Shield for Murder

3

Nolan thought about the report as he drove through the light rain to his rooming house in West Philadelphia. Ramussen would raise hell, of course; but that didn’t matter. He felt the unfamiliar bulge of money in his pocket and the windshield reflected his small smile.

There was just one annoying thing: the mythical sucker he’d invented for the reporter’s benefit. That had been a snap decision, and now he wondered if it had been a wise one. He was stuck with the story that Fiest had been taking a bet from someone at the time of the arrest. Well, so what? It was a good safe angle. The sucker would never turn up, that was certain.

Nolan didn’t like Brewster, and thinking about him brought a frown to his face. Mark Brewster was another of those goddamn superior college kids who thought they had the world by the tail.

He turned off Walnut Street into Forty-third and found a parking place a few doors down from his rooming house. It was two o’clock then, and his date with Linda was at three. He cut the motor and sat for a moment enjoying the deep unmoving silence. There wasn’t anything that could go wrong, he decided. Everything was perfect.

The rain was coming down a bit harder, so he turned up his collar and trotted across the sidewalk and up the steps of the three-story frame house in which he lived. He let himself cautiously into the dusty-smelling hallway and tip-toed up to his room.

Something was wrong with the overhead light. He snapped the switch up and down a few times, and then crossed the room and turned on his bedside lamp.

“Damn lazy slob,” he muttered, thinking of his landlady. She wouldn’t replace a burned-out bulb for him; but let him get half-a-month behind in his rent and watch the explosion. Nolan felt a sudden hot anger, and he kicked the front of an over-stuffed chair viciously. “Lazy slob,” he said again, and went into the bathroom for a tumbler and poured himself a drink from the bottle on the dresser.

He took the liquor down in one swallow and remembered that he had kicked Dave Fiest’s body just as he had kicked the over-stuffed chair. But why? He removed his hat and coat slowly and ran a hand through his strong curly hair. He had nothing against Dave.

“Take it easy,” he said to himself in a gentle voice, and stood breathing slowly and evenly. That damned temper always got him into trouble. Something took hold of him when he got mad, and he couldn’t help lashing out at anything in his way.

He sat on the edge of his bed, reflecting that there was nothing to be mad about now. He took the roll of money from his pocket and got up and locked the door. Then he returned to the bed and began to count the money. He hadn’t any exact idea of how much there would be, but he knew that Dave Fiest, like all bookies, carried his assets in a liquid form and close at hand.

The money was in two sheaves, and in the first there was sixty-three hundred dollars. Nolan grinned. This was better than he’d hoped for. He had figured Dave for about three or four thousand. The second roll of money was held flat by a silver clip made in the shape of a horseshoe. Nolan removed it and straightened out the bills; and then his heart began to pump a little harder. They were grand notes. He went through them, with fingers that were suddenly stiff and clumsy. Twenty-five. Twenty-five thousand dollars.

Nolan stood up and walked around in an aimless circle, holding the money limply in his hands. Something was wrong as hell. That twenty-five thousand didn’t belong to Dave Fiest. It must be pay-off money, the pay-off on a big bet. He remembered then what Dave Fiest had said: that he was on his way to see Mike Espizito, and that Mike didn’t like to be kept waiting by people who owed him money. Mike Espizito.

“Judas Priest,” Nolan said, and sat down on the edge of the bed. This was a fine goddamn note. Espizito was probably sitting out in South Philly right now, waiting for his money, and getting more annoyed every minute. Nolan stood up and walked around aimlessly again, trying to decide what to do about the money and Espizito. Mike wouldn’t care that he’d killed Dave Fiest, of course. All he’d want was the twenty-five grand.

And then he felt a stirring of anger. This was the kind of break he always got. Just when things seemed to be going all right, a monkey wrench came flying into the works from somewhere. “To hell with the wop,” he said aloud, and shoved the money down into his pocket. “It’s mine now. Let him go find some more.”

He glanced at his watch, went to the mirror above the dresser and inspected his face. He ran a hand over his jaw and decided he couldn’t get by with a dusting of powder.

