Night Extra

18

Terrell stopped at a bar near Karsh’s hotel, and drank two double whiskeys, but the liquor failed to dissolve the sickening coldness in his stomach. He didn’t know what to do next; betrayal, he had found, was mercifully numbing.

The story would break, of course. Nothing could stop it now. When Rammersky was picked up for Coglan’s murder, he would talk — he wouldn’t go to the chair and leave Cellars in the clear. And when Cellars fell he would drag old man Bridewell and Mayor Ticknor with him.

Terrell didn’t need a newspaper to print his story. He could give it to Sarnac, and the national committee of Caldwell’s party would splash it across the country. They had shrewd tough lawyers who would love this case, and press agents who would drop the facts like bombs on the opposition party.

But would that help Connie? No: he could free Caldwell and win an election, but he couldn’t save an honest little blonde whose only mistake had been trying to help him. There was no point in trying his tipsters and contacts for a lead to her. Even if he went about it by hints and indirection, they would be unwilling to stick their noses into Ike Cellars’ personal business. And the word would get back to Ike that the blonde’s whereabouts was becoming a matter of concern and speculation. That might force his hand in the wrong direction.

No — it wouldn’t do. He needed something that would stampede Cellars tonight; that would take his mind off everything but survival.

“Another one?” the bartender asked him.

“Yes, thanks.” An idea had occurred to Terrell, and as he examined it a small, unpleasant smile touched his lips. It might work nicely. And there was something cruel and destructive in it that appealed to his need for reprisal. He walked to the phone booth at the end of the room and looked up the number of the Weston Hotel, where Frankie Chance had an apartment.

The hotel operator connected him with Frankie’s room and after a few rings the connection was made and Frankie Chance said, “Hello?” in a sharp, impatient voice.

“Frankie? This is Sam Terrell. I’d like to see you for a few minutes. Can I come over?”

“We don’t have mutual interests, snoop. And I’m busy.”

“This won’t take long.”

Chance paused. Then he said, “You feeling unhappy about the beating you took the other night?”

“Live and learn,” Terrell said. He began to smile, but his eyes were cold and hard. “This is another matter. I want to tell you who killed your girl. I’ll be over in five minutes.”

“You dirty, filthy scum, I’ll—”

Terrell laughed shortly and dropped the receiver into the hook. He returned to the bar, finished his drink and then went outside and caught a cab. “Weston Hotel,” he told the driver, and settled back to enjoy his cigarette.

The sky was bright and lovely with stars, but the wind surging through the city was soft and exciting with the feel of snow. Lines of traffic stretched up and down the noisy streets, and the sidewalks were jammed with hurrying crowds, young couples on their way to or from the movies, cleaning women lumbering to work in heavy woolen coats, and the usual assortment of panhandlers and drifting young males.

Terrell walked through the crowded lobby of the Weston, and took the elevator to Frankie Chance’s floor. He went along a clean, warm corridor to the apartment and rapped lightly with the back of his knuckles. Frankie pulled the door open and said, “Come in, snoop. I prayed you’d come. I swear to God, I prayed.” His voice was trembling softly and there was a look of murder in his eyes. “Get in here fast.” His hand was in the pocket of a gaudy dressing robe and Terrell knew he was holding a gun.

“There’s no point in being mad, Frankie,” he said. “I’m not here to needle you. I’m here to do you a favor.”

Chance closed the door and took the gun from his pocket. “What did you say about Eden? I want to hear it again, Terrell. I want to hear it before I bust all the teeth out of your head.”

“I’m here as a friend, Frankie, believe me.”

Chance’s eyes narrowed. “You’re trying to be wise, eh?”

“Not at all,” Terrell said. He smiled and sat on the arm of a chair. Lighting a cigarette, he glanced around for an ashtray. There was a fifth of whiskey on the bureau, and an assortment of medicine — aspirin, cough syrup and bottles full of variously colored pills. To his left was an alcove that had been fitted out as a dressing room; it was hung with clothes brushes, long leather shoe horns and two full-length mirrors. A dozen or so suits and sports jackets hung neatly above rows of glossy shoes and loafers.

“Don’t stall,” Frankie said. “What are you trying to tell me, Sam?”

Terrell glanced at him, still smiling faintly. “I could do this leisurely, but I never got my kicks pulling wings off flies. Your girl was murdered on orders from Ike Cellars. A thug named Nick Rammersky did the job with his ten little pinkies. That’s it, Frankie. The guy you work for, the big boy who tosses you your bones — he had Eden killed.”

“Shut up!” Frankie said softly. “You already said too much.”

“You probably know Rammersky,” Terrell said, watching the cold, mad rage working in Frankie’s face. “He’s new in town, but he’d stand out — he’s a big mug with a scarred forehead. Ike brought him in for the job. Did you meet him?” Terrell laughed softly. “I see you did. Had a drink, played a hand or two of gin with him maybe. Did you talk shop? The clean-up in Vegas, the mob shooting over in Baltimore. And did he mention that he choked the life out of your girl?” Terrell’s voice was suddenly harsh as a whiplash. “Did he toss that in as small talk?”

