Night Extra

13

Everett Bry lived in Shoreham, an area distinguished by imported sports cars, outdoor barbecue pits and modem homes equipped for the most part with hi-fi sets, picture windows and elaborate playrooms. The neighborhood was pleasant and gracious. Willows grew in limp luxuriance along the streets, and the air was very clean and smelled sweetly of lawns and flowers.

Bry, who answered the door himself, was brown and healthy-looking, with mild, untroubled eyes, and a receding hairline. He wore gray flannel slacks and a tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows.

Terrell introduced himself, and Bry smiled and said, “Please come in. We’ve had what passed for a family crisis. The nurse had a tumble on the back steps and is laid up with a bad ankle. Come along, please, and we’ll escape into my study. Like the horseshoe nail — with the nurse down, my wife had to take a child into town for a dancing lesson, and the maid is engaged feeding another child and keeping compresses hot for the nurse’s ankle. All of this explains why I’m answering the door instead of fruitfully loafing in my study. Now what would you like to drink? Is it too early for a martini?”

“I’d rather have a whiskey and water, if that’s possible.”

“You know, I was afraid you were going to ask for tea, and shatter my romantic notion of the hard-drinking reporter. Just plain water?”

“Yes, fine,” Terrell said.

Bry mixed drinks at a small bar that was inset in a wall of good-looking books. The room had everything, Terrell thought, a bit wistfully. Record player, a case of old revolvers, hunting prints, deep comfortable chairs, and a relaxing color scheme of grays and browns and blacks. The large window behind Bry’s desk opened on a flagstone terrace, and beyond that there was a view of the wide lawn and a border of tall fir trees.

“Now what did you want to see me about?” Bry said, putting a squat crystal glass at Terrell’s elbow.

Terrell asked several preliminary questions. Then he said, “Who decides where a new parking drome will go?”

“That’s usually hammered out in a series of conferences with myself, members of the Authority, the Mayor and so forth. A dozen committees study the problem from all angles to start with. Your drink okay?”

“Just fine.”

“Well, legal tangles, the area’s vehicular density, the type of traffic we’re faced with handling — all that is examined. Then the decision is made by the Chairman of the Authority with his staff — considering further, I should add, my suggestions, and the reports of builders and contractors who may do the work. It’s a committee decision really. And we try to make our final choice the best compromise between — how should I put this now?... well, the best blend of the ideal and the practical, let’s say.”

“That sounds very thorough,” Terrell said. “How does it happen then that the Authority makes so many mistakes?”

“I beg your pardon?” Bry looked puzzled, as if he hadn’t understood Terrell’s question.

“There have been quite a few instances where you’ve confiscated land, torn down buildings, levelled ground—” Terrell smiled at Bry’s earnest and thoughtful expression. “And then you change your mind and start somewhere else.”

“Unfortunately, architectural planning isn’t an exact science, Mr. Terrell. Sometimes the factors we’ve projected change suddenly — a major shipper might switch over to rail, for instance, and take hundreds of heavy trucks out of a given area. Predicting a city’s traffic problems is trickier than it seems.”

“Yes, I suppose it is,” Terrell said. “But that’s rather tough on the taxpayer, isn’t it?”

“I sympathize with them,” Bry said. He still looked pleasant, but his smile was cautious now. “I’m one of that cheerless group myself, let me remind you.”

“Yes, of course. Now when you realize that a change of location might be desirable — you tell the Authority, is that right?”

“That’s correct.”

“You say, in effect, this one’s a bust, let’s try somewhere else.”

“I can assure you we don’t go about this job in a spirit of comedy.”

“Well, how do you tell them they’ve made an expensive mistake?”

Bry put his pipe aside and took a quick pull on his drink. “There’s no set formula. I just outline the reasons for making a change, and suggest an alternative site for the committee’s study.”

“Which committee is that?”

“Pardon me, I meant chairman. He and his staff then make the decision.”

“Mayor Ticknor is the chairman of the Parking Authority, I believe?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“If a change is made, it’s made on your say-so, right?”

“Well, that’s a flattering way to put it. Let me freshen that drink.”

“No, thanks. How many changes have been made?”

“I don’t know right off — I could have my secretary send you the information tomorrow.”

“Would you like to guess?”

Bry picked up his pipe again and began filling it. “Let me see — eight, nine perhaps. Something like that.”

Terrell was silent for a few seconds, watching Bry fiddle with his pipe. He had trouble lighting it, and finally put it down again with a little sigh of exasperation.

“What happens to a piece of clear property when you decide to move on elsewhere?”

“That’s not my province.” Bry seemed relieved at the turn of the conversation. “The Authority handles that.”

“You don’t know who buys it? Or what’s paid for it?”

“No, I must say I don’t.”

“Are you curious? Even a little bit?”

“I’m curious about the line of your questions.” Bry stood up abruptly. “I’ve had enough of your intimations and hints. Speak plainly, if you can.”

