that?”

Carmody smiled gently. “Shortall’s no knight in armor. He works for the same boss as I do.”

“That’s not straight.”

“Wouldn’t I be likely to know?”

Eddie stared at him, swallowing hard. Then he said bitterly, “Yeah, you’d know about that, I guess. So Shortall is on the take too.” He suddenly pounded a fist on the table. “The big phony. Him and his speeches about our responsibility to the community, about being good citizens first and good cops second.”

“Fine, get mad,” Carmody said, nodding approvingly. “That’s a healthy reaction. It’s the first step toward getting smart. Now listen to me,” he said, fixing Eddie with his cold hard eyes. “I’ve been through all this. Do you think they’ll let you be a good cop? Sure, if you don’t bother them. You can be as efficient as you like on school crossings, but they’ll break you in two if you stick your nose into their business.”

Watching Eddie’s troubled face, Carmody realized that it was time to ease off, to let the seed he had planted grow. “What happened to our drinks?” he said. “Let’s have another round; okay?”

“Does that include me?”

It was the girl, Karen, who spoke. She was standing beside their booth, smiling pleasantly at Eddie.

“Good gosh, I didn’t even notice you’d stopped singing,” Eddie said, and started to get to his feet. But she put a hand lightly on his shoulder and said, “Never mind, I’ll slide in beside you.”

“This is my brother, Mike, Karen. Mike, this is Karen.”

They smiled at each other, and Carmody said, “What would you like to drink?”

“Scotch, please. On the rocks.”

Carmody gave the waiter their order, then looked at Karen. “We were just talking about you in connection with Kings of Ireland,” he said.

“Cut it out, Mike,” Eddie said, grinning uncomfortably.

“I don’t understand. Should I?” Karen said, smiling at Eddie.

“No, it was just a gag,” he said.

She’s a cool little cookie, Carmody thought, studying her with interest.

She realized that he was taking her measure but it didn’t disturb her; she sipped her drink slowly and gave him time to draw his conclusions. There were girls who would have resented his deliberate appraisal, but her manner remained poised and friendly. She was better-looking up close, he thought. Her eyes were very lovely, deeply blue and steady, and there was a hint of intelligence and humor in the turn of her soft, gently curving lips. She wore her brown hair parted in the middle and clipped behind with a small silver barrette. Against the dark wood of the booth her bare shoulders were white and square. She held herself very handsomely, chin raised, back straight and her hands resting in her lap.

They talked casually until Eddie glanced at his watch.

“I’m taking Karen out for a sandwich, Mike,” he said. “This is her only break before she gets through at two.”

“Perhaps Mike would like to come with us.” She spoke to Eddie but she was watching Carmody, taking his measure as he had taken hers.

“No, I’ve got to get back downtown,” he said, knowing Eddie didn’t want him along. Karen understood that, he saw. She finished her drink and put out her cigarette, changing the mood with these little gestures. “We’d better go then, I think,” she said.

Carmody paid the check. Karen excused herself to get a wrap and Eddie went off to make a phone call. Carmody stood alone, flipping a coin in one hand, and staring at his tall, wide-shouldered figure in the bar mirrow. He’d made a good start. Eddie had something to think about now, and when a man started thinking he was usually getting on the right track.

He turned, still flipping the coin, and saw Karen coming toward him with light quick steps. She carried a stole over one arm and he could hear the click of her high-heeled sandals above the murmur of laughter and conversation. And then he noticed that she was limping. It was a very small limp, just a slight favoring of her left leg, but the sight of it touched the responsive chord in his mind. Where had he seen her before? Then, when she stopped and smiled briefly at him, the cogs in his sharp brain meshed together smoothly. And he had the answer to his query.

It was in Miami, two seasons ago, when he’d been down with Beaumonte for an unscheduled winter vacation. He had seen her in the expensive lobby of an expensive hotel, making her way on crutches. That was why he had remembered her, because she had been on crutches. That had stuck in his mind.

Smiling down at her he said suddenly, “Where were you on the night of December 15th two years ago? Don’t huddle with your attorney. Let’s have it without rehearsal.”

“What do you mean?”

“Miami, wasn’t it?”

“That’s right.” She watched him gravely. “How did you know?”

“I was there. I remembered you.”

“Yes, I expect you would,” she said.

His mind was working smoothly and sharply. Could she help him with Eddie? She looked smart; maybe she could pound sense into his head. The chance was well worth taking.

“I want to talk to you,” he said. He smiled into her steady blue eyes and put his hands lightly over her bare shoulders. “I’ve got a proposition to make. Concerning Eddie, so don’t haul off and slug me yet. How about having a drink with me when he’s out safeguarding the ash cans in the neighborhood?”

