Rogue Cop

3

Carmody drove directly across town to his hotel which was near the center of the city and about a block from the river. He parked a car length from the canopied entrance and told the doorman that he would be going out again shortly.

Carmody had lived here for six years, in a three-room suite on a premium floor high above the city’s noise and dust. Letting himself in, he snapped on the lights and checked the time. Twelve-thirty. He had missed his shift completely, which would give Wilson something to complain about tomorrow. Let him, he thought. There was more at stake now than eight hours of routine duty.

First he had to get fixed on Karen Stephanson. She might be the lever to pry Eddie off the spot. Carmody paced the floor slowly, thinking over each word of their conversation, trying to recall every expression that had shifted across her small pale face. Finally, he sat down at the phone and called a man named Tony Anelli, a gambler who spent six months of each year in Miami.

Anelli sounded a little tight. “Howsa boy, howsa boy?” he said cheerfully. Carmody heard a woman’s high laughter in the background.

“I’m looking for some information,” Carmody said.

“Came to the right party,” Anelli said. “We got a party going, as a matter of fact.” This struck him as comical and he began to laugh. Carmody let him run down and then said, “Do you know anything about a girl named Karen Stephanson?”

“Karen Stephanson? Sounds Swedish,” Anelli said. He was silent a few seconds. “It’s familiar, Mike. I wish I wasn’t loaded. The old head is turning around like a merry-go-round. Wait a second. I met her a couple of times, if she’s the same dish. Thin girl, brown hair, kind of serious. Does that fit?”

“Yeah, that fits,” Carmody said. “What do you know about her?”

“Well, nothing much. She was Danny Nimo’s girl.”

“Danny Nimo?”

“He ran a string of handbooks in New Orleans. Pretty rough character.”

“She was his girl, eh?”

“Yeah, that’s right. He’s dead though. Died a year or so ago of pneumonia,” Anelli said. “That’s what always gets those big chesty guys. Let’s see now. I met her in Miami in ’50 or ’51. She’d been in a hell of an accident. Nimo took me up to the hospital to see her, and that’s why I remember her, I guess.”

“What kind of an accident?” Carmody asked. He was thinking of her coldly and savagely. The pale little face, the poised and regal manner, and twisting his brother around in her slim hands like a piece of helpless clay. A bitter smile appeared at the corners of his mouth. He’d put an end to that act.

“It was an automobile accident,” Anelli said. “Nimo was driving, and the story was that he was drunk. They hit a truck head-on; he told me her legs were broken in a dozen places.”

In spite of his anger, Carmody winced. He hated the idea of physical suffering, not for himself but for others. It was about the only crack in his hard, iconoclastic shell. But her suffering was over, he thought, and now she was staging a cheap, phony act for Eddie. He understood her flare-up at his offer of a drink; she had thought he knew about her relationship with Nimo and was attempting to blackmail her into two-timing Eddie. A nice sweet kid. The Miami phase is all over. That’s what she’d said. Sure, he thought, sure. Miami and Danny Nimo were a little trip along the primrose path, but now she was back on the strait and narrow, redeemed in the nick of time, saved by the bell, cheating the devil with a shoestring catch of her virtue. That would be her story, Carmody knew; told with a tactful tear or two and Eddie would buy it at any price.

“Thanks, Tony,” he said into the phone. “See you around.”

“Sure, keed. Take it easy. Wish I could do the same, but the night’s going to be bumpy, I think.”

Carmody hung up and walked into the bedroom, stripping off his suit coat. He showered and shaved, then opened the closet doors to choose his clothes. A dozen suits faced him in a neat row, and there was a line of glossy shoes with wooden blocks inside them in a rack on the floor. On either side of the suits were cedar-lined drawers filled with shirts, socks and underwear, and smaller trays containing cuff-links, tie-clips, handkerchiefs, a wallet and cigarette cases. Carmody took out a blue gabardine suit, a white shirt and a pair of cordovan shoes which had been shined and rubbed until they were nearly black. After dressing he glanced at himself in the full-length mirror. His thick blond hair was damp from the shower and there was an unpleasant little smile on his hard handsome face. All set for fun with Danny Nimo’s ex-passion-flower, he thought. It should be good. He wondered what would happen to her when he dropped Danny Nimo’s name into her lap. Fall apart in nice delicate pieces probably.

