Night Extra

5

The city room was noisy with typewriters and ringing phones. A complete staff had been called in to cover the story; feature writers were poring over yellowing clips of Caldwell’s background, studying his schools, military service, marriage and business activities for possible items. And copy boys were bringing up fresh loads of pictures and copy from the morgue, dossiers on anyone connected with either Caldwell or the murdered girl.

Williams was in direct charge of the story now, but Karsh stood behind his chair at the city desk, checking every picture and paragraph that was going into the next edition. Terrell dropped his coat and hat on his desk, and walked up the room, past the picture desk where two editors were working on captions, and around the copy wheel where headlines were being chopped to fit the stories funneled over from the city desk.

Karsh turned to look at the clock above his head, and saw Terrell. He waved and pointed to his own office. Terrell joined him there and Karsh closed the door behind them, cutting off the noise from the big city room. They were as isolated in his air-conditioned sanctuary as fish in an aquarium tank; outside the life of the paper swarmed silently past the glass-walled office, oddly unsubstantial and unreal.

Karsh sat down at his desk, twisted a cigarette into his holder, and then looked up at Terrell. He was smiling and one of his eyebrows was raised slightly; his expression was amused but ironical. He showed no effects from lack of sleep and a night of drinking; his skin was fresh and his eyes were clear and steady. “Well, it’s a frame, eh?” he said. “Raw, clumsy and transparent. But effective. There’s a lesson in that. Don’t be subtle. Forget intricate maneuvers — if you want a man out of the way hit him with a meat cleaver, and go on about your business. Sit down, Sam.”

“What do we do now?”

“We’re going to save Richard Caldwell’s neck. This is about the biggest story I’ve ever been near — and I want it. I want it all. Now let’s go back a bit. Tell me just what Coglan told you, his first version, that is.”

Terrell gave Karsh a detailed account of what he had heard and seen so far, and then Karsh lit another cigarette and said, “Well, Stanko probably didn’t consider the possibility that a reporter might call Caldwell’s home direct — as you did. But he scared Coglan into switching his story. And that shouldn’t have been too hard.”

“I may be out of line, but why in God’s name didn’t you use my story?”

“Because I don’t want to waste ammunition on jerks like Coglan and Stanko. I want to know who paid the killer — and I want the killer. That’s the big story, boy. It may turn this sovereign state upside down and shake a thousand grafters loose from their snug little perches — and among those thousands we may find Ike Cellars, and our beloved, corn-fed Mayor.” Karsh came around his desk, his eyes alive and intense; work seemed to burn all the waste and dross from his mind and body.

“Remember this. The difference between good editors and hacks is judgment. What the devil is a story? Two cars bump fenders, barking dog rouses family in burning home. News stories, sure. But they’re pat and obvious. Any child could pick them out. But the big stories are like symphonies, they’ve got balance and mood and excitement to them, and a touch of mystery. You know what makes them significant? The astounding fact that drama has been created by sheer, blind coincidence. It’s just as if a bunch of drunks began shouting and accidentally sang the last act of Faust without missing a word or a note. Now we’ve got the tail of a tremendous story. And we’re going to pull the whole damn mess out into the light.”

Terrell knew that Caldwell had a chance with the paper fighting for him. “We’ll be on the side of the angels this time, Mike,” he said.

“Don’t kid yourself,” Karsh said sharply. “I want the story for sensible, selfish reasons. I don’t give a damn about public morality. In fact, if we let them hang Caldwell it might have a salutary effect on all the other civic busybodies who bore hell out of me.”

“It won’t wash, Mike. You’re on the side of the lawn-watering Babbitts; whether you like it or not. It’s damned embarrassing, I bet.”

Karsh didn’t look amused; he considered himself an unemotional realist, and he resented any tampering with this self portrait. “Your job is to find a killer,” he said shortly. “So get with it. But keep me posted, and take it nice and slow.” He brushed Terrell’s arm with the back of his hand. “I don’t really care if they hang Caldwell, but I’d hate to lose you. Let’s get to work.”

Terrell went downstairs and found a cab to drive him out to Gray Gates. He hoped to talk to Connie Blacker before anyone else did; she had suggested that Eden was frightened of something, and that was a lead he wanted to run down fast.

The lobby of Gray Gates was dimly-lighted at this hour, but the elevator operator was freshly shaved and immaculately turned out in a blue and gold uniform. The young man knew something was up; Terrell guessed that from the very passiveness of his expression. Probably the police and reporters had already been here.

He walked down the silent corridor and rapped lightly on her door. When she answered he knew that she had heard the news; he could sense the fear in her voice.

“It’s Terrell,” he said. “I want to talk to you.”

She opened the door a bit, and the light from the hallway touched her wide eyes and pale face. “I... there’s nothing I can tell you. Please believe me.”

“I’m not a cop,” he said. “You don’t have to talk to me. But I wish you would.”

“All right.” She sounded weary and hopeless. “Come in.”

There was a single lamp shining in the long living room, and the draperies were drawn across the wide picture window. She sat down on the edge of a chair and lit a cigarette. He could see that her fingers were shaking.

“When did you get the news?” he said quietly.

“A friend of Eden’s—” She moistened her lips. “A friend of Eden’s called me.”

“Were the police here?”

“Yes, a detective. He said he needed to know who should be notified. I gave him her mother’s address. A reporter and a photographer were here a little later. They wanted snapshots of Eden, pictures of me, pictures of the apartment.”

“That wasn’t very pleasant, I guess.”

