“Well, go on,” Farrell said.
“I’ve talked this over with Grace, of course, and she feels...” Ward paused and rolled his empty glass between the palms of his hands. He seemed nervous again. He smiled suddenly at Farrell, a man-to-man sort of smile that was pathetically incongruous against the tight lines of anxiety about his mouth and eyes. “Well, you know how women are, John. She feels I’m not involved in this thing at all, except for the sheer bad luck of being near the scene, you might say. She’d like you guys to forget that I was there — you know, leave me out of the whole deal.”
“I’ll bet she would,” Farrell said.
“There’s no point in being sarcastic.” Ward’s eyes were narrowing. “I’m simply giving you the whole picture. That’s Grace’s idea. It’s not mine. I’m not trying to duck out of this and leave you holding the bag. But I say we’re damn fools if we don’t agree on a story that puts us in a little more acceptable light as far as the police and the newspapers are concerned.”
“Have you thought of one?”
“Yes, I have, one that’s simple and convincing. First, we went over to the Chiefs’ clubhouse to talk to them. Our idea was to see if we could help them. Since we’re a responsible group of men, home owners, involved in community work and so forth, that will sound believable. The blond boy jumped you, you fought back in self-defense. That’s all there is to it.” He pointed a big blunt finger at Farrell. “Just remember two things: one, we went there to help those kids; two, the boy took a swing at you, and you had to protect yourself. That may not square things completely, but it will help some, I think.”
“Help us, you mean?”
Ward stared at him. “Do you think for one goddamned minute I’m interested in helping that hoodlum who killed Wayne? Now listen to me, John. Get it through your head that we’re in trouble. The tilings we’ve worked and fought for all our lives, jobs, reputations, the futures we’ve planned — they’re all under fire. I’m not exaggerating, and I’m not being melodramatic. I’m laying out the brutal facts. Either we protect ourselves or we’re going to pay till it hurts. Take me: my company stands behind its men like the Rock of Gibraltar. In certain kinds of trouble. If a man is sick, or if his wife or kids are sick, or if he’s in a financial jam, or is unhappy about his job — then the company steps up like a big brother and there’s no limit to what it will do to help out. But they wouldn’t stand for this trouble we’re in — not for a second.” Ward lit a cigarette with an irritable flurry of gestures. “I’ve been tapped for that job in London. I knew it was in the works but the decision came down even sooner than I’d hoped for. I got the news yesterday. Nice timing, eh? Big tilings in the works. I’m slated for a half-dozen indoctrination sessions, and interviews with some of the top men in our foreign department. I’ll be briefed on British unions, British politics, currency, everything. You know, our company has a book we call the ‘Voice of God’ book. It’s a set of questions and answers on just about any topic its foreign representatives might be asked about. The Negro problem in America, our oil deposits in Iran, what the Sixth Fleet’s doing in the Mediterranean, the differences in British and American educational systems — there’s an answer for everything. The answer, I should say. The company position. They don’t send men abroad until they’re damn sure they won’t be caught with their mouths open and their pants down by some competitor or newspaperman or just plain smart aleck. Grace will go through a similar course. Advice on protocol and entertaining, how to address people with titles, advice on being tactful about clothes and servants, and about the fact that we’ll be making a lot more money than most of the people we meet over there.” Ward tilted his head slightly, and his eyes went suddenly hard and cold. “Does all this strike you as silly?” he said quietly. “Am I losing your interest?”
Farrell had been looking at the plate set out for Norton in the dining alcove. “No, I’m listening,” he said.
“The point is then, my company is making a big investment in me because they believe I’ve got brains and discretion. And I’m not going to let anything happen to change their opinion of me. Get that into your head. And if I were you I’d do some thinking about your own neck. Would your company be amused about this thing? If it gets splashed like a handful of dirt over the newspapers?”
“Hardly,” Farrell said. He remembered what Colby had said after offering him the job as his assistant on Atlas. Something about balance. “We need a guy with balance to look over Shipley and Weinberg’s shoulders.” That was steady John Farrell. Balanced as a spinning top, disciplined and good-humored except for a whimsical tendency to go berserk every now and then. Say good-by to that job, he thought. But it didn’t seem to be a significant farewell. He had already said good-by to a number of things considerably more significant. A certain tranquillity, a certain self-respect, a certain kind of innocence...
