“What did Connors do then?” Neville said.
“He swore at me, he seemed very nervous. Then he went down the back stairs after Joe.”
“Did he say he was going to kill Lye?”
She shook her head slowly. “I could tell from the way he acted.”
Neville glanced at Retnick and the lack of expression on his face was eloquent. “From the way he acted, eh? Well, do you know why Amato wants Lye murdered?”
She seemed puzzled by the question. “Of course,” she said. “I... I thought you’d know that, too.”
Neville sighed. “We know very little, Miss Johnson.”
“Why is Amato going to have Lye killed?” Retnick said, wetting his lips. He could guess the answer, and the knowledge was a guilty terrible weight in his breast.
“Mario Amato didn’t commit suicide,” she said, taking a deep unsteady breath. “He was killed. Joe killed him.” Turning away from them she put a hand to her forehead and began to weep silently. “Amato made Joe kill him. Because Mario talked to the police.”
Neville looked sharply at Retnick. Then he sat down beside her and took her shoulders in his hands. “Did you hear Amato tell Joe Lye to kill Mario?”
She hesitated a second or two, and in the silence Retnick could hear the labored, despairing beat of his heart. She was going to lie, he knew, but that didn’t matter; she knew the truth. “Yes, I heard him tell Joe,” she said, raising her eyes and staring into Neville’s eyes. “It was right in this room.”
“Will you put that in a statement?” Neville said. “Will you repeat it in court?”
“I’ll shout it at the top of my lungs,” she said, leaning against him and shaking her head as if she were in pain. “He made Joe do it. And now he’s going to kill Joe. He’s got to pay for that.”
“He’ll pay,” Neville said. He looked up at Retnick. “Get her coat,” he said quietly. “We can hang Amato for murder with a little luck.”
“Sure,” Retnick said, rubbing his forehead. Turning quickly he went to the closet near the front door. A half-a-dozen coats hung there and he pulled one down without even looking at it. We’ll hang Amato, he thought, as the cruel guilty pressure grew within him. But who’ll hang me?
They drove in silence across town to the Thirty-First. Neville took Kay Johnson inside to give a preliminary statement, and Retnick waited alone in the car, trying fruitlessly to evade his dark, accusing thoughts. But there was no escape; no matter how he twisted and dodged they clung to him.
He didn’t hear the doors of the precinct open and he started when Kleyburg cried, “Steve! You said it wouldn’t happen.”
Retnick turned and saw the old detective standing on the sidewalk beside the car, staring down at him with wide, frightened eyes. He had come out without a coat and the cold wind had blown his thin gray hair into a tangle over his forehead. “You said it wouldn’t happen,” he cried again.
Retnick got out of the car quickly and took Kleyburg’s shoulders in his hands. “Go back inside,” he said. “You’ll catch pneumonia out here.”
“I heard Neville talking to that woman,” Kleyburg said, pulling free from Retnick’s hands. “Mario was murdered. We killed him, Steve.”
A patrolman coming on duty looked at them curiously, then shrugged and went into the station.
“Not so loud,” Retnick said, wetting his lips. He couldn’t meet the pain and confusion in the old man’s eyes. “Mario was in on it. He deserved killing.”
“There was no evidence. Just your say-so. And we killed him on the strength of that.”
“Miles, you’re wrong. Tomorrow it will look different to you.”
Kleyburg shook his head slowly. The confusion and anxiety seemed to fall away from him; he looked at Retnick as if he could suddenly see him very, very clearly. “It won’t be different in the morning,” he said. “I told you I never had any trouble looking at myself in a mirror. Well, that’s over. After forty-two years as a cop I wind up a murderer. That won’t change in the morning. For you or for me, Steve.”
“Miles—”
Another voice cut coldly and sharply through the silence. “So you used Kleyburg, eh, Steve?”
Retnick looked up quickly and saw Lieutenant Neville standing on the steps of the precinct, his pale face an angry vivid slash against the darkness. “I wouldn’t help, so you made an old man do it,” he said, walking slowly down to the sidewalk.
“It paid off,” Retnick said, in a tight, unnatural voice. “We’ve got Amato.”
“And that’s all that matters, eh? Pay off your scores! To hell with everything else.” Neville stared at Kleyburg and a touch of compassion gradually softened the lines of his face. “I heard it all, Miles,” he said. “You’d better leave your gun and badge on my desk and go on home. We’ll talk this over in the morning. If it turns out the kid was guilty we can square it.”
“You can’t square it,” Kleyburg said, looking into the darkness and shaking his head wearily. “It’s not a thing you can fix by juggling a report or two around.” Then he turned to the lieutenant, and his eyes were helpless and pleading. “I didn’t want to pull this deal.”
“I understand,” Neville said, staring at Retnick. He drew a deep breath. “Okay, Steve. We can pick up Amato now. You got what you wanted.”
“That’s right,” Retnick said, not feeling much of anything at all. “I got what I wanted...”
It was nine-fifteen when they arrived at Nick Amato’s home. A line of cars were double-parked before the house, and a group of men stood on the sidewalk smoking cigars and talking in low voices. A crepe hung on the door, gleaming dully in the light that streamed from the inner hallway through the transom window. Neville nodded to the men and went up the stairs. They murmured indistinct greetings and watched him cautiously as he entered the house with Retnick. Then they came together and talked softly among themselves.
Retnick removed his hat and followed Neville into the softly lighted parlor. Floral pieces were banked on three sides of the room; a space along the windows had been left clear for the casket, which hadn’t as yet arrived from the funeral home. A half-dozen men and women were present, their faces grave and sad, and Father Bristow was standing in the archway that led to the dining room. Anna Amato sat in a straight chair facing the space the casket would occupy. She wore a heavy black silk dress and her hands lay limply in her lap, palms turned upward in an unconscious gesture of entreaty. There was no expression on her dark, tear-swollen face, but her head was turned slightly to one side, defensively and helplessly, as if she were expecting a blow.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Amato,” Neville said.
Father Bristow came forward casually, but his eyes were sharp and interested. Standing behind Anna, he put his hands on her soft round shoulders and watched the lieutenant.
“It was good of you to come,” Anna said, without looking up.
“I’m Lieutenant Neville. I’m sorry your son is dead. But I came to see your husband on an important matter. Is he here?”
Anna made a weary little gesture with one hand. “He has gone out.”
“Do you know where he went?”
“No.”
“Or when he’ll be back?”
“I know nothing,” Anna said, shaking her head slowly. She seemed hardly conscious of Neville’s questions. Two of the men present came and stood beside the priest and looked at the lieutenant with unfriendly eyes. “My son is dead,” Anna said, rising to her feet wearily and awkwardly. Tears started in her eyes as she stared hopelessly at Neville. “They bring his body home soon. Can’t you let me wait for him in peace?”
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Amato,” Neville said.