Johnson shook his head sadly. “It sounds swell,” he said, “but why the hell do you pick yourself such a tough one? Harley has an awful drag.”
Brennan said: “I like ’em tough.”
As he turned to go a short, sharp-faced man crossed in front of him, sat down sidewise on the edge of Johnson’s desk, said: “Hi, Cy.”
Brennan nodded, “Hi, Frank.” He started away.
The short man asked: “What did you hit Freberg with — an axe?”
Brennan turned. His eyes were wide, innocent.
“He came into the Station a minute ago with his face in a sling,” the short man went on. “He talked to the chief a little while and then three or four of those bastards came out and threw me out on my ear. They said to never darken their door again, or words to that effect.” He turned to Johnson. “They told me to tell you what you could do with the Eagle, too.”
Johnson was glaring at Brennan. He said slowly, incredulously: “Did you hit Freberg?”
Brennan nodded. “Uh-huh.”
Johnson said, “That’s bad!” with deep feeling.
“Self-defense.” Brennan made a wide and inclusive gesture with his hands.
The short man sang in a high, cracked voice: “He calls it self defense, but Freberg will probably call it assault and battery...”
Brennan scowled at the short man. “Freberg won’t call it,” he snapped. “I know where he buries the bodies. That’s why he took Hunch the beating I gave him in the first place.” He grinned. “One reason.”
Johnson shouted: “What the hell’s that got to do with it? I don’t care if they hang you! I’ve got a paper to get out — how am I going to do it without a Police Department tie-up?”
Brennan raised his eyes and his arms towards the ceiling in a melodramatic appeal to heaven. Then he leaned across the desk, spoke slowly, with infinite patience:
“Listen, Johnnie, I’m bringing you the scoop of the season — a story so big, an’ so hot, that you can write your own ticket.” He paused dramatically. “Do you think the police force is going to be in a position to discriminate against the Eagle after this story breaks — after the Eagle has made ’em look silly at their own racket?” He straightened up. “Why, you can throw five lines of credit their way and have ’em eating out of your hand!”
Johnson was staring morosely at the desk.
Brennan turned his head, snarled at the short man: “You don’t know what I’m talking about do you, Stupid?” He went around the corner of the desk, emphasized his words with a big blunt finger against the short man’s chest. “Ed Harley killed Barbara Antony — or had her killed. Get that fact planted in your skull so you won’t forget it, because there’s an angle of it I want you to work on. Now that they’ve kicked you out of the police station an’ you haven’t any place to play pinochle, you might as well go to work.”
He turned back to Johnson. “I think Harley slipped up on the glass he gave Barbara the whiskey and strychnine in — maybe he got excited or scared or heard somebody coming. Anyway the glass was there when I went up — it had fallen out of her hand and rolled under the bed, and it probably had a few more fingerprints than Barbara’s on it. I figure that Harley got to worrying about it and sent the big guy who slapped me down up to attend to it. You knew about the big guy, didn’t you?”
Johnson nodded.
The short man said: “I phoned in about him when Freberg called in from the hotel to report it.”
Brennan went on to Johnson: “The glass was smashed when I came to.” He paused a moment, then said: “I want Frankie” — he jerked his head towards the short man — “to work on the big fella — see if he can get a line on him. We ought to be able to tie him up with Harley...”
Johnson said: “Okay. This is your show — an’ it better be good.”
Brennan turned to emphasize again his words with a finger against the short man’s chest. “About six feet, two — or three. Very dark skin — black hair — pretty good clothes. He has a couple very deep lines between his eyes.” Brennan put his hand up and drew two lines down his forehead with his finger.
The short man bobbed his head, glanced at Johnson, turned and walked away down the big room between the double file of desks.
Brennan looked after him a moment then turned to smile down at Johnson. “Don’t look so sad, Johnnie,” he said. “If you’re scared you’re going to miss something from Centre Street we can stage a battle. You can fire me, an’ then call up the chief an’ tell him about it — tell him you’ve hung the can on me and the Eagle will be aces again.”
Johnson’s face brightened a little. He said: “That’s not a bad idea.” Then he added, ominously: “You know it’ll be on the square if this Harley angle doesn’t work, don’t you?”
Brennan grinned. “I’m betting my job that Harley rubbed Barbara,” he said. “An’ the hunch is so hot I’ll make you a little side bet — my life.”
Johnson smiled faintly, nodded. Then he stood up suddenly, shouted:
“Brennan — you’re fired! I’m damned tired of getting jammed up with the police on your account!”
Everyone in the big room turned to stare at them.
Brennan’s long, heavy face hardened: his eyes were cold, steady. He said slowly: “Okay, Johnnie.” Then he turned and went down the long room towards his desk in the corner near the door.
As he passed the switchboard the operator said: “Mrs Smith called you twice,” in a stage whisper.
Brennan nodded vacantly. “Well, well — Mrs Smith. Probably one of the Chicago Smiths. Did she leave her number?”
The girl shook her head.
“Why not? Haven’t I asked you a thousand times to get numbers?” The girl’s blank face twisted to something that was meant to be a sarcastic sneer. She said with exaggerated sweetness: “She wouldn’t leave it. She said she’d call again.”
“How long ago was the last call?”
“About twenty minutes.”
Brennan went to his desk, sat down.
He took a bunch of keys out of his pocket and unlocked the bottom drawer, took out a quart bottle with about four inches of whiskey in its bottom and set it on the desk in front of him. Then he fished around in the drawer until he found a nickel-plated folding cup; he filled the cup with whiskey, drank it slowly and with very evident relish.
The phone on his desk buzzed. He glanced across at the switchboard girl; she nodded sweetly. He took up the receiver and said, “Hello,” and listened.
The voice was Joice Colt’s. She said: “I’ve called you several times but you weren’t in. I’m sorry I got you mixed up in this, Cy. I lied to you. I gave Barbara that stuff. I was going to beat it but I saw you in the drug store an’ it looked like a swell opportunity to put the finger on Harley. The man who slugged you was a friend of mine — he was waiting for me in the lobby when I took you upstairs. He thought it was a pinch an’ he came up and listened outside the door and heard you on the telephone an’ then he was sure it was a pinch. He busted in an’ smacked you down before I could stop him. We’ve got a car — we’re going places fast right now — far places. I could never beat that case. I just wanted to tell you so you wouldn’t get yourself into any more trouble on my account — an’ I’m sorry, Cy...”
Brennan’s voice was low, metallic. He said: “They’re making you say that, Joice. They’ve got a rod in your back an’ they’re making you say it. Try to give me some kind of slant on where they’ve got you. Are you uptown?”
“Yes.” There was a sudden sharp sound on the wire, like a needle drawn crosswise over a phonograph record. Joice Colt’s voice went on: “But I did, Cy — I did it. I — “ There was a click of disconnection.