“Well, I’m glad we’ve got this straightened out,” Ward said. The inference he drew from Farrell’s expression obviously satisfied him. “Just remember those two things: we went to the Chiefs in a friendly spirit. They started the trouble.”
“You think that will be enough?” Farrell almost felt sorry for Ward.
“It will be enough for me,” Ward said in a hard, expressionless voice. “That’s what I’m concerned about. You either survive or you don’t in a deal like this.”
The front doorbell rang and they heard someone — Grace or Chicky — moving swiftly to answer it. Farrell recognized Detweiller’s voice, then Malleck’s.
“Let’s go,” Ward said. “I want to fill them in now. And stop looking so worried. We haven’t done anything wrong, for God’s sake.”
“For whose sake then?” Farrell said, but Ward had already pushed open the kitchen door and was striding back into the living room.
Chapter Fourteen
As Farrell entered the living room Malleck was saying to Ward: “I’m glad you’re on hand, Sam. It seems to me we need a little conference.”
“You’re damn right we do,” Ward said, and the warmth in his voice informed the exchange with the tone of frank and healthy conspiracy. They were like a pair of businessmen planning a successful merger, Farrell thought; interests coinciding neatly, eyes fixed on the same goal.
Malleck sat down in a straight-backed chair without removing his leather jacket, and the Wards and the Detweillers ranged themselves about in a semicircle. “I came back here for one reason,” he said, his bright, confident eyes moving over the group. “Because you all need to know what went on tonight.” He bulked large in the room, his big body thickened by a sweater and muffler, and his powerful hands gripping his knees with a pressure that whitened the tops of his raw knobby knuckles. He said flatly, deliberately: “You need to know what Det and I told the cops tonight.”
Detweiller was sitting beside Chicky and despite her closeness to him he seemed withdrawn and isolated from the group; he was frowning faintly and except for the points of wind-sharpened color in his cheeks his face was gray with a combination of what seemed to be fatigue and worry.
Malleck looked up then and saw Farrell standing in the arched entrance to the living room. The smile that was like the flare from an explosion glinted on his face, and he said quietly, “Now I don’t know if we need or want you here, Mr. Farrell.”
“You think that’s your decision?”
“Maybe. And maybe these other people don’t trust you any more than I do.”
“What’s all this?” Ward said sharply.
“He had a chance to help Norton tonight,” Malleck said. “But he talked peace and good will instead. And now Norton’s dead.”
“If he’d stayed home he’d be alive,” Farrell said.
“Alive sure. Alive and gutless. He wasn’t a man to take a beating lying down.”
“Guts mean everything, is that it?” Farrell said wearily.
“It’s a way of knowing a man. Maybe the only way.” Then Malleck pointed a finger at Farrell. “Don’t push me tonight, Mister.
Don’t make that mistake. I saw a decent man killed by a rotten degenerate just a couple of hours ago. While you were home toasting your feet and thinking big beautiful thoughts about democracy, I guess. So take it real easy with me, Farrell.” Grace Ward said: “We won’t accomplish anything by losing our tempers.”
“You’re right, Ma’am.” Malleck put a cigarette in his mouth and struck a match with an angry snap of his wrist. “Business before pleasure. So we’ll just forget Mr. Farrell for the time being.” He glanced sharply about the room. “Now look: let’s get this straight the first time. How Norton died isn’t important. But why he died is. He died defending his home and family against a pack of hoodlums. The cops understand that. And so will a jury. But there’s one thing the cops didn’t understand: how come Norton didn’t call them? They understood his feelings. He’d been beaten bloody by a pack of gutless hoodlums. And he wanted a crack at them personally. Any man worth the name would feel like that. But how you feel and how you act are two different things under the law. And that little loophole just might have saved this punk’s neck. Because Norton was the aggressor he could claim self-defense. And smart lawyers and crooked politicians would have made a martyr out of him. A poor, underprivileged kid being chased and hunted by grown men.”
