“I’m ready now,” Terrell said.
“Good.” Karsh winked at him and walked briskly to a telephone on a table beside the record player. The room was noisy with talk and music, and when he lifted the receiver a girl sitting cross-legged on the floor looked questioningly at him and pantomimed turning off the machine. Karsh smiled and shook his head. “Like noise,” he said. Terrell could read the words on his lips. “Blame all mistakes on it.”
When the connection was made and Karsh was speaking, Terrell turned and walked into Karsh’s bedroom. He closed the door behind him and leaned against it, hearing the hard, laboring stroke of his heart. The music from the living room poured around him but he was aware only of the reactions of his body; the beat of his heart, the tight, cold feeling in his stomach, and then something in his mouth that was like an essence of fear and betrayal and death.
The extension telephone was on a table beside Karsh’s long, wide bed — just a foot or so from Terrell’s hand. He looked down at the smooth, black receiver, and a little shudder went through his body. If he lifted the phone he would destroy something in himself; certain kinds of suspicions were too destructive to be entertained casually or cheaply. That much he was certain of. But his feelings were only a small part of what was involved. He knew that, too.
Terrell’s hand moved slowly, almost of its own volition, raising the receiver to his ear. He heard music first, a noisy background sound from the record player, and then he heard Karsh’s voice, sharp and hard over the music, and insistent to the point of desperation.
“—it can’t be covered up, Ike. I’m telling you, it’s impossible. Be reasonable, man.”
The music beat strongly in Terrell’s ear, a pulsing rhythm that matched the quick beat of his heart. And then he heard Ike Cellars’ voice, bigger than Karsh’s, thick with convulsive anger.
“Don’t tell me anything, understand! You keep it out of your paper.”
“But Terrell’s got everything.”
“You keep them from printing it. That’s your job. Don’t worry about anything else.”
“Just a minute — hold on a second.” Karsh’s cry was desperate and futile; the connection was already broken. Terrell heard Karsh’s ragged breathing for an instant before he put the receiver quietly back into its cradle. He stood perfectly still, rubbing his hands on the sides of his trousers. Finally he moved to the middle of the room, and fumbled for his cigarettes. He couldn’t seem to think; it was as if his senses had been mercifully numbed by the effects of a terrible blow.
When he heard the knob turn he put a cigarette quickly between his lips and raised his hands to cup the flame of his lighter. The door swung open and Karsh walked into the room, his manner brisk and business-like. “I’m squared away now,” he said. “Tell me what you’ve got, Sam. All of it, from start to finish. Then we’ll see how much we can use.”
Terrell’s face was partially concealed by his cupped hands; he needed that defense now. “Okay,” he said, turning away from Karsh. He forced himself to speak evenly, almost casually. “As we both knew, Caldwell was framed. Eden Myles was murdered by a paid gunman named Nick Rammersky. He was paid by Ike Cellars. The unholy triumvirate was Cellars, Dan Bridewell, and our beloved mayor, Shaw Ticknor. Does this surprise you?”
“Dan Bridewell? That’s a jolt,” Karsh said.
“Isn’t it? This story is a gathering of the hypocrite clan. Well, the side angles you know about. The fact Paddy Coglan was unlucky enough to see Rammersky, the attempts to put pressure on Coglan’s widow — it fits together, and it’s all characterized by the same gamey flavor.”
“Can you prove this? Supposing we get slugged with libel suits?”
Terrell couldn’t make himself turn and face Karsh. He stood in profile to him, trying to bring his nerves and emotions under control. Now his hand trembled as he raised the cigarette to his lips, and he was almost physically sick with a blend of shame and anger and pity.
“Well?” Karsh said. His tone was puzzled. “I asked you a question, Sam. What’ve we got? Provable stuff we can back up with witnesses and written evidence? Or guesses — regardless of how accurate they may be. How much of what you’ve told me can we print?”
Terrell turned at last and stared at Karsh. For a few seconds neither man spoke, but Karsh frowned faintly at the look in Terrell’s eyes. The silence stretched out until Karsh made a worried little gesture with his hand, and said, “What’s the matter, Sam? I’m just asking you what we can use.”
“Why not ask Ike Cellars?” Terrell said, softly. “From the weather to classified ads — he’s the boy to ask. Isn’t that right, Mike?” His voice rose suddenly in anger. “Well? Isn’t that right?”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Karsh’s puzzled smile was a good effort, but his face had turned clammy and white.
Terrell said bitterly, “Don’t lie and squirm. Spare me that. You knew the girl wrote a note. How? How did you know that?”
