“The young one asked about you, Ryan,” Bauer grinned. “I guess you made an impression.”
Ryan grinned back. Bauer said, “He hasn’t got the bill on him, incidentally.”
Jablonski said very casually, “What’s he say about it?”
“Nothing. He never heard of it. He was home taking a nap all afternoon—alone. And he says the loan shark’s name is Morgan, or something like that.” The lieutenant sighed wearily. “I guess that’s it. Oh—don’t either of you worry about court tomorrow—today, rather. McGonigle can do that. You men get some sleep.” He looked at them both. “I guess I don’t need to say—well, you know. You did a great job, and it won’t hurt either of you. There’s reporters downstairs still. The order is to give them everything they want. We want all the publicity we can get on this one.”
At any other time the alacrity with which Jablonski rose, and the bored resignation with which he said, “Well, we may as well get it over with,” would have made it funny. But the thought of facing more reporters alarmed Ryan. Going downstairs he said, “Look. You do the talking.”
Jablonski was glad to. While the reporters listened, jotted and occasionally broke in with a question he told the story in detail and with such flattering reference to Ryan that it was clear to everyone the veteran was trying to give every possible credit to the rookie, even though he himself had been in full command.
Ryan studied the reporters. All were dissimilar and yet alike: knowing, a little rumpled, of indeterminate age. But one, tall and heavy-eyed as though he had been newly routed from bed, wore a sports jacket of soft, expensive tweed and a gray sports shirt. His feet were unexpectedly clad in felt bedroom slippers. His black hair was thick With gray, but his square-jawed face was youthful and forceful.
“Telephone, Ryan,” said the desk sergeant.
When Ryan turned, the desk sergeant winked elaborately to the photographers and his lips formed “The P.C.” Ryan said, “Detective Ryan,” wearily into the telephone.
“Ryan?” said the telephone voice in his ear. “This is Johnson Drumm. I just wanted to congratulate you and your partner on…”
Ryan’s jaw dropped visibly. Johnson Drumm was the police commissioner. A flashbulb flared, and then a couple more before Ryan got his mouth closed. He finally said, “Yes, sir…yes, sir,” automatically. Then, “Here, Jabby. Jeez, it’s the P.C.”
They did not shoot Jablonski’s picture; he was too assured, grinning, easy. They asked Ryan a couple of questions and learned with excited interest that this was his first murder case. The photographers packed their bags of equipment and then left. It was that simple.
Then Ryan noticed that the one in the sports jacket was still there, slouched silently against the desk sergeant’s throne of dark oak, sleepy looking yet watchful. He shuffled forward in his slippers. “Ryan?” he said. “’M Jack Sandalwood. Like to ask a couple questions.”
His manner was lazy, but Ryan’s hackles rose. Jack Sandalwood was the best-known reporter in the city, a Pulitzer Prize winner whose specialty for more than ten years had been the exposure of venality and crime in unpredictable places. In a sense his appearance was even more of a compliment than the chief inspector’s, but it was infinitely more ominous. Sandalwood could ask questions that would never occur to an ordinary policeman, and he could demand the answers to them.
Once again Ryan looked around for Jablonski. “Probably you should talk to my partner.”
But Ed Furtig was coming up the station house steps and Jablonski had bustled out to meet him. And Sandalwood was looking curiously at Ryan.
“But you can answer this,” he said. “I understand from the Mirror man that you said Derby admitted killing the old lady. You were clever to trap him into admitting, that.”
“Well…” Ryan’s mouth was dry. “We just questioned him. That’s all.”
“And right away he admitted the murder—just like that?”
“Well…yes. Pretty much.”
“Is that how the…ah…fight started?”
Then Ryan saw what he was driving at. “Hell, no. Don’t get that idea! We never laid a hand on him until he jumped Jabby.”
“I see. Odd though, eh? I mean, he has everything to lose and nothing to gain by admitting it. Why, that puts him in the chair.”
“He’s denying it now.”
“Yeah, but…” Sandalwood squinted his disbelief through cigarette smoke.
