MacBride tapped the hat-check girl on the shoulder. She turned. He held up his hand and in its palm his badge shone.
“Where’s the master switch?” he said.
She stared at him. He gripped her arm, shook her. Frightened, she led him to a door that opened on a small corridor. The switches were in the corridor.
“Bright lights,” he said.
She hesitated, her hand resting on one of the levers. He reached up and pulled the lever and he could see a white glare spring into the lobby. He heard the music falter. He heard small, scattered sounds of astonishment. The music dribbled away. There were running footsteps and these culminated in the appearance of Jaeger, the head waiter — an angry, purpling man.
MacBride blocked him at the corridor entrance, pushed him back into the lobby. “Padlock, Jaeger. Go make your little speech. Tell ’em all to leave quietly.”
Jaeger looked incredulous. He spouted, “What’s the meaning of this? You can’t do this!”
“I know, I know, Jaeger. You’re surprised. I didn’t warn Marty a week ago. I know, I know—”
“This... this is our biggest night!” choked Jaeger.
“Tough. Go make your speech.”
Jaeger’s fat jaw shook. “I’ve got to see Marty first.”
MacBride gripped his arm. “Skip that. Do as I tell you, Jaeger, and don’t be a dummy.”
The sounds of confusion were growing. The waiters were skittering around. Some of the people had risen and were shouting questions. The fan dancer had vanished. There was an air of frustration, of anger. Some began to clap hands, to stamp feet. Chairs scraped.
Jaeger’s jaw still shook. He refused to move.
Moriarity walked into the ornate bar and said to the head barman, “Close it up, pal. Lights out.”
“Yeah?” said the head barman.
“Honest,” said Moriarity.
“I take orders from Mr. Sullivan.”
Ike Cohen came in and said, “What’s the matter, Mory?”
“Big boy says he takes orders only from Mr. Sullivan.”
Ike said, “One, two—”
“Three,” said Moriarity, and they dragged the barman across the bar, slapped manacles on him.
“I’ll turn the lights out,” said the assistant barman.
“You catch on, brother,” Cohen grinned.
The uniformed cops began to circulate in the main room. MacBride, his hands in his overcoat pockets, walked hard-heeled down the center of the room, crossed the dance-floor and climbed to the stage.
He said in a loud voice, “Everybody clear out. The place is closed by order of the police. Please go quietly.”
“Nuts to the police!” somebody yelled.
Angry voices hummed, surged, broke in a wave. The uniformed cops stood motionless, scattered, saying, “Clear out, clear out.”
Somebody threw a bottle. It bounced off the head of Patrolman Mariano, who promptly sat down on the floor. The other cops did not move; their hands tightened on their nightsticks but they did not move. Mariano got up slowly.
“Take it easy, Tony,” another cop said.
The women were querulous, insulting. MacBride stood on the stage, his hands on his hips, his nose in the air, his eyes flicking the vast room. Bread, meat, potatoes were thrown at the policemen. Oaths rose. The cops remained motionless; they kept throwing glances at the skipper. He watched. He yelled:
“Come on, come on; clear out!”
Moriarity came up to him. “I can’t find Sullivan.”
“Look again.”
Dan Osborne, in overcoat and derby, walked out on the stage, smiled. “Hello, Steve,” he said to MacBride. “Having trouble?”
“Where’d you come from?”
“Oh, I came in the back way.”
“Did you see Marty?”
Osborne was still smiling. “No,” he said.
Somebody was squirting a siphon at Patrolman Shotz. Patrolman Shotz, cursing under his breath, took it, while his eyes strayed hopefully to MacBride.
A man yelled. “There he is! There’s Osborne! Let him have it!”
“Duck, Dan!” MacBride rasped.
“Not me, skipper.”
A flung bottle brought him down.
MacBride, who had seen the thrower, jumped from the stage, barked, “Okey, boys — the mop!” and made a bee-line for a tall, blond man who was crowing to his companions, “Did you see me crown him?”
MacBride kicked three chairs out of the way, said, “Yeah, we saw you, sweety pie,” and hit him a terrific blow on the chin. The man folded up like a folding chair and lay down. MacBride rapped out, “You other guys bail out! Beat it!”
The nightsticks were chopping. The women were yelping, screaming. One of the cops cut loose with the tear gas. Tables spun over, crockery crashed.
Kennedy was strolling about idly, wandering magically among blows and flung objects that never touched him. MacBride ran into him.
“How’d you get in?” the skipper barked.
“With Dan Osborne. Lively, isn’t it?”
“Go up and see if Dan’s hurt. He’s on the stage.” A glass crashed against his shoulder. He looked disgusted. He reached up and stopped in mid-career a water carafe that otherwise would have knocked Kennedy flat. “Go on, Kennedy; get out of this before you get killed.”
Ike Cohen appeared saying, “I’m damned if I can find Marty Sullivan.”
The tear gas was a great persuader. The crowd began streaming towards the door, leaving behind it a wasteland of broken chairs, crockery, glass, foodstuff. The cops bunched together and herded the crowd out into the street and in a little while only MacBride, Moriarity and Cohen, Kennedy and Dan Osborne remained. Jaeger appeared in a moment, white with rage.
“Look what you done, look what you done!” he choked. “Just look at the place. A wreck!”
“Where’s Marty?” the skipper asked.
“How do I know? He was here when the show started. Look, just look at the place! This is an outrage—”
“Yoo-hoo,” called Kennedy from the opposite side of the room. “Come over and see what I found.”
MacBride strode across the littered dance-floor to where Kennedy was standing. A man lay on the floor against the wall, his body twisted awkwardly, his hard white collar rumpled. His face was discolored. Near him was a narrow doorway, open.
The skipper muttered, “Good cripes!” and dropped to his knees. When he rose he lifted his chin and called out, “Hey, Dan!”
Osborne came slowly across the floor, holding a handkerchief to a cut on his forehead.
MacBride was pointing. “Marty Sullivan.”
“Passed out?” Osborne asked negligently.
“Passed out complete,” the skipper said. “Dead.”
Osborne stopped. He stared down at Sullivan with blue, expressionless eyes. He patted the cut on his forehead absent-mindedly.
“Choked to death,” the skipper said.
“H’m,” Osborne mused.
“He must have been choked before the fighting started,” Cohen said. “Because I never saw him — not once.”
“Me neither,” Moriarity said.
MacBride stared towards the door. “Something like this would have to happen,” he growled. “And everybody that was sitting around here is now gone out — including the guy that choked him. As sure as we’re standing here the opposition press will claim a cop did it. Mark me, fellas; mark me.”