"I see," said Roy, mildly. "I'll remember that word. You clip a guy, and what you get is an emolument. What he gets is a lousy split."
Bayliss regarded Roy speculatively for a long moment. "Look, Roy. We didn't clip anybody. This is our town. The money spent here is our money. The books couldn't run without the wire-service, so they pay. But do you suppose we want millions going out of town? So… we asked for, insisted on, and got our emolument. But it wouldn't look good in the papers."
Roy sat lost in thought for quite a while. The wind had sprung up and was throwing the rain at the big view-windows. Thunder rolled far off, like wagons over a wooden bridge. Prell, fumbling nervously, dropped his glasses and almost stepped on them. The Chief sighed heavily and looked down at his ankle-high black shoes which had a mirror-like shine to them.
"What makes you so sure you got the right angle on this killing?" Roy asked.
"First," said Bayliss, "the men we mentioned gave in, it's true, but they never liked the set-up, and they never knew anything about Frank's backing. They knew he was a big lawyer, rich, and all that, and must have a powerful fix, but they didn't know what the fix was, or how big. Second, look how he was killed. Strictly hoodlum stuff."
"I'll tell you more about that later," said Roy. "But at least I know what to avoid. All right. But, Chad, you understand I've got to put on quite a show. Not only for the newspapers. But also for Downtown."
"I know." Bayliss looked about him. "We all know."
"Okay," said Roy, rising. "I guess that gets it."
Bayliss got up and shook hands with Roy. "I'm sorry about this in a way. Frank was my best friend. I'd like to see the so-and-so that killed him hang. I'd hang him myself with pleasure. But…"
"Yes," said Prell, "it is all very unfortunate."
"You'll get your show," said Roy.
***
As Roy emerged from the cement corridor into the apartment-house garage, Boley, who was leaning against the wall, smoking and reading a newspaper, glanced up at once, and jerked his thumb over his shoulder in a warning gesture. Looking beyond him, Roy saw the City Hall reporter, Perce Wesson, a hard-faced fat man, talking with Nick Gray.
Roy compressed his lips and walked past them followed by Boley.
"Hello," called Wesson. "How's tricks?"
Roy ignored him and got into the car. Boley went round to the driver's seat and jumped in. Wesson followed them, moving with surprising speed and agility for a man of his weight.
"Not even a 'no comment'?" he gibed.
"Well, if it ain't 'gorblimey,' " said Roy, pretending that he'd just noticed Wesson. "No comment on the 'no comment.' "
"Things are tough all over," said Wesson, who was of English origin but had come into the Midwest twelve or fifteen years ago from western Canada. "I see by the paper where the boys put the fix in at a beauty contest in New York. It's getting so bad, pretty soon a kid will have to know somebody before he can get his scout-badge."
"Gorblimey, you re right."
"Got any idea who spoiled Frank Hobart's profile and his evening?"
"You been demoted? Seems to me I heard you were a political writer now."
"Hargis-look, it's me; the Toast of Whitechapel. You think this hasn't got something to do with politics?"
"What?"
"Gorblimey," said Wesson, " 'e's off 'is blooming, bleeding chump-'e is-'Argis!"
"Cut the patter. If you know who knocked Frank Hobart off, I'm listening. You could help me out a lot. I just went on the case."
"No theories?"
"No theories." Roy turned to Boley. "All right. Run over him if necessary."
"What?" cried Wesson. "And put dents in the fenders of a car that belongs to the taxpayers!"
Boley drove off. Wesson stood looking after the car for a moment, then he walked back to Nick Gray, humming to himself the song he'd composed, "The Hangman Has No Friends."
"Quite a character," he observed.
"Yeah," said Nick, who was as wary with Wesson as Boley had been with him.
"Does he know something? Own somebody? Have a relative in a high place? Nepotism, in short."
"What?" Nick demanded, looking bewildered.
"How do you explain him?"
"I don't," said Nick. Then he turned away hurriedly. "Go hide some place, will you, for Christ's sake? Here comes the Chief."
But Wesson braced the Chief with effrontery. Good old Chiefie, who was a nice, pliable, thick-skulled figurehead!
"Party upstairs?" he demanded. "I keep seeing you big, important guys coming out."
