Dr. Graham fumbled through his pockets and finally brought out cigarettes. His face had become white and damp. “What kind of a bluff do you think you’re running?”
“Now, now,” Terrell said patiently. “I know she was pregnant, Doctor. I want to know how far gone she was.”
“You’re wrong, dead, flat wrong,” Dr. Graham said.
“I apologize if I am. But I want to see the report.”
“No, that’s impossible.” Dr. Graham rubbed his big limp hands together in a gesture that was meant to suggest decision and finality. “Don’t jump to conclusions now. We don’t pass out autopsy reports any more. It involves too much clerical help. Questions must be submitted in writing now. Then we answer them as fast as we can. But let me know what points you want checked and I’ll put a girl on it right away. For auld lang syne.”
“That document is a matter of public record,” Terrell said. “I carry a press card that entitles me to examine it. Are you telling me different?”
“I’m simply explaining a new procedure here, Sam.”
Terrell swore in disgust. Then he said, “I’m going over to the Hall and get a court order to pry that autopsy out of you. And I’ll bring back a photographer with me. And the character on our front page with the rosy, embarrassed look won’t be me, Doc.”
“Are you trying to start trouble?”
“Do you think I just got out of the Flash Gordon school of journalism? If you’re worried about the records, burn ’em. But don’t try to sit on them. You’ll get a hot foot in a most curious spot.”
“Sam, wait a second.”
“Why?”
Dr. Graham sighed heavily and sat down behind his desk. “I don’t want trouble. I don’t want to be in the middle. As God is my judge I’ve done nothing wrong. The girl’s condition had no bearing on her death or Caldwell’s guilt.”
“She was pregnant then. How many months?”
Dr. Graham sighed again. “Almost three months.”
“Why didn’t you give it to the papers?”
“Captain Stanko said—” Pr. Graham took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the damp hollows under his eyes. “Well, he said there was no point in blackening the girl’s name.”
“The old softie,” Terrell said. “Mother Stanko. Friend of the working whore. This girl has been travelling with hoodlums since she was twelve. She probably learned the difference between sodomy and rape at her mother’s knee. But Stanko doesn’t want her reputation besmirched. Come on, Doc, try again.”
“The case is open and shut,” Dr. Graham said in a hurried, pleading voice. “Why introduce something irrelevant? She met Caldwell just five weeks ago. But she’s three months pregnant. That might cause gossip, speculation. She’s a martyr now. Sweet kid, innocent victim, that sort of thing. Why not leave it that way? Why worry about messy details? Caldwell killed her — that’s what counts.”
Was that why they had covered it up, Terrell wondered. Possibly. It was a detail, but why not take care of it? That’s the way they would reason.
“Well, maybe Stanko’s got a point,” he said. “Don’t worry about me broadcasting any family secrets.”
“We’ll just forget it, then?” Dr. Graham said, smiling nervously at him.
“Sure. Why bother the public with details? So long and thanks, Doc.”
In the tiled lobby Terrell looked into the reception room and saw that Connie Blacker was collecting her gloves and purse from the counter, smiling a thank you at the clerk. He didn’t know how to use the information about Eden Myles; he couldn’t fit it into the rest of his theory.
Connie pulled open the glass door of the reception room and Terrell walked toward her. “Hello there. All through in there?”
“Yes, I’m through.” Only a slight tremor in her voice gave her away; otherwise she seemed completely poised and at ease. “I just had to sign some forms. It was no trouble.”
“Dead people are never any trouble,” Terrell said. “But let’s not be bitter. Can I buy you some lunch?”
“No, I have a date.”
“With Frankie Chance at two o’clock. I know. But couldn’t you be a little late? I’d like to talk to you.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t have time.”
She started past him but he caught her arm. “I still need your help,” he said.
“Please let me go. We don’t have anything to talk about. I told you that the other night.”
“I thought maybe your conscience would be acting up by now.”
“Let me go!” Her eyes were mutinous and angry. “Do you want me to start screaming?”
“I want you to start talking,” he said. “Who was the man who came to Eden’s apartment the night she was murdered? What job did he want her to do? Why was she afraid?”
“Let me go. I don’t know anything.”
“You’re lying, Connie. You can save the life of an innocent man. You can put Eden’s murderer in the death house where he belongs. But if you keep quiet nothing will happen.”
“Nothing will happen to me,” she said tensely.
“And how about Eden?” Terrell’s voice sharpened with anger. “You’ve signed the forms and off she goes by fast freight. Is that the end of it? Have you gone downstairs to look at her? She’s lying like a piece of frozen meat with a name tag tied to her ankle. Like something in a butcher shop. Only they kill animals a bit more humanely.”
“Stop it, stop it.” She turned away from him, tears starting in her eyes.
Terrell released her arm. “Okay I’ll stop.” In his heart he couldn’t blame her; why should she risk her life to help him. She had obviously been warned to keep quiet. If she ignored that injunction there would be a reprisal; it might be swift and merciful, or slow and vengeful. In either case it would be final.
“I’ll drop you at your hotel,” he said.
“No. I’m all right.”
“It’s on my way. Come on.”
Terrell paid off the cab at her hotel, intending to walk the remaining two or three blocks to the Call-Bulletin’s building.
“Thanks for the lift,” she said.
“If you change your mind remember the name. Terrell. I’m with a local paper.”
“I’m not changing my mind.”
“Is he the reason?”
Terrell was looking over her shoulder. The revolving doors of the hotel were spinning, and the sun flashed on the turning glass panels. Frankie Chance had come out to the sidewalk a second or so before, and was looking down the street, a faint frown on his sulky handsome features. He was fastidiously groomed, and wore a light blue flannel suit, a shirt with long collar points and a gaudy but expensive-looking tie.
“Is he the reason?” Terrell said again.
“Good-bye.” She turned away from him, but Frankie Chance had turned also, and was walking swiftly toward them, a tight, angry look on his face. “You’re late,” he said to Connie. “Two o’clock means two o’clock. Okay?”
“Yes, sure,” she said.
“You been crying,” he said. He still hadn’t acknowledged Terrell’s presence. “Is he bothering you?”
“My name is Terrell, Sam Terrell. Now we’re formally introduced, Frankie. You can talk to me direct.”
Chance turned and stared coldly at him. “What do you want with her, Sam?”
“Nothing in particular. I was covering a story at the morgue and bumped into her. I gave her a lift back here. You came along and here we are, chatting pleasantly in the fine fall sunlight.”
“It’s all funny, eh? The morgue part and everything.”
“No, it’s not funny,” Terrell said. “I can guess how you feel.”
“Guess? That’s good.” Chance stared down the street and Terrell saw the lines tightening at the corners of his mouth and eyes. “To you she was a bum. I don’t want you being sorry for her. She can do without your sympathy.”