“There’s an aroma about this case the citizens may notice one of these days,” Terrell said. “You should order gas masks to be worn until after elections. That might save the day.”
As Terrell turned to the door Mayor Ticknor began to curse him quietly and deliberately, using the string of obscenities as he would a whip, trying to make every stroke cut to the bone. Terrell waited with his hand on the knob, looking thoughtfully at the temper working in Ticknor’s face. The tirade was lengthy and definitive, but when the Mayor finished Terrell said casually, “I’m double parked so you’ll have to excuse me. I don’t want to get in real trouble.” He glanced for a second at Duggan who was staring at the backs of his hands, an expression of shame and anger on his face. Then he opened the door and walked out.
12
When Terrell returned to the paper it was almost ten o’clock; the second edition was nearing its deadline and tension was building through the long room. Everyone was conscious of the big clock above the city desk. Karsh waved to him from his office, and Terrell crossed the floor and joined him in that sound-proofed command post.
“Don’t tell me,” Karsh said. “His Honor just hung up.” He shook his head. “Corn-fed ass.”
“They’re worried sick,” Terrell said. “Even Duggan. I’ve never seen them this way before, Mike.”
“More bad news is on the way.” There was a gleam of devil’s humor in Karsh’s eyes. “Paddy Coglan’s wife came in a while ago. She’s waiting upstairs to tell you her story. It’s a beaut, a fat, cream-fed beaut. Come on.”
Mrs. Coglan was waiting for them in an empty office on the ninth floor. She stood awkwardly when they entered and began plucking at the skirt of her rusty black dress. Terrell could see that she had been weeping; behind the rimless glasses her eyes were red and swollen. She smiled weakly at him and her expression was confused and supplicating. “I didn’t know where else to come, as I was explaining to this gentleman.” She put a wadded handkerchief to her nose. “You knew Paddy was in trouble, didn’t you, Mr. Terrell? When you came to the house the other day, you knew it.”
“Yes, I knew it,” Terrell said. “I’m sorry about what happened.”
“Thank you. It’s all over with him now, all over with the poor man.”
Karsh said, “Please sit down, Mrs. Coglan, and tell Sam what you’ve just been telling me.”
“They asked me to come in yesterday, to the Hall,” Mrs. Coglan said. She was in control of herself now; the importance of her role seemed to steady her nerves. “They were full of polite talk and sympathy, but they got around to the pension soon enough.”
“Who was ‘they’?” Terrell asked her.
“Lieutenant Clark and Sergeant Millerton.”
“You know them?” Karsh said, glancing at Terrell.
“Chief Clerk’s office. Records, medical exams, insurance, paper work. Go on, Mrs. Coglan.”
“Well, they hemmed and hawed, but finally they came out with it. I could have the pension if I said that Paddy was of unsound mind for the past while. They said it would make the difference. Taking his own life might disqualify him, they said. But if it could be proven he had been upset, crazy so to speak, for some little time, then they thought it would be all right.”
“She told them she’d think it over,” Karsh said.
“Why do they want to say the poor man was insane? Isn’t it enough he’s dead?” She clenched her work-worn hands and her lips began to tremble. “Why must they ruin his name? Make him a figure of ridicule?”
“Your husband saw something the night Eden Myles was murdered,” Terrell said. “Or someone. That version may be brought forward yet. But it can be discounted if you testified he had been acting oddly. Lunatics aren’t very good witnesses.”
“How long did they give you?” Karsh asked her.
“Until tomorrow morning.”
“If you don’t hear from me before then, stall them,” Karsh said. “You can be down with the flu, if necessary. We’re working on a story that yours is part of. Terrell is putting it together. We won’t cut loose until we get everything. Okay?”
She said yes and smiled uncertainly.
Terrell took her to the door. “Paddy would like what you’re doing,” he said.
“Yes, he was a good man, a good man. Thank you, Mr. Terrell.”
When she had gone Terrell returned to the office and struck the top of a desk with the flat of his hand. “Where the hell does it end? Is the whole city administration a pack of thieves? Is it worthwhile trying to do anything about it?”
Karsh watched him with a little smile. “It’s the story of the blind men and the elephant, Sam. You’re too close to one side of the news. Sit in my job for a while, and you’ll see a different picture. hesitate to lower my cynical mask, but there’s lots of good around. The charities, the service clubs, city planning commissions run by top people for no dough at all — and hundreds of decent citizens working to make the town a better place to live in. Remember all that. It’s not a cesspool — it’s a pond with patches of scum on the top. Stay mad. That’s a fine healthy reaction. But don’t limit yourself to a police reporter’s viewpoint.”
“Okay, I’ll think some tall, beautiful thoughts.”
Karsh patted his shoulder. “Meanwhile, continue to discomfit our friends in the Hall.”
Terrell spent the rest of the morning studying clippings on the Municipal Parking Authority. It was a tedious business; he read pro and con reports on the original proposal, made his way through a dozen speeches that damned the scheme in its entirety, and a dozen more that praised it to the heavens. He familiarized himself with the chronological growth of the Act, from the time it was first proposed by Mayor Ticknor until it was enacted into law by the City Council. He even read the Act itself, straining his eyes over the small print, and then he looked at a file of photographs that covered several of the areas selected as sites for the new parking dromes and traffic arterials.
Finally he collected the pages of notes he had made, and went upstairs to the financial section, which was one of the long arms of the city room, between Karsh’s office and the Sunday departments. The financial editor, Bill Moss, was speaking on the phone, but he smiled and waved Terrell to the chair beside his desk. Terrell stretched his legs gratefully and lit a cigarette. He was stiff from the long session in the library, and his eyes felt the strain of having read dozens of pages of small print. Around him was an orderly clatter of ticker tapes, teletypes and typewriters, seemingly in communication with one another by a code of metallic snaps and grunts. Terrell was always rather impressed by the financial section. There was a mysterious, scholarly tone here — bookcases bulging with business directories, and rows of charts and graphs which, although meaningless to the lay eye, staffers seemed to comprehend with an almost insolent speed.
Bill Moss hung up his phone and smiled at Terrell. “Want a tip on the market? Buy low, sell high.” Moss was a handsome man with graying hair and dark, alert eyes. “What can I do for you, Sam?”
“I’ll remember that — buy low, sell high. Bill, our Municipal Parking Authority has begun to fascinate me. Mind if I ask you a few questions?”
“Go right ahead.”
“Well, I’ve just read through the Act. Isn’t it a pretty loose set-up?”
“I would say so, yes. That isn’t too unusual, mind you. Local committees always try to make their bond issues attractive, and so you generally find these overly generous concessions — in interest rates, borrowing provisions, and so forth. But it comes to this: if the group that passed the law is serious and responsible, these irregularities won’t amount to much. That is, there’ll be a built-in policing agency to guard against any funny business. But a rubber-stamp legislative body dominated by men of larcenous instincts — that’s trouble.”