“Frankie Chance? Just for a second last night. He came in for a drink — it must have been pretty late.”
Terrell smiled faintly. Eden’s break with Frankie obviously had been repaired. Or had there ever been a break? Terrell glanced at his watch and got to his feet. “Thanks for the coffee, Connie, but I’ve got to get going. Tell Eden I stopped by, will you?”
“No message?”
“I’ll give her a ring later.”
It was then that they heard the clatter of high heels in the front foyer. Connie said, “Here she is. It’s a good thing you waited.”
“It’s my lucky day,” Terrell said.
The high heels came down the hallway and Eden Myles pushed open the swinging door to the kitchen. “Connie, were there any calls for—” She stopped, staring at Terrell.
“Hello, Eden,” he said. “We were just having our coffee break. It’s something the unions got for us.”
“What do you want, Sam?” She glanced at Connie, suspicion sharpening her eyes. “What was he snooping around here for?”
Connie said, “He told me you were friends.”
“That’s very funny. Newspapermen are a notch below cops in my form book. Okay, what did you want?”
“Coffee,” Terrell said. “Like a cup, Eden? It’s wonderful.”
“What do you want?” She didn’t relax. She stood tall and angry, her flat model’s figure framed effectively in the doorway. The contrast between the two girls was remarkable, Terrell thought. Eden was a striking brunette, with a face made for fashion magazines, drawn, gaunt and dramatic. She wore a black suit with a stand-up collar, and only one piece of jewelry, a heavy silver bracelet on her left wrist. Beside her Connie looked like an urchin — a clean urchin with beautifully shaped legs.
Terrell said casually, “What are you seeing Caldwell for, Eden? That’s what I stopped to check on.”
Eden took it very well; she stared at him for at least ten seconds in silence, and then she said, “Would you go now? I’ve got things to do.”
“Won’t talk, eh? No comment.” Terrell lit a cigarette. “That’s what Sarnac said at first. But he finally gave in. I’m not using the story until I get his okay, Eden. I just wanted background.”
“Get out of here!”
Terrell said, “Okay, Eden, if that’s the way you want it.” He studied her for a second or so, and then shook his head slowly. “I don’t get it,” he said. “You’re a handsome woman, very elegant, very lovely.”
“I didn’t know you cared,” she said drily.
“When Ike Cellars finds out that you’ve been indiscreet, you won’t enjoy looking at yourself in mirrors any more. Has that occurred to you?”
“Get out, I said.”
Terrell tossed her a little salute and walked down the hall into the living room. Connie ran after him and caught his arm before he reached the door. “Please don’t go,” she said. “She’s frightened about something. She wants to talk to you, I know.”
Terrell said, “Listen!” They could hear Eden’s footsteps in the hallway. “Psychology,” he said.
“You’re a good bit of a heel.”
“That’s just a majority opinion.”
Eden entered the living room looking weary and beaten; the proud tension was gone from her body, and all of her careful grooming couldn’t conceal the fear in her face.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Can’t we play the scene over with a little less volume?”
“Let’s try,” he said.
“I’ve been talking to Caldwell,” she said. She sat down on a huge yellow ottoman and crossed her slender legs at the ankles. She turned her face away from Terrell. “I wanted to pay-off Frankie Chance because he... well, there’s no point going into that. It was a stupid, bitchy thing to do — I know that. But after I got started it seemed the right thing to do. That sounds corny, doesn’t it? But it happens to be true. Maybe you don’t know Caldwell. He’s an honest man, and he’s big and gentle and straight.” She shrugged and smiled. “More corn, I know. But that’s it, Sam. I fell for the guy. In a funny way. I respect him and I want him to respect me. What will Ike Cellars do? I don’t know. I can’t say I’m not afraid. But I’m going ahead with it. He can’t stop me, Sam.”
“He may not be in a position to,” Terrell said thoughtfully. “But tell me this, Eden: do you have anything specific and serious to tag him with? Names, dates, documents, witnesses — that’s what you need. Gossip and guesses are manufactured on street corners every hour on the hour. They don’t hurt Cellars or Ticknor.”
“I’ve got things that will hurt them.”
“What?”
“It’s for Caldwell. What he does with it is up to him.”
Terrell was silent for a few seconds. Then he said, “Well, I wish you both luck. You deserve a medal, Eden. You may never get it, but you deserve it just the same.”
“Sure, sure,” she said.
Terrell smiled at Connie, “Could I buy you a cup of coffee sometime?”
“Watch for me round the automat,” she said coldly.
“So long then, girls.”
Terrell rode down to the lobby feeling depressed and irritable. Something was wrong. The whole business stank. Dramatic revelations inspired first by vengeance, then a growing sense of duty and virtue — Eden’s act was a script-writer’s dream, preposterously pat.
But who was being cast as the fall guy? That’s what Terrell wanted to know.
Terrell cabbed back to the paper and ate lunch at his desk while he worked out the first draft of his next day’s column. When he had it in shape he called Mike Karsh, whom he could see sitting in his office leafing through the latest edition. Karsh said hello, then turned and waved to him. “Come on in,” he said. “I’ve got a minute.”
“I need at least ten, Mike”
“What’s up?”
“A story, a good one. I’d like your reaction to it.”
“Look, Sam: let’s have a quiet dinner tonight. Steak, beer, apple pie. We’ll kick things around. All right?”
“Fine. Where?”
“Let’s make it the Ridgeland, about eight. Okay?”
“See you then.” Dinner at the Ridgeland wouldn’t be a quiet affair, but if Karsh wanted to kid himself, Terrell didn’t mind; he felt he understood Karsh’s needs.
3
The Ridgeland was a new hotel in center-city that catered to people with expensive tastes and important connections. Karsh lived here and Terrell wondered how he stood it, both financially and esthetically. The tariff was outrageously high, but Karsh enjoyed extravagance; he liked to feel that he was spending his money brilliantly and pointlessly. He saved nothing, sneered at market tips, and could drop twice Terrell’s monthly check in one bet at the track.
The management of the Ridgeland treated him like solvent royalty. They had knocked together two suites to give him a four room apartment on the twentieth floor, and had installed a bar, kitchenette, a barbecue pit for the balcony, and practically wall-to-wall television. All of this seemed to amuse Karsh. He had only to glance around to reassure himself that he wasn’t spending his money sensibly.
Esthetically, Karsh’s tolerance for the Ridgeland and its clients bewildered Terrell. He was a mark for every shill, tipster and peddler who hung out in the place. Now, as Terrell paused in the entrance to the dining room, he saw that Karsh had already been attacked by supplicants — a syndicate salesman, a gambler and two press agents had joined him at his regular corner table. They weren’t bad sorts, Terrell knew, just greedy — slavering for a bite at the still-fat carcass of Mike Karsh.
George, the headwaiter, led him across the dance floor, and Karsh grinned when he stopped beside the table. “Find a seat, Sam. Our quiet little dinner has turned into a convention.” Karsh wore a dark gray suit of beautiful cut, a white linen shirt and a neatly figured blue silk tie. He looked very distinguished and slightly drunk; his thick gray hair and deeply tanned features were elegantly handsome, but his smile was lopsided and weary. The humor in his face was touched with cynicism; his expression, though blurred with liquor, was that of a man who was truly puzzled by the whole idea of laughter.