"Please, Wesson-no jokes," said the Chief, climbing wearily into the back seat of his car and sinking down with a sigh.
"A quote maybe?"
"It's out of my hands. That is, I mean-it's been assigned to Captain Hargis."
The car drove off. Wesson stood watching it climb the ramp. "Chieftie," he said aloud, "I think you had it right the first time."
4
Emmett Lackey, Hargis's special investigator, sat at his desk in the old City Building, looking out the window at the misty, black, windy night. The neon signs were all blurred and distorted, and it was so dark that the tops of the big buildings seemed to disappear into the sky.
Lackey was a huge man of about forty. He was not only excessively tall, six five or more, but also very wide and bulky, weighing just under three hundred pounds. And yet, in spite of his size, there was nothing formidable about him. He looked soft, slack, and weak. Small, evasive blue eyes peered out nervously at the world from behind old-fashioned, gold-rimmed glasses. His complexion was very fair, pink and white, and had an almost babyish look to it. His manner was conciliatory in the extreme and he always seemed to be trying to appease somebody. He was referred to by Wesson as 'the giant pygmy.'
But behind Lackey's weak smiles were strong emotions. He hated both Wesson and Roy Hargis with violence. They were both tough, ruthless, successful in their adjustment to life, and, above all, they were both uncomfortably perceptive. In some intuitive way they were aware of Lackey's life-long inner struggle-the struggle he tried to mask by his kindness, his reasonableness, his ingratiation. Nothing came easy to Lackey. He was nervous, timid, shy, and suffered from an unconquerable feeling of personal inadequacy. His great size and bulk meant nothing to him. He'd never learned how to use it. With men like Roy Hargis and Wesson, he felt small, physically small.
Although he knew that he was rated one of the shrewdest detectives in the city, and was well aware that Roy Hargis, on advice from above, had picked him as assistant from a hundred possible choices, this gave him no feeling of self-confidence, and he felt no touch of the elation other men would have felt in his place. Earlier successes at his chosen trade had meant just as little.
It was not that he was misunderstood. Wesson and Roy Hargis both seemed to understand him too well, if anything. Understanding was not what he wanted. His trouble was loneliness. There was nobody in the world who gave a damn whether he came home or stayed away, whether he was sick or well, happy or sad. It seemed impossible for him to make friends. Boley was a case in point; Boley, the melancholy Slav. He had a fellow feeling for him. But Boley did not return the feeling. Boley brushed off all his advances, laughed at him even, taking his tone from Hargis.
And as for women… At the thought, Lackey rose from behind his desk, sighing heavily, and walked slowly to the window and stood looking out at the drowned city.
Maybe all his feelings of weakness and inadequacy came from the fact that he had never had a woman in all his life. The mere fact was incredible, impossible, sadly but hilariously comical, and Lackey closed his eyes, as if to blot out an image, and flinched slightly. But what had he to offer a woman? In appearance he was grotesque, and caused ironic comment and merriment when he appeared. His manner was impossible, ludicrous-a mixture of false amiability and shyness: he was well aware of all this. Maybe if he hadn't been so aware…!
Several times, after long debates with himself, he had decided to
approach a professional. But how did you go about it? That is, how did you go about it so that nobody under the sun would ever have any knowledge of it? He was morbidly sensitive to ridicule, and could imagine, wincing, the comments from his boss and from Wesson, if they ever found out, and they seemed to find out everything.
Mike Antonelli put his head in the door from the outer office. "Heard anything?"
Lackey pulled himself together with an effort and coughed nervously. Then he gave Mike a kindly smile. "Nothing more. Roy's on his way. Ought to be here. Why?"
"The poor sonsabitching kid's asleep out here. I'd like to let him go, but…"
"No, I'm very sorry," said Lackey. "We've got the transcript, I know. But I think Roy ought to… well, you understand, Mike. I'd like to let him go, too, poor kid."
"I'm getting callouses myself," said Mike, then he sighed and closed the door.
