“Ollie, what’s the name of Caldwell’s friend — the one who owns the house on Manor Lane?”
“Just a second,” Ollie waved for silence; he was connected with the Sixteenth. “Sarge, this is Ollie Wheeler at the Call-Bulletin. Say, what’s happening? We just heard you send an ambulance over to Rich Caldwell’s house. Wait, hold on — just a hint, Sarge, for old time’s sake. Christ, we’ve all got our jobs to do! Don’t put me in the middle. Sure, I’ll hang on.” He covered the phone with his hand and looked up at Terrell. “Scared little bastard. But it sounds big, Sam. What did you want? Oh yeah. Sims is the name of the guy who owns the house on Manor Lane. J. Bellamy Sims.”
“That’s it.” Terrell flipped through the directory, found the number and dialled it quickly. The ringing sounded in his ears like the far-away drone of a bee. Then the connection was made, and a voice said cautiously, “Hello?”
“Who’s this?” Terrell said. “I want to talk with Rich Caldwell.”
“You can’t—” There was silence on the line. Then: “Who is this?”
“This is Sam Terrell. Call-Bulletin. Where’s Caldwell?”
“Look, I can’t talk to you. You got to see the detectives.”
“Wait!” Terrell yelled the word. “Is this a cop?”
“This is Paddy Coglan from the Sixteenth.”
“Don’t hang up! Don’t. Are you all alone there? Just give me a lead, Paddy. What is it?”
“I was coming down the Lane when I saw a guy run out of Caldwell’s front door.” Coglan’s voice was low and tense. “I chased him and lost him. So I came back to Caldwell’s. The door was open, lights on in the front room. He’s—” Coglan drew a sharp breath. “The Captain’s here, Sam. Better get over.” The connection was broken.
Terrell put the phone down and glanced at Ollie Wheeler who was still talking to the house sergeant at the Sixteenth. “Thanks, thanks a lot, Sarge,” he said, getting to his feet. “Sure, sure. Thanks.” He hung up and looked at Terrell. “Mooney had better call Karsh, and get some rewrite men and photographers on the way in. We’ll really tear up the front page tonight. There’s a dead girl over at Caldwell’s. And Caldwell is dead drunk.”
“Who’s the girl? Eden Myles?”
“Head of the class, Sam. Eden Myles it is. Or was, Caldwell just strangled her.”
4
Manor Lane was one of the select addresses in the city; the homes were small, old and expensive, three-storied for the most part with splendid doorways decorated with antique brass knockers and numerals. The street ran for two blocks behind the Gothic solemnity of St. Chrysostom’s, and terminated in a mews at the south side of Regent Square.
Terrell’s driver whistled as they swung into the block. Two black and white squad cars and an ambulance were parked in the middle of the street and groups of people stood on the sidewalks watching the windows of Caldwell’s house. The flashing red lights on the police cars transformed the faces of the spectators into vivid masks of tension and excitement.
Terrell paid off his cab and walked over to a patrolman standing beside the ambulance. He recognized him and said, “Hello, Jimmy. They take her out yet?”
“Hi, Sam. No, not yet. Captain Stanko just got here. With one of your boys. The lab men are still working. It’s brutal, I guess.”
Terrell walked up the stone steps of Caldwell’s home, nodded to the patrolman on duty and went inside. He turned from the foyer into the living room, where he saw shirt-sleeved lab technicians taking photographs and measurements.
The Call-Bulletin’s district reporter, a balding man named Nelson, was on the phone talking in a low urgent voice. Terrell nodded to him, then drifted into a quiet corner and stuck a cigarette in his mouth.
Eden Myles lay sprawled in the middle of the room, and Richard Caldwell sat slumped in a deep chair with his head bent forward at an awkward angle; he was breathing noisily and raggedly, and every now and then an inarticulate little moan sounded deep in his throat. Captain Stanko, in command of the Sixteenth, was shaking his shoulder with a big red hand, and a police surgeon was peering into his eyes. The room was a shambles. Lab men moved around upended chairs with efficient speed and a homicide detective named Evans was studying a tipped-over lamp with a vacant expression on his face. Caldwell’s chauffeur stood at the far end of the room, a bulky man in pajamas and brown woolen robe. He seemed completely stunned; his eyes were fixed on Caldwell’s limp figure and his expression was almost a parody of bewilderment. Standing a few feet from him was Paddy Coglan, the uniformed cop whom Terrell had spoken to from the Call-Bulletin. Coglan was a small man, stockily built, with kinky gray hair and a round, red face. His eyes were switching around the room, flicking from spot to spot as if seeking a place to rest.
“We can take her now,” one of the lab men said to Captain Stanko, and Evans, the homicide detective, turned and looked thoughtfully at the body of the dead girl.
She hadn’t died prettily, Terrell thought. The model, the singer, proud of her lean, elegant body and dramatic good looks — that was all over. He had seen this kind of violence for years; on the police beats he had covered cuttings and brawls, autopsies on bodies pulled from flaming automobiles, murders in good neighborhoods and bad, crimes of passion that ignored income groupings, color lines and actuarial tables. But he had never gotten used to it. He had never developed a tolerance for violence. It sickened him, and in some way made him ashamed of himself. Now he felt that shame and guilt as he stared at Eden Myles’ dark, swollen face and pitifully distended eyes. She had fought hard; her dress was torn across the front revealing her starkly white shoulders and the swell of her small breasts. One of her slippers was off and a stocking had been pulled loose from its garter clip; it hung now like a nylon fetter about her slim, hard ankle.
“Take her out,” Captain Stanko said.
The Call-Bulletin’s reporter was winding up his story in a discreetly lowered voice. Talking to Ollie Wheeler, Terrell thought. Mooney wouldn’t have had time to get anyone else. He glanced at his watch. Eleven-thirty. Karsh would be on his way by now, and a dozen rewritemen, reporters and photographers. He turned a bit to listen to Nelson. “Yes, that’s all I’ve got,” Nelson was saying. “I can’t talk to anybody yet. Caldwell looks drunk, and the girl is dead, that’s for sure. She’s messed up some. Lip cut, clothes torn, like she’d been worked over. What? Yes, Caldwell’s got some scratches on his face. Look. I’ll talk to Stanko when I can — yes, sure.”
“Just a second,” Terrell said sharply. “What about the man who ran out of here? Did you give him that?”
Nelson looked at him blankly. “First I heard about it. What do you mean? A prowler?”
“Prowler?” It was Captain Stanko speaking. He turned toward them, repeating the word in a cold, belligerent voice. He was a big man with a face like a block of dark wood, and his eyes were angry and suspicious as he stared from Nelson to Terrell. “Let me give you hot shots some advice. Don’t start dreaming up angles. You’ll get the story from my report. That will be the official version — the only version. You start inventing things and you’ll get your cans in a sling.”
Nelson put the phone he was holding back into its cradle. The gesture was expressive. “I’m not inventing anything, Captain. I’m waiting for your report.”
Stanko glanced at Terrell. “That suit you? Or do you want us to rush things up for your special benefit?”