Night Extra

6

It was almost dawn before Terrell reached his apartment in center-city. He slept six hours, then shaved, and showered and dressed. As he went through his mail he drank a cup of black coffee, and smoked a cigarette that made him resolve to cut back to a pack a day — soon. After checking the mail, he wrote a note to the cleaning woman, asking her to put in coffee, eggs and a few other staples. Then he went to work.

At his corner desk he settled down with a carton of coffee to look through the final developments on the Caldwell story.

The late editions were beautiful examples of dramatic journalism. Pictures of Caldwell and Eden Myles stared out from beneath heavy black four-column headlines, and there were shots of Eden’s gray-haired mother, and the town house on Manor Lane. Every angle of the story had been covered thoroughly and vividly; by professional standards the edition was a superb job, a Karsh special. There were sharp, pertinent stories on Caldwell’s campaign, his legal career and social connection. Eden Myles had been profiled by the nightclub editor, who had tastefully referred to Frankie Chance as a local sportsman. On page three were more pictures: Frankie Chance attacking Caldwell at the hearing, a young and frightened-looking Connie Blacker in Eden’s apartment, and a show-business print of Eden wearing a bathing suit that displayed her handsome body to the legal limits of propriety. It was a terrific story; it had everything. Sex, violence, prominent people, social gradings — everything but the truth, Terrell thought.

Caldwell’s two sons were in a picture with their mother, a placidly beautiful woman in her late forties. Flanking them was a photograph of their handsome fieldstone home in suburban Morristown.

Karsh hadn’t missed anything. Every element in the story had been welded into a powerful, dramatic unit.

Caldwell’s version of what had happened seemed pathetically feeble. He admitted having had two martinis before dinner, and a brandy and soda afterwards. Then, around ten-thirty, Eden Myles had called and asked if she could see him. He had said yes, adding parenthetically that Eden Myles had been supplying his staff with information about gambling in the city. That would get a laugh, Terrell thought sadly. It was raw material for the local wits. Caldwell also admitted that he had had another brandy when Eden arrived at his home. She had seemed very nervous and asked for a drink, he said; he had taken one with her. There were no witnesses to what happened after that. Caldwell said he was struck from behind and had blacked out. When he regained consciousness Eden Myles was lying on the floor, and a patrolman was talking on the telephone. There. was no evidence to support Caldwell’s story; the bruise on his temple might have come from a blow, or from a fall, the police surgeon testified. There had been a fight; the girl’s torn clothing indicated that. Caldwell could have tripped and struck his head against the corner of a table.

Terrell put the paper aside and began work on his column for the following day, typing out a piece he had put together a few weeks ago on a quiet Sunday afternoon. It was an essay on bird life in the cities, a change-of-pace piece nature buffs would admire, and his regular customers would have to tolerate. He usually kept six or eight columns on tap for emergencies and he had a hunch he would use up all of his present stock while he worked on the Caldwell story.

“How do you spell ‘pigeon’?” he asked Wheeler a bit later.

“As in ‘dead pigeon’? You thinking of Caldwell?”

“No, pigeon as in pigeon. This is a graceful, instructive piece on our town’s bird life. In a Charles Lamb mood.”

“Why not follow up on animal life? We’ve got rats, snakes, skunks, all trotting around on two legs — surprisingly like some of our better-known citizens.”

“I get the fine satiric touch,” Terrell said. He finished the piece, called a copy boy, then settled back in his chair and lit a cigarette. The long room was fairly quiet now; an edition was going in, and tension eased as the bell above the city desk began to ring. The forms were locked up, the presses would be rolling shortly and nothing could stop them but a front page story — a sinking liner, a major train wreck, an assassination.

“And so another day’s toil is done,” Wheeler said, stretching his arms and yawning. “It makes a man feel good to realize that he has contributed practically nothing to practically nothing — my estimate of the worth of my efforts and the worth of the paper. Makes a man feel good — good where it counts.”

“And where’s that?” Terrell asked.

“A shrewd question.” Wheeler was in high spirits, a grin on his thin, old face. “The place that counts with me is just above the left elbow. That’s where it hurts if I break my Scout oath. Tell me, how do you like the way we handled the big story?”

“It ties Caldwell up like a Christmas goose,” Terrell said.

“Maybe he deserves it.”

Terrell looked at him. “You know something stinks.”

“Sure; sure. I wrote the story, remember.” Wheeler punched the space bar of his typewriter for emphasis. “Coglan saw a man run out of Caldwell’s home. But Coglan changed his mind. He’s a lush, he’s been on the sauce for years. Maybe he saw something, but it might have been a ten foot robin, or a gaggle of dwarfs beating out the Anvil Chorus on his head.” Wheeler shifted in his chair and frowned at Terrell. “I like that bird life column you were doing. It’s a smart idea. You should stick to stuff like that until after elections. You don’t owe anybody anything. Caldwell is police business, Sam.”

“You think he may be guilty?”