“All right,” Terrell said. “There’s a peculiar aroma about the Parking Authority. You may be the best architect since Christopher Wren, but you’re also a cog in what looks like the greatest swindle since Teapot Dome.”

“That’s enough,” Bry said in a stiff, angry voice. “I won’t stand for being called a liar and a thief in my own home.”

“Do you think it would sound better in court?”

Bry’s face was pale with anger. “That’s a grossly irresponsible charge, Mr. Terrell.”

“Perhaps it is,” Terrell picked up his hat, and draped his coat over his arm. “I don’t have the right to make judgments on you or your work. And I apologize for that. But it’s within my province to ask the questions I have. You and I are on the same side, I hope. And if that’s true, some of my questions should make you reassess your relationship with the Authority with a very critical eye. Don’t you agree?”

“We’re always open to suggestions for improvement,” Bry said. “We welcome public interest. It’s one of our concerns, as a matter of fact, that the public doesn’t give a damn — that we can’t rouse them to a healthy pitch of interest in what we’re doing.”

“Well, they may be having a good long look at the Authority pretty soon. Take it easy now, and thanks for the drink.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Bry followed him to the door and watched Terrell go down the gravelled walk. Terrell waved at him as he started his car, and Bry’s hand fluttered limply up from his side. He looked oddly disturbed, a tall, pale and somehow incongruous figure against the placid beauty of his elegant home.

Terrell didn’t bother returning to his desk. He went to his apartment, made himself a mild drink, and then called the paper and asked for the real estate editor, an Englishman named Kidner.

When Kidner answered Terrell he told him he wanted a rough estimate on a home in Shoreham.

“How large a plot?”

“Two or three acres.”

“Forget it, old chap. Tell the bride you can’t stand the country life. You can’t stand the expense in any case. Those little spots cost. from forty up, and that’s just the start of it. Taxes are bloody high, and you’d need a staff — no, it’s not for us, old boy.”

“It’s pretty lush then?”

“Indeed it is. Seriously now, I don’t think the houses are worth it. But if one lives out there, one isn’t shopping for bargains, is one?”

“One isn’t,” Terrell said. “Thanks very much.”

“Not at all.”

Terrell finished his drink and looked out over the city, trying to figure out Everett Bry. Was he a naive dreamer, lending his professional support unknowingly to the Authority’s swindle? Or was he in on the take? The house in Shoreham indicated the latter.

Terrell made himself a bacon and egg sandwich and drank a glass of milk. Then he put the coffee on and while it percolated, he showered and shaved, then sat down in a robe to wait for eight o’clock. It was seven forty-five; in fifteen minutes he could call Duggan. To pass the time he put on a stack of Irish records, drank a cup of coffee, and smoked several cigarettes.

At eight sharp he dialled Duggan’s home. The phone rang twice, then Duggan answered it. “Who’s this?”

“Terrell. Well?”

“I’ve got what you wanted,” Duggan said. “And I’ve got a load of trouble for myself. I picked up two of those dummy owners, and put them through the wringer. Ticknor heard about it and blew his stack. When Council meets tomorrow I’ll be suspended. A nice pay-off, isn’t it?”

“Well, you’re a cop, not an ostrich,” Terrell said. “You wanted to know, didn’t you?”

“So I know. I’m a cop — a busted ex-cop. That’s great, isn’t it?”

“Who owns those companies?”

“It jolted me. I’ve been on the inside for years and I wouldn’t have guessed it. Ike Cellars is a half-owner and that figures. But the other half-owner is old Dan Bridewell. Can you figure that?”

“Are you sure? Dead sure?”

“Christ, give me credit for being able to handle a routine investigation,” Duggan said wearily.

“Sorry. For what it’s worth, you’ve got friends in our shop. You may look pretty good in our story.”

“Thirty-five years in the business and our Huckleberry Capone of a mayor can break me for doing ten minutes of honest work. It’s nice, isn’t it?”

“Very. But don’t quit. Make them fire you.”

“I’ve already done that.”

Terrell hung up and began to dress. Bridewell — that was a sleeper. The posturing puritan, the do-gooder, the angry denouncer of mobs and grafters — in thick with Ike Cellars. It was enough to make an honest man sick, Terrell thought. No wonder Karsh was cynical.

As he was about to leave the phone rang, and he scooped it up irritably and said, “Hello? Terrell.”

“You told me to remember the name,” she said.

He recognized Connie Blacker’s voice. “I’m glad you did. What can I do for you?”

“I want to see you. I’ve... well, changed my mind.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m at the club, The Mansions. Could you come over and have a drink with me?”

She didn’t sound right, he thought. Scared maybe. Or worried. “I’ve got a date to keep first,” he said, looking at his watch. “How about nine or nine-thirty?”

“That’s perfect. It’s between my numbers. Please don’t let me down.”

Terrell looked at the phone and raised an eyebrow. She sounded very odd indeed. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll be there.”