“No, of course not,” Detweiller said. “I guess we were arguing about baseball or something.”
She smiled at Farrell. “Hi again then. How’s Barbara?”
“Just fine, thanks.”
She said hello to Malleck and sat down in a deep chair. “What a crush in that train.” She put her head back and smiled at Detweiller. “Fix me a drink, will you?”
“Sure, right away. But what happened to your big plans? The dinner and the play and everything. You’ve just had time to get in and out of the city.”
“That’s right, in and out. There was kind of a mix-up. But it’s not a very interesting story. I’ll tell you about it later. Now go on with your baseball talk. I’ll be the referee.”
She looked tired, Farrell thought, her face pale and drawn against the vivid shine of her short yellow hair. She sighed and settled deep in the chair, legs crossed and one foot moving back and forth in a slow, deliberate arc. The beige pump slipped down and swung gracefully on her slender instep, but she didn’t bother to adjust it; she looked too tired to care about anything, Farrell thought, and he wondered if it were just extra mascara that made her eyes look so dark and soft.
Detweiller hadn’t moved to make her drink. He stood watching her with a frown. “Chicky, you know I don’t like mysteries,” he said. “What happened?”
“I told you. There was a mix-up — on the tickets. So I came on home.”
“What kind of a mix-up? The tickets were for the wrong night, or what?”
She sighed and smiled at him. “Yes, it was the wrong night, Det.”
“Couldn’t you do anything about it? Exchange them or something? What play was it?”
“I don’t know. Ginny made the arrangements. Please, Det. Remember that drink we talked about a long time ago?”
“Well, it’s funny as hell,” Detweiller said. “I guess it’s a good thing you gals don’t do this often. How’s Ginny, by the way?”
“Just fine.”
Detweiller glanced at her from the bar. “You sound pretty abrupt. There weren’t any hard feelings, were there? I mean, you were so excited about this thing. You were walking around about a foot off the ground this morning.”
“Det, I’ve got a headache.” She put a hand to her forehead. “Will you bring me that drink and stop talking, for God’s sake?”
“Boy, you aren’t built for the long commute,” Detweiller said. He laughed but there were spots of angry color in his cheeks. “You don’t have the nerves for it.”
Farrell said, “I’ve got to run along. Take it easy, Chicky.”
“Please don’t go on my account. How’s Barbara? Oh, I asked you, didn’t I?”
“She’s loyal, uncomplaining, industrious — a typical wife. Why don’t you try an aspirin or two with that drink?”
“Thanks, doctor.”
Farrell turned at the door and looked back at Malleck and Detweiller. “Don’t take any wooden nickels,” he said. “Particularly ones with Indian heads. They’re bad news.”
Malleck smiled. “You’ve got a real handy way with words, Mr. Farrell. I admire it.”
Detweiller stood at the bar with his back to Farrell. “Good night,” he said quietly.
Farrell waited an instant for him to turn around, but when he saw that Detweiller did not intend to he smiled a good-by to Chicky and walked out of the room.
Chapter Nine
Ат three-thirty the following afternoon Farrell was called out of an Atlas conference by his secretary. “It’s your wife, and she said it was urgent.” Farrell excused himself and walked down to his own office, his anxiety leavened by a certain amount of irritation; the conference was important, not only for itself, but because of what Colby had said to him at lunch. Casually and without preamble Colby had offered him a job as his assistant on Atlas. He had said: “All it means is less coolie labor at your typewriter and a chance to sit around with me and look wise. And some more dough, but that’s a detail. The thing is we need a guy with a little balance to look over Weinberg and Shipley’s shoulders. Weinberg is a nut on the idea that all consumers are sneaky, guilt-ridden bastards, buying things to pay off their old men or to justify a low-amp sex drive. And Shipley, well the poor guy thinks a recording of Boola Boola affects everybody like the siren song. They’re both pretty sharp, but they’re inbred or something. I think you might loosen them up a bit.”