Carmody walked into the living room, made himself a light drink and put on an album of show tunes. She wound up her turn at two o’clock and Eddie had told him she lived at the Empire Hotel. Two-thirty should find her home, unless she was out with someone else. Staring at the gleaming sweep of the river, he realized he was letting himself get emotional about her. And that was no good. Anger could upset his judgment as drastically as any other passion. What he thought of her didn’t matter; it wasn’t his job to strip away her defenses. His only job was to make her help him with Eddie. So to hell with what he thought of her, to hell with everything but his dumb kid brother.

Still staring at the river, he lit a cigarette and sipped his drink. The music wrapped itself around him, filtering into his mind with stories of love — love lost, love found, love dying, love growing. Every kind of love there is, he thought irritably. The songs were as bad as the movie he had walked out of tonight. All promise, hope, and sickly enchantment. Did anyone know love as it was defined by these groaning singers? Where was this nostalgia, this grandeur, this thing that could enrich a man even as he lost or destroyed it?

Well, where was it? he asked himself. Not in this world, that was certain. It was like Santa Claus, and the big kind man with whiskers who looked down from the clouds with a sad smile on his face. Fairy tales for dopes who would fall on their faces if it weren’t for these crutches.

To get his mind off it, he emptied an ashtray and straightened the pile of magazines on the coffee table. The room pleased him with its look of expensive comfort. It needed pictures, but he hadn’t enough confidence in his own judgment to buy the modern paintings he thought he liked, and he balked at the hunting prints which a dealer had told him would go with just about anything. Glancing about, Carmody remembered the way his father had hung holy pictures around the house with a bland disregard for anything but his own taste. St. Michael with his foot on Lucifer’s neck, the good and bad angels, St. Peter dressed like a Roman senator and St. Anthony looking like a tragic young poet. All over the place, staring at you solemnly when you snapped on the lights. Carmody hadn’t minded the pictures as much as his father’s stubborn insistence on sticking them in the most conspicuous spot in every room. It was like living in a church. Carmody hardly remembered his mother; she had died two months after having Eddie, when he himself was just eight years old. The old man had raised his sons alone; getting married again had never crossed his mind.

The stubborn old fool, Carmody was thinking, as he got ready to leave. He’d been sure he had a strangle hold on happiness and eternal bliss. Everything was settled, all problems were solved in advance by his trust in God.

I’d like to see him handle this problem, he thought bitterly. The old man would tell Eddie not to worry, to make a novena and do what he thought was right. That would be great except for the fact that Ackerman and Beaumonte didn’t believe in novenas. Prayers were a waste of breath in their league. The old man couldn’t save Eddie with a lifetime on his knees. But I’ll save him, Carmody thought. Without prayers. That’s my kind of work.

The Empire was a quiet, respectable apartment hotel in the Northeast section of the city. Carmody got there at two-thirty, parked on the dark, tree-lined street and walked into the tiled lobby. He found her name printed in ink on a white card and rang the bell. There was a speaking tube beside the row of cards. She answered the third ring.

“Yes? Who is it?”

“This is Mike Carmody. I want to see you.”

She hesitated a moment, then said coldly, “It’s a bit late, don’t you think?”

“Wait a minute. What’s wrong with a friendly chat?”

“You don’t see anything wrong with coming up here at two-thirty in the morning?”

“People will talk, eh?” he said dryly. “Well, that’s okay. I don’t mind.”

“Please, Mike, you’re dead wrong about me,” she said, her voice changing.

“Save all that,” he said. “This concerns Eddie. Now press the buzzer before I get mad.”

“Is this how you get what you want?” she said. “By kicking people around?”

“Press that buzzer,” Carmody said. “I’m not kidding, bright eyes. Your virtue, such as it is, won’t get a workout Open up, damn it.”

There was a short pause. Then the lock clicked sharply. Smiling slightly, he opened the door and walked down a short carpeted hallway to the elevator.

She was waiting for him at the doorway of her apartment, her small head lifted defiantly. She wore a blue silk robe and a ribbon held her hair back from the slim line of her throat. Without make-up her face was pale, but her steady blue eyes were bright and unafraid.

Carmody walked toward her, still smiling slightly. She would play this on a very high level, he guessed. All poise and dignity. She created an illusion of strength and dignity, but Carmody wasn’t impressed. He had worked too long as a cop to be impressed by externals. Underneath that thin crust of confidence he knew there was nothing but guilt. What else could there be?

