In the distance, its siren wailing, its roof lights flashing, a patrol car was coming.
“Here come your friends, the policemen,” said the man. He turned up an alley, was gone.
• • •
The patrol car nosed in front of the old station wagon. Its revolving flasher made a hellish blue merry-go-round of the buildings and street.
Two policemen got out. Each had a pistol in one hand, a bright flashlight in the other.
“Hands up,” said one. “Don’t try anything.”
Harve and Claire raised their hands.
“You the people who made all the trouble out at Luby’s Key Club?” The man who asked was a sergeant. “Trouble?” said Harve.
“You must be the guy who hit the girl,” said the sergeant. “Me?” said Harve.
“They got her in the back,” said the other policeman. He opened the back door of the station wagon, looked at the woman, lifted her white hand, let it fall. “Dead,” he said.
“We were taking her to the hospital,” said Harve.
“That makes everything all right?” said the sergeant. “Slug her, then take her to the hospital, and that makes everything all right?”
“I didn’t hit her,” said Harve. “Why would I hit her?”
“She said something to your wife you didn’t like,” said the sergeant.
“Luby hit her,” said Harve. “It was Luby.”
“That’s a good story, except for a couple of little details,” said the sergeant.
“What details?” said Harve.
“Witnesses,” said the sergeant. “Talk about witnesses, brother,” he said, “the mayor, the chief of police, Judge Wampler and his wife—they all saw you do it.”
• • •
Harve and Claire Elliot were taken to the squalid Ilium Police Headquarters.
They were fingerprinted, were given nothing with which to wipe the ink off their hands. This particular humiliation happened so fast, and was conducted with such firmness, that Harve and Claire reacted with amazement rather than indignation.
Everything was happening so fast, and in such unbelievable surroundings, that Harve and Claire had only one thing to cling to—a childlike faith that innocent persons never had anything to fear.
Claire was taken into an office for questioning. “What should I say?” she said to Harve as she was being led away.
“Tell them the truth!” said Harve. He turned to the sergeant who had brought him in, who was guarding him now. “Could I use the phone, please?” he said.
“To call a lawyer?” said the sergeant.
“I don’t need a lawyer,” said Harve. “I want to call the babysitter. I want to tell her we’ll be home a little late.”
The sergeant laughed. “A little late?” he said. He had a long scar that ran down one cheek, over his fat lips, and down his blocky chin. “A little late?” he said again. “Brother, you’re gonna be about twenty years late getting home—twenty years if you’re lucky.”
“I didn’t have a thing to do with the death of that woman,” said Harve.
“Let’s hear what the witnesses say, huh?” said the sergeant. “They’ll be along in a little bit.”
“If they saw what happened,” said Harve, “I’ll be out of here five minutes after they get here. If they’ve made a mistake, if they really think they saw me do it, you can still let my wife go.”
“Let me give you a little lesson in law, buddy,” said the sergeant. “Your wife’s an accessory to the murder. She drove the getaway car. She’s in this as deep as you are.”
Harve was told that he could do all the telephoning he wanted—could do it after he had been questioned by the captain.
His turn to see the captain came an hour later. He asked the captain where Claire was. He was told that Claire had been locked up.
“That was necessary?” said Harve.
“Funny custom we got around here,” said the captain. “We lock up anybody we think had something to do with a murder.” He was a short, thickset, balding man. Harve found something vaguely familiar in his features.
“Your name’s Harvey K. Elliot?” said the captain.
“That’s right,” said Harve.
“You claim no previous criminal record?” said the captain.
“Not even a parking ticket,” said Harve.
“We can check on that,” said the captain.
“Wish you would,” said Harve.
“As I told your wife,” said the captain, “you really pulled a bonehead mistake, trying to pin this thing on Ed Luby. You happened to pick about the most respected man in town.”
“All due respect to Mr. Luby—” Harve began.
