“I just wanted to tell you how much I liked your songs,” he said.
“Thank you very much.”
They were close enough for Nolan to hear their conversation; and it brought an angry flush to his face. Who did these punks think they were? They went to Princeton or Penn, and because they kicked a football around and had money they felt they owned the world.
He walked to Linda’s side, ignoring the young man. “Ready?” he said.
“Oh, Barny!” She turned to him, smiling. “Barny, this is Toddy Glenmore, and he liked my song. Toddy, this is Mr. Nolan.”
“How do you do, sir?” the young man said, putting out a strong hand. He was a pleasant-looking boy, scrubbed and polite, and he wore his dinner clothes with easy assurance. Everything about him infuriated Nolan.
“I’m just dandy,” he said, ignoring the outstretched hand. “Come on, Linda.” He walked toward the bar but not before he heard the young man say, “Perhaps I could call you sometime?”
He didn’t hear Linda’s answer. She joined him a moment later. He said, “I ordered you a drink.”
“I don’t care for it, thanks. Would you like to drive me home?”
She hadn’t sat down, and he knew she was angry. He got to his feet, tired and helpless, and his own anger flowed out of him.
“Sure, Linda. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to act that way.”
She smiled and shook her head. “Barny, you behave like the heavy-handed father in a melodrama at times. I don’t need a guardian, really. These kids are a pretty nice bunch, you know.”
“Okay, I’ll stop acting like your father,” he said. He drank his drink down, unaware that his hand was trembling.
“Now, Barny,” she said and patted his arm. She knew she had hurt him, but she didn’t quite understand how. “Don’t be so touchy, please.”
“Let’s go. I’ll take you home.”
She sighed. “All right. I’ll get my coat.”
Waiting for her, Nolan stared at his empty glass, confused and angry. What the devil was he blowing his top about? She hadn’t meant anything.
A man came in and sat at the bar a few stools away. Nolan turned his head and saw that it was Mark Brewster from the Call-Bulletin. He wondered if the reporter were following him; and that thought added to his anger.
“Well, what do you want?” he said.
Brewster glanced at him, and appeared surprised. “Hello, Nolan,” he said. “At the moment I want a drink. Make it rye with soda, Joe,” he said to the bartender.
“Sure thing, Mark.”
The drink was served and Nolan noticed that Brewster’s change was placed on the bar in a respectful pile, instead of being returned suggestively on a silver tray.
“You come in here a lot?” he said.
“Occasionally.” Mark turned to him, smiling easily. “You too, eh?”
Nolan signaled for another drink and didn’t answer. He felt an illogical animosity toward Brewster. Glancing at him, he noted the reporter’s lean good-humored features, his steady eyes and careless clothes, and tried to decide why he disliked the man.
Linda returned, carrying a short fur jacket over her arm. “All ready?” she said.
Nolan nodded and got to his feet. His change was spread out in the inevitable silver tray, and he saw a fleeting smile on the bartender’s lips.
“Keep it,” he said dryly.
He took Linda’s arm, and turned toward the doorway, but Brewster said, “Say, Nolan, excuse me for bothering you, but the boss asked me one question about that Fiest story I couldn’t answer.”
Nolan stopped and regarded him with cold hard eyes. “Well?”
Mark glanced at Linda, smiled an apology at her, and then said to Nolan: “It’s just this: what was the description of the fellow that Fiest was taking a bet from?”
“You’re still worrying about that story, eh?” Nolan said.
Mark smiled disarmingly. “It’s not my idea, believe me.”
“Okay, he was about five ten, stocky built, and wore a dark suit and a gray hat. I didn’t see his face.”
“Thanks a lot.” Mark included Linda in his smile. “Sorry to trouble you with a detail like that.”
“Let’s go,” Nolan said to Linda.
Mark Brewster sat down and toyed with his drink.
The bartender picked up Nolan’s change and dropped it in his pocket. Turning to a porter who was refilling the ice bins, he said: “I clipped sourpuss tonight, but good.”
The porter grunted. “Why she bothers with him beats me.”
“Yeah, she’s a good kid.”
The bartender glanced at Mark, but Brewster was apparently absorbed in watching the softly changing lights behind a bottle display. Satisfied that he wasn’t listening, the bartender turned back to the porter and said: “You know, any cop is bad enough, but a bad cop!” He shook his head expressively. “I’d like to say something to her, but it’s not my place.”
“You bet it ain’t,” the porter said.
They were silent a moment. Finally Mark said mildly: “How about a nightcap, Joe?”
“Right, Mark,” the bartender said, and went quickly to work.
Mark sipped the drink slowly, and let the tensions that had built up in the night flow out of him. He didn’t quite know why he had stopped in at the Simba. Had it been to see Nolan? He had known of course that the big detective would probably be here, because it was common information that he was chasing the club’s girl singer. Yes, he decided somewhat to his own surprise, that was the reason. He had wanted to see Nolan; and that impulse struck him as very queer and, oddly enough, very disturbing.
4
They drove for a few blocks in silence. Then Nolan said, “Linda, I’m sorry. I acted like a fool.”
“Don’t worry about it, Barny. It’s late, and we’re probably both tired.”
He sought for words to tell her how much she meant to him, how much he wanted to please her; but as always he found none.
“How about something to eat? Or a drink?” he said.
“Not tonight, Barny, thanks. I’m really tired.”
“Well, how about a drive. We’ll go out along the river a way. Okay?”
She knew he was unhappy, and so she smiled at him and said, “All right, Barny. That sounds pleasant. But don’t be annoyed if I fall asleep.”
“Don’t worry about that. Go to sleep if you want to.”
Nolan drove out the Benjamin Franklin Parkway, past the Art Museum, and turned onto the West River Drive where it flowed along the darkly shining Schuylkill River. There was very little traffic. They had the trees and the river and the darkness to themselves. Linda fit a cigarette and hummed softly under her breath. Finally she said, “Who was that fellow at the Simba?”
“Mark Brewster, a reporter. He’s a nosy punk.”
“Mark Brewster? That name seems familiar. I wonder if I’ve met him somewhere.”
Nolan glanced at her quickly, then turned back to the road. “Well, did you?”
“No, I hardly think so. Anyway, what did he want with you?”
“Something about a case of mine.” He stared ahead, his eyes fixed on the flashing white fine in the middle of the drive. “I had to shoot a man tonight. A guy named Dave Fiest. Brewster’s acting like it’s the biggest story he’s ever had.”
“Did... did you kill the man, Barny?”
“Yes, I had to.” He cursed himself for bringing up the subject. “I arrested him, see, and he made a break. I fired at his legs, but the shot went a little too high.”
“It’s horrible,” she said. She rolled down the window and threw her cigarette out; and the cool night wind rushing in made her shiver. After a moment, she said: “Was he married, do you know?”