“A case can be made,” Wheeler said drily. “Pillar of society, a paragon of the dull virtues. Who knows what he wanted? A frolicsome babe, kicks that he’d only dreamed about in his little box of tradition and respectability? He tried for it, she told him off—” Wheeler punched the space bar again. “Something snapped. I’ve written that particular story fifty times over the years.”

“Why are you trying to tout me off doing my job?”

“Use your head, boy,” Wheeler said irritably. “If this is a frame — ‘if,’ mind you — it’s been hammered together by people who could step on you like a bug if you crawled across their path.”

Terrell dropped his cigarette into an empty coffee carton. “I’ve got to cut down on these things,” he said.

“That’s right, worry about the eternal verities,” Wheeler said in a disgusted voice. “Dandruff, too many cigarettes — don’t waste time on trifles.”

“That’s the key to mental health,” Terrell said, picking up his coat. “But don’t worry, I’ll take precautions. I’ll wear my press card in my hat band from now on.”

“It will make a nice target.”

The next morning at nine-thirty Terrell rapped on the door of an old-fashioned frame house in a poor and dreary section of the city. Smoke from factories and the railroad yards hung over the streets, dulling the weak sunlight and filling the air with a sharp acrid stench. The area was being strangled to death by the pressure of industrial development; schools and playgrounds had been summarily shifted to make way for factories and warehouses. The river winding through this area had become a cesspool for waste products. A triumph of city planning, Terrell thought, looking along the depressing street.

The door was opened by a woman with graying hair and eyes that were large and anxious behind rimless glasses. “Yes?” she said, drying her hands on a pale blue apron. “Yes, what is it?”

“My name is Terrell, Mrs. Coglan, Sam Terrell. I’m a reporter with the Call-Bulletin.”

“Sure, I know your column, Mr. Terrell. And Paddy has spoken of you, I believe.”

“I’m sure he has. I’ve known him for years. Ever since I covered police on the west side. That’s where I met him. At the old Nineteenth.”

“You want to see him, I suppose, Mr. Terrell, but he’s not here. He’s taken a trip.”

“Yes, I know,” Terrell said. “I stopped at his district first and Sergeant McManus told me Paddy had decided to use up some of his leave time.”

“He wants to take what he’s got coming before he retires,” Mrs. Coglan said. “You know his pension’s coming up in a few weeks.”

“That’s smart,” Terrell said, smiling at her. “No point in giving the time back to the city.”

“That’s what I said to him myself”

“But you can help me out just as well as Paddy,” Terrell said. “That’s why I came by. We’re doing a round-up of the Caldwell story in next Sunday’s edition, and I want to use a piece on Paddy — a picture, a little biographical stuff, that sort of thing.”

“I could find a picture of himself.” She pressed her lips together and shook her head quickly. “That poor girl, she looked so sweet. But come in, Mr. Terrell. You’ll excuse me, but the house is in a state. I tell you there’s bad blood there, Caldwell, I mean.” Terrell took off his hat and followed her into the neat, plainly furnished living room that smelled faintly of floor polish. “I know they’re supposed to be fine and fancy people, quality, as you’d say, but there’s bad blood there all the same, it only needs looking for.”

“You may have a point,” Terrell said.

“Just sit yourself down, and don’t mind how things look. I haven’t given the front rooms a lick yet.”

“When did Paddy leave, by the way?” Terrell asked casually.

“Yesterday morning, around eight, I think it was. Right after—” Mrs. Coglan pushed a stray hair from her forehead, and then straightened a pile of magazines on the coffee table. “He’d been planning the trip for a long time, you see. There was nothing sudden about it.”

“Sure,” Terrell said. He tried to sound only mildly interested. “Where did he go, by the way?”

“Some people might think it funny him leaving just after testifying against Mr. Caldwell.”

“He won’t be needed until the Grand Jury hearing. No reason for him to give up his trip. Where did he go?”

“Well, he’s visiting some relatives out in Indiana. Two of his sisters live there.” Mrs. Coglan rubbed her hands briskly on her apron. “Well, I’ll get you some pictures to look at.”

“Is there any way I could get in touch with Paddy?” Terrell asked her. “That is, if I need to check an item or a date with him?”

“Well, he’s driving,” Mrs. Coglan said, looking at a spot on the wall. “He’ll just meander along, taking his time. I don’t see how you could, Mr. Terrell.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“I’ll get the pictures now. You can take your pick.”

When she went up the stairs Terrell stood and glanced around the room. His nerves assured him he was on the right track; his body was tight with tension. Paddy Coglan had been told to clear out. To stay away until after elections. His lie had destroyed Caldwell’s only hope. And now he was gone, safely away from Caldwell’s lawyers or suspicious newspapermen.

The room told him nothing; it was tidy and unrevealing. He hardly knew what he was expecting — a letter or postcard perhaps with a return address on it. He looked through the shelves beside the imitation fireplace, moving the dozen-odd books, but careful not to disturb the orderly rows of china figurines. An enlarged tinted photograph of Paddy Coglan as a young man hung above the mantle. His eyes stared with pointless defiance into the middle distance, soft and innocent in his round and vulnerable face.

