Night Extra

11

Karsh was waiting at Terrell’s desk the next morning, looking fresh and handsome in a Chesterfield overcoat with a white silk muffler knotted about his throat. His face was pink from the crisp, morning air, and his eyes were sharp with curiosity. When Terrell came in he glanced up at him with an odd little smile. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going to toss a grenade? I might have put my fingers in my ears.”

“You heard repercussions?”

“Yes, Jack Duggan, our distinguished superintendent of cops, called me about it. I told him you’d talk to him this morning. What are you going to tell him?”

“Well, what’s your suggestion? Can’t reveal the source, and so forth, or admit I used a piece of gossip.”

“The second idea is smarter,” Karsh said. “Now listen to me.” He glanced about the busy room, then looked back at Terrell. “Play it safe. You know about that gorilla who was seen leaving Caldwell’s. You’re the only one who does. If that gets around you’ll become a lousy insurance risk.” He patted Terrell’s shoulder, in a clumsy and awkward gesture. “You’re the staff for my declining years. Remember that, and don’t be a damn fool.”

“Sure, don’t worry.” Terrell was touched by Karsh’s concern. Without his customary cynicism, Karsh seemed defenseless and vulnerable. He likes me, Terrell thought, and that embarrassed him. It’s that simple. He can’t put it into words.

“Don’t let them trick you into popping off what you know,” Karsh said. His voice was again sharp with authority; he seemed aware of his moment of exposure. “Tell ’em you printed some talk, without bothering to check it. Mea culpa, and so forth.”

Superintendent Duggan’s secretary, a uniformed patrolman, told Terrell to wait, and went into Duggan’s office. He returned almost immediately and said, “Go right in. The Superintendent is waiting for you.” The patrolman spoke with a lack of inflection that was meant to be ominous, Terrell guessed.

Jack Duggan was seated at his desk, a large, solidly built man with bold, direct eyes. He wore a uniform with golden epaulettes, and despite his bulk presented a figure of military severity. Everything about him was clean and neat; his black hair was cut short and the patina of starch on his collar and cuffs gleamed under the bright overhead lights.

Usually his approach was straight and forceful, but now, Terrell saw, he wasn’t quite sure of how to proceed. “Sit down, Sam,” he said. “This item of yours—” He fingered a clipping on his desk. “It’s a strange business. You describe a man in detail, and say we’re looking for him in connection with the Caldwell case. Did you make that up? Or what?”

“I gather then the item isn’t accurate,” Terrell said.

“We aren’t looking for anybody,” Duggan said. “Let’s don’t be cute with each other. The Mayor raised hell with this. I know you’re a good newspaperman. You don’t print gossip or guesses. So it figures that someone gave you the item — someone you trusted. We want to know who it was.”

“You and the Mayor, that is.”

“That’s it. Don’t bother reading anything into his interest. He’s within his rights. Your item indicates we don’t have a complete case against Caldwell. Or that there might be something unexplained and mysterious about it. Neither conclusion is justifiable. But people will leap to one or the other. You knew that when you ran the story. Now I don’t think you’re a trouble-maker, Sam. But the person who peddled this story to you is — a vicious, deliberate trouble-maker. And we want to know who it was. For your good as well as ours. Because he gave you a wrong steer, a dangerous steer.”

“The tip came in anonymously,” Terrell said.

“I wouldn’t advise you to stick to that,” Duggan said. “This time we aren’t interested in anything cute or cryptic. We want the truth.”

“So do I,” Terrell said, “Supposing we trade.”

“What do you mean by that remark?”

Terrell hesitated, frowning slightly. He wasn’t sure of Duggan. He had known him a dozen years, and had seen him move up from a lieutenant of detectives to the top police job in the city. Duggan was personally honest, Terrell was sure; he took no graft, he ran the department efficiently and intelligently. But Terrell also knew that Duggan was a victim of something that might be called moral inertia. The disease was very prevalent in the city; its symptoms were a tolerance of evil, and a self-hypnosis that protected the victims from seeing or hearing anything that might disturb their conscience. Duggan was a willing neurotic in a sense; he was honest to a point and beyond that he was neutral.

“All right,” Terrell said, still unsure of how far to trust him. “Let’s start with Paddy Coglan. Why did he kill himself?”

“He might have been sick, drunk, worried — a thousand reasons.”

“Coglan saw a man run out of Caldwell’s the night Eden Myles was murdered. He told me that on the phone. But he denied the story after talking to Captain Stanko.”

Duggan studied Terrell with a puzzled frown. “Stanko told me Coglan had got mixed up,” he said at last. “I guess you know Paddy was a boozer.”

“Then Coglan went over to Beach City and shot himself,” Terrell said. “Wasn’t that a happy coincidence for the prosecution?”

“You’re not talking about facts,” Duggan said angrily. “You’re putting guesses together into a theory.”

“Why didn’t the coroner release the fact that Eden Myles was pregnant?”

“What’s that?”

“You weren’t told either, I’ll bet,” Terrell smiled without humor and got to his feet. “There are two police departments in town. One is out in the open for all the citizens to see. The cop on the beat, the squad chauffeuring girls home through the streets, patrolmen on duty in the stadium for big games. The other department operates in the dark. It doesn’t answer questions. Its files get lost. It accounts to nobody. And that’s the one you’re suggesting I cooperate with. Why in hell should I?”

