Night Extra

17

When Terrell reached Karsh’s apartment it was late in the afternoon, and the early winter darkness had dropped over the city. The crowd was back from the game and a party was underway in the living room.

“Where’s Mr. Karsh?” Terrell asked the maid, as she took his hat and coat.

“He’s talking on the long distance in his bedroom, Mr. Terrell. Can I bring you a drink or something to eat?”

“No, thanks. I’ll forage.”

Philip Karsh and a half dozen of what obviously were his friends had grouped themselves about the massive record player, the young men in dark flannels and white buck shoes, the girls smooth and sweet in tweeds and cashmeres. They looked wonderful and happy, Terrell thought, like F. Scott Fitzgerald people, or magazine ads plugging gracious living through a judicious choice of deodorants; the cold wind had put color in their cheeks and their eyes were bright with health and excitement — or more accurately, he thought, an inoffensive awareness of their own good fortune.

At the opposite end of the room Karsh’s mistress and an assortment of friends and sycophants were standing in front of the well-stocked bar. To each his own, Terrell thought, as he went over to get a drink.

Jenny was unhappy, he saw; she was frowning and her eyes narrowed when she glanced toward the young group around the record player.

“Hello, Sam,” she said absently. “We haven’t seen much of you lately.”

“Working man,” he said, glancing at his watch. “How was the game?”

A bookie named Peterman overheard his question and struck his forehead with the heel of his hand. “He asks how the game was,” he said, staring at the ceiling. “We’re on Dartmouth for sentimental reasons, and he asks us how it went!”

“Dartmouth lost, I guess,” Terrell said.

“You guessed yourself right to the head of the class. We pay scalper’s prices for the tickets because Mike didn’t bother to tell us we were going until about noon — then he sends me out for a fistful like it’s tickets for a neighborhood movie he wants.”

A press agent stopped to say hello and Peterman turned back to the bar still complaining about the price of the tickets, the money they had lost, and Dartmouth’s miserable showing. A friend of Jenny’s, a nervous creature with streaked blond hair, moved in beside Terrell, and said, “It’s a damn shame, isn’t it?” She was staring with virtuous anger at the college kids. “Having them here, considering.”

“Considering what?” Terrell said.

“Considering everything. Jenny’s too damn tolerant, if you ask me.”

“I can’t stand ugliness,” Jenny said. “I never could stand it. Scenes give me migraine.”

Terrell got the story by a kind of osmosis, absorbing it through the web of worry that covered all his senses and perceptions. Karsh was the villain — Jenny’s father and mother were in town, and Karsh had promised to take them for a drive to the Civil War battlefields. But he also promised (some weeks before, Jenny admitted reluctantly) to take his son, Philip, to the Dartmouth game. So there had been a fine fuss, ending in an apparent decision for Karsh, since Jenny’s mother and father had been left high and dry in their hotel room.

“Mom and Dad were fine about it,” Jenny said, “but then they would be.”

“They’re sweet,” her friend said, staring with a glassy malevolence at the college crowd. “Sweet, wonderful people. With values.”

“And all they wanted,” Terrell said, “was an afternoon’s tour of the battlefields. Didn’t they want Mike to sing ‘Dixie’ in blackface? Or act out the bayonet charges?”

Jenny looked at him and said quietly, “Knock that off, Sam.”

“Everybody’s always worried about Mike,” Terrell said. “Always grabbing checks away from him, thinking of his own good.”

“I give value,” Jenny said in a tight, controlled voice.

“You give him inflammation of the ulcer,” Terrell said.

Jenny’s friend said, “Well! I’ve been under the impression that I was addressing a gentleman.”

“You’d be more at home undressing one,” Terrell said. “Give Mike peace. Let him enjoy his boy tonight. He can only keep so many balls in the air at one time.”

“What’s the matter with you?” Jenny said. “Sore because you have to work for your share?”