“I told you—”
Terrell pointed to the extension telephone. Karsh’s voice trembled and then he wet his lips and stared at Terrell in silence.
“I heard you talking to Cellars,” Terrell said.
“Listen to me — you’ve got to understand.”
“Understand what? That you’re working for him? I know that now?”
Karsh took a step toward him and raised his hands in a clumsy and incongruous gesture of supplication. “Sam, I was trying to save you — you’ve got to believe me. From the moment you talked to Coglan and got his story about the prowler — from then on you were slated for the morgue.”
“I brought you the whole story,” Terrell said. “You could have smashed them to bits with it. But you killed it. We’d wait until we had it all, you said, the drama and the color, but the whole thing in one piece, like a beautiful symphony.” Terrell’s voice became savage and ugly. “But you were lying. I had the guts of the story the first night, but you threw it out. Threw away Caldwell’s only chance. Then I traced down Paddy Coglan, and got the truth from him, a scared, drunken little cop hiding in a cheap flea trap in Beach City. But he was dead before his testimony could do any good. Then Mrs. Coglan came in with her story, and you buried that, too. More lies. Wait till we have it all, the drunks singing Faust, the symphony of news.” Terrell pounded a fist into his palm.
“I fell for it like any prize fool. But I was too close to you, Mike. I believed in you. You taught me this business. For a dozen years you were my model — I even tried to dress like you when I was a copy boy. It’s a laugh, isn’t it? And you played on that, didn’t you — on my feeling that you were an old-style hero, colorful, romantic, generous, anything for a pal, always good for a touch, kind and decent to the core.” Terrell’s voice was trembling. “That was my picture of you. And it was there for you to use.”
“No, Sam, no — listen to me, for God’s sake.”
“Then the girl talked,” Terrell said bitterly. “And we had them cold. But you squealed to Cellars again, and now she’s gone. Where?” Terrell caught him by the lapels of his expensive suit and shook him with all of his strength. “Where is she? What have they done with her?”
“I don’t know... I don’t know.”
Terrell let him go and Karsh turned away and sat down slowly and wearily on the side of the bed. His face had gone slack, and he was breathing with a definite physical effort, like a man in pain. “I needed money, I always needed money.” The travesty of a smile twisted his lips. “The plea of the absconding bank teller, the defense of a kid who snatches a purse. You’d think I could come up with something more original. A treatise on the pleasures of morality, or the need for more thieving bastards in a world gone boring itself to death with uplift.” He sighed and a little shudder went through his body. “Gambling, alimony, that little fop of mine outside — they suck money out of me every minute of the day and night. My salary covers Jenny, and most of my bar bills. And not much else. Cellars offered to chip in a few years back. At first it was simple; a gambling story played down, a picture of a girl friend stuck in the paper. Little things. Kill a divorce story, ease up on some character in trouble with the tax people — favors I could do with a pencil or a telephone call. But I got in too deep. I couldn’t pay him back. It wasn’t simply money, there wasn’t much of that actually. Ike was afraid I might invest in blue chips or hit the books for a bundle and get clear of him. Take this apartment building. It’s owned by a combine headed by Cellars. I never get a bill. I ask for it and the manager says sure, right away. Only it never comes. Bookkeeping snafu. Next month without fail, Mr. Karsh. And next month never comes. I trade in a car at Cellars’ agency. The salesman says, ‘You’re really doing us a favor, Mr. Karsh. Your old car is perfect, and these new ones are dogs. So what say we trade even?’ He boxed me in on all sides, making things easy, making it impossible for me to break clear.” Karsh shook his head wearily. “Didn’t you ever spot it? Half the city room tumbled years ago. You know the way I bounced guys before the Guild came in? Sent city editors off to Paris, or back on police? I had to; they’d get too close to what I was doing, or they’d be sick of killing stories they knew we should print.” Karsh stared up at Terrell, his eyes pleading for understanding. “Then the Caldwell story broke, and you stumbled on the fix, and Cellars expected me to keep you quiet. If it was just my job at stake I might have told him to go to hell. I don’t know. But it was your life, Sam. Cellars wanted to kill you. I convinced him it would be smarter to kill the story. So we played you for a fool. Everything you dug up went back to Cellars — and nothing went into the paper. But you’re alive, remember that, I saved your life. Maybe you don’t believe me.” Karsh tried to smile, but his face was a mask of despair. “Hell, I don’t believe myself. I like being a big shot, being surrounded by sycophants I can walk on for the price of a drink. Add all that to your picture of Mike Karsh.”