Terrell had been watching Connie during part of the discussion, and he was gratified by the worried little frown that settled on her forehead. He decided to accept Brogan’s offer to change the subject. “You’ve got a point,” he said pleasantly, “but we’ll have to skip the nightcap, I’m afraid. I promised Connie I’d get her home before the milkman.”
There were protests from Bill and Mona, and finally urgings to come out again when they could really make a night of it. Terrell drove back toward the city in silence. At the winding approach to the bridge he slowed the car and coasted off the road onto a grassy bluff that overlooked the river, and the dark light-flecked mass of the city. He cut the motor, then turned and smiled at her set profile. “Wrong,” he said. “I’ve got nothing like that on my mind.”
“Then why did you stop?”
“I thought we’d have a last cigarette, talk over the evening. How did you like my friends?”
“They seemed very nice.”
“A bit fat-headed maybe? Just as though wrapped up in their own blissful little lives?”
She glanced at him, and said, “I thought you weren’t trying to sell anything tonight.”
“I’m not — I’m just ripping our hosts apart. It’s an old suburban custom. You break their bread and drink their wine and then tell everyone what bastards they are.”
“No, that’s not it. You want me to agree that they’re selfish and narrow, don’t you? Then to prove I’m different I’ll offer to help you. Isn’t that what you’re hoping?”
“Now who’s leaping to conclusions?”
“I saw it in your face tonight,” she said, in a sharper voice. “You looked so damned smug — the pure and noble young man surrounded by tiresome dead-beats. That’s the way you acted. But what’s wrong with your friends? What have they got to be ashamed of?”
“Why don’t you ask them?” Terrell said.
“It’s no business of mine. They’re living the way they want, paying taxes, obeying the laws. What do you expect them to do? Join your vigilantes? Or start pulling down slums with their bare hands?”
“Now wait a minute,” Terrell said.
“I’ll tell you something,” she said angrily. “They live the way I’d like to someday. Taking care of their children, with no doctor bills or grocery bills hanging over their heads, in a clean, comfortable house. You think they’re fools because they make sense.”
Terrell sighed. After a moment, he said, “Do you think it’s admirable to evade a clear responsibility?”
“It’s not their responsibility.”
“I’m not talking about them now. I’m talking about you. A man may hang unless you help him. That’s a pretty high price to pay for a split-level home in the country.”
“Do you know why I came with you tonight?” she asked him in a low voice.
“I couldn’t even guess.”
“They told me to. They said be nice to you and find out what I could. Does that tell you what side I’m on?”
“They? Frankie Chance, you mean?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, this is interesting,” Terrell said. His voice was casual, but his stomach had suddenly gone cold and tight. “Frankie doesn’t do much on his own, you know. Cellars gives him a little leeway in choosing his ties and cigarettes, but that’s about all. So it’s Cellars who wants you to be nice to me. That’s practically a mandate.”
“I’d like to go home now,” she said.
“Why sure. But what about Ike’s instructions?”
“Don’t be a fool!”
Terrell turned and pulled her to him roughly, clamping her elbows to her sides with one arm. She struggled fiercely against him, but with his free hand he forced her chin up until he could look directly into her eyes. “Ike likes obedience,” he said. “He told you to be nice, remember?”
“Let me go!” she whispered in a tight, straining voice.
He put his lips down hard on hers, and held them there until her resistance broke and she went limp in his arms.
“How nice did he tell you to be?” he said bitterly. “The works?”
“You bastard,” she said, crying.
“Come off it,” he said. He released her and switched on the ignition. “Tell Ike I’m not interested.”
“Take me home. Please.”
“Okay.” Terrell swung the car back onto the highway with angry speed. He felt sorry for her, and pointlessly sorry for himself. Sorry for the whole damned mess.
11
Karsh was waiting at Terrell’s desk the next morning, looking fresh and handsome in a Chesterfield overcoat with a white silk muffler knotted about his throat. His face was pink from the crisp, morning air, and his eyes were sharp with curiosity. When Terrell came in he glanced up at him with an odd little smile. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going to toss a grenade? I might have put my fingers in my ears.”
“You heard repercussions?”
“Yes, Jack Duggan, our distinguished superintendent of cops, called me about it. I told him you’d talk to him this morning. What are you going to tell him?”
“Well, what’s your suggestion? Can’t reveal the source, and so forth, or admit I used a piece of gossip.”
“The second idea is smarter,” Karsh said. “Now listen to me.” He glanced about the busy room, then looked back at Terrell. “Play it safe. You know about that gorilla who was seen leaving Caldwell’s. You’re the only one who does. If that gets around you’ll become a lousy insurance risk.” He patted Terrell’s shoulder, in a clumsy and awkward gesture. “You’re the staff for my declining years. Remember that, and don’t be a damn fool.”
“Sure, don’t worry.” Terrell was touched by Karsh’s concern. Without his customary cynicism, Karsh seemed defenseless and vulnerable. He likes me, Terrell thought, and that embarrassed him. It’s that simple. He can’t put it into words.
“Don’t let them trick you into popping off what you know,” Karsh said. His voice was again sharp with authority; he seemed aware of his moment of exposure. “Tell ’em you printed some talk, without bothering to check it. Mea culpa, and so forth.”
Superintendent Duggan’s secretary, a uniformed patrolman, told Terrell to wait, and went into Duggan’s office. He returned almost immediately and said, “Go right in. The Superintendent is waiting for you.” The patrolman spoke with a lack of inflection that was meant to be ominous, Terrell guessed.
Jack Duggan was seated at his desk, a large, solidly built man with bold, direct eyes. He wore a uniform with golden epaulettes, and despite his bulk presented a figure of military severity. Everything about him was clean and neat; his black hair was cut short and the patina of starch on his collar and cuffs gleamed under the bright overhead lights.
Usually his approach was straight and forceful, but now, Terrell saw, he wasn’t quite sure of how to proceed. “Sit down, Sam,” he said. “This item of yours—” He fingered a clipping on his desk. “It’s a strange business. You describe a man in detail, and say we’re looking for him in connection with the Caldwell case. Did you make that up? Or what?”
“I gather then the item isn’t accurate,” Terrell said.
“We aren’t looking for anybody,” Duggan said. “Let’s don’t be cute with each other. The Mayor raised hell with this. I know you’re a good newspaperman. You don’t print gossip or guesses. So it figures that someone gave you the item — someone you trusted. We want to know who it was.”
“You and the Mayor, that is.”
“That’s it. Don’t bother reading anything into his interest. He’s within his rights. Your item indicates we don’t have a complete case against Caldwell. Or that there might be something unexplained and mysterious about it. Neither conclusion is justifiable. But people will leap to one or the other. You knew that when you ran the story. Now I don’t think you’re a trouble-maker, Sam. But the person who peddled this story to you is — a vicious, deliberate trouble-maker. And we want to know who it was. For your good as well as ours. Because he gave you a wrong steer, a dangerous steer.”