“That’s it,” Terrell said. “I want fringe benefits. I want him to get my mother a job as a copy boy. Then we can all lunch together. Yummy stuff.”

“Why don’t you mind your own business,” Jenny said.

“Why don’t you write? You’ve got a talent for clichés.”

“You sarcastic sonofabitch.”

“Shut up,” Terrell said so sharply that the color left Jenny’s cheeks. He stared at his watch, caught suddenly in a bitter, impotent anger.

“Sam, what’s the matter?” Jenny said uneasily.

“I’m sorry, forget it.” It was now after six: Connie had been gone since ten that morning. Eight full hours. Anything could have happened to her in that time — anything might have been done to her.

The bedroom door opened and Karsh walked out shaking his head from side to side like a groggy fighter. The gesture was burlesque, amusingly exaggerated, but his attempt at lightness was obvious and strained; Karsh was fairly drunk, Terrell guessed, and was trying ineptly to put the room at ease.

He wore a superbly cut gray flannel suit with a Dartmouth pennant in the lapel, and was groomed to glossy perfection, everything about him buffed up to a high elegant tone. Smiling he tried to focus the mood of the party on himself, to fuse the awkwardly separated groups together with the heat of personality.

“Let’s have a drink, for God’s sake,” he said, “and then let’s get with the college songs. But the old ones! Not this upstart American stuff. Anybody know the one from good ole Babylon U? It’s in Latin, I guess.” In an unsteady voice he began to sing: “Babble on for Babylon, on the banks of the old Euphrates.” He shook his head. “Nope, not right. It’s on the slopes of old Mons Veneris, I think.”

Terrell crossed the silent room and took Karsh’s arm. “Mike,” he said, “listen to me. Will you please?”

“Sam, old boy, glad to see you. Did you meet my son? He’s ashamed of me, but he’s a good kid in spite of that — or because of it, I should say.”

“Mike, listen,” Terrell said. “The girl is gone. The witness. Cellars has her.”

But Karsh was lost to him. “Old college songs, Sam, that’s the spirit of the evening. There’s one from the ole U. of Peiping—” He laughed as an ad lib struck him. “The University of Peiping Tom, actually. It goes: On Godiva, on Godiva, on right through ’at town. You got to say ‘ ’at’ town; it shows you is a real ole southern boy.”

Karsh’s son joined them and said easily, “Dad, we’ve got to peel off. I didn’t get a chance to tell you during the game, but we’re driving up to Skyport tonight.” Young Karsh was tall, dark and his manners were impeccably casual.

“Now wait a minute.” Karsh looked puzzled and hurt. “You’re staying in town. All of you. I’ve got suites lined up for you, one for boys, one for girls. We’ll have a champagne breakfast in the morning and then we’ll all drive over to Skyport.”

“I’m sorry, Dad, but the mob has a timetable. We’re late now.” Terrell had the feeling that the boy’s indifferent poise was being severely tried; beneath his negligent manner he was probably sweating like any teen-ager caught in an embarrassing scene before friends. “We’ll all take a raincheck, if we may,” he said, smiling and touching Karsh’s arm. “Thanks for a very gay day.”

“That’s all right,” Karsh said. He patted the boy’s shoulder. “Don’t mention it. Sorry you have to be on your way. I missed a briefing, I guess. I thought this was to be a real holiday. Well, have a nightcap anyway. And a bite of something to eat. Make your friends live it up a bit.”

When Karsh turned back to Terrell his manner had changed; the boozy good fellowship was gone, and his eyes were empty and cold. “I go on kidding myself,” he said. “Thinking there’s something besides work. But there’s nothing.” He shook his head quickly. “The girl is gone, eh? When did this happen?”

“Around ten this morning, I think.”

“How important is she to your story?”

“She’s it. But I can start without her.”

“Are you sure Cellars picked her up? She worked for him, you said. Maybe she’s still working for him.”

“No, she’s on the level. I know, Mike.”

