Savage Streets

Chapter Fourteen

As Farrell entered the living room Malleck was saying to Ward: “I’m glad you’re on hand, Sam. It seems to me we need a little conference.”

“You’re damn right we do,” Ward said, and the warmth in his voice informed the exchange with the tone of frank and healthy conspiracy. They were like a pair of businessmen planning a successful merger, Farrell thought; interests coinciding neatly, eyes fixed on the same goal.

Malleck sat down in a straight-backed chair without removing his leather jacket, and the Wards and the Detweillers ranged themselves about in a semicircle. “I came back here for one reason,” he said, his bright, confident eyes moving over the group. “Because you all need to know what went on tonight.” He bulked large in the room, his big body thickened by a sweater and muffler, and his powerful hands gripping his knees with a pressure that whitened the tops of his raw knobby knuckles. He said flatly, deliberately: “You need to know what Det and I told the cops tonight.”

Detweiller was sitting beside Chicky and despite her closeness to him he seemed withdrawn and isolated from the group; he was frowning faintly and except for the points of wind-sharpened color in his cheeks his face was gray with a combination of what seemed to be fatigue and worry.

Malleck looked up then and saw Farrell standing in the arched entrance to the living room. The smile that was like the flare from an explosion glinted on his face, and he said quietly, “Now I don’t know if we need or want you here, Mr. Farrell.”

“You think that’s your decision?”

“Maybe. And maybe these other people don’t trust you any more than I do.”

“What’s all this?” Ward said sharply.

“He had a chance to help Norton tonight,” Malleck said. “But he talked peace and good will instead. And now Norton’s dead.”

“If he’d stayed home he’d be alive,” Farrell said.

“Alive sure. Alive and gutless. He wasn’t a man to take a beating lying down.”

“Guts mean everything, is that it?” Farrell said wearily.

“It’s a way of knowing a man. Maybe the only way.” Then Malleck pointed a finger at Farrell. “Don’t push me tonight, Mister. Don’t make that mistake. I saw a decent man killed by a rotten degenerate just a couple of hours ago. While you were home toasting your feet and thinking big beautiful thoughts about democracy, I guess. So take it real easy with me, Farrell.” Grace Ward said: “We won’t accomplish anything by losing our tempers.”

“You’re right, Ma’am.” Malleck put a cigarette in his mouth and struck a match with an angry snap of his wrist. “Business before pleasure. So we’ll just forget Mr. Farrell for the time being.” He glanced sharply about the room. “Now look: let’s get this straight the first time. How Norton died isn’t important. But why he died is. He died defending his home and family against a pack of hoodlums. The cops understand that. And so will a jury. But there’s one thing the cops didn’t understand: how come Norton didn’t call them? They understood his feelings. He’d been beaten bloody by a pack of gutless hoodlums. And he wanted a crack at them personally. Any man worth the name would feel like that. But how you feel and how you act are two different things under the law. And that little loophole just might have saved this punk’s neck. Because Norton was the aggressor he could claim self-defense. And smart lawyers and crooked politicians would have made a martyr out of him. A poor, underprivileged kid being chased and hunted by grown men.”

Malleck grinned faintly. The match had gone out in his fingers and he struck another and lit the cigarette in his mouth. The only sound in the room was a dry, gulping noise as he inhaled a lungful of smoke.

“So we cut the legs out from underneath him,” Malleck said quietly. “Det and me told the cops we were on our way to the police station when we spotted Duke. We weren’t looking for him — we just stumbled on him accidentally.”

An uneasy silence settled in the room, and Farrell, standing in the shadows outside the group, tried to judge the reaction to Malleck’s announcement. The dominant tone was not one of surprise, he decided. The lie didn’t startle or shock them apparently. But they seemed uncertain about it, wondering if it would work perhaps, testing and measuring it by their individual standards and yardsticks. Ward was nodding thoughtfully, a frown shadowing his forehead, and his wife was appraising this silent response with a mixture of anxiety and hope; and when a smile of approval touched his lips she drew a deep relieved breath and reached for her cigarettes. “Of course, I don’t understand it completely,” she said, and smiled at Malleck, accepting the immemorial role of a woman wise enough to yield to man’s superior intelligence. “But if Sam understands — and I think he does — that’s good enough for me.”

