“I see,” Farrell said. “Thanks.”
He and Ward went up a dusty flight of stairs. “Don’t tell me what Detweiller would say,” he murmured to Ward. “I can guess.”
They came to swinging doors and a sign that read “Detective Division” and entered a large, brightly lighted room in which several men sat about at roll-top desks typing or leafing through reports. The prevailing odor was a blend of dry wood, dusty paper and stale coffee.
A detective with a cigar looked up at them, nodded impersonally and came over to the counter. He was in his middle fifties, heavy but not fat, with a dark complexion, thinning gray hair and black pouches under his brown eyes. “Well, what’s the trouble, gentlemen?” he asked them with a small smile.
They told him their story, adding all the details they were sure of, and when they finished he was no longer smiling.
His name was Cabella, they learned later, Sergeant Anthony Cabella. He took their names and addresses, then said, “Would you step around the counter, please? I’d like you to talk to the lieutenant.”
The lieutenant, whose quarters adjoined the detectives’ squad room, said, “Yes?” to Cabella’s knock, and rose when Farrell and Ward entered his small, sparely furnished office.
The lieutenant was as tall as Farrell with a slim, controlled body and short, blond hair dulled slightly at the temples with gray; he looked like a middle-weight fighter only a few years past his prime, tidy and sure of himself, with very little expression in his pale square face and watchful blue eyes. He wore a well-cut suit with a bow tie, and Farrell found him vaguely irritating; his handshake was a projection of personality, efficiently brisk and powerful, and he established what he obviously felt was their proper relationship by letting them stand while he resumed his seat behind his desk. Glancing at them with his cold careful eyes he said: “My name is Jameson. You’ve met Sergeant Cabella, I guess. What can we do for you?”
After they had repeated their story the lieutenant glanced at Sergeant Cabella and said, “Had any other complaints of this sort?”
“This is the first,” Cabella said.
“What do you know about these punks?”
Cabella rolled his cigar to a new position, and a half-inch of ash tumbled down onto his bulging vest. “The one called Duke is Tom Resnick’s son. Tom used to be a brakeman on the old IR line before he retired. His mother’s dead. They live over on Dempsey Street, other side of the golf course. This Jerry kid must be Jerry Leuth. He was a helluva athlete at Consolidated but he never did anything with it later. Football and track. His folks own a little cleaning and pressing shop. Duke and Jerry have been traveling together since they were in school. Both of them caddied over at Pine Hills. They got a kind of clubhouse in the basement of that dead-storage garage on Matt Street. You know the place? It’s right at the alley intersection in the middle of the block, next to a candy store. Their gang call themselves the Chiefs.”
“They been in any trouble before this?”
“We never caught them, if they was.”
“Pick them up in the morning, Sergeant. Can you gentlemen be here with your sons at nine o’clock?”
“Nine or earlier,” Ward said. “It’s fine with me.”
Farrell hesitated; he had an uneasy feeling that they were going too fast. “What’s the procedure tomorrow morning, Lieutenant?”
“First, I’ll talk to your sons, take a statement from them. We’ll determine the timetable of this trouble. When it started, then step-by-step until we’re up to date.” Jameson paused long enough to light a cigarette. “Then we’ll determine which of these punks made the threats. Or whether it was done by both of them. Which one asked for the money or, again, was it both of them. Who accepted the money and who actually hit your son, Mr. Ward. Then your boys will identify Duke and Jerry. After this — if their testimony holds up — I’ll slate these punks on charges for a Magistrate’s hearing. The Magistrate will bind them over to the Grand Jury. They’ll come up for trial, and I think they’ll get what’s coming to them.”
“You say if our sons’ testimony holds up? Suppose it doesn’t?” Farrell asked him.
“Well, in that case you’ll have to go to a Magistrate’s office and swear out a complaint against these boys. They’ll be served with a Magistrate’s warrant and ordered to a hearing.”
Ward looked dubious. “I don’t quite follow you, Lieutenant.”
“The distinction is this: I can make the arrest on a positive identification by your boys. But if they aren’t able to make an identification, or refuse to, all I can do is give Duke and Jerry a stiff warning and let them go. You see, I can’t arrest them on the strength of what your sons told you. You follow me?”
“Yes, I get it,” Farrell said. “But our boys are pretty upset by this business. They may not be in the best mood to make effective witnesses.”
“You mean they’re frightened,” Jameson said. “Do you think they’re too scared to identify these punks?”
“I don’t know,” Farrell said. “It would be a normal reaction, I imagine.”
“Certainly,” the lieutenant said. “We’ll take that into consideration. We’ll do our best to convince them there’s nothing to be worried about. You have your boys here at nine. We’ll handle the rest.” Lieutenant Jameson put out his cigarette with an economical twist of his wrist, and the gesture, plus his brief little smile, indicated that the interview was over.
But Farrell had one more question. He said, “You don’t seem at all surprised by this business, Lieutenant. Is it really so run-of-the-mill? I mean, are things like this popping up every hour on the hour?”
“What line of work are you in, Mr. Farrell?”
“The advertising business.”
“Well, if your boss dropped a job on your desk, I don’t imagine you’d be surprised, eh? You’d get at it, and get it done. Or am I wrong?”
“No, the analogy is pretty accurate.”
“Until tomorrow morning then.”
Outside on the sidewalk Ward lit a cigarette and said, “Damn it, there’s a cold fish for you. Maybe Detweiller was right. It might have been simpler to handle this thing ourselves.”
Farrell said, “The bow tie rather disappointed me, I must admit. Can you imagine Jack Webb in a bow tie? Or Sam Spade?”
“Seriously, I’m wondering if we shouldn’t have a lawyer with us tomorrow. Those cops seem awfully casual about this whole thing.”
“Don’t worry, they know what they’re doing.” Farrell turned up his collar. “Let’s get on home.”
As he drove into Faircrest, Farrell had the sensation of returning to another world, soft and quilted, gracious, fragrant and secure. The Sims were having a party. Lights shone in their dining and living rooms, and shadows moved against drawn drapes. A bedroom light gleamed from the second floor of the Norton home. Janey went to bed early, Farrell knew, and Wayne sat with her and read or worked on the house accounts. They had a hi-fi speaker in the bedroom, and they usually listened to records and had a late cup of cocoa or tea. Cold-creamed and snug, soothed by gentle music and something warm to drink, Janey Norton was giving her unborn child a running start at life. He saw Margie Lee, tagged by a coltish admirer, strolling up the walk to her home; light flashed on her small blonde head, and the wind brought him the high, energetic laughter of her escort.
The lights were on in the study of his own home and he knew that Barbara was waiting up to have coffee or a nightcap with him.
Everything was serene and peaceful in Faircrest, the slender branches of the trees moving gently in the wind, the homes sturdy and protective against the night.