“Let’s not blow our tops,” Duggan said, making a placating gesture with his hands. “So the girl was pregnant. There was probably a good reason for holding that back. But you reporters start screaming about freedom of the press unless we broadcast every lead and clue we come across. How can we go into court if the defense has every detail of our case?” Duggan’s voice strengthened in support of his argument. “We play things close to our vests for good reasons. But unless we call your city desk every hour on the hour we’re accused of running a gestapo.”

“We don’t seem to be making much progress,” Terrell said.

Duggan suddenly slammed a fist on his desk. “We’ll make progress or you’ll regret it, Sam. Who gave you that item you printed yesterday?”

Terrell hesitated. For an instant he was tempted; if he told Duggan he had got the description from the lips of Paddy Coglan, Duggan would be on a spot — he’d have to make a token effort to find the man, or continue to insist that Coglan was an unreliable witness. If he took the latter course it might cause the public to suspect the quality of Coglan’s testimony against Caldwell. The Hall couldn’t have it both ways; they couldn’t reject Coglan for the defense and then accept him for the prosecution.

“I’m waiting,” Duggan said. “Who gave you the story?”

Terrell decided not to tell him. But before he could answer, the door opened and Mayor Shaw Ticknor sauntered into the room. Ticknor was grinning widely and scratching the inside of his leg. The grin disappeared when he saw Terrell, but he continued to scratch his leg. “Well, you’re the culprit I’ve been looking for. I hope for your sake you don’t mind the taste of crow. Jack, did you put our position to Sam?”

“We were just discussing it,” Duggan said.

“There’s nothing to discuss,” Ticknor said easily. “Not a damn thing.” He strolled across the room toward Terrell, smiling again, a tall angular man with shaggy, iron gray hair and big features that looked as if they had been hacked roughly from coarse red rock. The Mayor was letter perfect in his favorite role — the canny backwoodsman at large in the city. The voters seemed to be amused by his calculated oafishness, for they had returned him to office four times running. But his well-publicized flamboyance was no index to the man, Terrell knew. Ticknor was coarse, that much was accurate; he loved whiskey and dirty stories, all-night poker games and sadistic practical jokes. He was a fumbling but compulsive lecher and had been in trouble with one woman after another all of his years in office. But he was no lovable old cut-up; he was a thief on a large scale; a bully with a shrewd knowledge of the mechanics of power, and the ruthless enemy of anyone who stood in his path.

“Now let’s get squared away,” Ticknor said, still smiling at Terrell. “I guess Duggan’s made our point by now — long-winded as he is. Somebody peddled you a bum story. The least you can do is print a retraction. Just a line or two. I don’t go for volume when I’m breast-beating myself. And then tell me where you got the story from.”

“That’s all, eh?”

“I hope you’re not being sarcastic,” Ticknor said, and he wasn’t smiling any more. “You heard what I want done. What’s your answer?”

“I don’t have much choice,” Terrell said. “If the police aren’t looking for anyone, then I’m obviously wrong.”

“That’s half of it. Now who gave you the tip?”

“It was phoned in,” Terrell said. “Anonymously.”

“You wouldn’t print a story you got that way. Now you listen to me: you play cute and I’ll issue a statement that you’re an irresponsible liar whose column shouldn’t be in any respectable newspaper.”

“And that would wound me all to hell,” Terrell said drily.

“Maybe Mike Karsh would back you up,” Ticknor said, beginning to shout. “He’s contrary enough to. But there are papers downstate who take your column, and they’ll do what I tell ’em to. Don’t you forget that.”

“Let’s don’t lose our heads now,” Duggan said.

“You speak when you’re spoken to,” Ticknor said. “I put that monkey suit on your back and I’ll take it off when I please. Sam, you’re heading for trouble. I’ve been mayor of this city for twelve years, and I’m not letting you throw mud at my work and my reputation. There’s nothing wrong here — but you’re trying to stir up dirt. Well, you’ll find that doesn’t pay off here. Not in my city.”

Terrell glanced at his watch. “That all you have to say?”

“Now listen to me,” Ticknor said slowly. He had brought his temper under control. “I want to know where you got that phony story about a man with a scarred forehead and so faith. I’m going to get it, Sam. Or you’ll wish you’d never crossed me.”

“Why not lock me up? Beat it out of me?” Terrell’s own temper was getting short. “There was a man — but he doesn’t exist in your files and reports any more. He’s been dematerialized. But I know about him.”

“And you’re going to tell me where you heard that lie,” Ticknor said.

“There’s an aroma about this case the citizens may notice one of these days,” Terrell said. “You should order gas masks to be worn until after elections. That might save the day.”

As Terrell turned to the door Mayor Ticknor began to curse him quietly and deliberately, using the string of obscenities as he would a whip, trying to make every stroke cut to the bone. Terrell waited with his hand on the knob, looking thoughtfully at the temper working in Ticknor’s face. The tirade was lengthy and definitive, but when the Mayor finished Terrell said casually, “I’m double parked so you’ll have to excuse me. I don’t want to get in real trouble.” He glanced for a second at Duggan who was staring at the backs of his hands, an expression of shame and anger on his face. Then he opened the door and walked out.