“Can I smoke?” he asked.
“I guess so,” said Balch. “Go ahead.”
Arky took out a morocco cigar-case and offered it to the others.
“You fellows join me?”
Balch glanced at the expensive cigars, then took one. “I’ll smoke it later,” he said.
Morgan did likewise, running the cigar under his nose, then putting it carefully in his coat pocket.
Arky bit off the end of his cigar and lit it with a gold lighter. Morgan leaned forward.
“Can I see that?”
Arky handed him the lighter. “Friend of mine sent me that one Christmas,” he explained. “He’s dead now.”
“Never saw one like it,” said Morgan, noting Arky’s country accent. “Nice job.” He handed it back.
“This friend of mine,” Arky went on, “picked it up one time he was in Paris, France.”
“Your friends seem to get around,” said Morgan.
“Only friend I ever had who travelled in foreign countries for pleasure. Course I knew a lot of fellows who were across the water fighting, in one war or the other.”
“Were you in?”
“No,” said Arky. “I was in a defense plant for a while but some bastard dropped a sledge-hammer on my foot and broke four toes. I was on crutches for a long time.” Every once in a while Arky would refer to the period when he’d worked in a defense plant. But he’d only done it as a blind and to keep out of unnecessary beefs during the war. At first he hadn’t even taken the trouble to cash his pay checks, but just stuffed them into a drawer. Anna found them one day by accident and appropriated them. After that, he gave them to her for pin-money.
The conversation lapsed. Morgan was baffled by this strange man, and kept glancing at him surreptitiously; finally he took Balch aside and asked:
“You think I ought to question him now, or wait?”
“You better wait,” said Balch. “The Commissioner sent the special out for him, and I can’t bother the Commissioner about this now. He’s busy.”
Morgan sat down again.
Time passed slowly in the stuffy office.
Arky smoked lazily, with a controlled face, but inwardly he was struggling to snap himself out of the worst feeling of slackness he’d ever experienced in his life. He wanted to lie down someplace and go to sleep, and the hell with it! Nothing seemed to matter now at all.
Morgan studied him out of the corner of his eye. Sensing the dick’s covert scrutiny, Arky put his cigar on the edge of the desk, took off his hat, got out a comb and ran it through his hair; then he picked up his cigar and puffed on it slowly.
“Any idea what the Commissioner wants with me?” he asked, smiling.
“No,” said Morgan.
Inside, the Commissioner, with a stiff face, was reading the newly written statement that Captain Dysen had signed. Markland sat nearby, looking on, with a sort of horror still showing in his eyes. He was so badly shaken that his face was as greyish as the face of Captain Dysen himself. A whole world had fallen down about him. Judge Greet? Gordon King? Impossible! Fantastic! Nightmare stuff!
But the Commissioner read on and on without a change of expression, and finally at the last page nodded, as if the whole wild, unbelievable thing merely confirmed a preconception.
He glanced up, noticed Markland’s discomposure. “I warned you, didn’t I?”
Markland nodded and wet his dry lips with his tongue.
“How’s Dysen?”
“The doctor’s with him now. He looks to me like a very sick man.”
The Commissioner sighed. “The Judge dead. Gordon King not expected to live. And now Dysen. Shall we talk to Orval Wanty?”
Markland’s eyes showed a flash of life and the color began to come back into his face. “Yes,” he said. “There’s a man I’m curious about.”
“Why—particularly?”
“Because he was able to operate the way he did and still stay in the background.”
“A dangerous man, you’d say?”
“I would.”
“That’s also my opinion,” said the Commissioner, then he turned and buzzed the inter-com. “Send Wanty in. Morgan still there? Have him wait. He can book Wanty at Downtown later.” The Commissioner glanced at Markland. “How’s your shorthand coming along?”
“Not bad. I did pretty well with Captain Dysen.”
“I’ll go slow with Wanty. Get it all down. This man is going to be questioned a lot, in regard to the Radabaugh business at least, and I want to keep a check.”
