The Commissioner watched the Mayor with a certain amount of irony, and some sympathy. There had been a revolution in the Mayor’s small world and the thought of it was plaguing him, giving him no rest. Marley was a politician of moderate ability, who all his life long had used but one method of procedure: talk a lot but do nothing—let the other fellow make the mistakes—if you do nothing yourself there is no danger of you making the mistakes. But now the fat was in the fire. As Mayor, he had allowed himself, through political coercion and shaming, to be committed to a policy of drastic and violent action, and there would be repercussions—there always were!
Megher suspended, and home sulking! Captain Dysen, of all people, held in detention in a little room down the corridor, with two men watching him to prevent him from committing suicide, as he’d threatened several times to do. And, worst of all, there on the Commissioner’s desk was Herman Frick’s resignation as Chief of Police.
What next? And did this mean the end of power for the Party, or the beginning of a new era? At least the newspapers were unanimously reassuring. But was much attention paid to them? In order to win an election the Party had to carry the Paxton Square District and the 17th Ward. Dysen and Megher had handled these two sections with masterful ease for years under the expert tutelage of Herm Frick, an old 17th Ward man himself.
While the Judge was alive—God rest his soul!—these things simply did not happen. But with the Commissioner ... well…!
“You look tired, Charles,” said the Commissioner. “Why don’t you go home? Better still, run up to the Lakes for a rest as soon as you can get away. I’d suggest a city hospital but too many friends of ours are hiding in them at the moment.”
The Mayor smiled wanly. “Wouldn’t mind doing a little fishing at that. But I think I’d better stay on the job with things the way they are.”
“Oh, they’re going to be much worse,” said the Commissioner with a certain amount of satisfaction, “before they get any better. There will be raids every night next week. We intend to flatten the Paxton Square district. We are going to try to run every bookie out of town, every gambling-house operator. Of course, they’ll drift back and gradually the whole business will start all over again, in a sense. But once I get them disorganized, it will be a little hard for them to work themselves together again. However, my main object is to run the men from out of town away. We don’t want them. We’ve got trouble enough of our own. As long as they are trying to move in, there will be gambling wars and murders on our streets. The local boys seem more polite in their methods.”
There was a sharp knock at the door, and big Balch put his head in. “Excuse me, sir. Very important. A former D.A. investigator was murdered at the Regent Bar a little while ago. Can Lieutenant Morgan see you about it?”
The Commissioner nodded. “In a few minutes. Just have him wait.”
The Mayor groaned slightly and stood up. “I’ll go out through the back. Lester’s waiting for me in the hall. He’ll drive me home. Shall I announce your appointment tomorrow?”
“It’s the only thing to do, I suppose,” said the Commissioner. “On the understanding that it is temporary. I could go back to my old job but I’m afraid poor Creeden would never survive the shock. He likes to ride around in that big car with the siren going. Take that from him, and he might pine away.”
The Mayor flushed slightly. As a matter of fact, he wasn’t above using the siren on his own car; to be frank about it, he enjoyed it very much. Stark was such a ... well, what was the word? A kill-joy! Didn’t he have any human juices in him at all? “I think you’re right. It’s simpler. Mason’s been wanting to retire as Director of Public Safety for nearly a year. Getting old. Sick man. Well…” The Mayor turned and walked to the door, but paused at a sudden thought. “Something I want to ask you. It’s about Dysen. He conducted the biggest series of raids on the Front we’ve ever had. Right away you remove him from office. This I find very puzzling.”
The Commissioner smiled slightly. “Charles, go home and go to bed. You’ve got a thousand other things to worry about without worrying yourself with police matters. But take my word for it, Dysen has been abusing his authority, and if I’m not mistaken, will spend quite some time in the Walls.”
The Mayor recoiled. “As bad as that?”
“It’s very bad,” said the Commissioner. “Worse than you could ever imagine. So go home, Charles. Get a good night’s sleep. You’ve got to preside at that meeting of the City Planning Commission tomorrow and make up your mind about a ten-million-dollar project. You leave small things like crime to me.”