Farrell picked up his phone. “Hello, honey, what is it?” The connection was not clear and he said impatiently, “Hello — I can’t hear what you’re saying.” And then he realized that she was crying.
“Barbara! What is it? What’s the matter?”
“It’s Angey. She was hit by a car on the way home from school. I’m at Memorial Hospital with her now. Please hurry, John.”
The words struck him like blows. “Is she all right? How bad is it, Barbara? Tell me, for God’s sake!”
“She’s in the accident ward now. It’s her legs. She isn’t conscious.”
“I’ll get there as fast as I can. Look, calm down. It’s going to be all right.” He was gripping the receiver so tightly his hand hurt. “Do you hear me? I’ll be there right away.”
“Please hurry, please.”
Farrell dropped the phone and grabbed his suit coat hanging on the back of his chair. His secretary was holding his topcoat and hat.
“My daughter was in an accident,” he said. “I’ve got to get to the hospital. Tell Colby, will you?”
“Yes, of course. Is there anything we can do?”
“I don’t know.”
“Poor, poor thing. Is — she badly hurt?”
“Mrs. Farrell said something about her legs.” He pulled on his topcoat. “I’ll call you when I find out.”
“Dear God, I hope she’s all right.”
It took Farrell an hour by cab to reach the hospital. A nurse at the reception desk directed him to a room on the sixth floor. Barbara was standing in the rubber-tiled corridor talking with a doctor. Farrell held her tightly against him and felt the tremors shaking her body.
“How is she?” he said. “Is she all right?”
“Her left leg is broken but there’s nothing else wrong, thank God.” The words were a muffled blur against his chest. “She’s all right, John, she’s all right.”
“What a hell of a thing for you to go through.”
“That doesn’t matter. She’s all right, that’s all that counts.” She brushed tears from her cheeks and laughed shakily. “I’m behaving like a fool. This is Doctor Kaye, John. He took care of Angey.”
Dr. Kaye was balding and middle-aged, gravely courteous. After shaking hands he said, “The break is at the knee which, colloquially but accurately, is a bad break. But except for normal abrasions and contusions she’s in good shape. No concussion, which is usually an inevitable by-product of being struck by an automobile, and no internal damage so far as I can determine.”
“You say it’s a bad break.” Farrell hesitated, reluctant to put his fears into words. His mind was crowded with a thousand images of Angey dancing, running, skipping rope, hula-hooping, and charging everything she did with the excitement of her relentless energy. “You mean — well, that her leg might be stiff. Something like that?”
“There’s always that possibility,” Dr. Kaye said, and the measured statement sent a chill through Farrell. He tightened his arm around Barbara as Dr. Kaye added: “But her bones are still growing and that will be working for her if there’s no complication. I wouldn’t borrow trouble, Mr. and Mrs. Farrell; when the cast is off we’ll know what we’re up against. And I believe we can hope that her good angel will still be there looking after her.” He glanced at his watch. “Will you excuse me now? There’s nothing I can do until she comes out of the anesthetic. You can go in, if you like. It will be good for you to be there when she wakes up.”
“Yes, thank you, Doctor.”
Angey’s body seemed pathetically tiny in the narrow hospital bed. She lay with her arms at her sides, th
e sheet pulled smoothly over her thin shoulders, and her long blonde hair shining against the starched and immaculate white pillow slip. The nurse smiled at them and said softly, “She’s such a sweet, brave child. Just before we put her to sleep she looked up at the doctor and said, ‘Don’t you worry, my daddy will be here soon.’ Imagine! Telling the doctor not to worry. I don’t think she’ll wake for ten or fifteen minutes. You can wait here if you wish, or there’s a reception room in the corridor — it’s for expectant fathers. The chairs are more comfortable, I think.”
“Oh, we’ll wait here,” Barbara said.
When the nurse left Farrell pulled two chairs close to the bed.
“Do you remember when she had her tonsils out?” Barbara sat down and smoothed the bangs on Angey’s pale forehead. “Remember what a foul temper she was in?”
“I sure do. She was reeking of ether and she wanted to have her hair shampooed on the spot.”