Malleck grinned faintly. The match had gone out in his fingers and he struck another and lit the cigarette in his mouth. The only sound in the room was a dry, gulping noise as he inhaled a lungful of smoke.
“So we cut the legs out from underneath him,” Malleck said quietly. “Det and me told the cops we were on our way to the police station when we spotted Duke. We weren’t looking for him — we just stumbled on him accidentally.”
An uneasy silence settled in the room, and Farrell, standing in the shadows outside the group, tried to judge the reaction to Malleck’s announcement. The dominant tone was not one of surprise, he decided. The lie didn’t startle or shock them apparently. But they seemed uncertain about it, wondering if it would work perhaps, testing and measuring it by their individual standards and yardsticks. Ward was nodding thoughtfully, a frown shadowing his forehead, and his wife was appraising this silent response with a mixture of anxiety and hope; and when a smile of approval touched his lips she drew a deep relieved breath and reached for her cigarettes. “Of course, I don’t understand it completely,” she said, and smiled at Malleck, accepting the immemorial role of a woman wise enough to yield to man’s superior intelligence. “But if Sam understands — and I think he does — that’s good enough for me.”
Ward patted her hand. “Don’t worry, I get it,” he said, and smiled indulgently at her. “But, I’d like to make just one irrelevant point.”
Farrell was watching the Detweillers. Bill was staring at the backs of his hands and Chicky was studying his weary eyes with concern. “Are you all right?” she asked him.
“Sure, I’m fine,” he said.
Ward cleared his throat. “Let me just finish, okay, Det? I’ve been over this ground with Farrell, so I’ll make it short. I wasn’t involved in this thing tonight, and I believe you all know I’m not stressing that point just to save my neck at your expense. But it’s a fact, and facts count in this deal. So if you want my opinion...” He smiled at Detweiller and Malleck. “In an advisory capacity, let’s say, I think your story is a damn sound one. It leaves you two in the clear. Understand me, I don’t think you need any defense for what you did, but the newspapers might blow up the bare facts into something pretty ugly. The right and wrong of the matter could get so distorted that the dirt would splash on everybody.”
“That’s exactly what we’re avoiding,” Malleck said eagerly; he seemed pleased and flattered by Ward’s endorsement. “Let me just run through it once more so there won’t be any misunderstanding. Even from the ladies,” he added, with a clumsy attempt at courtliness. “You see, Norton got beat up for no reason at all to start with. He comes to Det’s home because he’s in bad shape. So Det and me take him to the police station to make a complaint. And on the way — on the way, mind you — we spot Duke. It’s just a lucky break. Norton piles out of the car, intending to arrest him which is his right as a private citizen in these circumstances.” Malleck shrugged his heavy shoulders. “Well, you know the rest of it.”
“I think that — well — version, will give great comfort to Janey,” Grace Ward said. “I mean, it’s completely legal, isn’t it? Wayne wasn’t doing anything wild or foolish. Janey will like that.”
Farrell said: “Yes, it’s nice and legal now, Grace. That’s a cheery thought.”
She looked at him coldly. “I don’t believe you understand what we’re trying to do.”
“You’re trying like hell to get to England. Is that a fair guess?”
“That’ll be enough from you, John,” Ward said. He seemed genuinely angry. “What right have you got to be riding Grace? You started this whole mess, remember? Everyone in this room is in trouble because he tried to help you.”
“That’s right,” Farrell said slowly.
“Well, for Christ’s sake, keep that in mind, then. We don’t need any wisecracks or sarcasm tonight. This is a dead serious business.”
“I want to ask a question,” Farrell said. “Do you all agree with Malleck?”
“That’s a stupid question,” Grace Ward said. “Haven’t you been listening?”
Detweiller sighed and said: “Well, John, I didn’t like lying to the cops. But Malleck talked first, and I backed him up. That’s your answer, I guess. I’m backing him up, but I don’t like it. Which makes me what? A guy straddling the fence, I guess.”