“Let me go,” she said quietly; but her voice was tight with anger. “Take your hands off me.”

Carmody put his hands on his hips and studied her closely, bewildered by her reaction. “Take it easy,” he said gently. “You’re jumping to conclusions, I think.”

“The Miami phase is over and done with,” she said. “You’d better get that straight.”

He didn’t understand this. “I’m sorry you got the wrong idea,” he said.

She was pale and defiant, but he saw that her lower lip was trembling. “Don’t take it so hard,” he said, still puzzled. “What can I say after I say I’m sorry?”

“You don’t believe me, of course,” she said.

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“Stop grinning like an adolescent at a burlesque show,” she said angrily. “They whistled in my day,” Carmody said. “But that was quite a spell back. You know you’re awfully touchy. Does it worry your psychiatrist?”

“You’re very funny. I’ll bet you do imitations, too.”

“Don’t try to creep into my heart with flattery,” Carmody said, smiling at her. “I know you just want to borrow my badge to give to some police dog.”

She started to say something but Eddie came swinging down the room, grinning cheerfully, and she turned her back to Carmody and let Eddie take her arm.

“We’ve got to rush it up a little,” he said, patting her hand. “You two have a chance to get acquainted?”

“We sure did,” Carmody said, looking at Karen. He half expected her to tell Eddie about their little flare-up, but she avoided his eyes, said nothing. It would come later, he guessed. When she could flavor her version to Eddie’s taste.

Outside they said their good-bys and Eddie and Karen walked away together in the soft clean darkness. Carmody stared after them, frowning slightly and flipping the coin in his hand.

He would save Eddie all right. With or without help from this cool, poised little character. But probably with her help, he thought, smiling slightly.

She knew the score. She could count; all the way up to ten thousand.

He drove into the city on Broad Street and parked in a restricted zone on Fifteenth Street under the eye of a friendly traffic cop. Beaumonte was waiting for him but first he would have to check in with Lieutenant Wilson. There was always the need to preserve the illusion that he was a responsible member of the department.

Carmody called from a drug store. Wilson, a sharp and businesslike cop, sounded annoyed when he got through to him. “I can’t run a shift without a sergeant, Mike,” he said. “Where’ve you been?”

“Something developed on that Fairmount Park murder,” Carmody said. “I’m meeting a character who wants to make a deal.”

“Another Carmody exclusive,” Wilson said dryly.

“Don’t be sensitive. You can give it to the papers,” Carmody said.

“I don’t give a damn about that,” Wilson said. “We’ve had two jobs tonight, a knifing in South with no leads and a murder in the Wagner Hotel. Everybody’s out but me and I’m holding down your desk.”

“I’ll stop at the Wagner and take a look,” Carmody said, checking his watch. The delay wouldn’t improve Beaumonte’s disposition, he knew. “Who’d you send on that one?”

“Dirksen and Myers.”

“I’ll take a look. And stop worrying.”

“Gee, thanks,” Wilson said. “It’s real friendly of you to pitch in this way.”

Carmody laughed and dropped the receiver back in place. He went out to his car and drove through center-city to the Wagner, a well-run commercial hotel near the railroad station. There he found Myers browbeating an hysterical little man in whose room the girl had been shot, and Dirksen talking baseball with a lab technician. The girl lay on the floor beside the rumpled bed, a heavily built blonde in her middle thirties. She wore only a slip and her make-up stood out like clown markings against the white emptiness of her face. Dirksen digressed reluctantly from the baseball to give him the story. The elevator operator had heard the shot and summoned the night manager, who had opened the room with his passkey. The girl was on the floor, a bullet hole under her heart, and the man, a furniture salesman from Michigan, was sprawled on the bed out cold.

“It was his gun fired the shot,” Dirksen said in conclusion. “It’s open and shut. He’s playing dumb but he’s our boy.”

Carmody glanced around the room, frowning slightly. He noticed a tray of smeared highball glasses on the bureau with two whiskey bottles beside it. One was empty, the other full, and they were of different brands.

“What’s our boy’s name?” Carmody asked.

“Samuel T. Degget.”

“Did you check his wallet? Was anything missing?”

“No, he’s got all his money.”

Carmody stared at Degget for a moment or so, trying to get an impression of the man. He was married and had grown daughters (Degget was telling Myers now in a high squealing voice). You couldn’t be sure, Carmody thought, but he didn’t seem to fit this kind of trouble. The girl, yes; the shooting, no. Degget looked like a cautious methodical person, and was probably a pillar of rectitude in his own community. When he cut loose it would be far from home and with all risks reduced to the absolute minimum. Everything bought and paid for, anonymous and artificial, and no unpleasant after effects except a big head in the morning. Why would he louse himself up with murder?