The phone rang on Lackey's desk. He picked up the receiver and an emotion-charged, almost hysterical voice began to yammer at him. "No, I'm sorry," said Lackey. "But he's not here. This is Lieutenant Lackey speaking. Hargis's assistant." The voice yammered on. Lackey's eyes lit up faintly. Putting his hand over the receiver, he threw the switch on the intercom on his desk and whispered into it: "Listen. You there? Trace this. Don't miss. Lackey." Then he spoke into the phone: "Yes, yes. This is all very interesting. I'll certainly bring it to the captain's attention. Now, please. Would you let me have that again, more slowly. Calm down now. More slowly, please." Lackey stalled, holding the man on the phone. Finally when he could stall no longer, he said: "Very kind of you. Thank you. Now would you like to leave your name and address so Captain Hargis can contact you? No? Well, I understand. Thank you again, sir."
As Lackey hung up, Creel, one of Hargis's young secretary-assistants, hurried in. He seemed excited.
"I traced it, Emmett. The call was made from Cipriano's."
Lackey's thick eyebrows rose slowly. Cipriano's was the most expensive and exclusive supper-club on Vanity Row. "But this is Monday," said Lackey. "Cipriano's is dark on Monday."
"How do you like that!" cried Creel. "What do we do?"
"I can't take responsibility on this. Captain'll be here in a minute."
Creel was grinning. "This is something! Something!"
They heard voices in the outer office and Lackey walked over and opened the door. The little newsboy, Rosey, was awake now and was standing in the middle of the anteroom with a cigar in his mouth, cursing Roy Hargis, who was looking at him with mild amusement. Roy turned to Lackey.
"Emmett, what about this kid?"
Lackey explained, and Roy nodded. "All right, Mike. Take him home. All the way. Pick up his goddam papers, if there are any left. Do what ever he wants. Wait a minute. Did this leak, Mike?
"To the newspapers? The kid as witness, you mean? No."
"All right. Let it stay that way." He turned to Rosey. "Just keep your mouth shut and your nose clean. We may need you later."
"From now on I keep my mouth shut," said Rosey bitterly. "I always keep my nose clean. I don't care how many more guys get it. Even if they fall right in front of me."
Roy laughed curtly and entered his office followed by Boley, who looked sad, weary, and spent. Creel nodded to Roy, then went down the hall and into another office. Lackey closed the door, then explained to Roy about the mysterious call from Cipriano's.
Roy glanced hurriedly at his wrist-watch. "Hell," he said, "it's after three o'clock. They close tight at two."
"Anyway," said Lackey, "it's Monday night. Dark."
"That's right. Say, what did this guy sound like?"
"Nervous," said Lackey. "Mad. Kind of crazy. I don't know."
"Call Creel. I'll take him with me. Boley stays with you. He's got to put his feet up for a while."
Boley glanced at Roy in surprise. "Yeah. I'm bushed. How did you know?
"I'm a detective, remember?"
"Yeah," said Boley, sadly. "I'm bushed. But you're the guy who ought to be bushed."
Lackey had just called Creel on the intercom. He now turned and listened eagerly, flushing slightly.
"No," said Roy. "A doll like that is stimulating."
"What a doll!" said Boley, sadly. "And her standing there all alone getting rained on. That's a sacrilege, or something."
Roy turned and glanced at Lackey, then he laughed. "When you going to let me get you fixed up, Emmett?"
Lackey laughed nervously and made a timid gesture of refusal. "Never. No, thanks."
Boley gave him an ironic glance, then sat on the desk and pushed his hat back. Taking out a handkerchief, he slowly mopped his brow, sighing.
"She was a dream. Real dreamy," said Boley. "The prettiest one I ever saw Roy have." Then turning, he told Lackey about Kit coming up over the seat and how the car had skidded and they'd almost got killed, and how when the lightning flashed, the beautiful doll had flung herself on Roy and hugged him and buried her head in his neck.
"Where's Creel, damn it?" cried Lackey, in sheeplike anger, his face flushed. "Now where is he?" He slapped the intercom key violently.
But at that moment, Creel came in, his hat jammed on sideways, his face eager. Creel was about twenty-five and very much interested in life in general and his work in particular. Roy Hargis awed and delighted him. What a break for little Lenny Creel when Roy had picked him as a helper!
Boley turned and scrutinized Lackey carefully. "What are you so het up about, Emmett?"
"As if we didn't know," said Roy, laughing. Then he turned: "Come on, Creel."