Terrell sat down as he heard Mrs. Coglan descending the stairs. “Well, here we are now,” she said. She was breathing with some difficulty. “Up and down, up and down, I swear those stairs will be the death of me.” She carried a bulky cardboard box which Terrell helped her to place on the coffee table. “I’ve always kept everything,” she said. “Newspaper clippings, transfer orders, letters from the pension and medical officers — you know how it is. You never know when they’ll ask you for something they sent you five years ago. And here are the pictures. You should find something in that bunch.”

“I’m sure I can.” He sat on the sofa and began turning over snapshots of Paddy Coglan. Most of them were from local papers, probably turned over to Paddy by reporters. Paddy standing beside the mayor at a parade, Paddy at the scene of a four-car crash, Paddy holding a baby whose mother had been burned to death in a fire.

“He worked hard, if I do say so,” Mrs. Coglan murmured, studying the photographs with a softened expression. “He never got on though in the bureau. He always had enemies, false friends who carried tales.”

“That’s a damn shame,” Terrell said.

“You’ve known Paddy a good while, and you know he’ll take a drink. He’s never hidden that — take me or leave me, that’s Paddy Coglan. He wouldn’t put drink in a can of fruit juice, the way old Captain Maloney always did. Or pretend it was medicine. But it always worried me. As God is my judge, it was his only fault. He never, well — you know, had his hand out for favors, or anything like that. Just the drink.”

“It’s no crime to take a little nip now and then.”

“I suppose not. But a man on a beat is different. Captain Stanko said—” Mrs. Coglan cleared her throat and pointed to a picture. “There’s himself just after we were married. I used to see Paddy at seven o’clock Mass every morning with his mother and that’s when I set my cap for him.” She smiled at Terrell. “My own mother, God rest her soul, always said, ‘Look for a boy who looks out for his mother.’ ”

“That’s a good thought.”

“I’ve always been afraid—” Mrs. Coglan twisted her apron with rough, red fingers. “I don’t know why I’m talking this way. But each day that brought his pension nearer, I seemed to be more sure he’d get into some trouble. You know, that something would happen while he was off his beat having a nip. I’m running on like an old fool. Nothing can happen now, anyway. You take what you want, and I’ll go on with my work. I shouldn’t be bothering you with my chatter.”

“Not at all. But could I use your phone? I have to check in to the desk.”

“Just like a policeman,” Mrs. Coglan said, shaking her head. “Always checking in. The phone is in the dining room, and you’re welcome to it.”

Terrell followed her into the dining room and she turned on the overhead lights. The phone was on the sideboard. “It used to be nice and bright in here,” she said. “But since all the factories have come in you can’t have a meal without lights.” She lingered in the doorway, still twisting her hands in her apron.

Terrell dialed the Weather Bureau’s information service, which gave a recorded weather report every fifteen seconds. There was a centerpiece of wax fruit on the sideboard, several spools of wool, and a darning egg. A picture of St. Francis of Assisi hung facing Terrell. The rug was a bright green, and the highly polished top of the dining room table mirrored the overhead lights.

The announcer was speaking in Terrell’s ear, giving details of wind and temperature. He nodded and said, “Okay, okay, I’ll check that, too.”

Mrs. Coglan said, “I’ll just be in the kitchen, if you want me,” and left the room.

He smiled at her, and went on talking into the phone. When he heard her footsteps fade away he turned quickly to a small table a few feet from the sideboard. There was a small stack of mail on a metal tray and with the receiver held between his jaw and shoulder, he went through it quickly; he flipped over utility bills, a birth announcement, promotion material from a national magazine, and then he came on it, an envelope postmarked the day before with the name “P. Coglan” written in the upper lefthand corner. The letter was addressed to Mrs. P. Coglan and the return address was the Riley Hotel, Beach City, New Jersey.

Terrell put the letters back on the tray, hung up the phone and strolled back into the living room. He made a selection of pictures, and was ready to leave when Mrs. Coglan came in to ask him if he would like a cup of coffee.

“Thanks, but no,” said Terrell. “I’ve got to run.”

“We’ll be looking forward to your story. It will be kind of a nice ending for Paddy’s days with the police force. It’s really the most important case he was ever connected with.”

“Yes. Well, thanks again.”

Terrell didn’t feel very cheerful as he walked down the steps to his car. The morning was gray and cold, and the sulphurous smoke from the freight yards burned his throat and eyes. Paddy Coglan, he thought taking his mother to seven o’clock Mass, sneaking off his beat for a nip on frosty nights. Somebody had to trip him but it was a lousy job.

Terrell smiled and waved to Mrs. Coglan, who stood in the doorway with her shoulders hunched against the cold wind. Then Terrell got in his car and started the motor. Beach City was a hundred miles away. He could make that in two hours.