Mathison stubbed out his cigarette.
‘Just because he hasn’t had a drink for three weeks, doesn’t mean he won’t start drinking as soon as he is out of hospital. I know these lushes.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Burdick said impatiently. ‘He’s been out of hospital now for a week. He’s right here, and he hasn’t touched anything stronger than a Coke since he’s been out.’
‘You mean he’s here?’ Mathison said, looking startled.
‘That’s what I mean. What’s it to be, Henry? Do I work with Cade or shall we go over to the Times?’
Mathison lit another cigarette. His frown showed he was thinking.
‘You’re pretty serious about this, aren’t you, Ed?’
‘I am. I want to work with Cade. We’ll make a sensational combination.’
‘What had you in mind?’
‘I would like to have six pages of the Weekend supplement to fill. We could work out the subjects: the three of us. We would have Cade in colour.’
‘Got any ideas?’
‘Comparison stuff. Cade’s brilliant at that. The young and the old. The rich and the poor. The weak and the strong. The crooks and the suckers.’
Mathison thought about this, nodded, trying not to show his growing excitement.
‘What’s it going to cost?’
‘For Cade … as he is? You’ve got a bargain. You can get him for three hundred dollars, a week. And that is a bargain. A year ago he was making four or five times that amount.’
‘Hm. Well … might be interesting. Think we could get him on a six year contract?’
‘I wouldn’t let him sign a contract for that long. Two years: no more, and five hundred dollars for the second year.’
‘Have you appointed yourself his agent?’ Mathison asked, looking suddenly sour.
Burdick grinned cheerfully. ‘I’m making sure he gets a square deal. I know you. Well, what is it to be?’
‘I’ll talk to him,’ Mathison said. ‘I don’t promise anything, but at least I will talk to him.’
An hour later, Cade walked into the bar where Burdick was anxiously waiting.
Four months had made a big difference to Cade. He was thinner, harder, and there were white streaks in his black hair. The Mexican sun had burned his skin to an Indian brown, but he didn’t look well. There was a drawn, remote look about him that hinted of a secret illness, but his smile as Burdick looked questioningly at him was alert and pleased.
‘Thanks, Ed,’ he said, hoisting himself on a stool beside Burdick. ‘It worked. For better or for worse, I signed for two years.’
Burdick punched him lightly on his bicep.
‘Val, old pal, now we will show them! This is something I have really set my heart on. You and I are going places!’
And they did. This was the beginning of a partnership of brilliant reporting that raised the circulation of the New York Sun way above its competitors.
The discipline and the pressure of newspaper routine seemed to agree with Cade. Working to a deadline, having Burdick as a constant companion, gave him little time to brood about the past. There were times when he wanted a drink badly, but he fought off the urge. It was at these times he was thankful to have Burdick, understanding and sympathetic, with him. Burdick had also given up alcohol to make things easier for Cade. Both men now only drank Coca-Cola or coffee.
Burdick had a three-room apartment near the Sun’s office and he persuaded Cade to take the spare room. This was convenient for the two men could work together in comfort and they seldom went to the Sun’s offices except to deliver their finished assignments.
There were times when Cade, before falling asleep, alone in his bedroom, would think of Juana. Her memory was less painful, but he was still in love with her. He knew that if she walked into his room at that moment, he would gladly take her in his arms which proved, he thought ruefully, what a stupid sucker he was. He knew her behaviour had been unforgivable, but he was ready to forgive her. She was in his blood like a virus. Although he often longed for her, he made no attempt to trace her or to find out what was happening to her. It was now six months since she had left him. The bull fight season was over in Spain. She was probably back in Mexico City. He wondered if she were still with Diaz or tiring of him, had found someone else. Cade was very conscious that she was still his wife. He knew he should divorce her, but he could not bring himself even to think of it.
One evening some months after Cade had begun to work for the Sun, he was settling down to watch television when the telephone bell rang.
