Night Extra

2

In the hotel lobby Terrell looked up Eden Myles’ address in the telephone directory: Apartment 9, Gray Gates Development. He went out into the cold, honey-colored sunlight, and waved to a cab.

The Gray Gates Development was new and elegant and expensive; ten minutes from center-city, its leaded windows and Tudor gables faced a shining loop of the Elmtree River and a range of low hills that rolled like big, soft animals along the horizon. The main building was set reverently in the middle of a dozen wooded acres, and looked more like an English country house than a functional beehive equipped with television sets, garbage disposal units, and a corps of smartly uniformed elevator operators and maintenance men. The wings of the main building bounded a common green lawn, laced with gravelled walks and beyond this was a swimming pool, tennis courts and sun decks. There was little you couldn’t buy at Gray Gates, Terrell knew. Masseurs and masseuses, therapeutic baths and pine-scented steam rooms, a choice of intimate and excellent bars and lounges — and most importantly, Terrell thought as he entered the lobby, a warm and quilted sense of privacy. Gamblers kept apartments here for big poker games, and businessmen checked in occasionally for discreet drinking bouts. More was kept here than apartments, of course; girls with mink stoles and toy poodles were fauna native to Gray Gates.

Terrell rapped on Eden Myles’ door and a girl’s voice said, “Just a second, I’m almost decent.”

“Don’t fuss on my account.” Terrell lit a cigarette and dropped the match in a sand-filled vase beside the elevator. A few seconds later the door was opened by a blond girl wearing brief white summer shorts and a man-styled yellow shirt. She smiled up at him while she knotted it snugly about her waist.

“You want Eden, I imagine. My name is Connie Blacker and I just checked in last night.” She was beautifully tanned, and her hair was bleached lightly from the sun. She wore it short and it fitted her head like a jagged little cap. Without make-up her face had the deceptively innocent appeal of a very small boy’s.

“And when will Eden be back?” Terrell asked her.

“I don’t know. She left while I was still in bed.” The girl hesitated, smiling doubtfully at him. “Should I ask you to come in?”

“Well, it would be a nice gesture.”

“She didn’t leave me any guest list. Are you friends?”

“Yes, but we’ve kept it quiet for the sake of the children.” He smiled. “My name’s Terrell, Sam Terrell. I work for a newspaper in town.”

“You know, you look like a reporter. Most newspapermen I’ve met could pass for cops. But you’ve got a — I don’t know — a kind of interesting, unhealthy look.”

“I’ve always hoped someone would notice that,” Terrell said, walking with her into the living room. The view from there was dramatic; through the big picture window he could see bleak maple trees, then stands of evergreen, and behind them the dark, tolling foothills. Gray Gates faced away from the city, turning its back to work and noise and dirt. The furniture in the long room blazed with color, yellow, magentas, smart tones of brown and green.

“Would you like coffee?” she asked him. “It’s fresh.”

“Thanks.”

“Could we have it in the kitchen? Then I can go on with my ironing. I just got off the bus last night and everything I own needs my tender loving care.”

“I like kitchens, as a matter of fact. It’s where my family spent half its time. Ate there except Sundays, drank beer there on Saturday nights.”

He followed her down a hallway to the kitchen, and took a seat at a counter that ran out flush from the range and broiler unit. Everything in sight was automatic, self-operating, studded with rheostats, gauges and clocks. To his inexperienced eyes it looked very formidable.

“Ours wasn’t much like this,” he said. “We had a wood stove and a pump.”

“Ah, a farm boy.”

“That’s right. Iowa. Corn farm.”

She smiled at him. “Are you serious? I’m from Davenport.”

“The big city, eh? Is that where you met Eden?”

“Uh-huh.” She put a cup of coffee beside him on the counter, and bowls of cream and sugar. “I won a band audition in my first year at college, and that was good for a month’s work at a local club. Eden was working there, too. She was wonderful to me, and told me to keep in touch. So I did. Eden kept insisting I should go back to college, but—” She moved to a narrow aluminum ironing board and picked up a blouse from a little pile of rolled-up garments. “Well, so here I am. Hanging onto Eden’s apron strings. She thinks I might get a job at The Mansions.”

“Singing?”

“Well, yes. I’m not awfully good, but I stay on key. And older men like me. That’s important, I think.”

“Yes, indeed,” Terrell said, nodding soberly. She was busy with her ironing, and he realized that he had never seen a pair of more beautiful legs. Even in loafers they looked wonderful; slim and smooth and brown, with light muscles that played gracefully when she lifted her feet.

“Do you know Mr. Cellars?” she said.

“Ike Cellars? Just slightly.”

She turned and looked at him. “Why do you say it like that?”

“My voice quivered with respect. That’s all. Have you met him?”

“No, but Eden says she’ll arrange it.”

Terrell’s intuitions began to work. “Have you met Frankie?” he asked casually.

“Frankie Chance? Just for a second last night. He came in for a drink — it must have been pretty late.”

Terrell smiled faintly. Eden’s break with Frankie obviously had been repaired. Or had there ever been a break? Terrell glanced at his watch and got to his feet. “Thanks for the coffee, Connie, but I’ve got to get going. Tell Eden I stopped by, will you?”

“No message?”

“I’ll give her a ring later.”