Half an hour later, shaved and wearing a clean shirt, he went downstairs to his car. The rain had stopped and the night was slightly cooler, he noticed, as he drove back to the center of the city. He parked near Broad and Market and walked to the Simba, a fashionable nightclub with an elegantly dressed doorman and a green-and-white canopy that extended from the club’s double glass doors to the street.

Inside, Nolan gave his hat to a pretty girl wearing a white blouse and a blue velvet skirt, and turned into a small oval barroom that was adjacent to the dance floor and main dining room.

The bartender, a sleek young man in an immaculate white jacket, said, “Good evening, Mr. Nolan.”

Nolan nodded, sat down on an upholstered stool, unwrapped a cigar and put it in his mouth. The bartender held a light for him, and then moved an ash tray a quarter of an inch closer for his convenience.

“What will you have this evening, sir?”

Nolan wondered why bartenders began acting like nances when they got jobs in an expensive joint.

“Whisky,” he said, and was going to ask for a beer chaser, but remembered that Linda was always amused by that combination. “With water,” he said, and put two dollar bills from his wallet on the bar.

His drink was served and the change returned suggestively on a silver tray. Nolan stared resentfully at the half-dollar and quarter. Where he was raised a bartender would be quite likely to slug you with a bungstarter for leaving a tip. They weren’t shoe-shine boys, or porters; they were solid merchants. But not in these joints.

“Keep it,” he said.

“Thank you, sir.” The bartender slid the coins dextrously from the tray into his palm. “Miss Wade should be on soon now.”

“Yeah,” Nolan said. He glanced through the archway of the bar into the main dining room and saw several magistrates, a couple of judges, a District Attorney, some bookies and promoters, and quite a few people who were just people. It made him feel good to be a part of this rich, important world. He belonged to it, and he had the money to stay in it.

The band played a fanfare and the chubby smiling M.C. trotted out and, after a few fairy jokes which were his specialty, introduced Linda.

Linda Wade was a slim graceful girl, with dark brown hair which she wore in a shining page boy, and candid gray eyes. There was a quality of good-humored friendliness in her face and her smile; and she sang her songs in a clear sweet voice. She didn’t seem to take herself or her songs very seriously, and that was the simple secret of her appeal. Actually she worked very hard for her seemingly casual effects.

Nolan watched her and forgot about everything else. Sometimes, when he sat like this at the softly-lighted bar, it seemed as if she were singing to him alone. And moments like that made him feel as if he had the world right in the palm of his hand.

This was almost the best part of their relationship. Nolan could make her mean anything or everything to him while he sat alone in the dark with a drink and listened to her songs.

Now his thoughts ran back, comfortably and idly, to the time when they had first met. Four months ago, almost to the day. He had been transferred downtown from Germantown just a short while before that, and had been in a foul, confused mood. He hadn’t liked Germantown, either, of course, but for different reasons. Germantown had been a pasture, a monotonous dead-end. But Center City had baffled and frustrated him. Everybody had money, but there wasn’t a chance for him to get at it. Some cops, just a few to be sure, were in on the take from the night-club owners, racket men and gamblers. But not Nolan. He had lived on the fringes of a set that enjoyed easy money, easy living and easy women. Nolan had seen all that, but none of it ever came his way. He had gone along as usual on forty-eight dollars a week; and, as usual, the smart people had written him off as another dumb cop.

And then, one night, a loss had been reported at the Simba, and Odell had told him to check it.

That was the night he met Linda.

She had been standing in her dressing room with Jim Evans, the club manager, when Nolan arrived. Someone had stolen a few pieces of jewelry from her dressing table, it seemed. They weren’t of any value, she had said somewhat apologetically to Nolan, but one of the pieces, a brooch, had been given to her by her father.

“Sure, I understand,” Nolan said.

Jim Evans had patted his shoulder and smiled at Linda. “Barny will take good care of you, baby. I’m going out front now. Barny, stop at the bar and have a drink with me on the way out. Okay?”