“She’s going to be all right, John. I know it.”
“How in God’s name did it happen? And where’s Jimmy?”
“The police took him home in a squad car. I got hold of Mrs. Simpson fortunately, and she was available. She’ll stay with him until you get home. They’re putting a cot in here for me. I thought I should stay.”
“Of course. Well go on: how did it happen?”
“I’ve just got the bare details. They were crossing Whiting Boulevard, it seems, when a car shot through the red light. Jimmy jumped out of the way but Angey dropped a book or something and stopped to pick it up.”
“She would,” Farrell said. “Who was driving the car?”
“They don’t know yet.”
“What do you mean, they don’t know yet?”
“The car didn’t stop. Maybe whoever was driving didn’t realize he’d struck her.”
“Like hell,” Farrell said. The anger flowing through him was like an antidote to the poison of sick worry he felt for his child. “A jail sentence is a damned sight too mild for a bastard who’d drive off and leave an injured child in the street.” He rubbed her cold hands. “But weren’t there any witnesses? That intersection is crowded at that hour.”
“Apparently Jimmy was the only one who got a look at the car. The police from Hayrack talked to him at the scene. I came right over here.”
“It was a rough experience for him, damn it. You don’t know if he was able to tell the police anything helpful?”
“No, I don’t.”
There was nothing else to say. They sat in silence watching Angey’s pale profile, protectively close together in the cool, impersonally antiseptic room. The nurse came in once to check Angey’s pulse. She held the child’s slim and weightless wrist between thumb and forefinger and studied her watch with professional severity. She wrote on the chart hanging at the foot of the bed, smiled sympathetically to them and left the room soundlessly on rubber-soled shoes.
It was almost an hour before Angey opened her eyes. Barbara leaned forward and touched her forehead. “Hi, honey,” she said gently. In the same tone she murmured to Farrell: “I guess you’d better ring for someone.”
A signal cord was looped on the head of the bed. Farrell pressed the button and the nurse looked in immediately. She smiled cheerfully and went away. A moment later Dr. Kaye came in. “Well, well, Sleeping Beauty is waking up, eh?”
Angey clung to her mother’s hand. She murmured vaguely and closed her eyes.
“She’ll come around bit by bit,” Dr. Kaye said. “She’ll be confused at first. Don’t expect her to make sense. Everybody coming out of an anesthetic finds the world a pretty odd place for a while. I’ll look in again a little later.”
At six-thirty the nurse put her head in the door and said, “There’s a police officer here to see you, Mr. Farrell. A Lieutenant Jameson. He said any time you have a moment will be all right. He’s in no hurry.”
“Naturally,” Farrell said drily. “The police have the large view on these things. You hold the fort, honey.”
Lieutenant Jameson was waiting at the reception desk, wearing a tweed topcoat and holding a gray felt hat in his hand. Farrell experienced a pointless irritation at the sight of his lean, well-groomed figure and severe, emotionless features.
“I was damned sorry to hear about this,” Jameson said. “How is your daughter coming along?”
“As well as can be expected, I guess.” Farrell needed a cigarette. He glanced at the nurse behind the desk, and said, “Can I smoke here?”
“I’m sorry.” She smiled. “There’s a waiting room down the corridor.”
Farrell and the lieutenant walked to the waiting room which was furnished with overstuffed chairs and sofa, and a long table covered with stacks of magazines. The window panes were black and the lights of Rosedale sparkled against them in brilliant patterns.
Farrell lit his cigarette and inhaled deeply. “Well, have you found the driver of the car yet?”
“No, not yet. That’s why I’m here. I want to talk to your daughter when the doctor says it’s okay. She might be able to tell us something about the car and the people in it.”
“Didn’t my son get a look at them?”
“I’ve talked to Jimmy. He had only a fleeting glimpse of the car and his description is pretty vague. It was green or blue, and he’s not sure if it was a sedan or a convertible.”
“How about the driver? Did he see him?”
