“That’s customary for folks without luggage,” she said. “Just like hotels, you know.”
“Sure. I’m meeting my brother here tomorrow, and he’s got the suitcases in his car. We had some engine trouble so he stopped at Harrisburg, and I came on to do what work I can until he arrives.”
“Oh? What line are you in?”
“Lighting fixtures,” Nolan said, for no reason at all.
“Well, Camden’s a nice lively town.”
She left him alone finally, and Nolan went down a hall to the bath and brought a glass of cold water back to his room. Opening a bottle of whisky, he stretched out on the bed without bothering to remove his coat. The whisky tasted fine with the New Jersey water, he thought.
17
Mark sat in a waiting room at the hospital, chain-smoking, and wondering what he would do if she died. Nothing, probably, he thought. Maybe he’d get drunk occasionally and tell his story to a favorite bartender, but that would be about all. You just didn’t do anything when people died, he knew. You just wished they hadn’t.
Ramussen came in and sat beside him in a wicker chair. “Any news at all yet, Mark?”
“No, the doctor is still with her. He said he’d let me know what’s happening.” He lit another cigarette and glanced at the Lieutenant. “And what’s with Nolan?”
“He got out of the city, it appears. We picked up a cab driver who took him over to Camden. According to his story Nolan was trying to get a ride to Atlantic City.”
“That doesn’t seem very smart.”
“I know. He’ll have his back to a wall there. But he might be trying to get us started in the wrong direction. He might be in Philly now, or holed up somewhere in Camden.”
“You’ll get him, of course.”
“Yes, I suppose so. The eight-state alarm is out, and that will make it tough for him to move around. If he didn’t have money, I’d take a small bet that we’d have him by morning. But that twenty-five thousand could make a difference. He’s liable to buy some help.”
Mark glanced at his watch. Eleven-thirty. She’d been in there an hour and a half now.
“She’ll be all right, Mark,” Ramussen said.
“Thanks,” Mark said.
They were silent a few moments, smoking and staring at the walls without seeing anything. Then Ramussen said: “You were right, Mark. The department does hang onto a bad cop too long. Cops protect each other, right or wrong, and that gives the rogue cop too much of a break.”
Mark nodded, not giving much of a damn whether he’d been right or not; but he could appreciate what the admission meant to Ramussen.
A young man in a white jacket came into the room, glanced at Mark. “You waiting for that girl in Operating?”
Ramussen stood up. “Yes. What’s the story?”
“She’s not in the best of shape, of course. Lost a lot of blood. But it was a clean wound and, barring complications, she should be all right.”
Mark let out his breath slowly. “Any chance of seeing her now?”
“Lord, no. She’s still under the anesthetic. Maybe by tomorrow morning she’ll be strong enough to talk for a while, but that’s no promise, mind you.”
Ramussen grinned and patted Mark on the arm. “I told you she’d be all right.”
“Yes, you did,” Mark said, smiling back at him.
“Well, I’ve got to get back to work. Odell lined up some stoolies to send over to Jersey, and I want to talk to them before they go. Why don’t you get some sleep?”
“No, I’ll stick around for a while.”
“Damn it, you can’t see her until morning.”
Mark shrugged. “I’ll wait,” he said.
“Okay.” Ramussen patted his arm and walked out.
Mark settled down and lit another cigarette. Surprisingly it tasted fine.
Nolan sat at the window of his room the next morning, watching the glittering patterns of sunlight in the trees along the street. He held a glass of diluted whisky in his hand and his eyes were red-rimmed and tired. Some kids were playing ball farther down the block and he could hear their shrill intense voices as clearly as if they were in the next room. All his nerves were painfully sensitive this morning. He was aware of the coldness of the glass in his hand, and the tiny spikes of starched cloth around the edge of his collar, and the heat of his clothes and the stuffy smell of the room.
There was a knock on the door and he came to his feet in a half-crouch, his hand moving to his gun.
“Who is it?”
“It’s me, Mrs. Bailey. I was wondering if you wanted some breakfast.”
“No, never mind.”
“I could bring you something if you aren’t feeling well.”
Damn her, Nolan thought irritably. Already she was making him an object of speculation. “Thanks, but I’m fine,” he said. “I’ll be down shortly.”
“Well, all right.”
Nolan listened to her move away down the corridor, and then he wandered about the room, taking a short drink occasionally, his thoughts inevitably coming to a dead-end. He was red-hot by now, the Camden police would be looking for him, and when they didn’t find him in Atlantic City they’d scour this area from top to bottom. He knew he had to move soon. But where?
He sat on the bed and counted his money. The twenty-five thousand of Espizito’s was intact, of course, and he had about thirty dollars of his own money. The six thousand under the hub cap of his car would make some mechanic happy, he thought.
That was plenty of money, but he didn’t know how to put it to work.
Standing, he paced the room a while, and finally an idea occurred to him; an idea he didn’t like but which was about his only chance. He walked down to the bathroom, washed his hands and face thoroughly and combed his hair. His beard looked coarse and red in the sunlight that streamed in a window, but after searching vainly for a razor in the bathroom he returned to his room and picked up his coat and hat and went downstairs. Mrs. Bailey popped out of her first floor living room as he came down the steps.
“Going out, eh?” she said brightly.
“Yes, that’s right. But first I’d like to use your phone.”
“Certainly. It’s at the end of the corridor and you’ll need a nickel.”
“Thanks.”
“Calling your brother, eh?”
Nolan fought down his anger. “Yeah,” he said and walked back to the telephone, which was on a table under a light. There was a city directory there, also, and he thumbed through it until he found the number he wanted. Dialing, he was conscious that Mrs. Bailey had returned to her living room, but hadn’t closed the door. He could imagine her long-eared interest in his conversation.
The man who answered said, “Hello,” in a pleasant cultivated voice.
“Mr. Reynolds?”
“This is he speaking.”
“We’ve got some mutual friends, Mr. Reynolds. Ramussen over in Philadelphia, for instance. I’d like to talk to you about a little problem I’m facing.”
“Ramussen? Oh, just a moment.” He was gone a few seconds, and Nolan began to get anxious. Then Reynolds was back. “I just wanted to close a door. This is Barny Nolan, right?”
“That’s right.”
“I gather you can’t talk, eh? Well, friend, you can’t talk to me either. You’re about as hot as a man can get, in case you don’t know it.”
“I know all about that,” Nolan said. “But I’ve got the stuff to break a hot spell, if you follow me.”
“Oh, I see. You have money, a lot of it?”
“That’s right.”
Reynolds chuckled into the phone. The sound irritated Nolan.
“Well, how about it?” he said. “Can you help me?”