Ward patted her hand. “Don’t worry, I get it,” he said, and smiled indulgently at her. “But, I’d like to make just one irrelevant point.”

Farrell was watching the Detweillers. Bill was staring at the backs of his hands and Chicky was studying his weary eyes with concern. “Are you all right?” she asked him.

“Sure, I’m fine,” he said.

Ward cleared his throat. “Let me just finish, okay, Det? I’ve been over this ground with Farrell, so I’ll make it short. I wasn’t involved in this thing tonight, and I believe you all know I’m not stressing that point just to save my neck at your expense. But it’s a fact, and facts count in this deal. So if you want my opinion...” He smiled at Detweiller and Malleck. “In an advisory capacity, let’s say, I think your story is a damn sound one. It leaves you two in the clear. Understand me, I don’t think you need any defense for what you did, but the newspapers might blow up the bare facts into something pretty ugly. The right and wrong of the matter could get so distorted that the dirt would splash on everybody.”

“That’s exactly what we’re avoiding,” Malleck said eagerly; he seemed pleased and flattered by Ward’s endorsement. “Let me just run through it once more so there won’t be any misunderstanding. Even from the ladies,” he added, with a clumsy attempt at courtliness. “You see, Norton got beat up for no reason at all to start with. He comes to Det’s home because he’s in bad shape. So Det and me take him to the police station to make a complaint. And on the way — on the way, mind you — we spot Duke. It’s just a lucky break. Norton piles out of the car, intending to arrest him which is his right as a private citizen in these circumstances.” Malleck shrugged his heavy shoulders. “Well, you know the rest of it.”

“I think that — well — version, will give great comfort to Janey,” Grace Ward said. “I mean, it’s completely legal, isn’t it? Wayne wasn’t doing anything wild or foolish. Janey will like that.”

Farrell said: “Yes, it’s nice and legal now, Grace. That’s a cheery thought.”

She looked at him coldly. “I don’t believe you understand what we’re trying to do.”

“You’re trying like hell to get to England. Is that a fair guess?”

“That’ll be enough from you, John,” Ward said. He seemed genuinely angry. “What right have you got to be riding Grace? You started this whole mess, remember? Everyone in this room is in trouble because he tried to help you.”

“That’s right,” Farrell said slowly.

“Well, for Christ’s sake, keep that in mind, then. We don’t need any wisecracks or sarcasm tonight. This is a dead serious business.”

“I want to ask a question,” Farrell said. “Do you all agree with Malleck?”

“That’s a stupid question,” Grace Ward said. “Haven’t you been listening?”

Detweiller sighed and said: “Well, John, I didn’t like lying to the cops. But Malleck talked first, and I backed him up. That’s your answer, I guess. I’m backing him up, but I don’t like it. Which makes me what? A guy straddling the fence, I guess.”

“Let’s don’t make a big tiling out of who did what first,” Malleck said gently. “You showed some guts at the station, Det. Don’t try to sneak a foot into the other camp now. You can’t be half with Farrell and half with me. Get that into your head.”

“I just said I didn’t like lying.”

“I heard you,” Malleck said. “And it sounded like a whine to me. You didn’t mind lying about the gun, did you?”

“I was mistaken, I wasn’t lying.”

“What’s all this?” Ward said.

Detweiller reached for his cigarettes. “It’s not important,” he said. “I mean, it doesn’t affect anything.” He shrugged, and then smiled with obvious effort; his lips were very stiff and dry. “Bobby didn’t steal that Luger of mine,” he said. “Well, he took it, that’s true enough, but he simply hid it in the basement. I found it there two nights ago. He was so scared about what had happened to the other youngsters that he had a crazy idea of protecting himself if anyone bothered him. When I originally discovered that it was missing he was too scared to tell the truth. So he invented that cockeyed story about selling it to some kid for five dollars.”