“You want me to shoot?” Frankie whispered the words in a queer, straining voice. His eyes were wet, and his body was shaking. “You want me to kill you?”

“Ask yourself one question, Frankie. Would I come here without proof?”

Chance stared at him for seconds, digesting this, and then he sat down slowly on the edge of the bed. “What’s your angle?”

“I like justice,” Terrell said drily.

“Proof — what kind of proof you got?”

“It’s an interesting and devious story,” Terrell said casually. “Eden Myles was peddling a few innocuous facts to Richard Caldwell. You follow me? Or do words like ‘innocuous’ tax you, Frankie?”

“You keep talking, or I’m going to beat it out of you,” Frankie said.

“She was peddling them on orders. You were probably in on it that far, Frankie. And Eden thought it was as simple as that, too — get Caldwell’s ear, give him a few bum tips. Wheels within wheels, a bit of standard political flimflam. But she didn’t see the end of the script,” Terrell said, watching Frankie’s hot dark eyes. “Ike planned to have her killed in Caldwell’s home — and frame Caldwell for her murder. Cellars had no animus against your girl, Frankie, but she could have been troublesome later. Maybe trouble seems too strong a word. A nuisance, at least. So that’s the story. Rammersky came in the back door and knocked Caldwell out. Then he strangled Eden and left.”

“You mentioned proof.” His voice trembled. “Where is it?”

“First, Rammersky was seen bolting away from Caldwell’s by a little cop named Paddy Coglan. Secondly, Connie Blacker heard Cellars explaining the phony deal to Eden. You know Connie, Frankie. And you know she’s straight.”

“She’s a square, an oddball,” Frankie said, but a tide of angry color was moving up in his smooth brown cheeks. “What’d she tell you?”

“She was at Eden’s apartment the night Eden was killed. Staying there as Eden’s guest. Cellars arrived about ten-thirty, and told Eden she had to put on an act at Caldwell’s that night. Get him drinking, and then start screaming and pretend that she’d been attacked and so forth. And as an added precaution, Cellars went on, one of his men would come in the back way and knock Caldwell unconscious, make it look as if he and Eden had struggled around a bit till he fell and hit his head. Cellars’ man would disappear — leaving Eden alone to face the aroused neighbors and eventually the police. Eden would testify that Caldwell had become abusive, and had attacked her. This, Cellars assured her, was all she had to do or say.” Terrell looked for an ashtray again, then shrugged and tapped a length of ash onto the floor. “Connie heard this conversation, and talked to your girl when she came into the bedroom to change. Eden was frightened. She thought the whole deal was raw. She didn’t know just how raw it was going to be.”

“They didn’t have to kill her,” Frankie said. Tears were starting in his eyes. “She never hurt anybody. She was kind to everybody. We were together for five years and she never looked at another guy. We were going to buy a six-flat over in Baycroft next year. Live in one flat, and live off the rent from the others. It was what she wanted. Something solid. A place of our own that we’d have if times got bad.”

“Did you know she was pregnant?” Terrell asked quietly.

Frankie twisted around to look at him. “Don’t lie to me,” he said. “Don’t lie to me.”

“The autopsy didn’t lie. She was three months pregnant. You didn’t know, eh?”

Frankie began to pound the foot of the bed with the flat of his hand, gently at first, but the blows fell harder and harder, until he was hammering the wooden bar with all the strength of his arm. “She wanted it. I didn’t.” The words came strangely through his quivering lips. “I was scared. For her. But she wanted it. And she was going to have it. She told me that it was fixed up, but she was going to have it.” The tears were running down his cheeks and a moaning little noise sounded in his throat.

“Play it for all it’s worth,” Terrell said. “Beat your breast and shout ‘Mama Mia.’ ” Contempt put an edge to his voice. “What were your plans for the kid? A job running numbers, or maybe selling programs and peanuts in a burlesque joint? Then take him back to Sicily to show the old folks how well you’d done in free, democratic America. Were those your dreams, you ginny bastard?”

Frankie seemed hopelessly confused; he opened and closed his mouth but he couldn’t manage anything but incoherent little grunts.

“Beautiful dreams,” Terrell said. “Then Cellars put his foot down, and there’s nothing left but a grease mark on the floor. And Ike goes on as if nothing happened.”

“I got to ask some questions around,” Frankie said, forming the words slowly and laboriously, as if he were just learning to speak. “I’ll find out how much truth you’ve told me.”

He dropped his robe on the floor and took down a raglan topcoat from the dressing room alcove. “Nobody ever talked to me the way you did,” he said. “So I’ll see you again, don’t worry.” He transferred the gun to the pocket of his topcoat and pulled a soft felt hat low on his forehead.

“Wait a minute,” Terrell said.

But Frankie paid no attention to him. His young, spoiled face was closed and hard, and his eyes were already fixed on something beyond the room. He moved to the door and reached for the knob.

“Wait a minute,” Terrell said wearily. He didn’t understand his change of heart, but he knew he couldn’t turn this mad dog loose on the city. “Don’t be a sucker, Frankie. You start after Cellars or Rammersky and you’ll get your head blown off.”