“Let’s don’t make a big tiling out of who did what first,” Malleck said gently. “You showed some guts at the station, Det. Don’t try to sneak a foot into the other camp now. You can’t be half with Farrell and half with me. Get that into your head.”
“I just said I didn’t like lying.”
“I heard you,” Malleck said. “And it sounded like a whine to me. You didn’t mind lying about the gun, did you?”
“I was mistaken, I wasn’t lying.”
“What’s all this?” Ward said.
Detweiller reached for his cigarettes. “It’s not important,” he said. “I mean, it doesn’t affect anything.” He shrugged, and then smiled with obvious effort; his lips were very stiff and dry. “Bobby didn’t steal that Luger of mine,” he said. “Well, he took it, that’s true enough, but he simply hid it in the basement. I found it there two nights ago. He was so scared about what had happened to the other youngsters that he had a crazy idea of protecting himself if anyone bothered him. When I originally discovered that it was missing he was too scared to tell the truth. So he invented that cockeyed story about selling it to some kid for five dollars.”
“And you didn’t tell the police?” Farrell said.
Malleck stood up so swiftly that his chair toppled over backward. “You’ll go on talking until everybody forgets what matters here,” he said in a deceptively gentle voice. “Well, let me remind you what’s important. Norton’s dead. Do you realize what that means? He’s lying in a cold, busted-up heap in an undertaker’s parlor. The last meal he ate is already rotting in his stomach.” Grace Ward said, “Oh, please,” in a faint voice, but Malleck didn’t take his burning eyes from Farrell’s face. “I’m going to talk about what’s important for a change. That woman upstairs. Norton’s widow. When she wakes up her bed will be empty. And it will be empty forever because Norton’s dead. Get that into your stupid skull. And the boy upstairs. His daddy’s gone for good. Do you want to go up and tell him that’s not important? There won’t be any more bedtime stories or fishing trips and nice days on the beach with his daddy, because his daddy is dead.” Malleck’s voice became a straining whisper. “Norton’s dead. And Duke killed him. Nothing else matters.”
Farrell rubbed his forehead; Malleck’s hatred was like the heat from a blast furnace. “Duke’s important,” he said. “He’s important too.”
“That little bastar
d isn’t worth saving.”
“Then none of us are,” Farrell said slowly.
“Oh, cut it out,” Ward said in a tense and irritable voice. “I’m not buying that cloudy crap. I’m with Malleck. You asked a question. There’s your answer.”
“I am too,” Grace Ward said. “Honest, John, I wish Barbara were here to hammer some sense into your head. She’d understand. But I doubt if it would help. You... well, you’re a failure, that’s your trouble. You’ve had the same opportunities as Sam, but he’s making twice the money you are. He has a brilliant future ahead of him, which he’s worked like the devil for, if the truth were known, while all you’ve got...” She shook her head, lips tightening with exasperation. “I don’t know what you’ve got, to be frank about it. It can’t be very important if you don’t value it above this miserable creature who killed Wayne.”
“Amen,” Malleck said. “Amen to every word of it.”
Detweiller said, “Now let’s all calm down. Everything was going all right for a while. Cool and easy. I think we’d better keep it that way. Look, would anyone like a drink?”
“I don’t mind,” Ward said.
“Coming right up.” Detweiller returned from the kitchen and gave Ward a glass. He sipped his own drink and began to pace the floor. “Now everybody’s been jumping on Farrell, and I don’t see the sense of it. Maybe I can clear things up a bit, John, at least as far as my own stand is concerned.” Detweiller seemed to be gaining confidence as he talked; he was gesturing with the glass, and there was more color in his normally ruddy face. “You want to play it by the book, John, but the point is, what do we gain and what do we lose by taking that position? Do you understand? The big thing is, Norton is dead and Duke killed him. That much is established. So why should we risk our reputations, and all the things we’ve worked for, to establish a lot of unimportant details?”
It was a fitting bit of irony, Farrell thought, that their collective lie would force him to tell the truth. If they hadn’t tampered with the facts — if they had allowed Duke a self-defense plea — he might have kept his mouth shut. For Janey’s sake — for all of them — he would have kept Norton’s secret. As long as it was irrelevant to Duke’s defense.
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