Although Arky felt a slight nervous tremor when Balch told him he was wanted inside, also a certain curiosity, he could not shake off the basic feeling of indifference, of apathy even, that had been possessing him ever since he’d been picked up by the two young cops. “I played my hand out and won,” he told himself, “and it’s like it was time to cash in my checks now and go home to bed.”
But his attitude changed almost at once when he stepped into the Commissioner’s office and saw Stark and the big dick, Markland, waiting for him. His hackles began to rise, his nerves tensed up, and his normal feeling of wariness, of going armed against the world, came back on him so suddenly that his eyes flashed before he could veil them, and his face set into grim lines. He saw the Commissioner’s quick, inclusive, weighing glance; he noted Markland’s curious, unwinking appraisal; then he brought his feelings and his face into control, smiled easily, indicated his cigar and said:
“Excuse me, Commissioner. I didn’t realize this thing was in my hand.”
The Commissioner smiled slightly. He had noticed the quick transition from grim, resentful wariness to amiability, and he was interested and ironically amused. “That’s all right, Wanty,” he said. “You can smoke. Sit down.”
Arky picked out a straight chair near the Commissioner’s desk, sat down, and took a puff or two on his cigar. His curiosity grew as the seconds ticked past, and the big dick put a notebook on the table in front of him and toyed with a pencil, and the Commissioner walked to the water-cooler and got himself a drink. What did the man want with him? The general bulletin had been sent out, he was almost certain, before the Commissioner had had any knowledge of the Radabaugh business. The Commissioner was a big man, almost as big as the Judge had been: he didn’t fool around with penny-ante stuff. Could Dysen have talked? Arky felt a definite tightening in his chest at the thought. Dysen had been in bad shape the last time he’d spoken with him. All the same, he’d ordered the raids! Unlikely he’d talk. Arky crossed his legs and tried to appear at ease.
Nobody said anything. The Commissioner went to his desk, sat down, and began to shuffle some papers about. The clamor of the city came in the open windows.
Were they trying to make him uneasy? Sweating him? Arky smiled inwardly. He was a pretty good man at that little trick himself.
“Wanty,” said the Commissioner finally, “I’ve got quite a few questions I’d like to ask you. But first, let’s have your version of the Radabaugh business.”
“Yes sir,” said Arky; then he glanced over at Markland. “I see he’s going to take it all down, and by rights, I shouldn’t answer no questions at all without talking to a lawyer. I don’t know nothing about legal stuff and I might put my foot in it, one way or another. I don’t mean because I’m guilty of anything serious. But I’ve sure seen a lot of fellows get tangled up in the law because they didn’t know any better. I did myself once.” He spoke in a low, reasonable voice, exaggerating his accent. “However, Commissioner, I’ve heard you’re a man that can be trusted, so I’ll waive all that about a lawyer and dive in.”
“Go ahead,” snapped the Commissioner, not liking Arky’s attitude of doing the police a favor, or his flattery. “I assure you, your rights will be protected.”
“I figured so,” said Arky; then he calmly gave his version of the Radabaugh business in as few words as possible, stopping once to relight his cigar with the gold cigar-lighter the Judge had brought him from Paris. The Commissioner, w
ho never paid any attention to irrelevant trifles and was immune to gadget-love, ignored the lighter, somewhat to Arky’s surprise and disappointment—it almost always caused favorable comment, and was useful, for that reason, as a distractor. Finally he stopped talking. He had given nothing but facts, and had made no attempt to generalize or give a resume. The Commissioner considered it a model of testimony.
“I see,” he said finally. “You have nothing to add?”
“No sir,” said Arky. “Nothing I can think of at the moment.”
“All right. Now I’d like to ask you a question or two.”
“I’ll do my best to answer.”
“Were you a regular customer at the Regent?”
“No.”
“Why did you go there to get a drink, then?”
“I was driving past. I needed a drink. I saw the sign. So I went in.”
“Ever been there before?”
“Yeah. But not for a few years. I suppose I been there six or seven times in ten years.”
“Why did you need a drink?”