Smiling down at her, he said, “Thanks for letting me come up.”

“I had no choice,” she said shortly.

“That’s a dull way to look at it.”

She turned into her apartment and he followed her and tossed his hat into a chair. The living room was impersonal but comfortable; a TV set stood in one corner and a studio couch, made up now with sheets and blankets, was pulled out a few inches from the opposite wall. There were chairs, lamps, a coffee table with copies of Variety and Billboard on it, and a tall breakfront in which he saw shelves of dishes.

“Cosy,” he said, nodding.

“You said you wanted to talk about Eddie.”

“We’ll get to him in a minute.”

She shrugged lightly. “We’ll do it your way, of course.”

“That’s right,” he said.

“It’s been a long day,” she said. Her expression changed then, relieved by a tentative little smile. “Don’t you have any soft spots? I’d be grateful if you’d make this brief and let me go to bed.” She tilted her small head to one side. “How about it, Mike?”

“I’m covered with soft spots,” Carmody said. “Sit down and be comfortable. This won’t take long.”

She moved to a chair and sat down slowly. The limp wasn’t obvious; it was only suggested by the careful way she held her body — as if she were crossing a floor on which she had once taken a bad fall.

“What do you want?” she asked him.

Carmody sat down on a footstool in front of her, his big hands only a few inches from the folds of her robe. “Don’t you want to guess?” he said.

“I expected you to be subtle about it,” she said evenly, but a touch of color had come into her cheeks. “Flowers maybe, and a few kind words. But you’ve made this pretty cheap. Was that what you wanted?” Then she shook her head quickly and tried to soften his eyes with a smile. “You’re wrong about me, Mike. What do I have to do to prove it?”

“Relax,” Carmody said. “I’m here about Eddie. Listen now: he had the bad luck to identify a murderer last month, and the guy is important. Has he told you anything about this?”

“No.”

“Well, Eddie stumbled on a shooting. The murderer got away, but was picked up on his description. At the trial next month Eddie can send him to the chair. But that can’t happen. Eddie’s got to refuse to make the identification. Unless he agrees to that he’s in bad trouble. Do you understand this?”

“Yes, I think so,” she said slowly. The color had receded from her cheeks. “It’s always the same, isn’t it? Important people can’t be bothered going to jail.” She studied him with a fresh awareness. “And you’re a friend of the important people?”

“One of their best friends,” Carmody said. “But Eddie’s my brother and I don’t want him hurt. That’s why I need your help.”

“What can I do?”

“To start with, answer my questions. I know he’s crazy about you. But how do you feel about him?”

“I like him a lot. He’s good-natured, gentle, he’s straight and dependable, and—”

“Okay, okay,” Carmody said, cutting across her words impatiently. “I don’t want a litany. Do you love the guy?”

“Not yet.”

Carmody looked at her in silence, trying to keep a check on his temper. Who in hell was she to dilly-dally with his brother? To play the shy maiden with an honest guy like Eddie?

“What’re you waiting for?” he asked her coldly. “Butterflies in your stomach and stars in your eyes?”

“What right have you got to be sarcastic about it?” she said, leaning forward tensely. “It’s none of your business. You don’t have any authority to barge in here and grill me about Eddie. I’m not a suspect in one of your cases.”

“Now listen to me, bright eyes,” Carmody said, standing suddenly, and forcing her back into the chair with the threat of his size and power. “I know who you are and what league you played in. As Eddie’s brother that gives me plenty of rights.” Staring down at her he saw the fear in her eyes, the guilt that lay beneath her crust of angry innocence.

“You were Danny Nimo’s girl, right?” he said coldly.

“That’s right.”

“That’s right. Is that all you’ve got to say?”

“What else is there to say?”

“Where’s the rest of it? Didn’t he hold the mortgage on the family estate? Wasn’t he trying to lure your sister into the white slave racket? Where’s the cute story of how you got mixed up with him?”

“There’s no cute story,” she said in a low voice. “No estate, no lily-pure sister. I liked him, that’s all.”

“That’s all?” Carmody felt a thrust of anger snap his control. He caught her thin arms and jerked her to a standing position. “You had to have a reason,” he said, his voice rising dangerously. “What was it?”

“Let me go. Take your hands off me,” she cried, struggling impotently against the iron strength in his hands.

“Did you tell that to Danny Nimo? Did you tell him to take his hands off you?”