It was then that they heard the clatter of high heels in the front foyer. Connie said, “Here she is. It’s a good thing you waited.”

“It’s my lucky day,” Terrell said.

The high heels came down the hallway and Eden Myles pushed open the swinging door to the kitchen. “Connie, were there any calls for—” She stopped, staring at Terrell.

“Hello, Eden,” he said. “We were just having our coffee break. It’s something the unions got for us.”

“What do you want, Sam?” She glanced at Connie, suspicion sharpening her eyes. “What was he snooping around here for?”

Connie said, “He told me you were friends.”

“That’s very funny. Newspapermen are a notch below cops in my form book. Okay, what did you want?”

“Coffee,” Terrell said. “Like a cup, Eden? It’s wonderful.”

“What do you want?” She didn’t relax. She stood tall and angry, her flat model’s figure framed effectively in the doorway. The contrast between the two girls was remarkable, Terrell thought. Eden was a striking brunette, with a face made for fashion magazines, drawn, gaunt and dramatic. She wore a black suit with a stand-up collar, and only one piece of jewelry, a heavy silver bracelet on her left wrist. Beside her Connie looked like an urchin — a clean urchin with beautifully shaped legs.

Terrell said casually, “What are you seeing Caldwell for, Eden? That’s what I stopped to check on.”

Eden took it very well; she stared at him for at least ten seconds in silence, and then she said, “Would you go now? I’ve got things to do.”

“Won’t talk, eh? No comment.” Terrell lit a cigarette. “That’s what Sarnac said at first. But he finally gave in. I’m not using the story until I get his okay, Eden. I just wanted background.”

“Get out of here!”

Terrell said, “Okay, Eden, if that’s the way you want it.” He studied her for a second or so, and then shook his head slowly. “I don’t get it,” he said. “You’re a handsome woman, very elegant, very lovely.”

“I didn’t know you cared,” she said drily.

“When Ike Cellars finds out that you’ve been indiscreet, you won’t enjoy looking at yourself in mirrors any more. Has that occurred to you?”

“Get out, I said.”

Terrell tossed her a little salute and walked down the hall into the living room. Connie ran after him and caught his arm before he reached the door. “Please don’t go,” she said. “She’s frightened about something. She wants to talk to you, I know.”

Terrell said, “Listen!” They could hear Eden’s footsteps in the hallway. “Psychology,” he said.

“You’re a good bit of a heel.”

“That’s just a majority opinion.”

Eden entered the living room looking weary and beaten; the proud tension was gone from her body, and all of her careful grooming couldn’t conceal the fear in her face.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Can’t we play the scene over with a little less volume?”

“Let’s try,” he said.

“I’ve been talking to Caldwell,” she said. She sat down on a huge yellow ottoman and crossed her slender legs at the ankles. She turned her face away from Terrell. “I wanted to pay-off Frankie Chance because he... well, there’s no point going into that. It was a stupid, bitchy thing to do — I know that. But after I got started it seemed the right thing to do. That sounds corny, doesn’t it? But it happens to be true. Maybe you don’t know Caldwell. He’s an honest man, and he’s big and gentle and straight.” She shrugged and smiled. “More corn, I know. But that’s it, Sam. I fell for the guy. In a funny way. I respect him and I want him to respect me. What will Ike Cellars do? I don’t know. I can’t say I’m not afraid. But I’m going ahead with it. He can’t stop me, Sam.”

“He may not be in a position to,” Terrell said thoughtfully. “But tell me this, Eden: do you have anything specific and serious to tag him with? Names, dates, documents, witnesses — that’s what you need. Gossip and guesses are manufactured on street corners every hour on the hour. They don’t hurt Cellars or Ticknor.”

“I’ve got things that will hurt them.”

“What?”

“It’s for Caldwell. What he does with it is up to him.”

Terrell was silent for a few seconds. Then he said, “Well, I wish you both luck. You deserve a medal, Eden. You may never get it, but you deserve it just the same.”

“Sure, sure,” she said.

Terrell smiled at Connie, “Could I buy you a cup of coffee sometime?”

“Watch for me round the automat,” she said coldly.

“So long then, girls.”

Terrell rode down to the lobby feeling depressed and irritable. Something was wrong. The whole business stank. Dramatic revelations inspired first by vengeance, then a growing sense of duty and virtue — Eden’s act was a script-writer’s dream, preposterously pat.

But who was being cast as the fall guy? That’s what Terrell wanted to know.

Terrell cabbed back to the paper and ate lunch at his desk while he worked out the first draft of his next day’s column. When he had it in shape he called Mike Karsh, whom he could see sitting in his office leafing through the latest edition. Karsh said hello, then turned and waved to him. “Come on in,” he said. “I’ve got a minute.”

“I need at least ten, Mike”

“What’s up?”

“A story, a good one. I’d like your reaction to it.”

“Look, Sam: let’s have a quiet dinner tonight. Steak, beer, apple pie. We’ll kick things around. All right?”

“Fine. Where?”

“Let’s make it the Ridgeland, about eight. Okay?”

“See you then.” Dinner at the Ridgeland wouldn’t be a quiet affair, but if Karsh wanted to kid himself, Terrell didn’t mind; he felt he understood Karsh’s needs.