Burdick, in dressing-gown and pyjamas, was lying on the settee. He lifted his head and glared at the instrument.
‘Let it ring,’ he said.
This call was to affect Cade’s future destiny. He felt an extraordinary compulsion to answer the call. He hesitated for a long moment, then got to his feet.
‘I’d better answer it,’ he said and lifted the receiver.
It was Mathison.
‘That you, Val?’
‘I suppose so,’ Cade was sorry now he had answered.
‘Listen, Val, things are popping and I haven’t a photographer. Two of my mutton heads are out of town and my other jerk is out of reach. Will you help me?’
Cade grimaced at Burdick, then shrugged.
‘What is it, Henry?’
‘Old Friedlander has been shot! We have an exclusive on this if we act fast! Lieutenant Tucker is handling it and he’s a good friend of mine. He gave me the tip. Will you get out there, Val?’
Cade could have refused. This kind of work wasn’t in his contract, but he remembered Mathison had given him his chance to rehabilitate himself. This seemed to him to be his chance to even the score.
‘I’ll take care of it, Henry. Leave it to me.’
‘Good boy! You know the address?’
‘I know it. I’m on my way.’
Cade hung up, ran into the bedroom, put on a tie and his jacket, snatched up his camera equipment and started for the front door.
‘Where the hell are you off to?’ Burdick said, gaping.
‘Friedlander’s been shot! I’m covering it!’ Cade said and was gone.
Jonas Friedlander was a poet, dramatist, painter and musician. During the past thirty years, he had established himself as a character without whom no artistic event, no opera first night, no literary luncheon could hope for success. He was also a pederast. An ageing, fat, raddled, pot-bellied, slug-like creature who snapped, bit, clawed and caressed his way through New York Society always accompanied by a willowy, frail, beautiful youth who disappeared from time to time to be immediately replaced by yet another willowy, frail, equally beautiful youth who would last no longer than his predecessor.
But Friedlander made news. Whatever he did, whatever he said was scrupulously recorded in the World’s press. Cade knew, as he drove recklessly towards Friedlander’s magnificent penthouse that Mathison had every right to call on him for help. An exclusive on a Friedlander shooting was a scoop that News Editors dream of and news that would electrify the world.
Leaving his car double parked and not caring what happened to it, Cade ran up the steps of the apartment block. He took the elevator to the pent-house. As the elevator door swung back, Cade was confronted by a big, red-faced cop standing guard outside Friedlander’s front door.
Cade crossed the lobby while the cop glared threateningly at him.
‘Who are you and where do you think you’re going?’ the cop growled.
‘Lieutenant Tucker around?’ Cade asked briskly.
‘What if he is?’
‘Tell him Cade of the Sun wants in. Snap it up, Jack. That glaring act of yours is pure horror-comic’
The cop’s jaw dropped. He hesitated, then he opened the front door and stepped inside. Cade shoved his way in after him.
Lieutenant Tucker, a small, white-haired, hard-faced man, was standing in the ornate lobby, talking to another detective. He turned and scowled at Cade as Cade side-stepped
the cop and walked up to him.
‘Who are you?’ Tucker snapped.
‘Cade of the Sun. Mathison sent me. What’s going on?’
Tucker’s frown went away. Mathison and he had been to school together. They both helped each other whenever they could.
‘Glad to know you, Cade,’ he said and shook hands.
‘What’s going on?’
‘The old fairy tried it on once too often,’ Tucker explained. ‘He forgot to get rid of his boy-friend before he brought in another. They had an argument and the boy shot him.’
‘Is he dead?’
‘No such luck. He’s in there, making like a hero,’ and Tucker jerked his thumb to massive double doors.
‘Who’s the boy?’
‘Jerry Marshall. Seems a decent enough kid. Probably dazzled and corrupted by the old bastard. Still, he could have killed him.’
‘Where is he?’
‘The boy?’ Tucker nodded to a closed door on his right. ‘I’m going to talk to him now.’