“And you didn’t tell the police?” Farrell said.

Malleck stood up so swiftly that his chair toppled over backward. “You’ll go on talking until everybody forgets what matters here,” he said in a deceptively gentle voice. “Well, let me remind you what’s important. Norton’s dead. Do you realize what that means? He’s lying in a cold, busted-up heap in an undertaker’s parlor. The last meal he ate is already rotting in his stomach.” Grace Ward said, “Oh, please,” in a faint voice, but Malleck didn’t take his burning eyes from Farrell’s face. “I’m going to talk about what’s important for a change. That woman upstairs. Norton’s widow. When she wakes up her bed will be empty. And it will be empty forever because Norton’s dead. Get that into your stupid skull. And the boy upstairs. His daddy’s gone for good. Do you want to go up and tell him that’s not important? There won’t be any more bedtime stories or fishing trips and nice days on the beach with his daddy, because his daddy is dead.” Malleck’s voice became a straining whisper. “Norton’s dead. And Duke killed him. Nothing else matters.”

Farrell rubbed his forehead; Malleck’s hatred was like the heat from a blast furnace. “Duke’s important,” he said. “He’s important too.”

“That little bastard isn’t worth saving.”

“Then none of us are,” Farrell said slowly.

“Oh, cut it out,” Ward said in a tense and irritable voice. “I’m not buying that cloudy crap. I’m with Malleck. You asked a question. There’s your answer.”

“I am too,” Grace Ward said. “Honest, John, I wish Barbara were here to hammer some sense into your head. She’d understand. But I doubt if it would help. You... well, you’re a failure, that’s your trouble. You’ve had the same opportunities as Sam, but he’s making twice the money you are. He has a brilliant future ahead of him, which he’s worked like the devil for, if the truth were known, while all you’ve got...” She shook her head, lips tightening with exasperation. “I don’t know what you’ve got, to be frank about it. It can’t be very important if you don’t value it above this miserable creature who killed Wayne.”

“Amen,” Malleck said. “Amen to every word of it.”

Detweiller said, “Now let’s all calm down. Everything was going all right for a while. Cool and easy. I think we’d better keep it that way. Look, would anyone like a drink?”

“I don’t mind,” Ward said.

“Coming right up.” Detweiller returned from the kitchen and gave Ward a glass. He sipped his own drink and began to pace the floor. “Now everybody’s been jumping on Farrell, and I don’t see the sense of it. Maybe I can clear things up a bit, John, at least as far as my own stand is concerned.” Detweiller seemed to be gaining confidence as he talked; he was gesturing with the glass, and there was more color in his normally ruddy face. “You want to play it by the book, John, but the point is, what do we gain and what do we lose by taking that position? Do you understand? The big thing is, Norton is dead and Duke killed him. That much is established. So why should we risk our reputations, and all the things we’ve worked for, to establish a lot of unimportant details?”

It was a fitting bit of irony, Farrell thought, that their collective lie would force him to tell the truth. If they hadn’t tampered with the facts — if they had allowed Duke a self-defense plea — he might have kept his mouth shut. For Janey’s sake — for all of them — he would have kept Norton’s secret. As long as it was irrelevant to Duke’s defense.

The phone began to ring and Ward picked up the receiver. He listened for a moment, and then said, “My name is Sam Ward, I’m a friend of the Norton family. But I’m sure you realize Mrs. Norton is in no condition...” He paused and raised a hand for attention; it was an unnecessary gesture because everyone was watching him closely. “Well, I don’t have any comment for the newspapers,” Ward said. “There’s always a hundred dollars’ worth of gossip for every dollar’s worth of fact in a case like this. You can tell me what you’ve heard, but don’t expect me to confirm or deny it.”