“Yes, but again he can’t give us a workable description. There were several boys in the car, that’s all he can tell us.”
“Several boys, eh?” Farrell said quietly. An ugly suspicion grew in his mind, and with it a swift anger. He felt it must be apparent in his face and eyes; it was too consuming to be masked. But Jameson seemed to notice nothing unusual. He said: “That’s all your son could tell us.”
Wasn’t that enough? Farrell wanted to shout at him but instead he took a long pull on his cigarette and nodded slowly.
“There’s a chance your daughter can help us,” Jameson said.
“How did it happen no one got the license number of the car?” Farrell asked him.
“Apparently everyone at the scene ran to help your daughter, assuming, I imagine, that the car would stop. When they realized it wasn’t stopping, it was too late — the car was already turning off the Boulevard.”
“I see,” Farrell said.
“We always have a tough job getting descriptions on a hit-run,” Jameson said. “Unless you’re a trained observer, or unusually calm and collected, it’s damn hard to recall what happened with any accuracy.”
“I can understand that,” Farrell said. He was controlling his temper with an effort. “I’d like to get back to my daughter now, Lieutenant.”
“Of course. There’s just one other thing.” Jameson met his eyes steadily. “I’ve checked out the Chiefs. They’ve got alibis.”
“Well, that’s good to know,” Farrell said. He managed a stiff smile. “Thanks, Lieutenant.”
Angey had waked while Farrell was out of the room. But she had gone back to sleep again, a faint frown shadowing her smooth face. “She doesn’t remember anything yet,” Barbara said. “She’s worried about being late for school. She asked me if she overslept.”
“I think I’d better get on home,” Farrell said. “I want to talk to Jimmy.”
“Did the police have any news?”
“Not a thing.”
She was watching him curiously. “What’s the matter?”
“What do you mean?”
“You look so odd.”
“Nerves, I imagine.” He touched her cheek with the back of his hand. “You’re a little bit shook up yourself. Try to get some rest.”
“I’m all right. As long as Angey’s okay, why I’m just fine.” She smiled and took his hand. “Run along now. I’ll call you later.”
Farrell parked his car at the curb and went quickly up the walk to his house. The night was cold, with the first feel of frost in the air. A wind rose and swept warningly through the
thinning trees, but the homes of Faircrest glowed warmly against the darkness.
Jimmy had had his bath and dinner. He was watching television in his pajamas and robe. Mrs. Simpson was in the kitchen doing the dishes. “How is the child, Mr. Farrell?” she asked from the doorway. “As God is my judge, I wish it could have happened to an old woman like myself instead of that child. Is she going to be all right?”
Farrell told her that Angey was coming along as well as could be expected. Mrs. Simpson had a baby-sitting appointment at eight which she offered to cancel, but Farrell assured her this would not be necessary.
“Well, I’ll run along then when everything’s tidy,” she said. “Your dinner is on the stove, roast beef with dumplings. Jimmy wasn’t hungry, but that’s just excitement, I think. Maybe he’d have another little bite with you.”
“Yes, that’s an idea.”
Farrell put his coat and hat away and went in to the study. He sat down beside Jimmy and put an arm around his shoulders. “Well, everything’s going to be all right,” he said. “The first tiling she thought about when she woke up was school. She was afraid she’d overslept.”
Jimmy laughed nervously, and said, “That’s all that’s on her mind, getting to school and putting fresh water in Miss Cooper’s flowers before Hazel Sims beats her to it. You should see how she acts at school! She’s so polite, it just makes me sick.”
Mrs. Simpson looked in to say good night and remind Farrell that his dinner was ready. When the door closed behind her Farrell got up and made himself a drink. Then he turned off the television and sat down in a straight chair facing Jimmy. In the silence Jimmy blinked and looked down at his hands.
“I want to talk to you,” Farrell said quietly. “I want to ask you a few questions. And I want the truth, Jimmy. Do you understand?”
“Sure,” Jimmy said uncertainly. “What do you want to ask me about, Dad?”
Savage Streets Page 15