“Yes, that's what you told us. So Dr. Harris merely mentioned Johnson's name, along with a lot of other wanted clowns?”
“Yeah.”
“He's another crackpot after publicity?”
“Yeah, in his own way.”
“Should the department brush him off as a crackpot?”
“Yes.”
He gave me a real smile, stood up. “That's what I want to know. You bagged your man; that's all that should count, Penn. But there's this big publicity—number one wanted man and the rest of that silly slop. Who really knows or cares if a thug heads the F.B.I. wanted list? Our job is collaring crooks every day and not running a popularity contest. Here I'm off on a speech and all I meant to say is, you did a good job, Penn.” He waved the cigarette at me. “Got some fire?”
“What?”
“A match, son.”
“Oh.” I tossed a pack of matches at him. Taking his coat and hat from the closet, I asked, “Any idea what detective squad I'll be assigned to?”
“No. Does it make any difference to you?”
“None. I'm just curious.”
“Kid, you're on vacation. Forget the job.”
I debated if I should help him on with his coat—which sure felt rich and soft—but I'd had the “kid” chatter. I simply handed him the coat and walked him to the door.
The second he was gone I ran to the phone book, found Shep's home number. Funny, I'd never heard him called “doctor” before, or thought of him as one. I dialed his number and then hung up. After I'd put the fear of God in him already, no sense in letting Shep know I was worried. And this Alexander—his patronizing look, his big talk about “we” and “us,” as if he was Mister Police Department. He was only a detective, not even an acting lieutenant. Probably a clown with a powerful “in” behind him. They got the cushy jobs. About time I had that. Ought to make Elma get active in a club, get some political muscle behind me. One thing: It was a big break that Shep came here first, that I made him change his mind, see the light.
When Elma was finally dressed, we drove out to a steak house that had a sad floor show. We had a few drinks and I was happy Elma didn't ask me to dance with her. Around midnight, as we were driving home, I had the radio on. A news commentator said, ”... A new factor popped up in the sensational capture of Batty Johnson yesterday when Dr. Sheppard Harris, an optometrist, claimed he had tipped off Patrolman Bucklin Penn to the top-wanted thug's whereabouts. Dr. Harris said a wanted flyer sent out by the F.B.I. to all optometrists had led him to recognize the notorious killer.... Turning to the Near East, a new showdown is expected when...”
I turned off the radio, glanced at Elma. She was sleeping. As I silently cursed Shep, I felt sick. Why had the department given out the news? Now Shep might hesitate about retracting it. Was downtown protecting themselves, or had it been a leak? Hell, this made the F.B.I. look good. Be a fine thing if I was caught between the brass and the F.B.I. dueling for credit on the collar. Anyway, I knew what I had to do.
I insisted we stop at a bar, bought Elma a brace of double shots, encouraged her to get high. There were some smiles from the jerks holding up the bar, at her size, but happily she didn't notice them. I was so tense I would have turned the joint out. I got her to tank up while I kept to one drink. When we reached the apartment she undressed and was snoring peacefully a few minutes after she hit the sheets.
I took off my shirt and tie, washed up, to relax. Then I stuffed some toilet paper into the mouthpiece of the phone, dialed Shep's house. After two rings I hung up. I put the Late, Late Show on the TV, keeping it down low, and after ten minutes I phoned and hung up again. Then I dialed a few minutes later and when he answered I didn't say a word, but kept breathing heavily into the phone, let him hang up.
I waited until the TV movie was over—and it was well after 2 a.m. Then I phoned him again. When he said, “Hello?” I growled through the paper. “You Harris, the eye doc?” I used a thick accent, an Italian one—and felt lousy about it.
“Why, yes, I'm Dr. Harris. Who is this?”
I could hear his teeth chattering over the phone.
“Who are you? Who is this?”
“Who d'ya think, you lousy stoolie?”
“What—what do you want?”
I tried to make my laugh sound crazy.
He kept asking what I wanted, fighting to hold his voice from coming apart. I didn't say a word. When he hung up I glanced at my wrist watch and waited. Exactly one minute and five seconds later my phone rang. I let it ring a few times, holding a pillow over it to drown out the sound. Then I picked up the receiver, yawned, “Yeah?”
“Bucky? Bucky?”
“Yeah, I'm Bucky. Who's this?”
“Bucky, this is Shep!”
“Hey, it's the middle of the night. What's the matter, Shep?”
His voice was high with hysteria as he babbled, “Bucky, somebody just threatened me! I—”
“They came to your house?”
“Over the phone, Bucky. The phone has been ringing all night. Every time I answered, there wouldn't be anybody at the other end!”
“Shep, you haven't said any more about—what we talked about? I mean, you haven't talked to any reporters, have you?”
“No. But it was on the radio. I heard—”
“I told you to keep your mouth shut. Now every crackpot in the city will be annoying you!”
“Honest, Bucky, I haven't said a word to anybody since I talked to you. I don't know how it got on the air.”
“What did they say over the phone?”
“I could hardly make it out, but a man called me a lousy stoolie.”
“That's not a threat. Don't worry about it.”
“Don't worry? My God! Bucky, what shall I do?”
“I told you what to do. Deny everything when you talk to the police tomorrow. Get off the hook.”
“I will. But you think they might try anything tonight?”
“It was probably only a nut. Don't answer your phone, keep it off the cradle. Now go back to sleep,”
“Sleep? My wife is... I'm... Bucky, we're scared—terrified. Do me a favor. Spend the night at my house.”
“Shep, I'm half dead.”
“Please, Bucky, until tomorrow when I can straighten myself, get out from under this nightmare. I'll pay you for your time.”
“Well...”
“Please!”
It made me feel good to hear the greedy little slob plead. Of course I was going up—he might call the police if I didn't. I said, “Okay, Shep, I'm on my way. And stop talking about paying anybody. I'm doing this for a friend—you. Sit tight. I'll be up in about twenty minutes.”
He lived in one of these ritzy houses with terraces. And he needed the reward! Still, I knew what he meant—her family. I drove around looking for a parking place; here on the outskirts of town there seemed to be even more cars. I passed his MG parked about half a block away. When I found a space I walked back to his car. It was after three on a dark, cold morning; not a soul around. I poked about in the gutter slush until I found a small stone. I hammered it against his windshield with my gun, cracking the glass.