“It’s a question of how far we can trust her. She may have walked out on you — keep that in mind. Scribbled a note and walked out. There’s no proof that Cellars grabbed her. Is there, Sam?”

Terrell hesitated, frowning faintly at Karsh. “How did you know she left a note?” he said.

“Clairvoyance, pure and simple. They all leave notes. Now look. Wait for me in my bedroom while I make another call. I’ll put the call through out here and say good-bye to the boy. Then we’ll go to work. Could you get everything together in two or three hours? For the Night Extra?”

“I’m ready now,” Terrell said.

“Good.” Karsh winked at him and walked briskly to a telephone on a table beside the record player. The room was noisy with talk and music, and when he lifted the receiver a girl sitting cross-legged on the floor looked questioningly at him and pantomimed turning off the machine. Karsh smiled and shook his head. “Like noise,” he said. Terrell could read the words on his lips. “Blame all mistakes on it.”

When the connection was made and Karsh was speaking, Terrell turned and walked into Karsh’s bedroom. He closed the door behind him and leaned against it, hearing the hard, laboring stroke of his heart. The music from the living room poured around him but he was aware only of the reactions of his body; the beat of his heart, the tight, cold feeling in his stomach, and then something in his mouth that was like an essence of fear and betrayal and death.

The extension telephone was on a table beside Karsh’s long, wide bed — just a foot or so from Terrell’s hand. He looked down at the smooth, black receiver, and a little shudder went through his body. If he lifted the phone he would destroy something in himself; certain kinds of suspicions were too destructive to be entertained casually or cheaply. That much he was certain of. But his feelings were only a small part of what was involved. He knew that, too.

Terrell’s hand moved slowly, almost of its own volition, raising the receiver to his ear. He heard music first, a noisy background sound from the record player, and then he heard Karsh’s voice, sharp and hard over the music, and insistent to the point of desperation.

“—it can’t be covered up, Ike. I’m telling you, it’s impossible. Be reasonable, man.”

The music beat strongly in Terrell’s ear, a pulsing rhythm that matched the quick beat of his heart. And then he heard Ike Cellars’ voice, bigger than Karsh’s, thick with convulsive anger.

“Don’t tell me anything, understand! You keep it out of your paper.”

“But Terrell’s got everything.”

“You keep them from printing it. That’s your job. Don’t worry about anything else.”

“Just a minute — hold on a second.” Karsh’s cry was desperate and futile; the connection was already broken. Terrell heard Karsh’s ragged breathing for an instant before he put the receiver quietly back into its cradle. He stood perfectly still, rubbing his hands on the sides of his trousers. Finally he moved to the middle of the room, and fumbled for his cigarettes. He couldn’t seem to think; it was as if his senses had been mercifully numbed by the effects of a terrible blow.

When he heard the knob turn he put a cigarette quickly between his lips and raised his hands to cup the flame of his lighter. The door swung open and Karsh walked into the room, his manner brisk and business-like. “I’m squared away now,” he said. “Tell me what you’ve got, Sam. All of it, from start to finish. Then we’ll see how much we can use.”

Terrell’s face was partially concealed by his cupped hands; he needed that defense now. “Okay,” he said, turning away from Karsh. He forced himself to speak evenly, almost casually. “As we both knew, Caldwell was framed. Eden Myles was murdered by a paid gunman named Nick Rammersky. He was paid by Ike Cellars. The unholy triumvirate was Cellars, Dan Bridewell, and our beloved mayor, Shaw Ticknor. Does this surprise you?”

“Dan Bridewell? That’s a jolt,” Karsh said.

“Isn’t it? This story is a gathering of the hypocrite clan. Well, the side angles you know about. The fact Paddy Coglan was unlucky enough to see Rammersky, the attempts to put pressure on Coglan’s widow — it fits together, and it’s all characterized by the same gamey flavor.”

“Can you prove this? Supposing we get slugged with libel suits?”