“I couldn’t think about anything but her.” She stood and began pacing restlessly, taking quick drags on the cigarette. “Eden knew so much, she worked so hard — and suddenly it’s all over. Snuffed out. I can’t stand any room in the apartment. Everything is full of her things. Dresses, shoes, cosmetics. There’s a coffee cup on the kitchen sink with her lipstick on it. Her room smells of her cologne. The magazines she was reading are here on the coffee table.” Connie put her fingers to her temples. “It’s all alive, just as she left it. But she’ll never come back.”

Terrell said, “You told me the other day she was frightened. What did you mean by that?”

“I don’t know — it was the way she acted.” Connie sat down on the edge of the sofa and the light from the single lamp glinted on her short blond hair and shadowed her dark blue eyes. She wore pajamas and a blue robe, and looked very tired and very miserable. “I thought it was nerves at first. The telephone or a knock on the door made her jump. You saw her. She looked like she was being pulled to pieces.”

“What was she afraid of?”

“I don’t know. She didn’t tell me. But it was connected with a job she was doing. Tonight a man came here to talk to her. She was frightened, I know. And she didn’t want to go on. But he insisted.”

“Who was the man?”

Connie looked up at him, and he saw fear growing in her eyes. “You’re asking me to break the eleventh commandment,” she said. “Keep thy mouth shut.”

“What are you afraid of?”

“I don’t want trouble.”

Terrell hesitated a second, knowing he would be a fool to trust her; she owed him nothing, and she had obviously been indoctrinated with the hoodlum idea that anyone who helped the police was an informer. But there was nothing else he could do. “Please listen to me now,” he said. “Take this on faith if you can. The man who killed Eden is walking free. An innocent man has been charged with her murder. He’ll die for it unless the truth comes out. So if you know anything, you can’t keep quiet.”

She looked down at her hands, and her manner was badgered and defensive. “Who says I know anything?”

“Who was the man who came here tonight? What did he want Eden to do? Why was she frightened? Can’t you tell me?”

“You want the story, sure. That’s your job. You’ll get a raise and a pat on the back from your boss. Should I stick my neck out to make you look good?”

“Forget about me, for God’s sake,” Terrell sat down beside her and said, “An innocent man may die — that’s why you’ve got to stick your neck out. But this isn’t a tong war or some wholesale vendetta from the Capone era in Chicago. You’ll be protected. If you trust me, I’ll see to it. And I’ll keep whatever you tell me in confidence. But if you don’t trust me, go to the police. Or the governor.”

The phone began to ring and she started nervously and guiltily; the sound seemed ominously insistent in the silent apartment. They looked at each other for a few seconds, but when she started to rise Terrell caught her wrist. “Answer my question first. Who was the man?”

Her flesh was cold to his touch, and he felt a tremor shake her body. He sighed and released her wrist. “Okay. Answer the phone.”

She crossed the room quickly and raised the receiver to her lips.

Terrell lit a cigarette and watched her eyes; something changed in them as she stood listening with the phone tight against her ear. “Yes... yes,” she said, and listened for a few more seconds. Then she said, “Yes, all right. I understand.” She put the phone down slowly and stood motionless for a few seconds. Her face was very pale.

“Who was that?” Terrell said casually.

“A friend of mine.”

“Well, where were we? Eden was frightened about a job she had to do.”

She turned to her chair and lit a cigarette without meeting his eyes. “I was just guessing,” she said. “Perhaps I was wrong.”

“And how about the man who came here tonight?”

“I don’t know anything about him.”

“You saw him, didn’t you?”

“No — I was in the bedroom.”

“That’s a pity. The last time I was here you told me Frankie Chance had been up to see Eden. You remember that?”

She shook her head quickly. “I’m not sure. I heard a voice, and I just assumed it was Frankie.”

“You were in the bedroom again, eh? Didn’t Eden let you out to meet her friends?”

“Stop hounding me. Stop it.” She was gripping the edges of the chair with her hands.

“Who was that on the phone?”

“A friend, I told you.”

Terrell sat down beside her and took one of her hands. “Ice cold,” he said. “Your face is white and your lips are trembling. Cute friends you’ve got. What did he say? To shut up? To keep quiet?”

“Maybe,” she said, pulling her hand free. “Why don’t you go to the police yourself? They’re paid to hunt killers. I’m paid to sing in a club.”

“And I’ll bet you’re in for a raise pretty soon,” Terrell said quietly.

She looked quickly at him, her expression guilty and defiant. “Don’t bother needling me. I’m scared. Do you expect me to be ashamed of that? I’m weak and gutless and anything else you want to call me. I’m not hero material. I’m not a judo expert or some selfless saint who does what’s right and damns the consequences.” She paused, breathing rapidly, and stared down at her hands. “I’m keeping my job, and I’m keeping my health. And I’m minding my own business.”

Terrell watched her for a few seconds, but she wouldn’t and meet his eyes. “I might feel the same if I were in your shoes,” he said finally. “I’m not sure of what I’d do. I wasn’t needling you. I’m just a reporter at work. If you change your mind, you can always get me through the paper. Will you remember that?”

“It’s no use,” she said.

“Remember Caldwell then,” he said, getting to his feet. “He’s facing the loss of his career, reputation, his family, everything — even his life. And he’s no more guilty than you are. Remember him while you’re singing college songs to bald-headed drunks in Ike Cellars’ joint.”

“Why don’t you leave me alone?” She was very nearly in tears.

Terrell sighed and picked up his hat. “Okay, I’m going. But you can reach me at the paper if you need me.”