“Sometimes guys just get tired of twisting and dodging,” said Ryan.
“Yeah.” Sandalwood weighed the idea. “But I must say I’ve never seen a bird of that type break this easy before. Have you?”
Ryan began to feel it would never end. He looked around at the familiar surroundings, the stairway, the patient heads at the desk lighted by dull lights, the plaques along the wall commemorating officers of the precinct lolled in line of duty. Suddenly it was filled with unforeseeable disaster.
“…eh?” Sandalwood was asking insistently.
“Sorry. I didn’t get that.”
“As I understand it,” Sandalwood patiently repeated, “Derby didn’t have much dough on him.”
“That’s right.”
“How much?”
“I’ve forgotten exactly—Jablonski could tell you. I think he counted it up.”
“I see. But he didn’t have that big bill on him.”
“That’s right.” This was going a little better.
“What had he done with it?”
“He didn’t say.”
“You asked him?”
“Naturally.”
“You mean after admitting the murder itself he wouldn’t tell you what he’d done with the proceeds? That’s odd.”
Ryan could hear Jablonski’s complacent drawl from beyond the doorway. That was all he could think of, Jablonski’s absence and Sandalwood’s unanswerable questions.
“Didn’t you try to get some explanation…?”
A telephone rang, a nearby clangor. He heard the timeworn salutation. “Seventeeth Precinct. Sergeant Weiner.” Then a listening silence. The whole world was silent, waiting, listening for his answer.
And he had no answer. An eternity passed.
But helplessness was a thing Ryan could not long endure, and his temper came to his rescue. “Look here,” he snapped. “When you’re pinching a guy like Derby you don’t think of all the smart questions some second-guesser can think up later. This guy jumped us. He hurt my partner. We didn’t have time to… He’s being gone over now by Sergeant McGonigle. Talk to McGonigle if—”
Sandalwood began to break in with “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” before Ryan had finished. When he had, Sandalwood smiled pacifyingly and said with soft innocence, “All I meant was that a hundred bucks is a lot of money to get lost so easy.”
Once again the full force of Sandalwood’s remark exploded belatedly in Ryan’s mind, like a delayed-action bomb, which was just how Sandalwood intended it should. Sandalwood suspected he and Jablonski had taken the C-note for themselves. That was why he had been curious about Derby’s admission of guilt. That was the weakness in their story.
Ryan’s thoughts began following the pattern he knew Sandalwood’s had taken; it was like following fresh-made tracks in the snow. Sandalwood could have drawn two conclusions from what he knew. One was that Derby had admitted killing Mrs. Connors but had given Ryan and Jablonski the hundred dollar bill in return for some favor. The other was that Derby had denied the murder and they had taken the money because he could not very well claim it. Either way Sandalwood had no inkling of the real truth. But he was suspicious, and therefore he was dangerous.
Ryan thrust his right hand with assumed nonchalance into his suitcoat pocket and it encountered the crumpled brown paper sack that Jablonski had used.
That almost panicked him; he withdrew his hand guiltily.
“We didn’t thoroughly search Derby,” he said. He spoke steadily. “He may have the dough in his shoe or pinned to his underwear—or he may have stashed it some place. Maybe Sergeant McGonigle will get that out of him. I don’t’ know.” The steadiness he had to assume steadied him; he felt his powers of conviction growing as he spoke. “But in any case neither Jablonski nor I have any idea where the bill is—that’s for sure.”
He looked angrily at Sandalwood’s intent face, and he knew Sandalwood understood he had caught the insinuation and was flinging it back. “Maybe a hundred bucks means more to you than it does to me,” he added.
“Oh, now wait a minute,” said Sandalwood contritely.
“Hey, what goes on?” Jablonski arrived.
Where were you when I needed you?
“I was just asking Ryan about that hundred buck bill.” Sandalwood said. “I guess he misunderstood what I meant.”
Jablonski grew attentive. “Yes? What did you want to know?”
God, don’t spoil it!
“I was just wondering,” said Sandalwood, returning to the scent, “why Derby admitted killing the old lady and yet wouldn’t tell what he did with the money.”
