They were silent a moment. Mark looked down at the latticed pattern of the sun on the carpet and felt the stillness of the room. Finally, he said: “I felt like hell after leaving you last night. That’s about all I came here to say. I want to understand how you feel about Nolan and I guess I do.”
“I didn’t feel very good either last night,” Linda said.
They were both speaking very carefully.
“Well,” Mark said, standing and glancing at his watch, “I’ve got to run along.”
“Please don’t go yet, Mark. We’re still friends, aren’t we?”
“Why, of course.”
“Then don’t run off like this. I want you to stay, Mark.”
“Well, fine,” he said. He grinned at her and she smiled back at him; and the curious tension between them dissolved.
“He was here last night, you know,” she said.
“What shape was he in?”
“He was very calm for a change. He talked about himself, about the fights he’d been in, about the breaks he’d had, and so forth.” Linda nodded to an over-stuffed chair. “He sat there with his head back and just talked for two solid hours.”
“He nearly killed Laddy O’Neill earlier last night,” Mark said. “Did he mention that?”
Linda shook her head slowly. “No, he didn’t, Mark.” She rubbed her temples with the tips of her fingers. “When is it going to stop, Mark? How long can he go on?”
He shrugged. “Nolan’s the law. He committed murder and stole twenty-five thousand dollars. Nothing’s happened about that, you’ll notice.”
She leaned back on the couch and put the back of her hand against her forehead. “It’s all so ghastly.”
Mark went over and sat beside her. He took one of her hands and patted it gently. “You always get a stricken look when we talk about Nolan. So let’s skip him for a while. Okay?”
“All right. But we can’t blame my stricken look altogether on Barny. I’ve got a foul sore throat.”
“That’s a shame. Have you done all the usual things that don’t help?”
“Yes, so maybe it’s just nerves. I’m not sure I can sing tonight.”
“That bad, eh?”
She smiled at him. “Now you’re getting a stricken look. So let’s skip my sore throat, okay?”
“Okay.”
She looked down at their interlocked hands for a moment, and then looked at him smiling. “Okay, what shall we talk about now?”
Nolan walked into the Division at four o’clock. Sergeant Odell nodded to him and said hello. He sat down at an empty desk and lit a cigar, enjoying a rare sense of well-being. Despite his gluttonous drinking the day before, his head was clear and his lunch was settling comfortably on his stomach.
The time he had spent with Linda last night was a memory that he had been examining ever since with a feeling of glowing pleasure. It was the first time he’d ever felt close to her, really close. They had sat in her apartment, the first time he’d ever been there, and he’d talked to her about the important things in his life. They were big moments to him, and it did him good to tell Linda about them. That was how people got close together, he knew now.
Gianfaldo said: “Sarge, I hear Laddy O’Neill and Hymie Solstein got a working over last night.”
Odell grunted. “Where’d you hear that?”
“A porter at Espizito’s lives in my building. He told me about it. O’Neill is over at St. Agnes’s in real bad shape. Hymie just got a busted head.”
“That right? Where’d it happen?”
“At Mama Ragoni’s. Some guy walked in and gave it to ’em good.”
“One guy?”
“Yeah, that’s the story.”
“Well, he must have been a damn good man,” Odell said, going back to his paper.
Nolan smiled behind his paper. That might slow Espizito down a bit. He’d know now that Barny Nolan wasn’t playing for fish cakes.
Smitty and Lindfors sauntered in, five minutes late. Odell glanced pointedly at the clock but said nothing.
“Let’s get the cards out,” Smitty said, skimming his hat onto a desk. He ignored Nolan. “I got a date tonight and I hate to spend my own money on women.”
He walked into the adjoining room with Lindfors and Gianfaldo at his heels. Odell heaved himself to his feet and said to Nolan, “Watch this phone, will you? I want to make sure Smitty doesn’t have too much cash to waste on that dame.”
“Sure,” Nolan said.
Sergeant Odell hesitated a second. “You don’t play cards anyway, do you, Nolan?”
Nolan glanced up and said: “No, I guess I don’t.”
Odell walked in and joined the game and Nolan heard his booming laugh as he won the deal. To hell with them, he thought, knocking a length of cigar ash onto the floor. Nothing could dampen his good spirits, least of all the coolness of a bunch of slobs whose opinion didn’t mean anything to him anyway. Everything in his life was beginning to make sense, he thought, drawing contentedly on his cigar.
The outer door opened a few moments later and an elderly man with white hair and plump rosy cheeks approached the counter. There was an air of diffidence and uncertainty in his manner as he removed his hat and smiled at Nolan.
Nolan hoisted himself from his chair and walked to the counter.
“What can I do for you?” The man wore a neat dark suit, a precisely tied tie, and seemed very nervous. Lost his dog, Nolan thought.
“You are a detective?”
“That’s right.” Nolan pulled a pad toward him and took a pencil from his pocket. “What’s your trouble?”
“I have information about a murder,” the man said.
Nolan looked at him sharply, but saw only a rather ludicrous determination in the little man’s round face.
“What’s your name?”
“August Sternmueller.”
“Where do you live, August?”
“I live at 216 Crab Street. That is just at the intersection of Crab Street and Ellens Lane.”
“Yeah, I know,” Nolan said. Something stirred in him warningly. He glanced at the little man, studying him with alert eyes. “Let’s hear about this murder, now.”
“Very well. Three nights ago, as you may perhaps remember, a man was killed in Ellens Lane.”
“Yeah, I remember,” Nolan said. “Go on.”
“I saw this murder from my window,” August said. “The papers said the man was a prisoner who was trying to escape. That was a lie. That man was shot and killed deliberately.” August nodded for emphasis.
“I see,” Nolan said. He was perspiring, the sweat trickling down his ribs. “How is it that you’re just coming around now with this story?”
August leaned closer to Nolan and locked his hands together nervously. “I didn’t wish to get mixed up in any trouble, sir. I was selfish, I admit it. I delayed doing my duty because I was afraid that my life would be upset. But I know I did wrong. Now I am ready to do my duty.”
Nolan scratched his head with the point of the pencil. “You’d go to court and swear to all this, I suppose.”
“Absolutely,” August said firmly. “That man was shot in the back, deliberately. He was standing still when he was shot. It was a terrible thing.”
“Sure,” Nolan said. “Did you see anything else?”
“Yes. The man with the gun ran to the side of the man who was shot and he bent over him and took something from his pocket. After that he ran across the street and out of my sight. He came back in a few minutes and waited for the police.”
Nolan heard a laugh from the adjoining room. Then Lindfors’ voice: “To hell with this game. I’m going to save my money.”
Nolan tapped the man’s arm. “Thanks for your trouble, August. We’ll send someone over to your house to get the whole story.”
“But I—”
“Never mind. We’ll come to see you.”
“You are sure you will come? Now that I have started this I must see it through. My conscience won’t let me sleep until this affair is settled.”