The captain interrupted him angrily, banged on his desk. “I heard enough of that from your wife!” he said. “I don’t have to listen to any more of it from you!”
“What if I’m telling the truth?” said Harve. “You think we haven’t checked your story?” said the captain.
“What about the man who was with her out there?” said Harve. “He’ll tell you what really happened. Have you tried to find him?”
The captain looked at Harve with malicious pity. “There wasn’t any man,” he said. “She went out there alone, went out in a taxicab.”
“That’s wrong!” said Harve. “Ask the cabdriver. There was a man with her!”
The captain banged on his desk again. “Don’t tell me I’m wrong,” he said. “We talked to the cabdriver. He swears she was alone. Not that we need any more witnesses,” he said. “The driver swears he saw you hit her, too.”
The telephone on the captain’s desk rang. The captain answered, his eyes still on Harve. “Captain Luby speaking,” he said.
And then he said to the sergeant standing behind Harve, “Get this jerk out of here. He’s making me sick. Lock him up downstairs.”
The sergeant hustled Harve out of the office and down an iron staircase to the basement. There were cells down there.
Two naked lightbulbs in the corridor gave all the light there was. There were duckboards in the corridor, because the floor was wet.
“The captain’s Ed Luby’s brother?” Harve asked the sergeant.
“Any law against a policeman having a brother?” said the sergeant.
“Claire!” Harve yelled, wanting to know what cell in Hell his wife was in.
“They got her upstairs, buddy,” said the sergeant.
“I want to see her!” said Harve. “I want to talk to her! I want to make sure she’s all right!”
“Want a lot of things, don’t you?” said the sergeant. He shoved Harve into a narrow cell, shut the door with a clang.
“I want my rights!” said Harve.
The sergeant laughed. “You got ’em, friend. You can do anything you want in there,” he said, “just as long as you don’t damage any government property.”
The sergeant went back upstairs.
There didn’t seem to be another soul in the basement. The only sounds that Harve could hear were footfalls overhead.
Harve gripped his barred door, tried to find some meaning in the footfalls.
There were the sounds of many big men walking together—one shift coming on, another going off, Harve supposed.
There was the clacking of a woman’s sharp heels. The clacking was so quick and free and businesslike that the heels could hardly belong to Claire.
Somebody moved a heavy piece of furniture. Something fell. Somebody laughed. Several people suddenly arose and moved their chairs back at the same time.
And Harve knew what it was to be buried alive.
He yelled. “Hey, up there! Help!” he yelled.
A reply came from close by. Someone groaned drowsily in another cell.
“Who’s that?” said Harve.
“Go to sleep,” said the voice. It was rusty, sleepy, irritable. “What kind of a town is this?” said Harve. “What kind of a town is any town?” said the voice. “You got any big-shot friends?”
“No,” said Harve.<
br />
“Then it’s a bad town,” said the voice. “Get some sleep.”
“They’ve got my wife upstairs,” said Harve. “I don’t know what’s going on. I’ve got to do something.”
“Go ahead,” said the voice. It chuckled ruefully.
“Do you know Ed Luby?” said Harve.
“You mean do I know who he is?” said the voice. “Who doesn’t? You mean is he a friend of mine? If he was, you think I’d be locked up down here? I’d be out at Ed’s club, eating a two-inch steak on the house, and the cop who brought me in would have had his brains beat out.”
“Ed Luby’s that important?” said Harve.
“Important?” said the voice. “Ed Luby? You never heard the story about the psychiatrist who went to Heaven?”
“What?” said Harve.
The voice told an old, old story—with a local variation. “This psychiatrist died and went to Heaven, see? And Saint Peter was tickled to death to see him. Seems God was having mental troubles, needed treatment bad. The psychiatrist asked Saint Peter what God’s symptoms were. And Saint Peter whispered in his ear, ‘God thinks He’s Ed Luby.’”
The heels of the businesslike woman clacked across the floor above again. A telephone rang.