Terrell couldn’t make himself turn and face Karsh. He stood in profile to him, trying to bring his nerves and emotions under control. Now his hand trembled as he raised the cigarette to his lips, and he was almost physically sick with a blend of shame and anger and pity.

“Well?” Karsh said. His tone was puzzled. “I asked you a question, Sam. What’ve we got? Provable stuff we can back up with witnesses and written evidence? Or guesses — regardless of how accurate they may be. How much of what you’ve told me can we print?”

Terrell turned at last and stared at Karsh. For a few seconds neither man spoke, but Karsh frowned faintly at the look in Terrell’s eyes. The silence stretched out until Karsh made a worried little gesture with his hand, and said, “What’s the matter, Sam? I’m just asking you what we can use.”

“Why not ask Ike Cellars?” Terrell said, softly. “From the weather to classified ads — he’s the boy to ask. Isn’t that right, Mike?” His voice rose suddenly in anger. “Well? Isn’t that right?”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Karsh’s puzzled smile was a good effort, but his face had turned clammy and white.

Terrell said bitterly, “Don’t lie and squirm. Spare me that. You knew the girl wrote a note. How? How did you know that?”

“I told you—”

Terrell pointed to the extension telephone. Karsh’s voice trembled and then he wet his lips and stared at Terrell in silence.

“I heard you talking to Cellars,” Terrell said.

“Listen to me — you’ve got to understand.”

“Understand what? That you’re working for him? I know that now?”

Karsh took a step toward him and raised his hands in a clumsy and incongruous gesture of supplication. “Sam, I was trying to save you — you’ve got to believe me. From the moment you talked to Coglan and got his story about the prowler — from then on you were slated for the morgue.”

“I brought you the whole story,” Terrell said. “You could have smashed them to bits with it. But you killed it. We’d wait until we had it all, you said, the drama and the color, but the whole thing in one piece, like a beautiful symphony.” Terrell’s voice became savage and ugly. “But you were lying. I had the guts of the story the first night, but you threw it out. Threw away Caldwell’s only chance. Then I traced down Paddy Coglan, and got the truth from him, a scared, drunken little cop hiding in a cheap flea trap in Beach City. But he was dead before his testimony could do any good. Then Mrs. Coglan came in with her story, and you buried that, too. More lies. Wait till we have it all, the drunks singing Faust, the symphony of news.” Terrell pounded a fist into his palm.

“I fell for it like any prize fool. But I was too close to you, Mike. I believed in you. You taught me this business. For a dozen years you were my model — I even tried to dress like you when I was a copy boy. It’s a laugh, isn’t it? And you played on that, didn’t you — on my feeling that you were an old-style hero, colorful, romantic, generous, anything for a pal, always good for a touch, kind and decent to the core.” Terrell’s voice was trembling. “That was my picture of you. And it was there for you to use.”

“No, Sam, no — listen to me, for God’s sake.”

“Then the girl talked,” Terrell said bitterly. “And we had them cold. But you squealed to Cellars again, and now she’s gone. Where?” Terrell caught him by the lapels of his expensive suit and shook him with all of his strength. “Where is she? What have they done with her?”

“I don’t know... I don’t know.”

