Night Extra

12

When Terrell returned to the paper it was almost ten o’clock; the second edition was nearing its deadline and tension was building through the long room. Everyone was conscious of the big clock above the city desk. Karsh waved to him from his office, and Terrell crossed the floor and joined him in that sound-proofed command post.

“Don’t tell me,” Karsh said. “His Honor just hung up.” He shook his head. “Corn-fed ass.”

“They’re worried sick,” Terrell said. “Even Duggan. I’ve never seen them this way before, Mike.”

“More bad news is on the way.” There was a gleam of devil’s humor in Karsh’s eyes. “Paddy Coglan’s wife came in a while ago. She’s waiting upstairs to tell you her story. It’s a beaut, a fat, cream-fed beaut. Come on.”

Mrs. Coglan was waiting for them in an empty office on the ninth floor. She stood awkwardly when they entered and began plucking at the skirt of her rusty black dress. Terrell could see that she had been weeping; behind the rimless glasses her eyes were red and swollen. She smiled weakly at him and her expression was confused and supplicating. “I didn’t know where else to come, as I was explaining to this gentleman.” She put a wadded handkerchief to her nose. “You knew Paddy was in trouble, didn’t you, Mr. Terrell? When you came to the house the other day, you knew it.”

“Yes, I knew it,” Terrell said. “I’m sorry about what happened.”

“Thank you. It’s all over with him now, all over with the poor man.”

Karsh said, “Please sit down, Mrs. Coglan, and tell Sam what you’ve just been telling me.”

“They asked me to come in yesterday, to the Hall,” Mrs. Coglan said. She was in control of herself now; the importance of her role seemed to steady her nerves. “They were full of polite talk and sympathy, but they got around to the pension soon enough.”

“Who was ‘they’?” Terrell asked her.

“Lieutenant Clark and Sergeant Millerton.”

“You know them?” Karsh said, glancing at Terrell.

“Chief Clerk’s office. Records, medical exams, insurance, paper work. Go on, Mrs. Coglan.”

“Well, they hemmed and hawed, but finally they came out with it. I could have the pension if I said that Paddy was of unsound mind for the past while. They said it would make the difference. Taking his own life might disqualify him, they said. But if it could be proven he had been upset, crazy so to speak, for some little time, then they thought it would be all right.”

“She told them she’d think it over,” Karsh said.

“Why do they want to say the poor man was insane? Isn’t it enough he’s dead?” She clenched her work-worn hands and her lips began to tremble. “Why must they ruin his name? Make him a figure of ridicule?”

“Your husband saw something the night Eden Myles was murdered,” Terrell said. “Or someone. That version may be brought forward yet. But it can be discounted if you testified he had been acting oddly. Lunatics aren’t very good witnesses.”

“How long did they give you?” Karsh asked her.

“Until tomorrow morning.”

“If you don’t hear from me before then, stall them,” Karsh said. “You can be down with the flu, if necessary. We’re working on a story that yours is part of. Terrell is putting it together. We won’t cut loose until we get everything. Okay?”

She said yes and smiled uncertainly.

Terrell took her to the door. “Paddy would like what you’re doing,” he said.

“Yes, he was a good man, a good man. Thank you, Mr. Terrell.”

When she had gone Terrell returned to the office and struck the top of a desk with the flat of his hand. “Where the hell does it end? Is the whole city administration a pack of thieves? Is it worthwhile trying to do anything about it?”

Karsh watched him with a little smile. “It’s the story of the blind men and the elephant, Sam. You’re too close to one side of the news. Sit in my job for a while, and you’ll see a different picture. hesitate to lower my cynical mask, but there’s lots of good around. The charities, the service clubs, city planning commissions run by top people for no dough at all — and hundreds of decent citizens working to make the town a better place to live in. Remember all that. It’s not a cesspool — it’s a pond with patches of scum on the top. Stay mad. That’s a fine healthy reaction. But don’t limit yourself to a police reporter’s viewpoint.”

“Okay, I’ll think some tall, beautiful thoughts.”