Farrell stared over the heads of the group. In the windows that faced the quiet street he saw a reflection of Chicky’s small blonde head and a stretch of the smooth gray carpeting that covered the living room floor. Outside the darkness was defined in precise rectangles by the yellow beams of street lights.

Ward said explosively, “Goddammit, this is the filthiest thing I’ve heard in all my life. What do you mean calling here? You ought to be ashamed to repeat that kind of thing.”

Farrell turned wearily toward the phone. Ward’s face was flushed and his free hand had tightened into a lumpy fist. “No, I’m not going to calm down and listen,” he said. “I don’t want the filthy details. But I’ll tell you this much: Wayne Norton was one of the finest men in this neighborhood, and we won’t stand by and see his name dragged through the dirt. You print that story, and you’ll wake up in a blizzard of law suits.”

“Let me talk to him,” Farrell said.

Ward pushed the phone at Farrell. “Gladly. You’ve got a stronger stomach than I have. See what your little pets are up to now.”

Farrell put the phone to his lips. “This is John Farrell,” he said.

“Well, we meet again, so to speak. Lynn Wiley, Mr. Farrell. I talked to you earlier at the bar in Hayrack. Remember?”

“Yes, of course.”

“I understand Mr. Ward’s feelings,” Wiley said. “Reporters work in sensitive areas at times, but we don’t pick and choose the jobs. We just follow the news. You might explain that to him.”

“All right.” Ward had taken Malleck and Detweiller into the dining room, and Grace was moving swiftly to join them, a tall black cylinder of tension and curiosity. Chicky Detweiller remained seated on the couch.

“Here it is,” Wiley said. “A teen-ager named Cleo Soltis walked into the station a while ago. She had a bomb to drop. Her story is that some men from the Faircrest development broke into a clubhouse on Matt Street a couple of nights ago. She claims that her boy friend, whose name is Jerry Leuth, was knocked unconscious, and that...” Wiley hesitated, then said: “This is her unsupported story, Mr. Farrell, and I’m merely quoting her. She claims Wayne Norton raped her, which — according to her, again — is why this boy Duke gave Norton a hiding.” Wiley paused again, and Farrell heard his soft, slow breathing. “Well?” Wiley said.

“Well what?”

“What do you think of her story?”

Farrell said: “What do you think of it?”

“Ping-pong, eh?” Wiley said, and laughed. “Well, if the story’s true, it’s got everything. Violence, drama, sex, the works. But seriously, I’m sticking my neck out calling you. The girl’s inside with Lieutenant Jameson, and they’ve sent a car out for her father and mother. We’re not supposed to know anything about this yet, but the House Sergeant gave me the tip.”

“Do you believe her?”

“Frankly, no. Girls who yell rape a few days after the fact aren’t very convincing. It’s not the kind of tiling that would slip your mind. My guess is, she’s trying to create sympathy for Duke, you know, provide him with a noble motivation for banging Norton around. But with Norton dead I can’t imagine anyone taking the story seriously. In all the years I’ve covered police I never heard of a dead man convicted for rape.”

“Then why did you call here?”

“I thought I might be able to break the news a bit more gently than the cops.”

“That’s bull,” Farrell said. “Why did you call?”

“Well, there might have been something to it.”

“There’s always hope, eh?”

“You know nothing about this, then? How about a quote? Was he one of the finest men you ever knew? Credit to the community? Et cetera, et cetera?” Wiley’s voice had gone up to an insistent pitch, the patina of polite gravity cracking with excitement. Farrell replaced the phone without answering and sat on the arm of the sofa.

“What is it?” Chicky said, looking up at him. “New trouble?”

“Not new, just more of the same.”

Ward strode into the living room and said to Farrell: “What do you think of it? They’re not content he’s dead. They want to put wreaths of garbage on his grave.”