Terrell let him go and Karsh turned away and sat down slowly and wearily on the side of the bed. His face had gone slack, and he was breathing with a definite physical effort, like a man in pain. “I needed money, I always needed money.” The travesty of a smile twisted his lips. “The plea of the absconding bank teller, the defense of a kid who snatches a purse. You’d think I could come up with something more original. A treatise on the pleasures of morality, or the need for more thieving bastards in a world gone boring itself to death with uplift.” He sighed and a little shudder went through his body. “Gambling, alimony, that little fop of mine outside — they suck money out of me every minute of the day and night. My salary covers Jenny, and most of my bar bills. And not much else. Cellars offered to chip in a few years back. At first it was simple; a gambling story played down, a picture of a girl friend stuck in the paper. Little things. Kill a divorce story, ease up on some character in trouble with the tax people — favors I could do with a pencil or a telephone call. But I got in too deep. I couldn’t pay him back. It wasn’t simply money, there wasn’t much of that actually. Ike was afraid I might invest in blue chips or hit the books for a bundle and get clear of him. Take this apartment building. It’s owned by a combine headed by Cellars. I never get a bill. I ask for it and the manager says sure, right away. Only it never comes. Bookkeeping snafu. Next month without fail, Mr. Karsh. And next month never comes. I trade in a car at Cellars’ agency. The salesman says, ‘You’re really doing us a favor, Mr. Karsh. Your old car is perfect, and these new ones are dogs. So what say we trade even?’ He boxed me in on all sides, making things easy, making it impossible for me to break clear.” Karsh shook his head wearily. “Didn’t you ever spot it? Half the city room tumbled years ago. You know the way I bounced guys before the Guild came in? Sent city editors off to Paris, or back on police? I had to; they’d get too close to what I was doing, or they’d be sick of killing stories they knew we should print.” Karsh stared up at Terrell, his eyes pleading for understanding. “Then the Caldwell story broke, and you stumbled on the fix, and Cellars expected me to keep you quiet. If it was just my job at stake I might have told him to go to hell. I don’t know. But it was your life, Sam. Cellars wanted to kill you. I convinced him it would be smarter to kill the story. So we played you for a fool. Everything you dug up went back to Cellars — and nothing went into the paper. But you’re alive, remember that, I saved your life. Maybe you don’t believe me.” Karsh tried to smile, but his face was a mask of despair. “Hell, I don’t believe myself. I like being a big shot, being surrounded by sycophants I can walk on for the price of a drink. Add all that to your picture of Mike Karsh.”

“Where’s the girl now?” Terrell said.

“I don’t know. I swear it.” Karsh got slowly to his feet and moistened his dry lips. “Is she important to you?”

“What difference does that make?” Terrell turned away from the pain in Karsh’s face, and rubbed the back of his hand roughly over his mouth. “She’s important to herself. She’s a hundred-pound girl who got in trouble with hoodlums because she was willing to tell the truth.” He turned sharply back on Karsh. “What the hell is your philosophy? That she doesn’t matter? That she’s like a marker in a game? Like Paddy Coglan and Eden Myles? Inanimate objects pushed here and there by the important people?”

“She won’t be hurt, Sam. She’ll be all right.”

“Is Paddy Coglan all right?”

“He shot himself.”

“Coglan was murdered,” Terrell said. “By the hoodlums who killed Eden Myles. And you fingered him. You told Cellars he was ready to talk. And Cellars had him killed. Didn’t your partner tell you he was arranging an execution?”

Karsh was swaying from side to side like a drunk. “No, that’s not true.”

“You killed him. Do you want the girl’s death on your conscience too? Where is she?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know.”

Terrell turned to the door. He didn’t know where to go or what to do, but he wanted desperately to get away from here — away from this waste and shame, away from the guilt in Karsh’s face.

“Wait, Sam, wait. Please.”

Terrell looked back and saw the tears trembling in Karsh’s eyes. But nothing could touch him any more. The pity and sadness was gone, arid there was nothing left but anger.

Karsh touched his arm tentatively and Terrell said, “Take your hands off me.”

“Listen to me, please listen to me,” Karsh said, in a low voice. “You meant something to me. That was on the level. Everything else about me was phony — okay, fair enough. But I respected you — and wanted you close to me. That’s the truth — for what it’s worth.”

“It’s not worth a damn,” Terrell said, and slapped Karsh’s hand from his arm.

“Sam, please don’t leave like this, I can—”

Terrell walked out and slammed the door on Karsh’s entreating voice. The living room was empty and silent; the music had been turned off. Evidently Jenny and her friends had left with the college crowd. Glasses were everywhere and a cigarette was burning a black groove in the shining surface of the coffee table. Terrell found his hat and coat and let himself out.