Jablonski looked quickly from one to the other. “Well now, it wasn’t exactly like that,” he said. “You see, we grabbed him pretty much by surprise and he said some things when he was excited that he probably won’t repeat. Matter of fact, after he got his head again he buttoned up pretty much. That’s when I asked him about the dough. Of course, we didn’t really try to question him.”
It was that easy when you were relaxed and experienced.
“I see,” said Sandalwood. “I see,” and scribbled a note.
Then he looked up and smiled. “Thanks,” he said to both of them. “And congratulations.” He nodded to the photographer waiting for him and they went out.
“Any time,” Jablonski called.
The last Ryan saw of Sandalwood was a glimpse of that well-tailored back going down the steps.
“Whew!” he said.
“Yeah. They can be nosy. But it’s over—all over! Wait here a minute ’til I check with Mac—” Jablonski grinned—“then I’m taking you out for the biggest slug of Canadian Club in New York.”
Ryan grinned back. “Sounds good—but where do we go at this time of night?”
Jabby punched his arm. “It ain’t this time of night where we’re going.”
“I need cigarettes. I’ll meet you on the corner.”
As he strolled indolently down the station house steps, a uniformed man came up to them. Ryan recognized him as a probationary patrolman. The young patrolman’s eyes widened at the sight of Ryan and he altered his ascent of the steps to give Ryan plenty of room. “Good morning,” he said politely. Ryan responded with a careless hand.
That’s how little time it takes, he thought.
He took off the expensive light gray hat he wore and re-crushed it into the original fancy crease that he liked to affect as a civilian. Working, he could not wear anything that would make him distinguishable in a crowd. That nightly gesture was an expression of his individuality, a symbol of release from departmental routine.
Buying cigarettes in the all-night restaurant, Ryan began to feel relaxed and thoroughly happy. Sandalwood and the china chip seeped from his mind, and the tension of the last few hours dissolved in a warm awareness of accomplishment and praise. It was the way you felt trotting off the field after having played a good first half. It was the quiet, deep satisfaction of knowing you had come through a hard test well.
He didn’t really want a drink or need one, he thought.
But at that moment Jablonski came hurrying along the sidewalk outside. Seeing a cruising taxi he put two fingers to his mouth and blew a piercing blast. The cab squealed to a stop. Jablonski waved to Ryan, coming out of the restaurant. “Hurry up,” he called. “This is on me.”
“Hell it is!” Ryan laughed, and got in.
CHAPTER 7
C.C. and Soda
The cab carried them West of Broadway and stopped before another old house. To Ryan the comparison between this approach and the other one they had made earlier was startling, but Jablonski had no thought for subtleties. “My girl’s meeting us here,” he exulted, and rang and then tapped impatiently on the door’s frosted glass.
The announcement of Jablonski’s girl surprised Ryan, who knew little about his partner but was aware that he was married. He grinned appreciatively. You had to hand it to this old goat at that.
The door opened stealthily on an almost dark hallway. “Evenin’, Fritz,” said Jablonski, and pushed Ryan quickly inside.
“Evenin’, Sarge,” replied the thin, elderly waiter. “Everything okay tonight, Sarge?”
“Everything’s copacetic, Fritz. Meet my friend, Neill Ryan. He’s okay, Fritz. Treat him right when he comes around.”
“You know me, Sarge. My pleasure, Mr. Ryan.”
Jablonski had opened a door leading down to the basement. Piano music, smoke and snatches of talk and laughter drifted up the stairway. At the bottom of it Fritz look their hats and coats and led them to a corner table. “Inez ain’t here yet,” said Jablonski.
Ryan looked around. Once this had been the old house’s kitchen and servants’ dining room. Now, bathed in blue light, there was a small bar of white patent leather and many bottles, attended by a white-jacketed barman. Near it a middle-aged man with unnaturally black hair and a purple complexion was playing “Mood Indigo” on a tiny piano, holding the chords down long. Two men stood at the bar and three tables were occupied. It all looked and sounded welcome.
“Double C.C. and soda for both of us,” Jablonski told Fritz.