Malleck sat down slowly in the straight-backed chair and looked at Farrell. “I hope this gives you an idea of what we’re up against,” he said. “Like Ward says, they’re not content with murder. They want to wreck his name and shame his wife, put a mark on that boy that will stand out like a brand the rest of his life. I just hope I don’t hear any more from you about saving this scum, Mr. Farrell. I just hope you’ve got enough sense and decency to shut up about this.”

“What is it?” Chicky Detweiller said. “What’s happened?”

Ward swore and said: “Some little whore, I forget her name, Cleo Soltick or something like that, a Hunky probably, from a long illustrious line of coal heavers and janitors. Well, she’s spreading a story that Wayne raped her.”

Farrell rubbed his temples with the tips of his fingers. Grace Ward said shrilly, “They’ll stop at nothing. They should all be kept in cages like animals, if you ask me.”

Chicky Detweiller murmured, “But it’s just so preposterous, who would possibly believe it?”

“Nobody,” Malleck said. “It’s a lie, a filthy, rotten lie.”

“The girl is telling the truth,” Farrell said bitterly. “The little Hunky from the illustrious line of coal heavers is speaking the Gospel. So it’s back to the conference table, ladies and gentlemen, you need another angle, another approach, another bagful of lies.”

A silence settled deeply in the room, and it seemed to Farrell that the faces staring up at him were marked with a curious similarity; it was a marine look, he thought, a fishy look of pallor and open mouths and bulging eyes. But a nervous stir suddenly dissolved the silence, and the expressions of communal shock and incredulity dissolved with it.

“What’s that?” Ward said in a soft, careful voice. “What did you say, John?”

“Just that she’s telling the truth.”

“What are you trying to do?” Malleck said. “What are you trying to pull here?”

“Well, if you ask me,” Detweiller said angrily, “I think...”

“Keep quiet,” Ward said, gesturing impatiently with his cigarette and dismissing Detweiller’s comment as if it were a digression in a business meeting. “Go on, John,” he said. “Let’s have the rest of it. I’m damned curious to know what’s behind all this.”

“Norton told me what happened,” Farrell said wearily. He sat on the arm of the sofa, lit a cigarette and tossed the match toward an ashtray. “It was the night we went to the Chiefs’ clubhouse. Norton was holding the girl during the fight. He stayed behind when the rest of us left. He lost his head and raped her. Tonight he called her with the hope of making amends somehow, of straightening things out. She told him to meet her in Raynes Park. She didn’t tell him Duke would be there.”

There was another deep silence in the room, an underwater stillness. Then Malleck said: “When did he tell you this?”

“Tonight.”

“After he’d been beaten up?”

“Yes. While Detweiller was getting you.”

“He confided in you, eh?” Malleck said slowly. “After you’d refused to help him, after you turned your back on him. After all that you become his bosom buddy, the one guy in the world he feels he can trust with this confession.”

“It wasn’t like that,” Farrell said. “I asked him what happened. When the story fell apart, he did too.”

“You mean you land of beat this thing out of him?”

“He told me what happened, that’s all.”

Detweiller was frowning and rubbing a hand along his jaw. “Then you knew this all along, eh, John? While we’re talking about ifs and ands and buts you had the real story. Why in hell didn’t you speak up?”

“I hoped I wouldn’t have to.”

“Well, this puts a funny light on tilings,” Detweiller said. He drank the few remaining drops from his drink and set the glass on the coffee table. “I mean, I’ve got no brief for Duke, but he probably did feel that he had a right to go after Wayne. It’s a normal impulse, I suppose, if...” The words dribbled away as he became aware that Malleck was staring at him.

“I don’t think Farrell’s got the real story,” Malleck said, and got slowly to his feet. “I think he’s lying.”

“I do, too,” Grace Ward said. She spoke with desperate vehemence. “It’s an impossible story. Wayne wasn’t that sort of man. I can’t imagine what reason you have for blackening his name this way.”