The Mayor brightened. “That’s right, by God! I forgot about that. And when that’s over, maybe I will go fishing.” He started out again.
“Charles,” the Commissioner called. “If you hear from Frick refer him to me. I’ve got his resignation here to hold over his head. He’s not a bad man, generally speaking. But he sometimes shows an unfortunate tendency to protect old friends, even crooked old friends. At the moment, I hardly think I’ll accept his resignation. However, everything depends on how he conducts himself from now on.”
“All right. Good night. Might be a good idea for you to get some sleep yourself.”
The Mayor went out the back door, then Stark buzzed the inter-com, and in a moment Lieutenant Morgan came in. He was a big, red-faced, heavy-set man in his late thirties. He was dressed in a rather shiny old blue-serge suit and the knot of his tie was crooked. His face was square and rather hard-looking, his complexion swarthy, his eyes dark but far from soft. His father, a Welshman from Cardiff, had worked in the coal mines in the southern part of the state, and the lieutenant had taken a fling at the mines himself as a boy, but decided they were not for him. He had got his education the hard way. He did everything the hard way, but he did it thoroughly and the Commissioner had had his eyes on the Welshman for some time now, considering him loyal and trustworthy, though perhaps far from brilliant.
“Sit down, lieutenant,” said the Commissioner. “What’s this about a murder at the Regent?”
“A rat by the name of Harry Radabaugh was killed right in the middle of the evening rush.” Morgan perched on the edge of his chair, a little awed in the presence of the Commissioner, but spoke in a strong, assured voice. The Commissioner liked his moral simplicity. When he said rat, he meant rat, with no qualifications or extenuations. Speaking carefully, the lieutenant gave the Commissioner a quick rundown on Radabaugh, explaining that there had been rumors for some time that the ex-D.A.’s man was fronting for the Big City corporation that was trying to take over the gambling. In fact, word of it had got to the D.A. and the D.A. had braced Radabaugh about it. Getting no satisfactory answers, the D.A. had thrown Radabaugh out of his job.
Giving no indication that these facts were not news to him, the Commissioner showed marked interest. “And who killed Radabaugh?” he asked. “Do you know?”
“No,” said Morgan. “But the rumor flying round is that he was shot by a small-time bookmaker known as Arky.”
“I see,” said the Commissioner, his eyes now flashing behind his glasses. “Do you know this Arky?”
“No, I don’t, Commissioner. Never heard of him before. Understand he has a place in the 17th Ward, right near the Pier 7 Station House. Operates openly, so he must have a fix down there.”
“Obviously,” said the Commissioner, veiling his irony. “Well,” Morgan went on, “I’ve talked to nearly a dozen what you might call eye-witnesses and none of them saw a thing. And it’s not a cover-up. But one thing all of them do say is that Arky couldn’t have done it. He was standing right beside Radabaugh. He was in his shirt-sleeves with his coat over his arm. He got into some kind of an argument with Radabaugh, and Radabaugh pushed him. Just as he pushed him, somebody shot Radabaugh three times.”
“Isn’t there a possibility this Arky might have done it?” asked the Commissioner.
“No, I don’t think so,” said Morgan. “I’ll tell you why, sir. Arky was frisked fo
r a gun before the trouble started.”
“Why?”
“I’m not sure. But a boy from the D.A.’s office, named Watrus, frisked Arky and said he was clean.”
“I still want to know why Arky was searched,” said the Commissioner sharply.
“I’m sorry about that, sir. I neglected that.”
“First thing tomorrow morning you take this up with the D.A. personally. If the D.A. is smart, and he is, he’ll want a word with that man of his. Too much connivance between certain enforcement officers and lawbreakers. How do you know that Arky wasn’t deliberately given a clean bill of health?” Morgan flushed slightly. “I don’t, sir.”
“Well, make it your business to find out about that. All right. Anything else?”
“Yes sir. Quite a few men think that somebody was trying to kill Arky and killed Radabaugh by accident.”
“Why should anybody want to kill Arky?”