Karsh patted his shoulder. “Meanwhile, continue to discomfit our friends in the Hall.”

Terrell spent the rest of the morning studying clippings on the Municipal Parking Authority. It was a tedious business; he read pro and con reports on the original proposal, made his way through a dozen speeches that damned the scheme in its entirety, and a dozen more that praised it to the heavens. He familiarized himself with the chronological growth of the Act, from the time it was first proposed by Mayor Ticknor until it was enacted into law by the City Council. He even read the Act itself, straining his eyes over the small print, and then he looked at a file of photographs that covered several of the areas selected as sites for the new parking dromes and traffic arterials.

Finally he collected the pages of notes he had made, and went upstairs to the financial section, which was one of the long arms of the city room, between Karsh’s office and the Sunday departments. The financial editor, Bill Moss, was speaking on the phone, but he smiled and waved Terrell to the chair beside his desk. Terrell stretched his legs gratefully and lit a cigarette. He was stiff from the long session in the library, and his eyes felt the strain of having read dozens of pages of small print. Around him was an orderly clatter of ticker tapes, teletypes and typewriters, seemingly in communication with one another by a code of metallic snaps and grunts. Terrell was always rather impressed by the financial section. There was a mysterious, scholarly tone here — bookcases bulging with business directories, and rows of charts and graphs which, although meaningless to the lay eye, staffers seemed to comprehend with an almost insolent speed.

Bill Moss hung up his phone and smiled at Terrell. “Want a tip on the market? Buy low, sell high.” Moss was a handsome man with graying hair and dark, alert eyes. “What can I do for you, Sam?”

“I’ll remember that — buy low, sell high. Bill, our Municipal Parking Authority has begun to fascinate me. Mind if I ask you a few questions?”

“Go right ahead.”

“Well, I’ve just read through the Act. Isn’t it a pretty loose set-up?”

“I would say so, yes. That isn’t too unusual, mind you. Local committees always try to make their bond issues attractive, and so you generally find these overly generous concessions — in interest rates, borrowing provisions, and so forth. But it comes to this: if the group that passed the law is serious and responsible, these irregularities won’t amount to much. That is, there’ll be a built-in policing agency to guard against any funny business. But a rubber-stamp legislative body dominated by men of larcenous instincts — that’s trouble.”

Terrell smiled faintly. “Here’s another point I’m curious about. Most of the Parking Authority contracts went to two firms — Acme Construction and Bell Wreckers. I’d like some dope on those outfits. Who owns them, how much they’ve earned, what kind of financial structure they’ve got — everything you can turn up.”

Moss made a note of the firm names, and said, “I’ll put somebody on it. I assume you’re in a hurry?”

“Sorry, but I am. I’ll have lunch and drop back. Okay?”

“I’ll try to have the information for you then.”

Terrell returned to his desk and picked up his coat. As he was turning away his phone rang. He lifted the receiver and a voice said crisply, “Mr. Terrell? One moment please. Superintendent Duggan.”

Terrell smiled slightly. “Jack Duggan, the wild colonial boy?”

“Sam?” Duggan’s voice was low and insistent. “Sam, I’m sorry about what happened this morning. It was rotten.”

“Sure,” Terrell said. “Did you tell the Mayor that?”

“There wouldn’t be any point to it.”

“I guess not. What’s on your mind?”

“You can help me, I think. If you’ll tell me what you’ve learned, I’ll give you my promise it will be used efficiently and honestly.”

“No good,” Terrell said. “Anything else troubling you?”

“Perhaps I deserve this,” Duggan said. “But maybe you’re making a big mistake. I’ve done an honest job. A sergeant can work without worries, but I’ve always got to squeeze through a dozen conflicting pressures. I’ve made compromises, sure, and used a little tolerance for human weaknesses, but that isn’t criminal activity, Sam.” Duggan’s voice was rising angrily. “Is that what you’re accusing me of?”