“Just a minute now,” Ward said, patting her shoulder absently. “Easy does it.” He smiled at Farrell, but he was apparently controlling himself with an effort; a pulse was swelling and falling rapidly in his left temple, and the smile didn’t soften the lines of tension around his mouth. “John, we’re men with a certain amount of experience in the world, and we should be able to look at this matter reasonably. Now let’s assume this thing happened just as you say. Let’s accept as a fact that Norton confessed to raping this girl. Are you morally certain that Norton would be a reliable witness against himself? As I say, we’re men of a certain amount of experience. But Norton was different. He was an innocent and naive sort of guy, which was to his credit. Totally wrapped up in his home and family. He was in a kind of backwater at his bank, not very close to the meanness and bitchiness in the world. What I’m getting at is this: in spite of his confession, are you sure he raped this girl? After all, she’s a tough little cookie. You can be sure it wasn’t her first time, start with that. Can you be sure she didn’t make it happen? Leading him on with a lot of tricks, and then persuading him that she had been a, well, unwilling partner to the whole thing?”

“No, I can’t be sure,” Farrell said. “But it’s not my job to judge his or her motives.”

“One other thing then,” Ward said quietly. “Norton was close to a state of shock from a brutal beating. And probably half out of his mind from a mistaken sense of guilt. Supposing under those circumstances he’d blurted out that he’d embezzled funds from his bank. Or had been having an affair with your wife. Would you accept these fantasies as Gospel? Or would you consider his condition before making any judgment?”

They were not new arguments to Farrell; he had used them all himself.

Ward watched him for a few seconds in silence, and then said: “You’re going to the police, eh? And tell them what Norton told you?”

“Yes,” Farrell said.

“Oh, no, you’re not,” Malleck said, his arms swinging out from his sides. “You got to come through me, and you aren’t man enough for that.”

“Now hold it!” Ward said sharply. “I’m not through. You’re determined to go to the police, then, John. You feel it’s your duty to support this girl’s story and provide a loophole for the hoodlum who murdered Norton? Is that your position? I’d advise you to think carefully before you answer.”

“I’m going to tell the truth.”

“We can’t stop you, of course,” Ward said.

“Maybe you can’t, but I can,” Malleck said.

“If you did stop him, you’d be doing him a favor,” Ward said quietly.

No one spoke for an instant; and when Ward struck a match the sound seemed to rip through the close fabric of silence.

“What do you mean?” Malleck said slowly.

“John, you’d better listen to me before you leave,” Ward said, standing up and buttoning his coat with his free hand. Then with his shoulders hunched forward and his face set in hard, purposeful lines, he said without heat or bluster; “I told you I intended to fight for what’s important to me. I wasn’t just making conversation, as I’m going to show you.” There was no hint of threat in his voice; he might have been reading the minutes of a routine meeting. “First of all, no one here believes your story. Malleck doesn’t, Grace and I don’t, and neither do the Detweillers. We don’t believe for a second that Norton made the confession you claim he made. And the police won’t believe you either. So I’m not concerned about whatever pipe dreams you tell them. For your own good — which I’m frankly not much interested in — you’d be wiser not to take that story to the cops. You won’t hurt us, you’ll just hurt yourself.”

Everyone was watching Ward as he spoke, and it seemed to Farrell that they were hungrily absorbing warmth and reassurance from his air of casual, almost contemptuous confidence.

“First of all, it’s your unsupported statement that you left that clubhouse before Norton,” Ward said. He waited until he saw that Farrell understood what he meant, and then he smiled faintly. “Don’t look so startled. I wasn’t born yesterday, you know. Secondly, it’s your unsupported statement that Norton confessed to raping that girl. There are no other witnesses. It’s your testimony, yours alone, that will smash his reputation, and turn his memory into something shameful and dirty. So why are you doing it? Why are you supporting this little whore’s preposterous charge? Let me tell you this: anyone with an ounce of brains won’t have to look far for the answer.”

Farrell shook his head. “You’ve really surprised me, Sam.”

