Terrell went up to Moran’s office on the second floor and found the detective at his desk with a littered ashtray beside him and a rank of empty coffee cartons at his elbow. Moran was in his shirtsleeves, his tie loose, his collar open, and he looked gray with exhaustion. But his eyes were narrow and sharp with a hunter’s excitement.
“Well, you made pretty good time,” he said. He stretched his arms above his head, then slumped back comfortably in the chair. “Tired as hell. Sit down, Sam. I’ll tell you what I’ve got. Then I think you can tell me something. Is that fair enough?”
“Sure,” Terrell said.
Moran picked up a glossy print from his desk and handed it to Terrell. “There’s the mug who shot Paddy Coglan. Know him?”
Terrell studied the dark face, the low, scarred forehead, the bold, angry eyes. He shook his head slowly. “I don’t know him. Where did you get the picture?”
“You know something about him though, Sam. I saw your expression.”
“This could be the guy Coglan saw leaving Caldwell’s.” At Moran’s puzzled frown he said, “I’ll sketch it in for you, don’t worry. But tell me the rest of your story. Where did you get this picture?”
“It’s a weird thing, Sam. As odd as I ever ran into in this business. We wrote Coglan off as suicide, you know. Well, two days after his death I got a call here in my office. It was from a guy who’d been registered at the hotel at the same time as Coglan. He was on the same floor, just a room away, and he heard the shot. He looked out into the corridor and saw a man closing Coglan’s door. He saw only the man’s back. But he was able to describe his overcoat, his hat and the color of his hair and general build.”
“Why did he wait two days to speak up?”
“That’s what’s weird. He was with a girl instead of being over in New York on business. He couldn’t get involved with the police. Otherwise his wife would know he’s cheating on her.” Moran lit a cigarette, and grinned faintly at Terrell. “He was pretty damn indignant about it. He has kids in school, a solid pillar of the community. He wasn’t going to throw that away just to testify against a killer. But his conscience obviously bothered him a bit, and I started digging. I took the description to the hotel, and talked to the bellhops, elevator men and desk clerks. They’d seen this man, all right. He’d been in the lobby in the afternoon and right after suppertime. And an elevator operator remembered taking him to the floor above Coglan’s. Then I played a long hunch. You know there are quite a few sidewalk photographers working this area, so I rounded them up and looked at the shots they’d taken the day that Paddy Coglan was shot. That’s how we got this picture. The photographer remembered the guy. These photographers, you know, are all poolroom psychologists. They’ve got to spot newlyweds, couples in town for vacations, people who’d want a souvenir picture. Well, he thought the big boy looked like a fighter or a wrestler, someone who might be flattered by a picture of himself. But it didn’t go. Our guy stopped and glared at the photographer and then walked off fast.” Moran grinned without humor. “I like to think of what that did to his nerves. Anyway, we sent the print to Washington, and they traced it. He’s Nicholas Rammersky, alias Nick Rammer, age forty-two, with two convictions and a record of minor stuff stretching back twenty years. He’s a paid killer. And I want to know who paid him to kill Paddy Coglan.”
“I said I’d fill you in,” Terrell said. “I had everything but Rammersky’s name when I came over. It goes this way...”
Twenty minutes later Moran came with him to the door. He said, “Rammersky will burn for the murder of the girl or the cop. Either way, I’m not particular. He can’t hide after your story breaks. And neither can those other crumbs in your backyard...”
Terrell drove back through heavy traffic and reached the city shortly after two-thirty. He parked in front of his apartment, and checked the time as he went up the stairs. They would need a couple of hours to get the story organized. By working fast they could make the three-star final at four-thirty. But tomorrow there would be little else in the paper. Karsh would know how to handle it; the editions establishing Caldwell’s innocence would hit the city like sledge hammers.
Terrell unlocked the door and said, “Hey!”
There was no answer, no stir of life in the apartment. He stood with his hat in his hand, feeling the grin stiffen on his lips. For several seconds he waited, and then he closed the door and walked slowly through the little apartment. Empty. The breakfast dishes were on the kitchen table, the robe that she had worn was lying across the foot of the bed. The blinds were still drawn, and the bed was unmade. There was the light fragrance of her perfume in the air. But that was all.
He lit a cigarette and looked around the living room, a frown touching his face. She didn’t have any reason to risk her neck, he thought. Why shouldn’t she clear out? What was in it for her? That was the question everyone had to answer in the cold light of self-interest. What’s in it for me? Trouble? Thanks, but no thanks. She must have figured it that way. Why the devil should I feel surprised? he thought.
But he was surprised, Terrell realized sadly. He couldn’t mask his disappointment with a practical cynicism. He would have bet anything that she’d stick. His conviction was illogical, but that didn’t matter; convictions about people usually rested on criteria that logicians wouldn’t accept.
It was then, as he was putting his cigarette out, that he saw the note on the telephone table. He picked it up, feeling the leaden disappointment moving in him. It was written in pencil, in a neat and careful hand: “Maybe I picked sides in too much of a hurry. I’m trying to be sensible now. Forgive me for backing out. Give me that much of a break.”
Terrell stared around the room, shaking his head like a weary fighter. Without her testimony much of his story fell apart. The Rammersky part was intact, but that only proved that Coglan was murdered; it wouldn’t help Caldwell. Not in time.
He sat down and called the paper, but Karsh wasn’t in. His secretary told him he was at the game. The Game. Terrell had forgotten; Dartmouth was playing and Karsh was there with a party of friends. It irritated Terrell; it seemed incongruous and silly to think that twenty-two young men were now engaged in what they believed to be a struggle of life or death significance; that eighty thousand persons were crowded into the Municipal Bowl to cheer one side or the other; that drunks were waving pennants and that women in fur coats and stadium boots were leaving their lipstick on countless cardboard cartons of coffee. While Caldwell was in jail, and the truth couldn’t be told...
Terrell stood and looked around, frowning again; something was wrong. The dirty breakfast dishes, the unmade bed — that was wrong. She wouldn’t leave without tidying up. Terrell looked at the note he had dropped on the coffee table. That was genuine. His heart was beating faster. He was suddenly hoping that she had walked out on him. That she had left of her own free will.
He sat down and dialled her hotel. When the clerk answered, Terrell said, “Is Connie Blacker there?”
“She’s checked out, sir.”
“When was this?”
“Let me see — that was around ten this morning.”
“Did she leave a forwarding address?”
“Just a second — no, I’m afraid not.”
“Was she alone?”
“Sir, I can’t tie up this phone indefinitely. I—”
“Was she alone?” Terrell repeated sharply.
“No, sir — there were friends with her. Two gentlemen.”
“Was Frankie Chance there?”
“There’s a call waiting, sir. If you could stop by—”