Night Extra

9

Terrell stopped for coffee in a drugstore opposite the Clayton, and gave his nerves a chance to untighten; there had been nothing funny or casual in the encounter with Cellars. Ike was a powerful man with a short temper and a long memory. He wasted nothing, least of all threats. Terrell sat with the coffee until his fingers were steady, and then went out and hailed a cab. He had decided to see Sarnac again; Caldwell and the reform ticket must have something damaging to use against Cellars. Otherwise Ike wouldn’t have made such an obvious and stupid play.

The atmosphere of Caldwell’s campaign headquarters had changed drastically since his visit forty-eight hours ago. Then the mood had been one of missionary enthusiasm; Caldwell was astride the white horse of good government, and the forces of evil were fleeing in disorder before his shining lance. That was the feeling Terrell remembered, correcting a bit for his purple patch. But now the big room was almost empty, and the bunting and pictures seemed woefully incongruous against the dispirited silence. Two young girls looked up at him from a table, their expressions defensive and vulnerable. Terrell was touched by the guilt in their faces. Why should they feel guilty?

One of them went off to find Sarnac and the other made nervous comments about the weather. Terrell turned from her in relief when Sarnac looked out of his office and said, “Won’t you come in, Mr. Terrell?”

Sarnac was pale and nervous; a muscle twitched in his left cheek and he looked as if he hadn’t slept for days.

“You’re in great shape,” Terrell said. “Bright-eyed, radiating a calm confidence.”

“Please sit down. It’s a bit difficult to relax in my position. There’s so much to be done, and at the same time there’s nothing to do. Nothing, nothing—” He clenched his fists. “Nothing that will help. Nothing at all.”

“What have you been doing?”

Sarnac removed his glasses and pressed the tips of his fingers against his closed eyes. “We’ve hired a firm of private detectives. They’re checking everything — Eden Myles’ background and that patrolman — what’s his name — Coglan, who shot himself. They’re going over all the testimony for loopholes. The National Committee has offered us a blank check — they believe in Mr. Caldwell. Money, TV time, their best writers, best investigators, anything they’ve got. They’re standing by splendidly.”

“Well, to be as cynical as hell, he’s their baby. They can’t dump him. That would hurt the ticket from one end of the country to the other. Have you talked to Caldwell today?”

“Yes, early this morning. He still has no idea what happened. He believes he was struck down from behind. The police obviously don’t agree.”

“They’ve got their story all wrapped up,” Terrell said. “Paddy Coglan is dead, but his evidence at the preliminary hearing is a matter of record and admissible in court. Caldwell doesn’t have a prayer as things stand. As a loyal friend, all you can do is tidy up his affairs and comfort his widow.”

“Does his helplessness give you any satisfaction?” Sarnac was angered and disturbed by Terrell’s tone. “Are you pleased that the life of an innocent man is in jeopardy?”

“I want to make a deal with you,” Terrell said. “But you’ve got nothing to bargain with. I want that understood. It will save hedging and double-talk. I think Caldwell was framed. I’m not going to tell you why I think so. But I’m going to try to prove it. I want what you’ve got on Ike Cellars. On the present administration, up to and including Mayor Ticknor.”

“Now just a minute, please.” Sarnac looked confused and excited. “I can’t agree to those terms. I can’t give you information without knowing what to expect in return. You’ve got to consider my position.”

“That doesn’t interest me at all. I want what you’ve got on Ike Cellars. I want the information that he’s afraid of. I’m offering one thing in exchange for it — a chance to keep Caldwell out of the electric chair. And not even a good chance. What do you say? I’m busy, Sarnac, and so are you. Let’s don’t waste each other’s time.”

“You think Caldwell was framed?” Sarnac said. His hands were shaking. “Is that a guess, Terrell?”

“I know he was framed,” Terrell said quietly. “Understand? I know it. He could have hurt someone important so he was stopped dead in his tracks. Stepped on. Smashed. Now are you going to tell me who he was about to hurt? And how? Or are you going to sit tight and let the illustrious name of Caldwell turn into a number in a state pen? And that’s if he’s lucky enough to get a recommendation for mercy. Otherwise he’ll die. Well, what is it?”

It was a long speech for Terrell, and a heated one; he felt that he must have sounded highly emotional. “Make up your mind,” he said. “Frankly, I don’t see what you’ve got to lose. We’re after the same thing for different reasons. I want the story, you want Caldwell cleared. Why shouldn’t we work together?”

“You want it all your way.”

“That’s right,” Terrell said. “I want it my way.”

Sarnac was silent for a few seconds, shaking his head as if he couldn’t line up his thoughts properly. “I don’t know,” he said. “All right, all right.” His voice rose sharply; Terrell had stood and turned to the door. “Sit down. But for the love of God and truth don’t deceive us, Terrell. Don’t offer us hope if none exists.”

“I’m offering you a chance, which depends on what you tell me. So let’s get with it.”

“If Caldwell had been elected, Ike Cellars and Mayor Ticknor would have gone to jail for life. Along with dozens of smaller thieves in the administration.” Sarnac’s voice strengthened as he went on. “That’s what they feared. That’s why they’ve committed murder to keep him from office.”

“That’s a good, husky charge,” Terrell said. “Now for details. How were you going to do all this?”

“I’ll make it as clear as I can. First, let me ask you. what you know about the Municipal Parking Authority.”

“Not too much. A program to ease the city’s traffic problems. I’ve read the stories on it. But it’s fairly dull stuff. Like what the earth will use for fuel in a couple of million years. Important, but not pressing.”