“Sure,” Frankie said. “They’re tough guys.”

“I’ve been steaming you up for personal reasons.”

Frankie turned and looked at him then, his hand still on the door knob. “What kind of personal reasons?”

“Cellars picked up Connie Blacker. She came to my apartment last night and that’s where he found her this morning. I wanted him to start worrying so hard about his own skin that he’d forget her. I thought you were the boy to worry him.”

“You want the girl, eh?”

“That’s right.”

“You’re brainy. Using me to save her hide.”

“It’s no good, Frankie.”

“Why not? I’ll worry him plenty. And if I get my head blown off, what difference does it make? You’ll have your girl. I’m a nothing to you. A ginny bastard, wasn’t it? The kind of slug who’d raise a kid to run numbers or work in a burlesque joint.” Frankie was smiling but he sounded very much like a child trying not to weep. “Wasn’t that you talking a few seconds ago?”

“I shouldn’t have,” Terrell said.

“You don’t know me. You don’t know Eden. But we’re tramps to you. Isn’t that right?”

“For Christ’s sake, stop being so emotional. Who am I to judge?”

“Stop being emotional! That’s pretty funny!” Frankie turned away from the door and sat on the edge of the bed. He stared steadily at Terrell for a few seconds. Then: “Are you a Catholic?”

Terrell sighed. “This is relevant, I’ll bet.”

“Well, are you?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know? You are or you aren’t. You know. One way or the other.”

“Was Jesus of Nazareth Christ Incarnate? Catholics answer yes,” Terrell said. “I’m not sure.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Frankie said irritably, and moved to the door. His young face looked suddenly very tired and old. “I think I’m going to die tonight,” he said.

“You’re doing a good job of talking yourself into it.”

“It’s the way I feel.” Frankie shrugged lightly. “That’s why I’m talking like an oddball. It’s important. You think she was a tramp, eh?”

“I think she loved you,” Terrell said. “She wanted to have your baby. She was no tramp.”

Frankie nodded slowly. “That’s a logical way to look at it. It’s funny that what you thought of her should matter to me. But you may be the last guy I’ll ever talk to about her. So it makes a difference.”

“You’re selling yourself a deal,” Terrell said. “You’ll die all right. You’ll be hit by a truck wandering around asking people about their religion.”

“No, it won’t be that way,” Frankie said. His hand turned the knob slowly and the door opened an inch or so. “You bought yourself an address,” he said. “Bancroft’s nursing home, on Madden Boulevard near the city line. Take it down.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s where Ike sent the little blonde,” Frankie said. “You should know how close you came to not getting it. So long now.” He opened the door and slipped quickly into the corridor.

Terrell listened to his heels clicking sharply toward the elevators, and then he picked up the phone and gave the operator Superintendent Duggan’s home number.

The Superintendent’s wife answered, and told him that Duggan had gone back to the office. She sounded upset. “He just dashed away, right in the middle of that TV program he likes so much. It’s the one where—”

Terrell broke the connection and told the operator he wanted the police board. It took him almost five minutes to get through to Duggan. Finally Duggan’s voice cracked in his ear. “Yes? Who is this?”

“Sam Terrell. Listen, I’ve got an address I want you to take down.”

“Sam, you must live under a rock. Don’t you know the whole goddamn city is upside down? We picked up a hoodlum named Rammersky who tells us he strangled Eden Myles. Caldwell’s clear.”

“The Bancroft nursing home,” Terrell said, raising his voice over Duggan’s. “There’s a girl being held there. Connie Blacker.”

“Wait a minute,” Duggan said. “We already got that tip. The Bancroft nursing home. Hang on.”

“What are you talking about?” Terrell yelled, but Duggan was off the line.

He returned a full minute later, and said, “I just checked with Radio. A couple of cars are on their way to pick her up.”

“Where did you get the tip?”

“Mike Karsh called about ten minutes ago. Told us the girl was being held against her will, that she was an important witness against Ike Cellars.”

“When will you know if she’s all right?”

“When the cars report to Radio. Sam, I’m busy as hell.”

“I’ll call you back,” Terrell said, and put the phone slowly back in place. He sat on the bed and lit a cigarette. Mike Karsh... He shook his head, completely bewildered.

The time passed slowly. He paced the room, counted Frankie’s suits, read the labels on bottles of patent medicines, and then stared at the cover of a magazine that was lying beside the bed. The illustration was of a kitten peeking around a bowl of geraniums. He studied it for a full minute, irrelevantly aware that this particular conjunction of subjects would probably be distasteful to him the rest of his life.

Five minutes passed. He called Duggan again, and was another couple of minutes getting through to him. Then he said, “Have you got the girl?” His voice was high, and he could feel the uneven lurch of his heart.

“Yes. They’ve taken her over to St. Anne de Beaupré’s and made three arrests at the Bancroft home. It’s a phony joint.”

Terrell’s hand tightened on the phone. “What’s the matter with her?”

“Christ, I don’t know,” Duggan said impatiently. “She’s in bad shape. That’s all they told me.”