“There is something funny there, sir. No one seems to have any theories about that.”
“In other words, they are sure that somebody wanted to kill Arky for no reason at all.”
Morgan flushed again. “That’s about the size of it, sir.”
“Has Arky been picked up?”
“Not that I know of. The word’s out for him, though.”
“Check with Downtown. And stay outside. I may need you.”
“Yes sir,” said Morgan, and went out crestfallen.
The Commissioner puffed meditatively on his stogie for a few moments, then tossed it into a spittoon beside his desk. This Arky was a strange man, very astute, very dangerous, and yet there was nothing in his record to indicate anything above the mediocre. One way or another, he must be taken out of circulation. The Commissioner, with his inside knowledge of the background of the business, felt reasonably sure that Arky had killed Radabaugh. But proving it was another matter—at least judging from Morgan’s sketchy report.
Strange coincidence! The Commissioner had had a general pick-up bulletin sent out on Arky, apparently almost simultaneously with the killing of Radabaugh. He had intended to question him secretly about his relations with the late Judge Greet, also to observe him and to catch him out, if possible. But the killing of Radabaugh had put a different complexion on the matter. Now Arky, if picked up, was in his hands—could be held as the Commissioner saw fit. Of course, there would be lawyers, and demands that Arky be charged; and then, inevitably, the writ of habeas corpus presented by a smiling young man from Dighton and Black or from some other law firm specializing in the perfectly legal, but sometimes unethical, protection of lawbreakers.
The Commissioner saw the whole process in a flash. Nothing new; same old gambits. Sighing, he rose and went to look out of the window at the hot busy streets of the night city. Neon advertising-signs flashed all along the rim of the circumscribed brick-and-stone horizon. A beer sign, featuring a flowing waterfall, made the Commissioner thirsty and he went to the water-cooler for a drink.
Behind him, the back door opened and he turned with paper cup poised. It was Markland, one of the best detectives in the city, now assigned to the Commissioner personally as a special investigator.
“Well?” snapped the Commissioner.
“The Lutheran minister’s here, sir. Is it all right to take him in to see Captain Dysen?”
“Yes. How’s Dysen?”
“Bad. I don’t like the look of him. His face is grey. He don’t do anything but groan.”
“You think he’ll sign that statement? I could use it to very good purpose.”
Markland nodded. “I think he will, sir, after he talks to the minister. No fight in him at all. Makes me awful sad to see a man like Captain Dysen in that kind of shape.”
“It’s not your business to feel sad, Markland,” snapped the Commissioner, his eyes glinting behind his old-fashioned spectacles. “Too many people feeling sad about crooks, lawbreakers, corrupt officials. Not enough people feeling sad about the victims.”
“Yes sir,” said Markland, flushing. “The only thing is, sir—I’ve known Carl Dysen for fifteen years.”
“We all have. Does knowing a man excuse his guilt?”
“No sir,” said Markland.
“I must say I’m disappointed in you,” said the Commissioner. “All right. Go ahead. Take the minister in to visit him. Then see if Dysen will sign that statement. If he does, bring it in to me at once.”
“Yes sir,” said Markland; then he hesitated as the Commissioner turned back to the water-cooler. “I want to say something, Commissioner.”
“Say it,” called Stark without turning.
“Makes no difference how I feel—all men got feelings—I do my duty.”
“If I didn’t think you did, you wouldn’t be here. All right, Markland.”
Still unsatisfied, Markland sighed and went out.
The Commissioner smiled slightly to himself. He had plans for Markland, so he felt that he might as well start giving him a few lessons. Later on he intended to advance Markland to a captaincy, in spite of civil service and police politics, and perhaps in a little while put him in charge of the Paxton Square district. Megher, though a good man in many ways, had under the general laxity grown more and more corrupt, and anyway he had kinged it long enough. His suspension might teach him a lesson. If so, the Commissioner intended to send him to River Station, which included Riverview and the Upper River. There he could look after the rich, bask in their smiles, and at the same time be removed from the temptations of seething Paxton Square.
