The Darkest Hour

19

Lieutenant Neville was waiting for Retnick in front of Kay Johnson’s apartment building. There was an obvious constraint in his manner as he greeted him and said, “What do you think this woman has on Amato?”

“I told you she wasn’t specific.”

“It’s probably dynamite,” Neville said, throwing his cigarette aside. “She probably knows he played hooky in third grade.”

“Then why did you bother coming over?”

Neville glanced up and down the dark street, a humorless grin touching his hard lips. “I’ll be damned if I know,” he said. “Let’s go up.”

Kay Johnson opened the door and smiled nervously from Neville to Retnick. She wore a simple black dress with pearls, and she had obviously prepared herself carefully for this role; her make-up was fresh, and her shining blonde hair was meticulously in place. But all the careful grooming wasn’t enough to conceal the fear in her eyes and the lines of tension about her mouth.

Neville sensed her anxiety and said quietly, “Miss Johnson, I’m a police officer. My name is Lieutenant Neville. This is Steve Retnick whom you talked with on the phone a short while ago. May we come in?”

“Yes, yes of course,” she said quickly. She was looking at Retnick. “I... I didn’t know you’d call the police.”

“It’s better this way, believe me,” he said.

Neville glanced around the gracefully furnished room with professional interest. Then he looked at Kay Johnson and said, “What have you got to tell us?”

She sat down on the sofa, so slowly that it seemed the strength was draining from her legs. “Nick Amato is going to kill Joe Lye,” she said. “How do you know that?” Neville said casually.

“Amato sent a detective here, a man named Connors. He rang the bell, I don’t know, around eight, I think. Joe was in the kitchen then, but Connors didn’t ask to see him. He told me to stay in the living room and he went through the apartment with his gun out. He opened the closet here in the foyer and then started for the bedroom. Maybe Joe saw him coming — I don’t know. Maybe he heard him talking to me. Anyway, when this man, Connors, reached the kitchen the back door was open and Joe was gone. I... knew from the way Connors looked and acted that he was going to kill Joe the minute he saw him.”

“What did Connors do then?” Neville said.

“He swore at me, he seemed very nervous. Then he went down the back stairs after Joe.”

“Did he say he was going to kill Lye?”

She shook her head slowly. “I could tell from the way he acted.”

Neville glanced at Retnick and the lack of expression on his face was eloquent. “From the way he acted, eh? Well, do you know why Amato wants Lye murdered?”

She seemed puzzled by the question. “Of course,” she said. “I... I thought you’d know that, too.”

Neville sighed. “We know very little, Miss Johnson.”

“Why is Amato going to have Lye killed?” Retnick said, wetting his lips. He could guess the answer, and the knowledge was a guilty terrible weight in his breast.

“Mario Amato didn’t commit suicide,” she said, taking a deep unsteady breath. “He was killed. Joe killed him.” Turning away from them she put a hand to her forehead and began to weep silently. “Amato made Joe kill him. Because Mario talked to the police.”

Neville looked sharply at Retnick. Then he sat down beside her and took her shoulders in his hands. “Did you hear Amato tell Joe Lye to kill Mario?”

She hesitated a second or two, and in the silence Retnick could hear the labored, despairing beat of his heart. She was going to lie, he knew, but that didn’t matter; she knew the truth. “Yes, I heard him tell Joe,” she said, raising her eyes and staring into Neville’s eyes. “It was right in this room.”

“Will you put that in a statement?” Neville said. “Will you repeat it in court?”

“I’ll shout it at the top of my lungs,” she said, leaning against him and shaking her head as if she were in pain. “He made Joe do it. And now he’s going to kill Joe. He’s got to pay for that.”

“He’ll pay,” Neville said. He looked up at Retnick. “Get her coat,” he said quietly. “We can hang Amato for murder with a little luck.”

“Sure,” Retnick said, rubbing his forehead. Turning quickly he went to the closet near the front door. A half-a-dozen coats hung there and he pulled one down without even looking at it. We’ll hang Amato, he thought, as the cruel guilty pressure grew within him. But who’ll hang me?

They drove in silence across town to the Thirty-First. Neville took Kay Johnson inside to give a preliminary statement, and Retnick waited alone in the car, trying fruitlessly to evade his dark, accusing thoughts. But there was no escape; no matter how he twisted and dodged they clung to him.

He didn’t hear the doors of the precinct open and he started when Kleyburg cried, “Steve! You said it wouldn’t happen.”