‘I’ll want shots of him.’
‘Sure. You can have him when I’m through,’ and Tucker opened the door and went into the room.
Cade got his camera out of the case. He screwed on the flash gun and opening one of the big double doors, entered the vast, high-ceilinged lounge, decorated in black and white with Friedlander’s own decadent murals on the walls.
Lying on a chaise longue, covered with a zebra skin and raised on a high dais was Jonas Friedlander. He wore tight, scarlet velvet trousers and he was naked to the waist. Hovering over him was a scared-looking elderly manservant and a tall, thin man who Cade guessed was a doctor who was putting the finishing touches to a bandage on Friedlander’s fat arm.
‘How are you feeling?’ Cade asked, climbing the steps of the dais and pausing at Friedlander’s side.
The fat man scowled at him.
‘Go away! How dare you walk in like this! I won’t have any pictures taken! I feel very bad.’
‘I am Val Cade.’
The manservant, tuttering and twittering, advanced on Cade, but Friedlander waved him aside.
‘Cade? Are you really? Yes, I recognise you. Well, this is a happy surprise. You are as great an artist as I am … in your own very special field let it be understood. What brings you here?’
‘Mr. Friendlander, you must not exert yourself,’ the tall, thin man said soothingly.
‘Shoo! Run away!’ Friendlander snarled. ‘I will not be dictated to by quacks! Be off!’
The tall, thin man seemed used to this treatment. He beckoned to the manservant and drew him aside. He began whispering to him.
Cade said, ‘Mr. Friedlander, this shooting can’t remain a secret. You don’t want any kind of photograph of yourself appearing in the Worlds’ press. You know my work. Give me an exclusive and you can be sure of an artistic job.’
Friendlander forced a smile. Although in pain, he was flattered.
‘Yes, of course, dear boy. You go right ahead. No other photographer will be allowed in here. After all, a Cade photograph is like a Friedlander painting.’
As Cade began taking photos, he asked casually,
‘How did it happen, Mr. Friedlander?’
The old man’s face turned vicious. It was the kind of expression he was hoping for. The shutter snapped as Friedlander said, ‘The boy is mad! Quite, quite mad! When I think what I have done for him! I had a little friend. It is so stupid. Jerry is madly jealous, but no one dictates to me. He had this gun. I couldn’t believe he would use it.’
The doctor, seeing how pale the old man was growing, signalled to Cade. He had his pictures, so he nodded and stepped back.
‘Thank you, Mr. Friedlander. Get well quickly.’
The old man looked on the point of fainting, but actor to the end, he waved a feeble hand as Cade left the room.
The clamour of voices outside the front door warned Cade that the press had arrived.
Tucker came from the side room.
‘Go ahead. I can give you ten minutes … no more,’ he said. ‘I guess I’d better talk to these apes outside.’
Cade walked into the room where two bored looking detectives were smoking by the window and a young man sat in an upright chair, his hands between his knees, his shoulders slumped.
Jerry Marshall was twenty three years of age. He was tall, blond and handsome with good features and blue deep-set eyes. As soon as he saw Cade’s camera, he stiffened and became scowlingly hostile.
Cade put the camera on the table.
‘I’m Val Cade,’ he said. ‘You have probably heard of me. I want to photograph you, Jerry, but only on your say-so. You’ve made headlines of the World press tonight, and there is nothing you can now do about it. Outside, there are pressmen and photographers. You can’t avoid them. But I’ll do a deal with you. Pose for me and in return I’ll get my paper to hire the best attorney they can find to look after your interests. If there is anything else I can do for you, just say so and I’ll do it.’
Marshall studied Cade, then relaxed.
‘I know of you. Who doesn’t? All right, Mr. Cade, it’s a deal.’
Because Marshall wasn’t self-conscious and highly photogenic, Cade only took four flashlight shots, but he knew they were what he wanted.
