Karsh smiled complacently, and began to screw a cigarette into his holder. He glanced at the clock above him, and said, “I expected to hear from him before this.” He touched Terrell’s arm. “Now look: you get on an extension and take down our talk. This may be good.” He waved to the switchboard operator sitting behind the police speaker. “Nell, put Tuckerman’s call through to me here and hook in one of these front desks. All right, Sam. Ready?”
Terrell said, “Yes, let it fly.” He sat down and put on earphones. His reaction was compulsive; he had been trained by Karsh and he responded almost instinctively to the excitement in Karsh’ s voice.
Karsh picked up a phone and leaned against the city desk. “What’s up, Ike?” he said. His voice was almost respectful, but an ironical little smile twisted his lips. Standing there he winked down at Terrell, and he seemed completely strong and confident, framed against the night, his bold, handsome head outlined against the shining glass windows. “Something wrong?”
“I hope you’re not being cute.” Terrell heard the suppressed anger in Cellars’ voice and the harsh sound of his breathing. “Photographers from your paper are hanging around my house. They say you sent ’em.”
“That’s right,” Karsh said. “You’re going to look nice on page one.”
“I pay you to keep me out of the paper. You cross me, and you’re through.”
“What do you want me to keep out? That you paid a killer to strangle Eden Myles? That you framed Richard Caldwell to keep the city in your own pocket?”
Cellars said softly, “I’ll settle with you, don’t worry.”
Karsh began to laugh. “You’re heading for the front page of our next edition. Murderer, perjurer, pickpocket, pimp — have I forgotten anything?”
“Just your good sense, Mike.” And then Cellars broke the connection.
“Okay, okay, let’s get going,” Karsh said, putting the phone down and slapping his hands together like a ringmaster.
The tempo picked up again and after another look at the clock, Karsh came over and read Terrell’s notes. “Put that conversation in a box for page one. Now get started on the main story.”
Terrell couldn’t make him out. He stared up at him for a few seconds, and then said, “You’ll look bad in my version, Mike.”
“So I look bad,” Karsh said. “It’s part of the story. I’ve cleared my end of it with the publisher. No cover-ups. The truth. And he’s agreed to handle it my way. I want the whole story — I told you that once. And we’ve got it.”
“Okay,” Terrell said sharply. He lit a cigarette and rolled a sheet of paper into his machine. Dramatics, he thought as he rubbed his hands together in a nervous, ritualistic gesture. Deadline, the big story, and Terrell telling all. Karsh was steel that could bend in any direction. And snap back as good as new when the pressure was off. Quite a trick. But not my hero, Terrell thought. Not the man I thought he was...
He worked slowly at first, getting his lead down right. After that he needed exact names, dates and addresses for the body of the story. He had clips on Eden Myles and Cellars and Caldwell sent up from the morgue, and a bit later called the detective division in the Hall for background on Rammersky’s arrest, and a direct quote from his confession. A detective he knew well filled him in and said, “A big night, eh, Sam? We got another dead one, you know. Frankie Chance.”
Terrell took the cigarette from his mouth. “What happened?” An illogical sadness welled in him. Frankie Chance had gone out to die for his girl. Worried about his soul. Was Jesus of Nazareth Christ Incarnate? Frankie didn’t have a clue.
“It happened out near Cellars’ home,” the detective said. “One of Ike’s bodyguards got him. There’s more to it, but I can’t give it to you now. Maybe in a half hour or so, eh?”
“Sure,” Terrell said. He told Karsh about Frankie Chance, but Karsh said, “Never mind him. We’ll run something about it on page six. Don’t clutter up your pieces with the bit players.”
“Okay. Here’s the lead then.”
Karsh scanned it quickly, a little grin touching his lips. “This is okay. Fine.” He gave the first page to the slot man at the copy desk. “Play the election angle,” he said, “in the headline and the subheads. Caldwell was framed. He’s in the clear. The how and why later.”
Terrell went on working, and Karsh took the pages as they came from the typewriter and handed them on to Williams, who proofed them and funnelled them to the copy wheel. Dozens of other stories were coming up to the desk now — biographical sketches, statements from Sarnac, and other top men in Caldwell’s party, a complete recap of the first story, with an artist’s sketch of Rammersky’s probable route away from the murder scene. All of this copy was being cut to fit the available space, then proofed and capped with heads, and finally shot upstairs to the pressroom to be set in type.
And the minutes ticked away.
Terrell finished his last paragraph and took the paper from his machine. He wasn’t satisfied with it, but there was no time for tinkering now; he could smooth it up for the next edition. “This does it,” he said. A copy boy took the page up to the desk where Williams was standing waiting for it. Terrell looked around for Karsh but didn’t see him. He lit another cigarette, and went up to the city desk.
Tuckerman said, “A call came in for you from St. Anne’s. A doctor there says to tell you that you can come and see the girl. She’s asked for you.” Tuckerman grinned amiably. “Connie Blacker, a long-legged blonde. A real dish. You’re lucky.”
“Yeah, sure,” Terrell said. He was staring about the crowded, noisy room. “Where’s Karsh?”
Tuckerman twisted his big body around in his chair. He glanced at Ollie Wheeler, who was finishing his story, and then over at the picture desk. There was a small frown on his long, placid face. “Might have gone up to the pressroom,” he said. He caught Williams’ eye. “Mike say anything to you about leaving?”
“Hell no.” Williams stood up and looked around him. “He wouldn’t go out. Not alone. Not tonight.”
A copy boy said tentatively, “I saw Mr. Karsh at the elevators a few minutes ago. Maybe a little longer.”
They all turned to the boy and Tuckerman said, “Was he dressed for the street?”
“Yes, he had his coat and hat. I met him when I was coming up with coffee.”
Tuckerman swore softly. “He’s crazy.” He was reaching for the phone when it began to ring. He picked it up, listened for a few seconds, and then let out his breath slowly. “Sure, Mike.” Tuckerman turned and handed the phone to Terrell. “Karsh. He wants to talk to you.”
Terrell took the receiver and said, “Where the devil are you?”
“Just across the street. Lindy’s. That all-night dope den that sells us our coffee and reefers. It’s the first time I’ve been in here. God! A foul smell of sugared doughnuts, and this waitress — I swear, Sam, she can read a whole page of a comic book in under five minutes. Why have we let her languish here? Why haven’t we hired her?”
“Mike, call a cab and go home,” Terrell said. “Or come back here and we’ll have a few drinks. Everybody’s in the mood.” Terrell glanced around the desk. “Tuck is building up a thirst and even Williams looks ready to tie one on. How about it?”
“It sounds fine,” Karsh said. “A cleanly shining bottle of booze and a night of harmless lies with the boys. But not tonight, Sam. I’ve got a date.”
“Where? With who?”
“I don’t know. It’s a face behind a windshield. That’s all I saw. I’ll know more about him later.”
“You damn fool,” Terrell said. He covered the receiver and spoke quickly and softly to Tuckerman. “Karsh is in Lindy’s. Get a squad over there. I’ll try to keep him on the line.” Tuckerman grabbed a phone and Williams stood and stared at the clock above his head. They were still four minutes from deadline.