Megher had allowed himself to be corrupted, but in a minor sense. His case was nothing like Dysen’s. The captain from the 17th was a hoodlum in uniform and had used the men assigned to his station as a personal police force, shock troops for certain hoodlum interests. This was anarchy, and Dysen would have to pay for it.
The ordinary policemen themselves could hardly be blamed. Like soldiers, they carried out orders. Not too well paid, they had families to worry about, and retirement pensions and the future, always problematical. Why should they be expected to defy their captain? You could not expect the impossible from human nature.
The Commissioner did not worry too much about the rank and file. With honest men in authority, the rank and file would be honest. No system, no matter how idealistically devised, is, or can be, any better than the men administrating it. The security of a city, of a country, or of the world, for that matter, could not be guaranteed by law and statute, but was dependent ultimately on the decency, good will, and ability of a handful of men.
The Commissioner always found this thought staggering and generally shied away from formulating it. Finally brushing it aside, he lit another stogie, and sat at his desk, contemplating with single-minded concentration the matter in hand. Speculation was futile: that was for philosophers and university professors.
There was a quick knock at the back door and Markland put his head in.
“Well?”
“The minister did the trick, sir,” said Markland. “Captain Dysen wants to get the whole business off his chest. Says he won’t sign the prepared statement, though, even if he did give it to you word for word. Says it is true, but does not go deep enough…”
“Ah!” cried the Commissioner, jumping up. Then he paused, and grew thoughtful. Finally he spoke. “This statement will be dynamite, Markland. You take it yourself. No stenographer. I don’t care how long you spend at it.”
“My shorthand’s fair, Commissioner.”
“And Markland—prepare yourself for a shock.”
“Yes, sir.”
The detective went out, his face eager, and the Commissioner returned to his place by the window. Again the beer had made him thirsty.
Both of the young cops rode up in the elevator with Arky. An old colored man was running it and joked amiably with them, paying no attention to Arky.
“What does he do, Pap,” one of the cops finally asked, “work round the clock?”
“The Boss? Yes sir,” said the old
colored man. “Sometimes round the clock. Sends me out for coffee and them cheap stogies he smokes. Them stogies hard to find. Nobody can stand ’em but him.”
The cops laughed. Arky felt completely shut out, but in his present state of mind it was not an unpleasant feeling. The excitement of the evening had entirely worn off, and he was at peace with the world: so much so, that it was almost as if his real life had come to an end and now all that remained was a brief and unimportant epilogue. Anna and the Judge could be tranquil now, wherever they were; and that they were someplace Arky never for a moment doubted.
Both Balch and Morgan looked up curiously when the two cops brought Arky into the Commissioner’s ante-room.
“General bulletin,” said one of the cops. “This is Orval Wanty, known as Arky.”
Morgan got up at once, almost overturning his chair. “General bulletin!” he snapped. “This man is wanted as a suspect in the Harry Radabaugh business at the Regent.”
“That, too,” said the cop, mildly. “In fact he seems to be a badly wanted boy.”
“Sit down,” said Balch to Arky; then he turned to the cops. “All right, boys. You delivered him.”
One of the cops shoved a form across the desk for Balch to sign, then they went out.
“What’s the general bulletin on him?” asked Morgan.
“Special priority,” said Balch. “Commissioner sent it out.”
Morgan showed amazement, but made no comment, and turned to study the tall lean farmerish-looking fellow who sat staring tranquilly at the floor. Farmerish and yet not farmerish. Here was a man who didn’t seem to hang together at all. He had a rough, weather-beaten face like a cowboy or a farmer, and the build, apparently, of a clothing model. Morgan wanted to hear him talk. Would his talk fit the face or the clothes?
Balch interrupted him by buzzing the inter-com. “Orval Wanty’s here, sir,” he said.
In spite of himself, Arky felt a slight tightening of his stomach muscles.
“All right, sir,” said Balch. “You buzz me when.” Balch clicked the inter-com, then picked up a magazine, ignoring Arky, who sighed and crossed his legs.
Little Men, Big World Page 24