She was beginning to cry, her breath coming in rapid gasps. “Damn you, damn you,” she sobbed. “Why are you doing this to me?” Carmody shifted his grip and held her effortlessly against him with one arm. “Cut it out, bright eyes,” he said. “There’s no need for a big act. I know you, baby, we’re the same kind of people, the same kind of dirt.” With his free hand he forced her head back until their eyes met and held in a straining silence. “Now look,” he said softly, “I’m going to use you to save Eddie. You’ll do what I say, understand?”

“Let me go,” she whispered.

“When you understand me, bright eyes.” He studied her pale, frightened face, hating her pretence of maidenly fear and virtue. She acted as if his touch would contaminate her innocence. What gave her the right to that pose? He kissed her then deliberately and cruelly, forcing his mouth over hers and pulling her slim struggling body against his chest. For a moment he held her that way, locked tight against his big hard frame, knowing nothing but violence and anger and bitterness. And then, slowly, reluctantly, there was something else; her lips parted under his and the anger in him was replaced by a wild urgency. Carmody fought against its overwhelming demand and pushed her roughly away from him. They stared at each other, their breathing loud and rapid in the silence. “Does that prove it, bright eyes?” he said thickly. “Does that prove we’re the same kind of people?”

She twisted her arms free and began to pound her small fists against his chest. “You can’t say that, you can’t say that,” she cried at him.

Carmody took her arms and put her down in the chair. “Take it easy,” he said, still breathing hard. “It’s a little late to start fighting for your honor.”

She turned away, avoiding his eyes, and struck the arm of the chair with the flat of her hand. “You pig, you animal,” she said in a trembling voice. Tears started in her eyes and ran down her pale cheeks. “Why did you do this? Have I ever hurt you? Am I so dirty you think you can wipe your feet on me?”

“Take it easy,” he said again, running both hands through his hair. Her tears made him angry and uncomfortable. He hadn’t meant to hurt her; in spite of his deep cynicism about people, he had held on to an old-fashioned idea that women should be treated gently. He waited until she got herself under control. Then he said, “You think I’m a heel. Well, okay. But if I’m rough it’s because this is no Maypole dance we’re in.” He realized that he was apologizing obliquely to her and this puzzled him. “Look, I don’t care if you and Eddie get married,” he said. “That’s none of my business. Maybe it will work out great. But you can’t marry a body in a morgue.”

“Will they kill him? Are they that important?”

“Yes, they’re that important,” he said. “So let’s get serious. Supposing you told Eddie you needed money, a lot of it. Would he try to get it for you?”

“I don’t know,” she said, shaking her head slowly.

“We may have to find out,” he said. Glancing down at her slim legs, Carmody lit a cigarette and frowned thoughtfully. Then he said, “Supposing you told him you needed eight or ten thousand dollars for an operation? A spinal operation, or a series of them, to keep you out of a wheel chair. It ties in with your accident logically enough. How about it? Would he try to raise the dough for you?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know,” she said. “But I couldn’t tell him that. I couldn’t ask him to turn himself into a liar and a thief.”

Carmody took a long drag on his cigarette, and watched her with narrowed eyes. “We can all do things we think we can’t,” he said quietly. “Does he know about Nimo?” When she refused to meet his eyes, he said, “I didn’t think so. Would you like him to find out about that? And what happened here tonight?”

She shook her head wearily. “Don’t tell him about that. He thinks everything of you. And of me. No, don’t tell him, Mike.”

“We’ve made a deal then,” Carmody said. “I’ll see him tomorrow and make one more pitch at him. If I can’t wake him up, then it’s your turn. You’ll have to put the pressure on him for money. And the only way he can get it is by co-operating with me.”

“He won’t do it,” she said. “He’s too straight to do it.”

Carmody looked at her appraisingly. “Don’t worry about that. He can bend a little to keep you out of a wheel chair. Will you be here tomorrow afternoon?”

“I can be.”

“I’ll call you.” Carmody paused to light a cigarette. “You’ve got everything straight now?”

“Yes. Won’t you go?” she said in a low voice. “Won’t you please leave me alone?”

“Okay, okay, I’m going,” Carmody said. He pulled the door shut behind him and strode along the corridor to the elevator. A noise stopped him; he turned, listening again for the sound. It had been a small helpless cry, distinct and lonely, like that of someone in pain. But the silence of the building settled around him and he heard nothing but his own even breathing and the beat of his heart.