“Perhaps you’re right. But you should have been more interested. Our Parking Authority is one of the neatest civic swindles you’ll ever come across. And the public’s indifference to it has cost the community — the public itself — millions of dollars.”

“Okay, I’m shocked. How does it work? And how do you tie Cellars and Ticknor to it?”

“I’ll try to explain.” Sarnac stood and came around his desk, frowning thoughtfully and rubbing his finger alongside his nose. This was a classroom mannerism, Terrell guessed, for Sarnac’s attitude changed as he assumed the role of teacher; he seemed at home in this capacity, and rather pleased to be operating again within a familiar framework.

“The Parking Authority was established by City Council at the request of Mayor Ticknor,” Sarnac said, in a careful, precise voice. He paused, as if giving Terrell time to take notes, and then continued. “This was about four years ago, shortly after the present administration had been returned to office. Mayor Ticknor was supported by dozens of experts in traffic management and city planning. Their arguments were clear and logical. More cars are being licensed each month. Parking space is contracting steadily. Traffic problems can only worsen unless drastic and imaginative steps are taken. And so the Authority was created, with broad powers to pass laws, condemn property, build traffic arterials, and so forth. On paper all these proposals look fine.”

“But they weren’t put into effect?”

“That’s putting it too simply. Let me give you an example from our files. Three years and six months ago it was announced that a parking drome would be built at Ninth and Morrison. This was just one unit in the overall plan, of course. But we’ll take Ninth and Morrison to simplify things. That’s a slum neighborhood, fairly close to the center-city shopping and business districts. A logical place to provide parking space, close to the main north-south boulevards, and well integrated into the master circulation system. The architects approved the site, and got to work on plans. The Authority stepped in to confiscate the land. That was no problem. The population base was Negro or Puerto Rican and these people had no sentimental attachments to their cold-water flats and rat-infested backyards. The owners of the property were fairly compensated, and the displaced families moved elsewhere. The buildings were torn down, the ground cleared away, and it appeared that a certain amount of traffic relief was on the way.”

Sarnac paused and sighed. “Well, that’s step one. As you know, there is no parking drome at Ninth and Morrison. Here’s what happened. The architects submitted a new recommendation. Ninth and Morrison wasn’t the best spot after all. Twelfth and Fitzgibbons was much more logical, it seemed. This didn’t dismay the Authority. Not a bit. They okayed the new recommendation, and scrapped the plans for Ninth and Morrison. They sold the land at cost — apparently losing nothing on the deal.”

“But where’s the swindle?” Terrell asked him.

“First, they write-off the legal expenses of acquiring title to the land. And secondly, they write-off the costs of clearing the ground, wrecking the buildings and so forth. These costs are absorbed in their operating expenses. Thus the land becomes a magnificent bargain. You see, there’s a vast difference between land with homes and shops on it, and land that is physically and legally clear of all encumbrances. A private firm might spend years for instance merely trying to acquire title to the land — but the Authority can set a price and take possession.”

“And Ike Cellars snapped up these bits of property?” Terrell said.

“Cellars, Ticknor and others, all operating under various disguises. They’ve gobbled up acre after acre of our most important center-city property — using the Authority as their price-fixer and enforcer. And here’s another angle. The firms that did ninety-eight percent of this work were Acme Construction and Bell Wreckers — firms that no one knew anything about four years ago. They’ve blossomed overnight into two of the biggest outfits in the state — solely on contracts they’ve received from the Parking Authority. The legitimate, or should I say established, companies have never had a chance on Authority jobs.”

“Why didn’t they gripe?”

“They have, but it’s done them no good at all. Dan Bridewell, for instance, has fought them on every contract. He’s been in business here forty-five years and his company has a proven record of efficiency and performance. But he’s never gotten a dime’s worth of work from the Authority.”

“Can you prove all this?”

“If Caldwell is elected, yes. Our auditors could make out a criminal case in twenty-four hours. And that’s why Caldwell was stopped.”

“We’re back where we started,” Terrell said wearily. “In the area of common knowledge, rumor, gossip, what-have-you.”

“Every word I’ve told you is true,” Sarnac said.

“But you can’t prove it — not in time,” Terrell said. “Look: who owns those companies you mentioned? Acme Construction and Bell Wreckers?”

“Again, we don’t know. But we’d know the day after Caldwell took over the Mayor’s office.”

“Okay, okay,” Terrell said. “Where did you get this story? Eden Myles?”

“No. A clerk in the Property Tax Office came to us with the lead.”

“Did you get anything significant from Eden Myles?”

Sarnac shook his head. “No, just a few rather small odds and ends. We hoped she would do better but—” He rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. “But she didn’t.”

Terrell was silent for a few seconds. He said finally, “That’s the most interesting thing you’ve told me.”

“I don’t understand.” Sarnac seemed nervous and unsure of himself now, like a student being led out of his depths by an artful tutor.

Terrell got to his feet. “Well, it doesn’t matter.” It had occurred to him that Eden Myles had probably been framed, too; she hadn’t been killed for informing, she had been killed to incriminate Caldwell. It was a chilling and terrible thought — as ghastly as the whole concept of human sacrifice. But they couldn’t have told her she was being readied for the slaughter. Her loyalty wouldn’t stretch that far.

“What can we do?” Sarnac said, in a desperate rising voice. His poise had deserted him again; the moment of professorial confidence had vanished. “What can we do?”

“If I find out, I’ll let you know,” Terrell said. “That’s a promise.”