Arky hesitated, then smiled slightly. “Didn’t you ever need a drink, Commissioner?”
Markland coughed uncomfortably behind his hand.
The Commissioner showed a flash of anger. “Just answer the questions, Wanty. What I need or don’t need has nothing to do with this.”
Arky showed a sober face. “Sorry, sir,” he said. “Now as to that question: I think, sir, that I should refuse to answer it as the answer might tend to incriminate me.”
“In regard to the murder of Radabaugh?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, that’s the matter in hand. Anything else is irrelevant, and will be treated as such, so answer the question.”
“Well, you see, Commissioner, I’m a bookmaker. Things are getting rough. The police are knocking the boys over one by one lately. I was figuring I might be next, so I needed a drink.” The Commissioner nodded to himself. Shrewder and shrewder! “I see. All right, Wanty. I guess that answer is sufficient. Now—why did Watrus search you for a gun?”
“I’m not sure, sir. But I think it must have been Harry’s idea. Harry was a jumpy kind of fellow.”
“But why you? Did he have anything to fear from you?”
“No. But maybe he thought he did.”
“Why?”
Arky hesitated. “It’s a long story, Commissioner, and it’s one I don’t think I ought to tell. Informing’s not my business.”
“Clearing yourself is.”
“In this case, I’m clear, sir. You can’t hang a shooting on a man who didn’t have a gun. However, I’ll say this much. The story has to do with the gambling set-up in this town. And in a way, Harry was on one side and me on the other. Of course, Harry was a big man and I’m nothing but a small bookmaker. But I was one of the bookies getting crowded by Harry and his bosses, so he might have figured I came in to get him. He always hangs out there. Everybody knows it.” The Commissioner glanced at Markland, who was writing busily, and paused to give him time to catch up. His respect for Arky’s cunning was growing.
“All right,” he said, finally. “Another question. You say Radabaugh quarreled with you and refused to drink with you because you took your coat off. That’s a little thin, Wanty.”
“Sometimes the truth is kinda thin,” said Arky. “However, you can check all that, sir. Plenty of witnesses. He told me I looked like a hick who’d just come in for the State Fair, then he pushed me and told me to get along. Then he got it. Somebody right behind me. I could feel the heat.”
“I see. All right. Why didn’t you stay there, then? Why did you run away?”
“I figured it might be a good idea. First, I’m searched for a gun by one of Harry’s friends. Then Harry gets killed. I got no friends in the place. Harry’s got fifty. I was figuring I might get one in the back. Could happen.”
“All right. Then what?”
“How do you mean, sir?”
“Where did you go afterwards?”
Arky hesitated for a split second. “I went out the side entrance and grabbed a taxi…”
“Just a minute,” said the Commissioner. “Same taxi? Did it wait for you?”
“Same taxi? I didn’t drive up in no taxi.”
“Well, where was your car then? Why take a taxi?”
“This is getting more and more complicated, Commissioner. But, okay. I have a boy drive my car for me. I’m a lousy driver and people have kept telling me for so long I’d kill myself that I don’t drive much anymore. Well, Commissioner, I sent this boy on to the news-stand at the Metropole to pick up a lot of newspapers and magazines for me. Told him to wait, I’d come along in a taxi in a few minutes…”
“I don’t understand all this, Wanty. Elaborate.”
Arky laughed quietly. “I’m telling you it’s getting complicated. I wanted him to pick up these papers and magazines because I was figuring on taking a long trip…”
“Where?”
“Chicago.”
“Why?”
“I was taking it on the lam, Commissioner.”
“Why?”
“I figured the gambling game was played out. I turned my place over to my partner. That’s why I was feeling low and went in for a drink.”
“When the police picked you up you were where?”
“I was in my car going to Chicago.”
“I see. And the boy? Wasn’t he picked up, too?”
Arky looked at the floor to veil the triumph in his eyes. “No, sir. He wasn’t.”