One of the detectives said, ‘We have to get this guy down to headquarters, Mr. Cade. Hurry it up, will you?’
‘I’m through,’ Cade said, then to Marshall, he went on, ‘I’ll have a lawyer with you tonight … the best. Don’t worry about a thing. Is there anything else I can do?’
Marshall hesitated, then said, ‘Could you tell my sister what’s happened? I don’t want her to read about it in the papers tomorrow.’
‘Sure,’ Cade said. ‘I’ll see her tonight. Where do I find her?’
Marshall took out his wallet and scribbled an address on the back of one of his cards.
‘Don’t jump it on her, Mr. Cade.’ His face suddenly crumpled and he struggled to hide his emotion. After a moment, he controlled himself. ‘She and I are pretty close. Let her down lightly. It’ll be a shock.’
‘Sure,’ Cade said, taking the card. ‘Don’t worry. Any message?’
‘Tell her I wish I had killed the stinking old bastard,’ Marshall said.
‘I’ll tell her just that. Okay, relax. I’ll fix it for you.’
He picked up his camera case and went out into the lobby. The uproar outside the penthouse made him hesitate. The elderly manservant came hurrying out of the lounge and Cade grabbed him by the arm.
‘Is there a back way out of this place?’
The manservant pointed to a door.
‘That leads to the service elevator.’
Five minutes later, Cade was in his car and heading for the Sun offices.
He found Mathison impatiently pacing up and down. He put the film cartridge on the desk.
‘We’ve got exclusive pictures, Henry, and they are good ones, both of Friedlander and the boy who shot him.’
Mathison snatched up the telephone receiver and yelled for the Photo Editor to come a-running.
‘I did a deal with the boy,’ Cade went on as Mathison hung up. ‘Will you arrange for a first-class attorney to take care of him? I have an idea my photos could get him off.’
‘What do you mean?’ Mathison said, staring at him.
‘Wait until you’ve seen them, Henry.’
‘I’ll get Bernstein. A case like this is right up his alley.’
‘Yes,’ Cade started for the door. ‘I’ve something to do. Get Bernstein down to the boy tonight.’
‘Wait a minute! Hey! Val!’
But Cade was already running down the stairs and out to his car. He slid under the wheel and then looked at the card Marshall had given him to check the address. Vicki Marshall, the boy’s sister, lived in an apartment on Tremont Avenue.
As Cade drove towards Tremont Avenue, he was unconsciously keeping yet another appointment with his destiny that was to lead him event
ually to a town called Eastonville.
Indifferent to the world-shattering news of Friedlander’s shooting, Ed Burdick lay on the settee watching the Perry Mason show with cynical interest. As the programme was coming to its inevitable end, the telephone bell started its clamour. He hesitated about answering it. Then thinking it might be Cade wanting him, he picked up the receiver.
It was Mathison.
‘Ed! I want you down here right away! I don’t give a damn what you are doing. I want you down here!’
‘Take it easy, Henry. I’m off duty and I’m staying off duty. Besides I work with Cade now. What’s biting you? Friedlander? Let me tell you something: Friedlander …’
‘Stop flapping with your mouth!’ Mathison roared. ‘We have a story, Ed, right here on my desk that you wouldn’t pass up for all the gold in Fort Knox! That Cade! Wow! He’s taken a picture of Friedlander that will crucify the old bastard throughout the world! You’ve never seen anything like this picture! Cade thinks it could get the boy off. I’m damn sure it will. I have Bernstein coming down here. I want you to handle the story. Cade’s done his job. Now it’s up to you and Bernstein!’
Burdick began to get excited.
‘Because of Cade’s pictures?’
‘Sure. I’m telling you. It’s the picture … wait until you’ve seen it!’
‘Remember what you once said, Henry? You said, “I know lushes. Once on the hook, they’re on for keeps.” Remember?’
‘So I was wrong. Okay, if it will make you happy, I’ll eat my words. Now, come on down here and stop wasting time.’
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