“Water for me,” Ryan corrected.
“Water,” said Fritz, and left. Ryan said. “That guy Sandalwood still worries me.”
“Forget it. We answered his questions.”
“But he suspects something. Not the right things, but—”
“What the hell! What can he suspect? What can he prove? You don’t understand the beauty of it, Neill. Derby can’t say anything without tightening the case against himself. And who else is there but us who knows?”
“Canadian Club with water,” said Fritz. “And soda.” He put down two heavy water glasses, half-filled with whisky and ice cubes, a bottle of soda and a glass of water.
Jablonski chuckled. “Two bucks a drink and worth it,” he said. “At least tonight. Eh, kid?”
Ryan raised his glass. “Here’s to your new joint in Mount Vernon.”
“New Rochelle. Thanks.” Jablonski took a long pull at the whisky.
Ryan took a shorter one. Even with the liquor fumes in his nose he scented the cloud of perfume that enveloped him. A voice said, “So here you are.”
A woman stood over their table. She wore a coat that somewhat resembled mink and her ash-blond head was hatless. The lips and eyebrows in her bright, smiling face were well-marked slashes of red and black respectively. Jablonski and Ryan got to their feet. “Inez!” said Jablonski. He kissed her cheek.
Only then did Ryan notice a girl standing behind the blond woman. Inez was forty-five trying to look thirty. The girl looked a couple of years over twenty and she didn’t have to try. The brim of a simple felt hat was pulled low over her violet eyes and her hair was coppery and abundant at a time when it was fashionable for hair to be close-cut. Her coat of woolen-pile, cinched to a tiny waist by a leather belt, was inexpensive but chic. Looking from Jablonski to Inez with a faint smile, the girl seemed not to have noticed Ryan. At least, that is how it seemed to Ryan.
He began-speculating about what was under the coat.
Jablonski introduced them. The girl’s name was Gee Gee Hawes. She sat down with demure self-possession, told Fritz, “A chilled sherry, please,” in a husky contralto and took out a cigarette. When Ryan held his lighte
r to it, she smiled at him from under the hat and it was like looking into spotlights. The pianist began “The Beguine.”
Jablonski said, “This is an unexpected pleasure, Gee Gee.”
She smiled at him, making the corners of her eyes crinkle. “A date stood me up,” she said candidly, “and Inez was nice enough to ask me along.”
“Thank God for Inez,” said Ryan, his spirits already lifted by the whisky, and when she made a moue of appreciation at him he began wishing he had shaved recently and had on a new shirt. He wondered whether she lived alone or shared an apartment. He wanted to make conversation and said, “Do you always drink your sherry chilled, Miss…ah…”
“I’m Gee Gee,” she said.
“Hey!” yelled Jablonski. He had picked up the Daily Mirror Inez had brought in with her. Its front page, devoid of the usual picture, was given over to big type:
COPS NAB KILLER AFTER GUN FIGHT—HARRY DERBY CAPTURED
Ryan said, “Well, well.” He did not want to seem impressed in front of this girl.
Jablonski turned to the story inside the paper. “For gosh sakes! Didn’t even use our names.” He read: “‘Bulletin: Detectives of the East Fifty-first Street Station early today arrested Harry Derby, the hoodlum identified as the killer yesterday of Mrs. Thelma Connors in her East Sixty-first Street apartment. Derby was seized after a gun fight in an East Side rooming house. One officer was reported wounded critically.’”
“All you ever think about is the crime news, Ed,” said Inez fondly.
Jablonski gave her an indignant look. “How do you like that?” he demanded of Ryan. “Who do you think they’re talking about in that story?”
“You and Mr. Ryan?” Gee Gee asked. “Really? You captured that man who—”
“We got Derby,” said Jablonski.
“Really?” When her eyes widened they were not violet but incredibly blue. Inez put both her hands admiringly on Jablonski’s arm.
A new tray of drinks arrived. Gee Gee said, “The final News will be out soon. That may have more on it.”
Jablonski said, “Fritz, run out for the last edition of the News, will you? Get several of them.”
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