“Why should one man be so important?” said Harve.
“Ed Luby’s all there is in Ilium,” said the voice. “That answer your question? Ed came back here during the Depression. He had all the dough he’d made in bootlegging in Chicago. Everything in Ilium was closed down, for sale. Ed Luby bought.”
“I see,” said Harve, beginning to understand how scared he’d better be.
“Funny thing,” said the voice, “people who get along with Ed, do what Ed says, say what Ed likes to hear—they have a pretty nice time in old Ilium. You take the chief of police now—salary’s eight thousand a year. Been chief for five years now. He’s managed his salary so well he’s got a seventy-thousand-dollar house all paid for, three cars, a summer place on Cape Cod, and a thirty-foot cabin cruiser. Of course, he isn’t doing near as good as Luby’s brother.”
“The captain?” said Harve.
“Of course, the captain earns everything he gets,” said the voice. “He’s the one who really runs the Police Department. He owns the Ilium Hotel now—and the cab company. Also Radio Station WKLL, the friendly voice of Ilium.
“Some other people doing pretty well in Ilium, too,” said the voice. “Old Judge Wampler and the mayor—”
“I got the idea,” said Harve tautly.
“Doesn’t take long,” said the voice.
“Isn’t there anybody against Luby?” said Harve.
“Dead,” said the voice. “Let’s get some sleep, eh?”
Ten minutes later, Harve was taken upstairs again. He wasn’t hustled along this time, though he was in the care of the same sergeant who had locked him up. The sergeant was gentle now—even a little apologetic.
At the head of the iron stairs, they were met by Captain Luby, whose manners were changed for the better, too. The captain encouraged Harve to think of him as a prankish boy with a heart of gold.
Captain Luby put his hand on Harve’s arm, and he smiled, and he said, “We’ve been rough on you, Mr. Elliot, and we know it. I’m sorry, but you’ve got to understand that police have to get rough sometimes—especially in a murder investigation.”
“That’s fine,” said Harve, “except you’re getting rough with the wrong people.”
Captain Luby shrugged philosophically. “Maybe—maybe not,” he said. “That’s for a court to decide.”
“If it has to come to that,” said Harve.
“I think you’d better talk to a lawyer as soon as possible,” said the captain.
“I think so, too,” said Harve.
“There’s one in the station house now, if you want to ask him,” said the captain.
“Another one of Ed Luby’s brothers?” said Harve.
Captain Luby looked surprised, and then he decided to laugh. He laughed very hard. “I don’t blame you for saying that,” he said. “I can imagine how things look to you.”
“You can?” said Harve.
“You get in a jam in a strange town,” said the captain, “and all of a sudden it looks to you like everybody’s named Luby.” He laughed again. “There’s just me and my brother—just the two Lubys—that’s all. This lawyer out front—not only isn’t he any relative, he hates my guts and Ed’s, too. That make you feel any better?”
“Maybe,” said Harve carefully.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” said the captain. “You want him or not?”
“I’ll let you know after I’ve talked to him,” said Harve.
“Go tell Lemming we maybe got a client for him,” said the captain to the sergeant.
“I want my wife here, too,” said Harve.
“Naturally,” said the captain. “No argument there. She’ll be right down.”
The lawyer, whose name was Frank Lemming, was brought in to Harve long before Claire was. Lemming carried a battered black briefcase that seemed to have very little in it. He was a small, pear-shaped man.
Lemming’s name was stamped on the side of his briefcase in big letters. He was shabby, puffy, short-winded. The only outward sign that he might have a little style, a little courage, was an outsize mustache.
When he opened his mouth, he let out a voice that was deep, majestic, unafraid. He demanded to know if Harve had been threatened or hurt in any way. He talked to Captain Luby and the sergeant as though they were the ones in trouble.
Harve began to feel a good deal better.
“Would you gentlemen kindly leave,” said Lemming, calling the police gentlemen with grand irony. “I want to talk to my client alone.”