“Tolerance and compromise,” Terrell said. “It’s funny, but cops seldom use those words until they’re pulled up in front of a Grand Jury. That’s when you hear their views on human nature, and their philosophy about merciful tolerance toward sinners.” He dropped the phone back into its cradle as Duggan began roaring angrily at him. He liked Duggan and almost trusted him; but you couldn’t fully trust a man who was walking about in a self-induced trance.

Terrell went down to the drugstore in the lobby of the building and ate a hamburger and drank three cups of black coffee. At two o’clock he was back at Bill Moss’ desk.

“Here’s your information,” Moss said, tapping a neat stack of folders with his pencil. “I can probably give you a synopsis faster than you can dig it out for yourself. To start with, and I imagine this is one thing you wanted to know, both companies are legitimate. Adequately financed, excellent earning rates, appropriate stocks of heavy equipment, competent men at the management level. They don’t seem to be in any trouble. Taxes, loans, labor relations — all in good shape. But there is something queer about them. For one thing, I’m not satisfied by their statements of ownership. I’ll explain that in a minute. And secondly, they’ve been too lucky. They’ve grown too fast. Starting from scratch, they’ve mushroomed into huge organizations, with all of their work coming from the Authority. Considering their assets when they started, that’s a highly irregular sort of thing. Bell Wreckers, for instance, had no office space or heavy equipment when it was given the job of clearing a square block of city property. Very unusual, you’ll agree.”

“How about their ownership? You said something was odd there.”

“Well, they list four or five men as owners. I know a couple of them, and well—” Moss shrugged lightly. “It’s not evidence, mind you, but in business you get so you can spot the lightweights. These men, in my opinion, don’t have the substance, the brains and backing, to have pulled these companies into shape.”

“They’re figureheads, you’d say.”

“That would be my guess — acting for owners who want to conceal their connections with these companies.”

“How do I find the real owners then?”

“That’s a tough one. The arrangements may be oral and you can’t very well examine or analyze an oral contract.”

“Well, thanks a lot. To sum up: they’re legitimate companies, but they wouldn’t be in existence if the Parking Authority hadn’t thrown business at them. Is that about it?”

Moss nodded. “That’s it. Let me know what else you find out. I’m always interested in larceny.”

“Me too,” Terrell said. “Particularly grand larceny.”

At his own desk, Terrell sat for a while smoking and mulling over what he had learned from Moss. Obviously his next step was to try to find out who owned Bell Wreckers and Acme Construction. This was a funnel through which the Parking Authority had poured streams of taxpayers’ money. Finally he picked up his phone and dialed the downtown office of Dan Bridewell’s firm. As he was relayed from a switchboard operator to Bridewell’s secretary, he assembled from his mental filing system the essential data on the old man. One of the state’s largest contractors, Bridewell had started as a bricklayer and worked his way up to the presidency of the company.

He was a living Alger story; a hard-fisted old man who had begun life in the slums of Belfast, and was now one of the most important men in his adopted community. He had sent four sons to college, and a daughter to Europe to study music at world famous conservatories. He gave impressive sums to local charities, and his name was on the letterheads of a dozen prominent institutions in the city. He had come a long way, but he had fought for every foot of it, Terrell knew. He was a rugged old man, who asked no quarter, and gave none; he had made enemies on his way to power, but he was fond of saying he wouldn’t give a damn for a man without enemies.

“Yes? Who’s this?” It was Bridewell’s voice, high, sharp and irritable. “Terrell? With the paper?”

“That’s right, Mr. Bridewell. Sam Terrell. I’m doing a piece on the Parking Authority, and I’ve come across a point or two I’d like to check with you.”

“I’ll save you some time, Terrell. The Parking Authority won’t give me a contract — they prefer dealing with fly-by-nights. I use the wrong kind of bath soap, or I don’t vote right. I’ve said all this a dozen times, and it’s all on the record.”

“I want to ask you about Bell Wreckers and Acme Construction — the firms who do the Authority jobs.”

“Well, they’re not my outfits, so all I know is what I read in the papers. They get the jobs, we don’t.”

“Do you know the men who own these companies?”