They went out. Lackey sank down into his swivel chair and stared in mild sadness at the top of his desk.
"He's what Wesson calls a human domino," Boley observed.
"Who?" Lackey demanded, glancing up foggily.
"Why, Roy. Just that ride in would have given most guys fits-not counting the girl. It gave me fits. I'm still all tight. We could have got killed half a dozen times. And look at him. Bouncing around."
"This girl…?" Lackey began. "She was frightened? Probably very young."
"Nineteen," said Boley, watching Lackey.
5
Commonwealth Street was short and peculiar. It ran for only five blocks, from the west bank of the river to a deadend one block beyond Blackhawk Boulevard. Near the river, Commonwealth was filled with commission houses, fish markets, and cheap saloons; then, as it traveled westward, came pawnshops and employment offices with blowsy bulletins; then two and three storey brick rooming-houses, with dim lights and crooked blinds, stretched almost to Blackhawk, where they were overshadowed and blotted out by the forty-storey Commonwealth Building. Beyond Blackhawk Boulevard and on to the deadend, Commonwealth really blossomed, and was referred to as Vanity Row.
Vanity Row ran for one block. In this block were three exclusive clubs-Cipriano's, the Gold Eagle, and Merlin's; there was also one of the finest and most expensive restaurants in the state-Weber's; and there were two beauty parlors where, as Wesson said, you were looked out unless you were a debutante or dowager from Riverview, or a mink-bearing Vanity Row whore. Glassman's, the Tiffany's of the Midwest, was at the corner of Blackhawk and Vanity Row. On the other corner was a Cadillac sales-room.
At night, the stylized neons of the Row glittered like expensive jewelry: rubies, emeralds, star-sapphires, diamonds. Just a glance at the facades kept most yokels out. If not, the headwaiters, and other major domos, soon had them in the street, suffering from feelings of awe and humiliation.
Wesson, who occasionally got drunk and abusive on the Row, was ejected regularly. He was not exactly a yokel and of course he had fairly good newspaper connections, all the same he was looked upon as an undesirable. Vanity Row made no special play for the newspapers, needing no publicity. The clubs never advertised, nor did Weber's. Nobody was inviting you to the Row. If you didn't belong there, stay away. The headwaiters were painfully superior autocrats. There was no appeal.
Now, except for the lights in Glassman's and the Cadillac
sales-room, the Row was dark, and as deserted as if the street had been suddenly abandoned by the inhabitants in the face of an invading alien army. There was a ringing stillness from Blackhawk to the deadend, beyond which loomed huge office buildings, dark except for their elevator-shafts.
"Park it here," said Roy. "We'll see if we can get in the alley way. If we drive down the Row we might give somebody a chance to run. Nobody drives down the Row this time of night except the street-sweepers."
Creel parked the car on Endicott, one block down from Blackhawk; they got out and hurried up a dark alley toward the rear of Cipriano's.
"How do you know they haven't gone already?" asked Creel.
"I don't," said Roy. "It's a chance."
At the back of Cipriano's there was a light. Roy peered in through the glass of the door, then suddenly grabbed the knob and rattled it loudly. Creel jumped, startled.
A scared black face appeared beyond the glass, eyes wide, showing a lot of white. Roy took out his badge and held it for the Negro to see. But the Negro was doubtful, his face working.
"You better open up," called Roy, harshly.
"I don't know, I don't know," said the Negro. "The boss, he…"
"I want to see the boss," cried Roy, quickly. "Open up or I'll kick it in."
The Negro took the chain off, and reluctantly opened the door. Roy went in quickly, followed by Creel. The big Negro had on an undershirt, and the lavender and gold uniform pants worn by the staff of Cipriano's. He looked sullenly at Roy and Creel.
"Boss back in his office?" Roy demanded sharply.
"He's busy right now. You sure-enough officers? Why you come in like this?"
"Back this way, is it?" asked Roy, starting hurriedly across the big dark room. Creel followed him.
"Look here," said the Negro. "You can't act this way. This is Cipriano's. You'll get yourself fired if you sure-enough are a policeman."
Roy heard talking and turned to the Negro. "All right, boy. You stay put. Understand? Right where you are. Come on, Len."
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