Retnick turned and saw the old detective standing on the sidewalk beside the car, staring down at him with wide, frightened eyes. He had come out without a coat and the cold wind had blown his thin gray hair into a tangle over his forehead. “You said it wouldn’t happen,” he cried again.

Retnick got out of the car quickly and took Kleyburg’s shoulders in his hands. “Go back inside,” he said. “You’ll catch pneumonia out here.”

“I heard Neville talking to that woman,” Kleyburg said, pulling free from Retnick’s hands. “Mario was murdered. We killed him, Steve.”

A patrolman coming on duty looked at them curiously, then shrugged and went into the station.

“Not so loud,” Retnick said, wetting his lips. He couldn’t meet the pain and confusion in the old man’s eyes. “Mario was in on it. He deserved killing.”

“There was no evidence. Just your say-so. And we killed him on the strength of that.”

“Miles, you’re wrong. Tomorrow it will look different to you.”

Kleyburg shook his head slowly. The confusion and anxiety seemed to fall away from him; he looked at Retnick as if he could suddenly see him very, very clearly. “It won’t be different in the morning,” he said. “I told you I never had any trouble looking at myself in a mirror. Well, that’s over. After forty-two years as a cop I wind up a murderer. That won’t change in the morning. For you or for me, Steve.”

“Miles—”

Another voice cut coldly and sharply through the silence. “So you used Kleyburg, eh, Steve?”

Retnick looked up quickly and saw Lieutenant Neville standing on the steps of the precinct, his pale face an angry vivid slash against the darkness. “I wouldn’t help, so you made an old man do it,” he said, walking slowly down to the sidewalk.

“It paid off,” Retnick said, in a tight, unnatural voice. “We’ve got Amato.”

“And that’s all that matters, eh? Pay off your scores! To hell with everything else.” Neville stared at Kleyburg and a touch of compassion gradually softened the lines of his face. “I heard it all, Miles,” he said. “You’d better leave your gun and badge on my desk and go on home. We’ll talk this over in the morning. If it turns out the kid was guilty we can square it.”

“You can’t square it,” Kleyburg said, looking into the darkness and shaking his head wearily. “It’s not a thing you can fix by juggling a report or two around.” Then he turned to the lieutenant, and his eyes were helpless and pleading. “I didn’t want to pull this deal.”

“I understand,” Neville said, staring at Retnick. He drew a deep breath. “Okay, Steve. We can pick up Amato now. You got what you wanted.”

“That’s right,” Retnick said, not feeling much of anything at all. “I got what I wanted...”

It was nine-fifteen when they arrived at Nick Amato’s home. A line of cars were double-parked before the house, and a group of men stood on the sidewalk smoking cigars and talking in low voices. A crepe hung on the door, gleaming dully in the light that streamed from the inner hallway through the transom window. Neville nodded to the men and went up the stairs. They murmured indistinct greetings and watched him cautiously as he entered the house with Retnick. Then they came together and talked softly among themselves.

Retnick removed his hat and followed Neville into the softly lighted parlor. Floral pieces were banked on three sides of the room; a space along the windows had been left clear for the casket, which hadn’t as yet arrived from the funeral home. A half-dozen men and women were present, their faces grave and sad, and Father Bristow was standing in the archway that led to the dining room. Anna Amato sat in a straight chair facing the space the casket would occupy. She wore a heavy black silk dress and her hands lay limply in her lap, palms turned upward in an unconscious gesture of entreaty. There was no expression on her dark, tear-swollen face, but her head was turned slightly to one side, defensively and helplessly, as if she were expecting a blow.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Amato,” Neville said.

Father Bristow came forward casually, but his eyes were sharp and interested. Standing behind Anna, he put his hands on her soft round shoulders and watched the lieutenant.

“It was good of you to come,” Anna said, without looking up.

“I’m Lieutenant Neville. I’m sorry your son is dead. But I came to see your husband on an important matter. Is he here?”

Anna made a weary little gesture with one hand. “He has gone out.”

“Do you know where he went?”

“No.”

“Or when he’ll be back?”

“I know nothing,” Anna said, shaking her head slowly. She seemed hardly conscious of Neville’s questions. Two of the men present came and stood beside the priest and looked at the lieutenant with unfriendly eyes. “My son is dead,” Anna said, rising to her feet wearily and awkwardly. Tears started in her eyes as she stared hopelessly at Neville. “They bring his body home soon. Can’t you let me wait for him in peace?”

“I’m sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Amato,” Neville said.

Father Bristow said, “Couldn’t this wait, Lieutenant?”

