The name in the lobby read: Delia Revolt. Pat pressed the button and the door buzzed.
It was on the second floor and he walked up. There were some technical men dusting for prints, and there was Lieutenant Callender, his back to the doorway, standing in the middle of the living room.
He turned and saw Pat. His face showed nothing.
“Anything?” Pat asked him.
“Look, Pat, for the love of—”
“You look,” Pat said. “She was my wife. You got a wife. Lieutenant?”
“I’m married to my second, now.” He shook his big head and ran a hand through his hair. “The Chief said you’d resigned.”
“That’s right.”
“You’ve been a cop for fifteen years. You’re acting like a rookie.”
“I’ve only been a husband for four years. Lieutenant. I’m not getting in your way.”
“We’ll probably get a million prints, all but the right ones. We found a dressing robe we’re checking, and some pajamas.” The lieutenant’s eyes looked away. “I’ll talk to the Chief, Pat. I’ll see that you get your job back.”
“I don’t want it back — yet. Thanks, anyway. Lieutenant.” He kept seeing Delia in the room and somebody else, some formless, faceless somebody, and the giddiness came again and he knew he wouldn’t have the stomach to look in any of the other rooms.
He turned his back on the lieutenant and went down the steps to the lobby and out into the hot, bright day. They were right about it, of course. A cop shouldn’t be on a family case any more than a surgeon should. Emotion was no asset in this business.
He sat in the car for minutes, trying to get back to reality, trying to forget that cozy apartment and the lieutenant’s words. The brightness of the day seemed to put a sharp outline on things, to give them a sense of unreality, like a lighted stage setting.
He heard last night’s trumpet again, and started the motor.
The alley was bright, now, but no cleaner. The voices of the freight handlers on the street side of the warehouse were drowned by the racket of the huge trucks bumping past. He walked to the alley’s dead end and saw, for the first time, the door that led from the dancehall, a fire exit.
It was open, now, and he could see some men in there, sprinkling the floor with some granulated stuff. There was the sound of a huge rotary brush polisher, but it was outside his line of vision.
He went in through the open door, along a wide hall that flanked the west edge of the bandstand. The men looked at him curiously as he stood there, imagining what it must have been like last night. He could almost hear the music and see the dim lights and the crowded floor.
Along this edge the floor was raised and there were seats up here, for the speculative males, looking over the field, discussing the old favorites and the new finds, wondering what happened to this transient queen and that one. Some had married and not retired.
One of the workers called over, “Looking for the boss, mister?”
“That’s right.”
“Won’t be in this afternoon. The joint’s been full of cops and he went out to get some fresh air.”
“Okay.” Pat turned and went out.
It was nearly five low. He turned the car in a U-turn and headed for Borden. He parked on a lot near Borden and Sixth, and walked the two blocks to Curtes-Husted, Publishers.
Lois was busily typing when he opened the door to the outer office. She looked up at his entrance, and her face seemed to come alive, suddenly.
“Pat!” She got up and came over to the railing.
“I was pretty rough, last night. I thought a drink and dinner might take us back to where we were. Part way, anyway.”
“It will, it will Oh, Pat, if you knew what last night—” She put a hand on his on top of the railing.
The door to Pat’s right opened, and a man stood there. He had a masculine, virile face and iron-gray hair. He said, “You can go any time, Lois. I guess Mr. Curtes won’t be back.”
“Thank you, Mr. Husted,” she said. “I’ll be going in a minute.”
He smiled, and closed the door.
“My boss, the VP,” she whispered. “Isn’t he handsome?”
“I suppose.” Pat could feel her hand trembling.
She said quietly, “You’re better, aren’t you? You’re coming out of it.”
“I’m better,” he said. “This whole case is one blind alley.”
“Delia knew a lot of men — of people I’ll be with you in a minute.”
They went to the Lamp Post, an unpretentious restaurant nearby.
They had a martini each, and Lois told him, “Their spare ribs are the best in town.”
He ordered the spare ribs.
She seemed animated. She said, “It’s going to be all right. It’s going to take some time, and then you’re going to be really happy, Pat. I’m going to see that you’re happy.”
He ordered another pair of drinks, and they finished those before the ribs came. They went from the Lamp Post to a spot on the west side, and Pat tried very hard to get drunk. But it didn’t work; the alcohol didn’t touch him.
They went back to Lois’ place. He sat with her in the car in front of her apartment.
“Come on up,” she said. “I’ll make some coffee.”
He shook his head. “I know Husted was paying for that apartment Delia was living in. I’ve known it for two months, Lois. And you did, too, didn’t you?”
Her silence was his answer.
“You probably thought Husted killed her, and yet you’ve told the police nothing. Delia probably told you yesterday or the day before that she was coming back to me. But you didn’t tell me that. Was it yesterday you saw her?”
“The day before. I didn’t want her to come back, Pat. And I didn’t tell you about my boss because he’s got a family, because he’s a fundamentally decent man.”
“You didn’t want her to come back. Because of me?” Pat’s voice was hoarse. “You poor damned fool, you don’t know me, do you? No matter what she was, Lois, I’ll be married to her the rest of my life. But you were the one who could have told me she was coming back. You could have saved her life.”
“Pat—”
“Get out, Lois. Get out — quick!”
She scrambled out.
The liquor was getting to him a little now. He finished the note, there on his dinette cable, and then went to unlock the front door. Then he called headquarters, gave them the message, and went to pick up the note. He read:
Lieutenant Callender:
I wanted to work with Homicide because I thought it would be safer that way. I could see how close you boys were getting. But it doesn’t matter now, because I’ve no desire to escape you. I killed my wife with a wrecking bar which you II find in the luggage deck of my car. I couldn’t stand the thought of her loving anyone else and I wasn’t man enough to rid myself of her. The checking I’ve done today reveals to me I would probably have escaped detection. I make this confession of my own free will.
He waited then, 38 in hand. He waited until he heard the wail of the siren, and a little longer. He waited until he heard the tires screeching outside.
Then he put the muzzle of his .38 to the soft roof of his mouth, and pulled the trigger.