“You’d better go down to the Hall and ask that question, son, They must know. But they never told me. I’ve got work to do now. Good-bye.” The receiver clicked in Terrell’s ear.

Terrell smiled and put his phone back in place. For another fifteen minutes he sat at his desk, staring out at the activity and tension that radiated from the city desk and the copy wheel. There was only one way to get the information he wanted; he had to make a deal. In time he might smoke it out by patient, dogged leg work. But there wasn’t that time. He had to gamble now. He was the only person Paddy Coglan had told the full truth to. That should be something to bargain with. He picked up the phone and called Superintendent Duggan’s office. When he got through to Duggan, he said, “This is Terrell. I’ve got something you might be able to use and I need some help. Can we make a trade?”

Duggan hesitated a few seconds; Terrell could hear his soft, heavy breathing. Then he said, “What do you want?”

“Supposing you meet me at the north annex to the Hall?” Terrell said. “We can talk it over.”

“In about five minutes?”

“Fine.”

Terrell collected his notes on the Authority and put them into his pocket. Then he put on his hat and coat and went to meet Duggan.

The Superintendent was waiting for him at the north annex, his face ruddy but rather anxious under the gold-embossed peak of his cap. They fell into step and walked toward Seventeenth Street, moving at a leisurely pace through the crowded mall.

“Do we trade even?” Terrell said. “I help you, then you help me?”

“Let’s try it.”

Terrell put a cigarette in his mouth, hesitating; Karsh’s words had come back to him: “You know about that gorilla... if that gets around you’ll become a lousy insurance risk.” Could he trust Duggan? That was the gamble. He said, “I talked to Paddy Coglan over in Beach City.”

Duggan stared at him. “The day he shot himself?”

“That’s right. He described the man he saw running out of Caldwell’s house. That’s the description I used in my column. The man I described was in town huddling with Ike Cellars a few days before he murdered Eden Myles.”

They walked along in silence for a block or so, and Terrell saw that the frown on Duggan’s face was growing deeper by the second. “Okay, Sam,” he said at last. “That puts it up to me, doesn’t it? I either act like a cop or an ostrich now.”

“What’s it going to be?”

“I don’t know... I don’t know.” Duggan’s voice was weary and dispirited. “I’ll tell you something. Fighting for what’s right has got to be a habit with me. You know what I mean? You can’t stop and check all the angles before you start swinging. You do or you don’t — that’s all. Maybe I’ve been checking the angles too long.”

“You’re going to find out at least,” Terrell said. “Now it’s my turn. Who owns Bell Wreckers and Acme Construction Company?”

“That should be on record some place.”

“The owners of the records are dummies,” Terrell said. “I want to know who they’re fronting for.”

“I can put some pressure on,” Duggan said. “Some of them probably have records going back to the Volstead Act. I’ll get the information.”

“I need it by tonight. Can I call you at home?”

“That soon, eh? Well, I’ll do my best. Around eight?”

“Eight o’clock it is. So long now.”

They had completed a circuit of the Hall and were back to the north annex. Duggan smiled at him, and turned into the main corridor that led toward the elevators. Terrell watched him as he shouldered his way through the hurrying crowds, a big military figure, a picture of power and precision. And what was he thinking? Terrell wondered. How to weasel out of this challenge? Whether to take his information to Ticknor and Cellars, and close his eyes to what would happen after that?

Terrell was wryly amused at his academic attitude — because there was nothing academic about his position. If Duggan let him down, he wouldn’t have a prayer.

Terrell had another angle to check; the Parking Authority’s architect, one Everett Bry. He tried Bry’s office, but was told by a secretary that Mr. Bry was only available mornings.

“Where could I reach him?”

“At his home in Shoreham, if it’s urgent. But Mr. Bry prefers to meet clients in the office. He’s rather firm about that, actually.”

“Fortunately I’m not a client,” Terrell said. “Thanks very much.”

Terrell hung up and walked over to the lot where he parked his car. He was beginning to realize the precariousness of his position. A little knowledge is a dangerous thing... that described it. He knew just enough to be a nuisance and that was very dangerous.