Terrell collected his notes on the Authority and put them into his pocket. Then he put on his hat and coat and went to meet Duggan.
The Superintendent was waiting for him at the north annex, his face ruddy but rather anxious under the gold-embossed peak of his cap. They fell into step and walked toward Seventeenth Street, moving at a leisurely pace through the crowded mall.
“Do we trade even?” Terrell said. “I help you, then you help me?”
“Let’s try it.”
Terrell put a cigarette in his mouth, hesitating; Karsh’s words had come back to him: “You know about that gorilla... if that gets around you’ll become a lousy insurance risk.” Could he trust Duggan? That was the gamble. He said, “I talked to Paddy Coglan over in Beach City.”
Duggan stared at him. “The day he shot himself?”
“That’s right. He described the man he saw running out of Caldwell’s house. That’s the description I used in my column. The man I described was in town huddling with Ike Cellars a few days before he murdered Eden Myles.”
They walked along in silence for a block or so, and Terrell saw that the frown on Duggan’s face was growing deeper by the second. “Okay, Sam,” he said at last. “That puts it up to me, doesn’t it? I either act like a cop or an ostrich now.”
“What’s it going to be?”
“I don’t know... I don’t know.” Duggan’s voice was weary and dispirited. “I’ll tell you something. Fighting for what’s right has got to be a habit with me. You know what I mean? You can’t stop and check all the angles before you start swinging. You do or you don’t — that’s all. Maybe I’ve been checking the angles too long.”
“You’re going to find out at least,” Terrell said. “Now it’s my turn. Who owns Bell Wreckers and Acme Construction Company?”
“That should be on record some place.”
“The owners of the records are dummies,” Terrell said. “I want to know who they’re fronting for.”
“I can put some pressure on,” Duggan said. “Some of them probably have records going back to the Volstead Act. I’ll get the information.”
“I need it by tonight. Can I call you at home?”
“That soon, eh? Well, I’ll do my best. Around eight?”
“Eight o’clock it is. So long now.”
They had completed a circuit of the Hall and were back to the north annex. Duggan smiled at him, and turned into the main corridor that led toward the elevators. Terrell watched him as he shouldered his way through the hurrying crowds, a big military figure, a picture of power and precision. And what was he thinking? Terrell wondered. How to weasel out of this challenge? Whether to take his information to Ticknor and Cellars, and close his eyes to what would happen after that?
Terrell was wryly amused at his academic attitude — because there was nothing academic about his position. If Duggan let him down, he wouldn’t have a prayer.
Terrell had another angle to check; the Parking Authority’s architect, one Everett Bry. He tried Bry’s office, but was told by a secretary that Mr. Bry was only available mornings.
“Where could I reach him?”
“At his home in Shoreham, if it’s urgent. But Mr. Bry prefers to meet clients in the office. He’s rather firm about that, actually.”
“Fortunately I’m not a client,” Terrell said. “Thanks very much.”
Terrell hung up and walked over to the lot where he parked his car. He was beginning to realize the precariousness of his position. A little knowledge is a dangerous thing... that described it. He knew just enough to be a nuisance and that was very dangerous.
13
Everett Bry lived in Shoreham, an area distinguished by imported sports cars, outdoor barbecue pits and modem homes equipped for the most part with hi-fi sets, picture windows and elaborate playrooms. The neighborhood was pleasant and gracious. Willows grew in limp luxuriance along the streets, and the air was very clean and smelled sweetly of lawns and flowers.
Bry, who answered the door himself, was brown and healthy-looking, with mild, untroubled eyes, and a receding hairline. He wore gray flannel slacks and a tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows.
Terrell introduced himself, and Bry smiled and said, “Please come in. We’ve had what passed for a family crisis. The nurse had a tumble on the back steps and is laid up with a bad ankle. Come along, please, and we’ll escape into my study. Like the horseshoe nail — with the nurse down, my wife had to take a child into town for a dancing lesson, and the maid is engaged feeding another child and keeping compresses hot for the nurse’s ankle. All of this explains why I’m answering the door instead of fruitfully loafing in my study. Now what would you like to drink? Is it too early for a martini?”
“I’d rather have a whiskey and water, if that’s possible.”
“You know, I was afraid you were going to ask for tea, and shatter my romantic notion of the hard-drinking reporter. Just plain water?”
“Yes, fine,” Terrell said.
Bry mixed drinks at a small bar that was inset in a wall of good-looking books. The room had everything, Terrell thought, a bit wistfully. Record player, a case of old revolvers, hunting prints, deep comfortable chairs, and a relaxing color scheme of grays and browns and blacks. The large window behind Bry’s desk opened on a flagstone terrace, and beyond that there was a view of the wide lawn and a border of tall fir trees.
“Now what did you want to see me about?” Bry said, putting a squat crystal glass at Terrell’s elbow.
Terrell asked several preliminary questions. Then he said, “Who decides where a new parking drome will go?”
“That’s usually hammered out in a series of conferences with myself, members of the Authority, the Mayor and so forth. A dozen committees study the problem from all angles to start with. Your drink okay?”
“Just fine.”
“Well, legal tangles, the area’s vehicular density, the type of traffic we’re faced with handling — all that is examined. Then the decision is made by the Chairman of the Authority with his staff — considering further, I should add, my suggestions, and the reports of builders and contractors who may do the work. It’s a committee decision really. And we try to make our final choice the best compromise between — how should I put this now?... well, the best blend of the ideal and the practical, let’s say.”
“That sounds very thorough,” Terrell said. “How does it happen then that the Authority makes so many mistakes?”
“I beg your pardon?” Bry looked puzzled, as if he hadn’t understood Terrell’s question.
“There have been quite a few instances where you’ve confiscated land, torn down buildings, levelled ground—” Terrell smiled at Bry’s earnest and thoughtful expression. “And then you change your mind and start somewhere else.”
“Unfortunately, architectural planning isn’t an exact science, Mr. Terrell. Sometimes the factors we’ve projected change suddenly — a major shipper might switch over to rail, for instance, and take hundreds of heavy trucks out of a given area. Predicting a city’s traffic problems is trickier than it seems.”
“Yes, I suppose it is,” Terrell said. “But that’s rather tough on the taxpayer, isn’t it?”
“I sympathize with them,” Bry said. He still looked pleasant, but his smile was cautious now. “I’m one of that cheerless group myself, let me remind you.”
“Yes, of course. Now when you realize that a change of location might be desirable — you tell the Authority, is that right?”
“That’s correct.”
“You say, in effect, this one’s a bust, let’s try somewhere else.”
“I can assure you we don’t go about this job in a spirit of comedy.”