“Go to the police,” Ward said coldly. “They’ll put two and two together. And if they’re slow about it we’ll give them a nudge in the right direction.”

Malleck suddenly caught Farrell’s arm in his big heavy hand. “I get it now,” he said slowly, and his face was shining with an almost exultant excitement. “You been lying from the start. It wasn’t Norton who raped that girl. It was you.”

“I gave you a chance,” Ward said quietly. “I suggested we be reasonable. But you’re stuck, I see now. You’re turning your back on us because you’ve got to. Do you think I believed your big talk about duty and principle? Like hell. And neither will the cops. You’re trying to save those two sacks of human garbage because it’s the only way you can save yourself. You raped that girl and then talked her into pinning it on Norton. And what price did you pay? Simply to back up her story and save her precious little boy friend. It’s so obvious I’m surprised you tried to shove it down our throats.”

Malleck shifted his grip to the lapel of Farrell’s coat. “Oh you bastard,” he said softly. “You miserable bastard. I’m going to give you something to take with you to the cops.” He drew his right fist back slowly, holding Farrell away from him with a straight left arm.

Farrell welcomed the disgust and anger flowing through him. “Try it,” he said.

But before Malleck could swing Detweiller grabbed his shoulders and pulled him away from Farrell. “Now let’s cut this out,” he said, in a high, anxious voice. “Fighting won’t help things.”

Malleck turned on him furiously, slapping his hands aside with a chopping motion of his arm. “You rabbit,” he said. “You been trying to crawl over to his side all night.”

“No, you’re wrong,” Detweiller said, backing away from the rage in Malleck’s eyes. “I’m with you — look, there’s nothing to be mad about.”

Malleck struck him across the face with the back of his hand. “Don’t move, stand there,” he said. And as Detweiller stood helplessly before him, arms hanging limply at his sides, Malleck struck him again, using the palm of his hand this time, and the force of the blow knocked Detweiller back against the couch. He sat down abruptly and awkwardly, the marks of Malleck’s blows searing his gray face. Chicky put a hand on his arm but he drew away from her, blinking his eyes rapidly.

“I haven’t said anything tonight,” she murmured gently. “It was your chance. Why didn’t you take it?” Her eyes were grave and sad as she studied the shame in his face. She seemed unaware of the others in the room.

“You didn’t go to New York to meet Ginny for the theater,” he said in a low, choking voice. “You went in to spend the night with Dick Baldwin, the fearless newshawk, the big deal.”

“Yes,” she said.

“Why did you go?”

She said sadly, “You always ask the wrong question. Why don’t you ask why I came back?”

“I was afraid to.”

Malleck laughed softly and glanced at Farrell. “If you were thinking of him for help, there’s your answer.”

Farrell picked up his hat and coat. He knew what would happen when they cut the foundation from under his story. But with that cold and sickening knowledge there was an ameliorating revulsion and anger. “I feel sorry for all of us,” he said slowly. “We’re responsible for what happened here. But you don’t have the guts to face it. It isn’t easy, God knows, but you’ll find some day it would have been easier to face it now than face yourselves in your mirrors the rest of your lives. Can’t you see what you’re doing? You’re conspiring in a he that may cost another life. And you’re doing it righteously, indignantly, because you’re home-owning, child-rearing, one-hundred-and-fifteen-percent solid citizens. The boy doesn’t deserve a break, you yell in righteous anger. Can’t you get it through your heads that it’s not our business to give him a break? We’re not judges. We’re souls in the eyes of God Almighty, an isolated and responsible human unit in the eyes of the law. We have no privileges, only rights. And he has rights too. That’s what you’re denying him — his rights under a system of living that you’d be the first to praise at the drop of a gavel at a Rotary luncheon. You can’t see what should be precious to you because you’re too damned busy counting your blessings and making sure that they’re not encroached on by anyone who doesn’t meet the requirements of your tidy little club.”