“What do you have on the girl?” he asked Dirksen.

“She works as a waitress in the coffee shop in the lobby. No folks in town. She lives in a boardinghouse on Elm Street with another girl. One of the waiters in the coffee shop remembers that Degget and she were pretty friendly. You know, he kidded around with her a lot.”

Carmody frowned and looked once more at the whiskey bottles. Two different brands, one bottle empty, the other full. He checked his watch. The State liquor stores had closed two hours ago; he was wondering where Degget had got the second bottle. It wasn’t likely that he had bought them both at the same time; if so, they would have been the same brand.

He glanced at Dirksen, who wet his lips. “Something wrong?” Dirksen asked, worried by Carmody’s expression.

“Call the bell captain and ask him if there was any service to this room tonight,” Carmody said.

Dirksen was on the phone a moment, and then looked over the receiver at Carmody. “No service, but somebody from here asked to see a bellhop.”

“They may have run out of booze and wanted another bottle,” Carmody said sharply. “Bellhops can find one for a price. Get the name of the boy who came up here, and find out if he’s still on duty.”

“Sure, sure.” Dirksen looked up from the phone a moment later. “It was a fellow named Ernie, but he’s not around. Do you think—”

“Get his address and send a car out there. And put him on the air. He can’t be far away. Take Degget in as a material witness but get this guy Ernie.”

“Right, Sarge.” With routine to absorb him, Dirksen was crisp and confident. Myers drifted over, looking puzzled. “What’s all this, Mike?”

“It was Jack the Ripper, really,” Carmody said, smiling coldly at him. “I spotted it right away.”

“What’s funny about it?” Myers said, irritation tightening his cautious mouth.

“Nothing at all,” Carmody said. “Actually, it’s pretty sad.”

“We got the man who—”

“No you haven’t,” Carmody said. “Not if my hunch is right. But Dirk can fill you in. I’ve got to be going.”

It was nearly midnight when he got to Beaumonte’s, and by then the night had turned clear and cool. Beaumonte opened the door and said, “Well, you and your brother must have had quite a talk.” He wore a crimson silk dressing gown and held a pumpkin-sized brandy snifter in one hand.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Carmody said. He strolled into the room and saw with a slight shock that Bill Ackerman was sitting in a deep chair beside the fireplace. The Delaney business was very big, he knew then. Nothing but high-priority operations could get Ackerman in from the country.

“Hello, Mike,” Ackerman said, smiling briefly at him.

Carmody smiled and said hello. There was another man sitting in a chair with his back to the window, a powerfully built young man with wide pale features and dull observant eyes. Carmody said hello to him, too. His name was Johnny Stark and he had been a highly touted heavyweight contender until something went wrong with his ears. He was slightly deaf, and worrying about it had stamped a solemn, surprised look on his face. Ackerman owned his contract when he was fighting, and had taken him on as bodyguard when the medical examiners barred him from the ring. Stark sat with his huge hands hanging between his legs, his fairly good ear cocked toward Ackerman and his dull eyes flicking around the room like those of an inquisitive dog. He mumbled his answer to Carmody’s greeting; this had become a habit since his hearing had gone bad. He was never sure what people said to him and he covered up with grunts and mumbles which could mean anything.

“Well, how’d it go?” Beaumonte said, easing himself into the sofa.

“The kid was sensible; he’ll cooperate,” Carmody said. This wasn’t a lie, he thought; he’d bring Eddie around some way.

“That’s just fine,” Beaumonte said, smiling at him. “I told you I didn’t want trouble.”

“There won’t be any.”

Ackerman stood and stretched leisurely, his hands stuck deep into his trouser pockets. Carmody didn’t know whether he had been listening or not; it was impossible to guess accurately about anything connected with Bill Ackerman. He was a tall man in his middle fifties, with the lean, disciplined body of a professional soldier.

There was nothing to be learned from his features, which were tanned and hard, nor from his eyes which were merely sharp black globes beneath bushy gray eyebrows. His hair was the color of well-used and well-kept silver, and he dressed like a banker in town and a rancher in the country. He was a cold, controlled man who emanated a quality of blunt, explosive power; there was none of Beaumonte’s phoniness in him. He lived in the country because he liked it there. The fact that it was pleasant for his wife and two daughters was simply coincidence. Had he wanted to live in the city, that’s where he would live. Ackerman was driven by cool, dispassionate greed; he wanted to expand and expand, consolidate his gains and expand again. There was no definite goal on the horizon; it was the struggle as well as the victory that pleased him. Greed dominated his life. His farms and stock paid for themselves and his foreman and hands admired his shrewd tough efficiency. Everything in Ackerman’s operations paid its way or was dropped. His world was money, and rivers of it flowed to him from handbooks and policy wheels throughout the state. More of it rolled in from his trucking and contracting firms, from fleets of cabs and packing houses. The money mounted faster and faster, and with a fraction of it he bought immunity from the law. Every cop he hired, every politician he subsidized, every judge he elevated became a prop to his empire, chained into place forever by guilt. No one got away from him; men were chattels, and he was as greedy for them as he was for money.