The Commissioner hit the ceiling. Markland jumped up, almost upsetting his table, and ran out into the anteroom, leaving the door open. Arky could hear three voices going at once, then he heard Balch calling Downtown and giving the switchboards a blanket call for a certain special radio-car. The young cops were really going to get hell.
“Excuse me, sir,” said Arky, “but I think maybe I can help you. I told the kid to take the car to the garage till he heard from me, so…”
“Wait till Markland comes back,” shouted the Commissioner, his eyes blazing; then he took out a stogie and gnawed on it.
In a moment Markland returned and Arky gave him the address of the Greek’s garage in the 17th Ward, then he added: “The kid ought to be there by now unless he’s picked up his girl and took her out for a ride. Though I don’t know what you want with this poor kid.”
“What’s the license number?” asked Markland.
“That I don’t know,” said Arky. “I got no head for remembering figures.”
“Where’s your driver’s license?”
“I haven’t got any.”
“With you, everything is illegal—right?” snapped the Commissioner.
“I wouldn’t say that,” said Arky. “I told you I don’t drive much anymore. That’s why I got the kid.”
“How’s the car registered?” asked the Commissioner. Arky hesitated. He felt a strong and growing antagonism for Stark. Anger nagged at him, but he controlled it. Right now was a good time for a guy to keep his head. “I refuse to answer,” he said, shortly.
The Commissioner turned his back and went to the water-cooler.
“You better co-operate,” said Markland, showing a flash of anger.
“I been co-operating. If I ain’t careful, I’ll end up in jail cooperating over stuff that’s got nothing to do with what we’re talking about. A guy gets killed standing next to me. I’m in my shirtsleeves; I got no gun. And what happens? Now I got to prove who my car’s registered to. I answer no more questions about this till I talk to my lawyer.”
Turning, ignoring Arky, the Commissioner called: “Sit down, Markland. Start a new section. I’m through questioning him about Radabaugh. We’ll take up another little matter.” Arky felt that tightening in his chest again. This was it, the real thing! They would now get down to cases. He decided to play along with the Commissioner—at least until he could get some insight into the reason for his being hauled in by the Commissioner’s specia
l police.
“Commissioner,” he said, “you got to excuse me. I guess I lost my temper.”
Not fooled at all by Arky’s sudden docility, the Commissioner merely nodded, glanced at Markland to see if he was ready, then turning to Arky asked bluntly:
“Do you know Police Captain Carl Dysen?”
Arky’s face did not show a quiver. “Yes, sir.”
“How well?”
“To say hello to. I been within hollering distance of him for maybe ten years.”
“He’s not a friend of yours?”
“No, Commissioner,” said Arky with a straight face. “I got no policeman friends. You see, I’m a bookie.”
This was insolence, but hard to pin down, so the Commissioner let it pass. “Without policemen friends, how can you operate?”
“I’m pretty small. Just a little book. Not much take. I’m what is known as a weak tap.”
“You look prosperous enough.”
“Well, I been operating a long time, and I’m careful with my money.”
“What kind of car was that you were driving to Chicago ... I mean, your chauffeur was driving?”
Arky laughed. “Oh, he’s no chauffeur. Like I said, he’s just a kid drives for me to keep me from killing myself. I feed him, that’s all.”
“What kind of car?”
“A Cadillac. But I’ve only had it about a week. Bought it cheap, second-hand.”
“I see. Well, as that Cadillac is part of the Radabaugh case we’ll leave it for the moment. You say, then, that Captain Dysen is a mere acquaintance.”
“Very mere, sir. In fact I doubt if he’d remember me. Maybe he would. I been around the 17th long enough.”
The Commissioner rose and went to the water-cooler, but came back without getting a drink, realizing suddenly how much water he’d been pouring down, and fearing that if he didn’t stop it he’d be up all night. He glanced at Markland, who seemed to be doing very well; then, fooling with some papers on his desk, not looking at Arky, he said:
“There are a couple of what for want of a better word I must refer to as public figures I want to ask you about. Leon Sollas and Rudy Solano. Do you know them?”
Little Men, Big World Page 25