Sure.

“Fine.” Jim Evans had smiled again at both of them and hurried out.

“Please sit down,” Linda had said.

“Okay.” Nolan had taken out his notebook and pencil, but he had trouble concentrating on anything but the girl. She was wearing a white net gown with a billowing skirt, and her finely molded shoulders were bare. Her skin was lightly tanned, and he had never seen anyone in his life who looked so shining and lovely and clean. Her brown hair was brushed down sleekly, the ends curved back in a soft roll, and her gray eyes were clear and direct.

“I left them right here on the dressing table while I was doing a number,” she said, crossing her legs.

“And when you came back they were gone?”

“That’s right. I didn’t want to bother the police about it, but Jim insisted.” She laughed. “I was afraid you’d just come over and scold me for being careless.”

“Jim was right,” Nolan had said heavily.

She was swinging one sandaled foot idly, and he noticed the fine slim bones at her ankle and the brightly polished nails. He pretended to write something in his note book, but his fingers were stiff and awkward.

She told him then that she had discharged a maid a few days ago, and gave him her name and address. Nolan made a note of that, and then got a description of the jewelry.

She had put out her hand and smiled when he stood up. “Thanks so much for bothering about this. It’s really my fault, I know, but I’d still love to get my brooch back.”

“I’ll do my best,” he had said.

He had stood there a moment, holding her slim warm hand, and returning her smile awkwardly; and he had been very conscious of his unpressed clothes.

Later that night he had called her from the District. His heart had pounded a bit harder when he heard her voice.

“This is Nolan, Barny Nolan, the detective who was over to see you a while back. I was wondering, could you have a cup of coffee with me when you finish up tonight?”

“Well—” She had hesitated a moment. “Is it about the jewelry?”

“No, it’s not.” He had cursed himself for saying that; but there had been nothing to do but plunge on. “No, I just wanted to see you again,” he’d said.

Nolan had thought that a bumbling, stupid approach. He had no way of knowing it was a perfect one.

“Why, yes, of course,” she’d said, a trifle surprised. “Supposing you meet me in the little bar about three-thirty. Will that be all right?”

“Fine, that will be fine.”

He had met her and they had gone to Benny the Bum’s for a late steak, and when he had looked across the table at her and listened to her chatting cheerfully about her work, he was almost unable to believe that it was actually happening.

And that was how it had begun. There had been more late dinners, a few drives through the park, and eventually Nolan had faced the delightful fact that she liked him. She must, he had reasoned, or she wouldn’t pay any attention to him at all. She had known he was just a cop from the start, but that hadn’t made any difference.

He had chased down her brooch for her by trailing the discharged maid to Baltimore on his day off; and when he had tossed it onto the table one night when they were having dinner, she had let out a cry of delight and hugged his hand in both of hers.

Then Nolan had run into the brute laws of economics. There was fifteen dollars alimony, living expenses, and Linda, to be taken care of on forty-eight dollars a week. No matter how he sliced it, there wasn’t enough.

He had begun to stew over that problem most of his waking moments. There were detectives and patrolmen, he knew, who managed side jobs, and some even had their own businesses. One owned a gas station, another a bar, and some peddled jewelry or made-to-order clothes. But Nolan didn’t want to get involved with something that would take up all his time. He needed money, in a healthy lump sum, and fast.

His resentment toward the politicians and racket men had grown violently during that time. He saw them, night after night, sitting around nightclubs and taprooms, heard them talking about big days at the track, watched them pick up fifty-dollar dinner checks, listened to their stories of money, women, vacations.

One night he had got drunk and slugged a bookie who had offered to buy him a drink. That was all he’d ever got: a drink, a pat on the back. He had jerked the little man off the floor, and slapped him across the face with the back of his hand.

“Don’t ever do that again,” he yelled and stormed out the door.