Farrell stared around the room, breathing slowly and deeply. The anger was flowing out of him, and in its place was an emotion he couldn’t quite define: it was close to peace, but still closer to resignation.

“You might ask yourselves just what kind of a life you’re protecting tonight,” he said quietly. “Is it simply a pleasant home, a freezer full of food and the bills all paid up? We’ve got that, sure. But isn’t there anything else? Something we might defend and feel grateful for even if we were cold and hungry and broke? It seems to me there is, must be. And when a showdown comes along you’ve got to put that above the comfort and pleasures, all the trimmings and extras, the icing on the cake.”

Farrell was turning to the door when Detweiller got heavily to his feet and said, “Hold it, will you, John? We can take my car, it’s faster than that heap of yours.”

Farrell stared at him, struck with a giddy fear that he hadn’t heard correctly. “What’s that?”

“I’m going with you.” Detweiller was very pale. Chicky reached up and took his hand and he gripped it tightly. “I saw you leave the clubhouse before Norton. Maybe I’ve got enough guts to say so.”

“Have you gone crazy?” Malleck said, staring from Farrell to Detweiller. “Are you both nuts? You go down there together and you’ll blow this thing sky high. We had it all fixed up. It was all safe.” There was a strange fear and confusion cracking the hard flat planes of his face. “Sit down, sit down, both of you. We got to talk this over.”

“What does this mean, Det?” Ward asked. It was the voice of an old man, slow and heavy and tired.

“It may mean he’s learned something,” Chicky said.

“What has he learned?”

Chicky smiled at him but her brown eyes were very cold. “Maybe that you can’t prove you’re a man by acting like an animal.”

“Now listen to me,” Malleck said. “Everybody listen. We’re all getting excited. There’s no point acting crazy.” His voice was rising nervously. “Look, I work my trucks down in the garment district. My customers are Hungarians, Polacks, Jews, people like that. You know what I mean? They’re immigrants. They’re always talking up tolerance and treating people equally and stuff like that. They had it bad in the old country and this place looks like paradise to them. What they don’t understand...” He took Detweiller by the arm and said, “Look, don’t go with him, he’s crazy. I butter up these old guys because it’s my work, my living. I yes ’em to death. Don’t go off and jam everything up. They’d think I was lying if I got mixed up in something like this. I couldn’t kid ’em out of it, you know what I mean?”

Ward was sitting heavily beside his wife. She was crying. She said, “They want to ruin us out of spite. That’s all it is, spite.”

“She doesn’t mean that,” Ward said. “We didn’t mean...” He gave Farrell a thin smile. “I was simply making a point, you know, showing you how the story might appear to the police. I didn’t for a moment believe that you...”

“Let’s go, Det,” Farrell said.

“Please!” Malleck cried. “Look, we can pile all of it on Norton. It can’t hurt him now. We can fix it up. If you’ll sit down and talk it over we can fix it up.”

Farrell opened the door and Detweiller pulled his arm away from Malleck’s grip. They went down to the sidewalk together and crossed the street.

The homes of Faircrest were closed snugly against the night, and the occasional warm lights along the block were like little beacons of security and peace. Tomorrow it would be different, Farrell thought; the quiet little street was set for an explosion. And then they could start the laborious and possibly therapeutic job of picking up the pieces. Everyone reshaping his life according to his own values and conscience. And those with foundations still intact should make it all right...

Detweiller said, “I meant it about taking my car. It’s faster.”

“You want to get this over with in a hurry?”

“Not exactly.” They turned into Detweiller s driveway and climbed into his convertible. “That’s not it exactly,” Detweiller said, hunching his big shoulders forward as he swung the car into the street. “I’m in a hurry because of what I’ll feel like when it’s over. Damn, I can’t explain it. But I know what it will be like. And I’m in a hurry to get there.”

“I know what you mean,” Farrell said. “Let’s go.”

“Okay,” Detweiller said. He smiled nervously but hopefully and pushed down hard on the gas.