“Well, what is it?” Neville said.
Retnick glanced at him, and in the faint light from the dashboard he saw the hard lines around his mouth, the cold impersonal cast of his features.
“I’ve got a link between young Mario Amato and the guy who murdered Frank Ragoni,” he said. “You want to hear about it?”
“I’m surprised you thought of me,” Neville said dryly. “I got the impression earlier this evening that you figured me for one of Amato’s boys.”
“I didn’t mean that,” Retnick said. Neville’s tone bothered him. Most of what he had learned about police work had come from Neville; not the routine of it, but the important intangibles, the need for patience and fairness, the objective, sympathetic consideration of human beings, this had come from Neville. There was no man in the department Retnick had respected more, no man whose approval meant more to him. But the significance and warmth of that relationship were gone. And it was he who had changed, not Neville. That was what seemed to hurt. “I need help,” he said. He wished he could explain what he felt, but there was no way to unlock the words. “I’ve gone as far as I can on my own.”
Neville slowed down and pulled over to the curb. When he cut off the motor the silence settled abruptly and heavily around them. There was very little traffic; an occasional truck rumbled past, briefly disturbing the silence. Ahead of them the wide avenue stretched into empty darkness. “Let me have a cigarette, Steve,” Neville said. His voice was weary. Retnick gave him a cigarette, held a light for it, and then Neville pushed his hat back on his forehead and settled down in the seat. “You’re going to tell me about Red Evans, I suppose,” he said. “Is that it?”
“You know about him?” Retnick said. He couldn’t keep the surprise from his voice.
“We try to earn our money,” Neville said. “We know he drifted into Ragoni’s gang, and disappeared the night Ragoni turned up missing. What have you got?”
“Quite a bit more,” Retnick said. He told Neville what he had learned then; of Ragoni’s letter to him in jail, of Ragoni’s conviction that he knew who had killed Joe Ventra; of the winchman, Grady, who had been warned to stay off the job by young Mario Amato; of the accident by which Red Evans had almost killed Ragoni, and of Dixie Davis and his certainty that she was still seeing Red Evans in Trenton. “Here’s how it looks to me,” he said finally. “Ragoni was on the spot. Either because he knew who had killed Ventra, or because he was fighting as best he could to keep Amato and his hoodlums from taking over the local he belonged to. Mario Amato hired Red Evans to kill him and make it look like an accident. That didn’t work, so Evans stuck a knife in him and blew. Doesn’t that sound like the script to you?”
Neville shrugged lightly. “It could be, Steve.”
“I talked to Mario tonight,” Retnick went on. “He’s a scared little punk. But he denied any connection with Evans. I could have beaten the truth out of him, but that wouldn’t have held up in court.”
“You’re developing an odd common sense,” Neville said, glancing at him sharply. “How did you get to talk to Mario?”
“I took him to my room.”
Neville shook his head. “Steve, you’re begging for trouble.”
“Okay, okay,” Retnick said. “But I’m getting what I want. I just left Nick Amato’s home. Joe Lye called and asked me to come over, this was about an hour after I let Mario go. Amato offered to forget the whole business, and then he offered me a job. When I told him what to do with it, he blew his top and told me to forget about Ventra and Ragoni. He threatened to kill me if I didn’t. That caused a row. I belted Amato and slapped a gun out of Joe Lye’s hand. Then I left. Don’t you see this the way I do? If we throw young Mario and Red Evans together we’ll get the whole story.”
“And you want me to pick up Mario? Is that it?”
“Yes.”
“I might,” Neville said slowly. “I might if I caught him stabbing my wife or something like that.”
“But not to sweat him?”
“This job isn’t much, but it’s all I’ve got,” Neville said.
“So it’s no, eh?” Retnick said, staring at him. “I give you a case against a murderer and you talk about losing your job. Is that it?”
“Now listen to me: you were trained as a cop and you know the meaning of evidence. But you seem to have forgotten it. You’ve got suspicions but you won’t prove them by slapping people around. We’ve got two detectives working on the Ragoni murder. They’ll stay on it until they get results. Leave the job to them. They’re paid for it.”
“I’m giving you a short cut,” Retnick said. “But you want it the long way.” He knew there was no point in further talk; no one cared as much as he did. No one had his reasons. Neville could wait for the slow turn of the wheel of justice, and meanwhile draw his pay and live his quiet pleasant life. But for him the waiting was over.
“Forget Mario Amato,” Neville said. “We couldn’t hold him for two hours. And what would I say when Amato sprung him? That I’d picked him up on the word of an ex-convict?”
“Supposing I got Red Evans?”
“We’ll get Red Evans,” Neville said. “You keep out of this. That’s all I can give you, Steve, a piece of damn good advice.”
“Save it,” Retnick said. “Put it away with your pension.”
“Okay, if that’s the way you want it,” Neville said angrily. “Where can I drop you?”
“The boarding house. It’s on Fortieth and it’s on your way. Otherwise, I wouldn’t trouble you.”
“You’re a stubborn Polack,” Neville said, and let out the clutch with an exasperated snap. The car leaped forward, the wheels whining at the pavement.
Retnick’s street was dark and empty. The lieutenant coasted to a stop and let the motor idle. “Now hold it a second,” he said, as Retnick opened the door. He turned toward him, a troubled frown on his face. “I want to say one more thing.”
“More advice?”
Neville sighed. “I’m trying to help, Steve. In my way. I think it’s the right way. But let’s assume for argument’s sake that I’m wrong. Say I’m a pension-happy cop who’s afraid to rock the boat, afraid of hoodlums like Amato. Say that if you will. All I want you to do is think hard about what I’ve said. Get this chip off your shoulder and start thinking sensibly. Will you do me that favor?”
“I’ve thought about your advice,” Retnick said. “Good night.” Stepping from the car he slammed the door and went up the short flight of worn concrete steps to the doorway of his building. He took his keys from his pocket and turned halfway around to get some light from the street lamp. Neville started up the block under a rush of power, and Retnick turned back to the door and fitted his key in the lock. A high cold wind was blowing and a tin can tumbled along the gutter with a sudden clatter of sound. Retnick’s key stuck and he pulled it out and turned once again to the light. And it was then that he saw the shadow of a crouching man moving along the line of cars at the curb. He hesitated an instant, feeling the sudden heavy strike of his heart, the warning tension in his muscles. The shadow moved again, rising slowly as the man came to a standing position behind a black sedan.
Retnick turned back to the door. Standing perfectly still he counted to three, giving the man time to aim, and then he dropped to his knees and dove down the stairs toward the sidewalk. He landed on his right shoulder and tucked his head into his chest to keep from being brained on the concrete; the momentum of his lunge rolled him over, and he came to his feet in a crouch at the curb. And by then the street was echoing with a report of a gun and the scream of a ricocheting bullet. A second shot bounced from the front of the building, sending fine particles of brick whining into the darkness.