He could have got into trouble over that if the bookie had lodged a complaint. But the man had wanted no trouble with cops, and particularly with a wild cop like Nolan. Nolan wasn’t aware of it, but he was regarded with a curious respect by certain elements in town. They thought him honest, for one thing, because he never had his hand out; but their respect was based on his record, which was bloody and vicious. No one wanted to bother a man as potentially explosive as Barny Nolan.

The Simbas immaculate bartender cleared his throat gently.

“Another drink, Mr. Nolan?”

Nolan glanced at him, coming back to the present unwillingly. “Yeah, I’ll have another,” he said.

He sipped that drink and watched Linda, now singing her last song. She stood with her hands at her sides, her small head tipped slightly back and sang casually, carelessly, and even the waiters stopped moving around and listened.

Nolan smiled at her, savoring the drink and the moment. And then his thoughts plunged off on a tangent to Dave Fiest. What the hell made him think of Dave Fiest? Dave Fiest and Linda were related in a curious, irrelevant way, he decided. Because of Linda, he had killed Dave. And seeing Linda reminded him of that, made him think of Dave...

He’d met Dave Fiest at a bar in Camden, New Jersey, about two months ago. Dave had been fanning himself with a Panama hat, he’d nodded to Nolan and bought him a drink. Nolan remembered the suit Dave had worn, a beautiful, light-weight gabardine with hand-stitched lapels; and when Dave had waved for drinks, he’d seen the flash of gold cuff links and a diamond ring.

“What’ll be?” Dave had said.

“Beer, I guess.”

“Oh, come on. Have a shot.”

“Okay.”

Nolan shook his head irritably, tried to concentrate on Linda’s singing. Why in the name of God was he dredging up this stuff for? What did it matter what Dave had said, and what he’d answered, at a chance meeting three months ago in Camden?

“I understand you’re working downtown now,” Dave said. “Like it better being close to the money?”

“It makes no difference to me.”

“Don’t be a humorist. Berle’s got that racket tied up.” Dave had said that as he’d paid for the drinks. He had noticed Nolan’s eyes on his roll. He had held it up, grinning: “My favorite shade of green, Barny me boy.”

“You travel loaded, don’t you?”

“Well, I need capital close at hand. Five thousand’s about the minimum I need to keep in business.”

They’d had one more drink and Barny had drifted off...

Nolan watched Linda again, frowning. That had been when he decided to kill Dave Fiest. Nolan knew nothing about making money, but he knew a lot about killing. He had been killing people for quite some time now, and there were no moral hurdles to take in deciding to kill Dave Fiest.

And so in his stolid and unimaginative way he had prepared a plan. It had no fancy stuff in it, no triggered alibis, no involved time-table. All he’d done was wait outside a certain taproom a few nights in a row, until Dave Fiest had walked out alone...

Linda finished her last song and the applause was generous and genuine. She smiled her thanks and left the stage. Nolan ordered another drink and watched her make her way through the tables toward the small barroom.

A tall young man in a dinner jacket stood up, said something to her and smiled. He had a blond crew-cut and his teeth were very white in his tanned face.

“I just wanted to tell you how much I liked your songs,” he said.

“Thank you very much.”

They were close enough for Nolan to hear their conversation; and it brought an angry flush to his face. Who did these punks think they were? They went to Princeton or Penn, and because they kicked a football around and had money they felt they owned the world.

He walked to Linda’s side, ignoring the young man. “Ready?” he said.

“Oh, Barny!” She turned to him, smiling. “Barny, this is Toddy Glenmore, and he liked my song. Toddy, this is Mr. Nolan.”

“How do you do, sir?” the young man said, putting out a strong hand. He was a pleasant-looking boy, scrubbed and polite, and he wore his dinner clothes with easy assurance. Everything about him infuriated Nolan.

“I’m just dandy,” he said, ignoring the outstretched hand. “Come on, Linda.” He walked toward the bar but not before he heard the young man say, “Perhaps I could call you sometime?”

He didn’t hear Linda’s answer. She joined him a moment later. He said, “I ordered you a drink.”