Carmody wasn’t afraid of Ackerman; but he wondered why he bothered to tell himself this so often. If there was anyone to fear in this deal, it was Ackerman. He had fought his way up in the rackets with cold and awful efficiency; he had begun in Chicago with Dion O’Bannion’s hoodlums, had run his own mob after repeal and had moved East to crash into the unions and the black market during the war. His past was marked with terror and violence but somehow he had come through it without being killed or jailed for life.

Now he stared at Carmody, his eyes narrowed under the bushy gray brows. “Your brother is a smart man, Mike. Runs in the family, I guess.”

Carmody felt a sharp surge of anger at that. But he said quietly, “He’s smart enough.”

“Specifically, he won’t identify Delaney at the trial. Is that right?”

“That’s the agreement.”

“What is it costing us?”

“Ten thousand. That’s what Beaumonte said.”

“It’s a fair price,” Ackerman said, rubbing his jaw. He didn’t like paying off; it wasn’t natural for money to flow the other way. “Probably more dough than he’s ever seen in one piece, eh?”

“Sure,” Carmody said.

Ackerman said casually, “I want to talk to him, Mike. Fix it up for tomorrow night.”

“Will that look good?” Carmody asked. He knew Ackerman had tried to jolt him, and that was ominous. It meant that Ackerman hadn’t believed him completely. He smiled coldly, his tough strength and brains responding to the challenge. “If you’re seen huddling with him before the trial it won’t look good when he double-crosses the D.A.”

“I said I want to talk to him,” Ackerman said, watching Carmody curiously. He looked more surprised than angry. There was never any discussion about his orders; he insisted on automatic compliance. “You bring him here tomorrow night. Let’s say ten o’clock. Got that?”

Beaumonte was watching them over the rim of his brandy snifter, and Johnny Stark had cocked his good ear anxiously toward the edge in Ackerman’s voice. The tension held in the long graceful room until Carmody dismissed it with a little shrug. “Sure, I’ve got it. Ten o’clock.”

“That’s about all then, I guess,” Ackerman said. “I’ll see you, Mike.”

“So long.”

After he had gone Ackerman sat down and lit a cigar. When it was drawing well he glanced at Beaumonte through the ropey layers of smoke. “I don’t know too much about Carmody,” he said. “What kind of a guy is he?”

“He’s tough,” Beaumonte said, nodding. “But he’s all right.”

Ackerman said nothing more and Beaumonte became uneasy. He waved the heavy smoke away from his eyes, and said, “What’s the matter? Don’t you trust him?”

Ackerman used one of his rare smiles. “I’m like a guy in the banking business. I don’t do business on trust. What’s Carmody’s job?”

“Just a job,” Beaumonte said. “He keeps an eye on the bookies in West, does some collecting, checks the records of a guy who wants to open a horse room or run a policy game. That kind of thing. And he settles beefs. He’s good at that.”

Ackerman rubbed his smooth hard jaw and was silent again for several minutes. Then he said, “Well, we’ve got a beef. Think he’s the man to settle it?”

“Well, that’s up to you,” Beaumonte said. Ackerman’s manner was making him nervous. He liked straight, direct orders; but Ackerman wasn’t giving orders. He was giving him an unwelcome responsibility in the deal. Beaumonte frowned, watching Ackerman hopefully for a crisp, final decision. In his heart he was a little bit afraid of Carmody; there was a look on the detective’s face at times that made him uneasy.

“We’ll give him a chance to settle it,” Ackerman said tapping his cigar on the side of an ashtray. “But just one. I don’t like the brother angle.”

“Blood is thicker than water, eh?”

“That’s it,” Ackerman said, using another rare smile. “But it’s not thicker than money. Anyway, I’m going to hedge the bet just in case. You call Dominic Costello in Chicago and ask him to line us up someone who can do a fast job.”

Beaumonte liked this much better. The decision was made, the orders given and he was in the clear. “I’ll take care of it,” he said. “How about a nightcap?”

“Okay. Make it light though, we’re driving to the country tonight.”