The police left meekly.
“You’re certainly a breath of fresh air,” said Harve. “That’s the first time I’ve ever been called that,” said Lemming.
“I was beginning to think I was in the middle of Nazi Germany,” said Harve.
“You sound like a man who’s never been arrested before,” said Lemming.
“I never have been,” said Harve.
“There’s always got to be a first time,” said Lemming pleasantly. “What’s the charge?”
“They didn’t tell you?” said Harve.
“They just told me they had somebody back here who wanted a lawyer,” said Lemming. “I was here on another case.” He sat down, put his limp briefcase against the leg of his chair. “So what’s the charge?”
“They—they’ve been talking about murder,” said Harve.
This news fazed Lemming only briefly. “These morons they call the Ilium Police Force,” he said, “everything’s murder to them. What did you do it with?”
“I didn’t,” said Harve.
“What did they say you did it with?” said Lemming. “My fist,” said Harve.
“You hit a man in a fight—and he died?” said Lemming. “I didn’t hit anybody!” said Harve.
“All right, all right, all right,” said Lemming calmingly.
“Are you in with these guys, too?” said Harve. “Are you part of the nightmare, too?”
Lemming cocked his head. “Maybe you better explain that?” he said.
“Everybody in Ilium works for Ed Luby, I hear,” said Harve. “I guess you do, too.”
“Me?” said Lemming. “Are you kidding? You heard how I talk to Luby’s brother. I’d talk to Ed Luby the same way. They don’t scare me.”
“Maybe—” said Harve, watching Lemming closely, wanting with all his heart to trust him.
“I’m hired?” said Lemming.
“How much will it cost?” said Harve.
“Fifty dollars to start,” said Lemming.
“You mean right now?” said Harve.
“The class of people I do business with,” said Lemming, “I get paid right away, or I never get paid.”
“All I’ve got with me is twenty,” said Harve.
“That�
�ll do nicely for the moment,” said Lemming. He held out his hand.
As Lemming was putting the money into his billfold, a policewoman with clacking heels brought Claire Elliot in.
Claire was snow-white. She wouldn’t speak until the policewoman was gone. When she did speak, her voice was ragged, barely under control.
Harve embraced her, encouraged her. “We’ve got a lawyer now,” he said. “We’ll be all right now. He knows what to do.”
“I don’t trust him. I don’t trust anybody around here!” said Claire. She was wild-eyed. “Harve! I’ve got to talk to you alone!”
“I’ll be right outside,” said Lemming. “Call me when you want me.” He left his briefcase where it was.
“Has anybody threatened you?” Claire said to Harve, when Lemming was gone.
“There’s been some pretty rough talk,” said Harve.
“Has anybody threatened to kill you?” she said.
“No,” said Harve.
Claire whispered now. “Somebody’s threatened to kill me, and you—” Here she broke down. “And the children,” she whispered brokenly.
Harve exploded. “Who?” he said at the top of his lungs. “Who threatened that?” he replied.
Claire put her hand over his mouth, begged him to be quiet.
Harve took her hand away. “Who?” he said.
Claire didn’t even whisper her answer. She just moved her lips. “The captain,” her lips said. She clung to him. “Please,” she whispered, “keep your voice down. We’ve got to be calm. We’ve got to think. We’ve got to make up a new story.”
“About what?” said Harve.
“About what happened,” she said. She shook her head. “We mustn’t ever tell what really happened again.”
“My God,” said Harve, “is this America?”
“I don’t know what it is,” said Claire. “I just know we’ve got to make up a new story—or—or something terrible will happen.”
“Something terrible already has happened,” said Harve.
“Worse things can still happen,” said Claire.
Harve thought hard, the heels of his hands in his eye sockets. “If they’re trying that hard to scare us,” he said, “then they must be plenty scared, too. There must be plenty of harm we could do them.”
“How?” said Claire.
Look at the Birdie Page 6