“I don’t care for it, thanks. Would you like to drive me home?”

She hadn’t sat down, and he knew she was angry. He got to his feet, tired and helpless, and his own anger flowed out of him.

“Sure, Linda. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to act that way.”

She smiled and shook her head. “Barny, you behave like the heavy-handed father in a melodrama at times. I don’t need a guardian, really. These kids are a pretty nice bunch, you know.”

“Okay, I’ll stop acting like your father,” he said. He drank his drink down, unaware that his hand was trembling.

“Now, Barny,” she said and patted his arm. She knew she had hurt him, but she didn’t quite understand how. “Don’t be so touchy, please.”

“Let’s go. I’ll take you home.”

She sighed. “All right. I’ll get my coat.”

Waiting for her, Nolan stared at his empty glass, confused and angry. What the devil was he blowing his top about? She hadn’t meant anything.

A man came in and sat at the bar a few stools away. Nolan turned his head and saw that it was Mark Brewster from the Call-Bulletin. He wondered if the reporter were following him; and that thought added to his anger.

“Well, what do you want?” he said.

Brewster glanced at him, and appeared surprised. “Hello, Nolan,” he said. “At the moment I want a drink. Make it rye with soda, Joe,” he said to the bartender.

“Sure thing, Mark.”

The drink was served and Nolan noticed that Brewster’s change was placed on the bar in a respectful pile, instead of being returned suggestively on a silver tray.

“You come in here a lot?” he said.

“Occasionally.” Mark turned to him, smiling easily. “You too, eh?”

Nolan signaled for another drink and didn’t answer. He felt an illogical animosity toward Brewster. Glancing at him, he noted the reporter’s lean good-humored features, his steady eyes and careless clothes, and tried to decide why he disliked the man.

Linda returned, carrying a short fur jacket over her arm. “All ready?” she said.

Nolan nodded and got to his feet. His change was spread out in the inevitable silver tray, and he saw a fleeting smile on the bartender’s lips.

“Keep it,” he said dryly.

He took Linda’s arm, and turned toward the doorway, but Brewster said, “Say, Nolan, excuse me for bothering you, but the boss asked me one question about that Fiest story I couldn’t answer.”

Nolan stopped and regarded him with cold hard eyes. “Well?”

Mark glanced at Linda, smiled an apology at her, and then said to Nolan: “It’s just this: what was the description of the fellow that Fiest was taking a bet from?”

“You’re still worrying about that story, eh?” Nolan said.

Mark smiled disarmingly. “It’s not my idea, believe me.”

“Okay, he was about five ten, stocky built, and wore a dark suit and a gray hat. I didn’t see his face.”

“Thanks a lot.” Mark included Linda in his smile. “Sorry to trouble you with a detail like that.”

“Let’s go,” Nolan said to Linda.

Mark Brewster sat down and toyed with his drink.

The bartender picked up Nolan’s change and dropped it in his pocket. Turning to a porter who was refilling the ice bins, he said: “I clipped sourpuss tonight, but good.”

The porter grunted. “Why she bothers with him beats me.”

“Yeah, she’s a good kid.”

The bartender glanced at Mark, but Brewster was apparently absorbed in watching the softly changing lights behind a bottle display. Satisfied that he wasn’t listening, the bartender turned back to the porter and said: “You know, any cop is bad enough, but a bad cop!” He shook his head expressively. “I’d like to say something to her, but it’s not my place.”

“You bet it ain’t,” the porter said.

They were silent a moment. Finally Mark said mildly: “How about a nightcap, Joe?”

“Right, Mark,” the bartender said, and went quickly to work.

Mark sipped the drink slowly, and let the tensions that had built up in the night flow out of him. He didn’t quite know why he had stopped in at the Simba. Had it been to see Nolan? He had known of course that the big detective would probably be here, because it was common information that he was chasing the club’s girl singer. Yes, he decided somewhat to his own surprise, that was the reason. He had wanted to see Nolan; and that impulse struck him as very queer and, oddly enough, very disturbing.