“I think so,” Neville said.

Anna Amato suddenly shook her fists in the air, sensing that in some way the sanctity of her grief had been violated. “This is a house of death,” she cried, staring at Neville and Retnick with burning eyes. “I wait for my son. I know nothing of my husband. I know nothing except that my son is dead.”

“I’m sorry,” Neville said gently. “Let’s go, Steve.”

“Wait a minute,” Retnick said, staring at Amato’s wife with bitter eyes. “You don’t know anything, eh? Nobody knows anything about Nick Amato. They don’t see anything, hear anything, or say anything.”

“Steve!” Father Bristow said sharply.

“It’s time you learned something then,” Retnick said, still staring at Amato’s wife. “Your son didn’t commit suicide. Joe Lye killed him. And Nick Amato gave the orders. That’s why the cops are here now.”

A stocky man in a black suit swore softly and surged against Retnick, but he might as well have tried to knock down a brick wall with his fists. Retnick shoved him halfway across the room with a blow of his arm. He was breathing slowly and heavily; a bursting pain filled his breast as he stared into the horror in Anna Amato’s eyes. “Now you know something,” he said thickly.

The room was still as death as Anna turned slowly and awkwardly to Neville. She strained for breath as her eyes searched his face. “Is that true?” she said in a dry whisper. “You say this, too?”

Neville looked away from her and wet his lips. Anna wheeled with a cry of pain and caught Father Bristow’s arm in her hands. “They lie, they lie,” she said in a sharp loud voice. “Tell me they lie.”

“Sit down, Anna,” Father Bristow said. “There will be time for this later.” He stared coldly at Retnick. “This isn’t the time for it. Not now. Not in this house.”

Anna turned slowly from him, her lips trembling with silent words. Then she sat down heavily and began to shake her head from side to side. “No one says he lies,” she muttered. “No one says he lies.”

“I’m not lying,” Retnick said, forcing the words out with an effort. “I said I know nothing,” Anna said, smiling softly and emptily. “But it isn’t true. For thirty years I watch and see, I listen and hear. I know everything.”

Retnick turned sharply and walked to the front door. Outside, in the cold darkness, he lit a cigarette with trembling fingers and then ran the back of his hand over his forehead. The men who had been standing in front of the house were gone; the street was empty and silent. Retnick breathed deeply but he couldn’t seem to get enough air. His anger was gone, everything seemed to be gone, and he felt nothing but a cold, draining impotence...

It was a few minutes later when Father Bristow came out of the house and walked slowly down the stairs. He looked at Retnick and said, “Did you have to do it that way, Steve?”

“It had to be done,” Retnick said. “So I did it.”

“She’ll never get over it,” Father Bristow said.

Retnick glanced at him and it was then the priest saw the change in his eyes. “Neither will I,” Retnick said. “Doesn’t that make us even?”

Father Bristow sighed and said quietly, “I just don’t know, Steve.”

Neville came out a little later. He said, “She wasn’t kidding when she said she knew something. Amato’s on the run. He left here half an hour ago. And she knows where he’s running to. I’ll call the district from the car and get some help. Good night, Father.”

As Neville stepped on the starter of his car a police squad turned into the block and roared toward them under full power.

“I’ll see what’s up,” Neville said. He stepped from the car and walked toward the young patrolman who had climbed from the squad. Retnick watched as the two men talked for perhaps half a minute, and then the patrolman saluted and Neville walked quickly back to the car. His face was pale and drawn in the yellow glare of the headlights. Climbing in beside Retnick, he turned the ignition key and stepped on the starter. Then he let out his breath slowly and settled back in the seat. He looked at Retnick with an odd expression on his face; there was anger in the set of his mouth, but his eyes were sad and bewildered. “I warned you, Steve,” he said heavily. “I warned you the best way I knew. I told you sometimes there’s a price to vengeance that no man can pay. Now you’ve run up a big bill.”

“What’s the matter?” Retnick said sharply, as a strange chill went through his body.

“After we left the Thirty-First Kleyburg went down in the basement and tried to kill himself,” Neville said. “He’s still alive but it doesn’t look good.”

Retnick rubbed the back of his fist cruelly over his mouth. “Where did they take him?” he muttered. “I want to see him. I’ve got to see him before he dies.”

“You wanted to get Amato,” Neville said. “Let’s finish that job.” He looked at Retnick and sighed. Then he said gently, “You can’t help Miles now, Steve.”

“Sure,” Retnick said heavily. “I can’t help him, I can’t help anybody.”