by Jon Cleary
“They didn’t give us their reasons, but the Swiss guess they are fed up with being a haven for American malcontents. They’ve suggested we try somewhere else.”
“Where, for instance?” He thought of suggesting Australia, but it would have sounded like a sick joke; Canberra equated even the mildest protestor against the status quo with Attila the Hun; five anarchists would be akin to five carriers of bubonic plague. “Russia?”
“The State Department is trying Algeria.” Forte could detect the suspicion and frustration in Malone, and he found he could not blame the Australian. “But we have to do that through channels too - we have no diplomatic exchange with them. The Swiss are handling it for us there too. But it will take time - protocol always takes time.”
Malone could feel himself seething; but once again he knew he was trapped, that there was nothing he personally could do. Even as a lowly cop he knew the hobbling effects of protocol: it was one of the defences of uncertainty. He had seen it used by inspectors and above when he had been only a detective-sergeant; he could imagine how it was used in
the rarefied atmosphere of embassies and foreign ministries. Lisa’s and Sylvia Forte’s lives would mean little to men in Algiers or wherever who, even if asked to act urgently, would have to observe the rules against the day when more than the lives of a couple of women would be at stake. It’s a pity, Malone thought bitterly, ordinary citizens don’t rate the status of a hot line.
When he and Jefferson had come across here to City Hall, coming in out of the wind and the rain, they had at once been engulfed by a rip tide of frantically questioning newspapermen and television cameramen. The front hall had been thronged with people, their voices rising to the coffered ceiling of the dome, so that Malone, coming suddenly into it, had the impression of being trapped in a tremendous bowl of shouting. Several people, come down from the Biltmore, still wore their Forte for Mayor buttons. The whole scene had a touch of the ballyhoo of election night, except that something more tragic than a mere election defeat was possible.
Uniformed policemen had cleared a way for Malone and Jefferson through the crowd and escorted them down the hall to the Mayor’s office. As soon as Malone had entered the room he knew at once there was no good news for him. There was an air of crisis, reflected in the tense manner of all the men gathered there. He recognized most of the faces, but there was one new one: that of Pat Brendan, the District Attorney. He was a short, stocky man with a long Irish upper lip, bright blue eyes and fashionably long sideburns that distracted one’s gaze from the thinning hair on the top of his head. He wore a purple shirt and a purple-and-white figured tie and a brown suit that looked as if it had been cut for him by a tailor who had been afraid of running out of cloth. Malone, a quick student of types, guessed that Brendan was a politician who had decided to go for the young vote. At forty-five or thereabouts he had the slightly clownish look of a man who had arrived too late on the scene, the fancy dress guest who had missed last night’s ball.
Malone spoke to him now. “You’ve agreed, then, to let Parker and the others go?”
Brendan looked around at the other men before he replied. “I don’t think we’d ever considered the possibility of not letting them go - ” He saw the look on Malone’s face and read it correctly; he might pretend to be a middle-aged swinger, but he was no fool. “Okay, maybe we did think about it. We’ve had enough pressures on us - ” He looked back at Michael Forte. Okay, Mike, he’s your pigeon: you tell him.
“We’ve had advice from all over, Scobie,” said Forte. “There have been people calling me up who haven’t spoken to me since I moved into this office four years ago. The President, the Attorney-General - they’re great believers in law and order down in Washington. Mr Cartwright’s chief too-”
Cartwright tried to hide his embarrassment. “I’ve talked to the Chief, Mr Mayor. He doesn’t suggest we should hold out indefinitely. But he points out that the government down in Uruguay called the bluff of the Tupamaros when they kidnapped that British ambassador in Montevideo.”
“The governments in Argentina and Turkey didn’t manage to call any bluffs,” said Malone. “The kidnappers there killed their hostages. I don’t want that to happen to my wife!”
“We’re doing our best to see that doesn’t happen,” said Cartwright. He had eaten nothing but a couple of hamburgers all day, but he had had innumerable cups of coffee, as he always did when he had to work in long stretches, and his belly felt swollen. He had eased his belt out another hole, but he still felt uncomfortable. “But we’re handicapped by this storm - “
“Have you found out anything at all?” Malone said.
“We think we have a trace on one of the kidnappers. A woman phoned in from Jamaica, out on the Island, and gave us a tip. She’d heard the description on TV of the grey
delivery truck and she told us about the one she’d seen being driven into the house across the street from her. She said the people who’d taken the house were newcomers, a young couple. We checked - there was nobody in the house, but the truck was in the garage, minus its licence plates. There were some fingerprints on the wheel. They belong to Joseph Abel Swokowski, who was booked two years ago in Louisville, Kentucky, for taking a stolen car across a State line. He slugged the officer who was taking him to court and got away.”
“And that’s all you have so far?”
Cartwright hesitated, then nodded. What did this Aussie cop expect - miracles ? “We’ll get Swokowski eventually.”
“But not by tomorrow morning?”
Cartwright flushed, then shrugged. “I told you, Inspector - we’re doing all we can. But we need one piece of luck -something to turn up - ” He sighed, eased his belt away from his middle. “Trouble is, there seems no connection at all between those men in The Tombs and the kidnappers. We don’t even have a positive identification on any of those anarchists, except for Fred Parker. Two months and they’re still no more than just names to us.”
I’m that far ahead of you, Malone thought: Jefferson and I know Parker’s real name. But Parker, he was sure, did not know who the kidnappers were.
“I think we’re going to have to release those jerks in The Tombs,” said Brendan. “As soon as we get the word from the Algerians that they’ll take them, I’ll go see Judge Kazan. But it bugs me - “
“Not just you, Pat,” said Michael Forte.
“What happens if the Algerians won’t take them?” said Malone.
“I don’t know - I just don’t know.” Michael Forte closed his eyes for just a moment, as if blinking at a blow. “I have to go on the air in another forty-five minutes. I’m asking them for some definite proof that our wives are still alive. If they produce proof- let our wives speak to us on the phone
would be good enough - then we’ll release those men at seven tomorrow morning.”
“Assuming the Algerians agree, how long will it take to fly them to Algiers? They won’t release our wives till those blokes are there.”
Forte looked at Manny Pearl, the man with all the facts, “It would probably take seven or eight hours. I’ve chartered a 707 - it’s standing by, ready to go as soon as we give them the word.”
“Then it could be tomorrow night before we see our
wives
?’
“I’m afraid so.”
There was a faint rumble deep below the floor. A late train was going uptown, taking home the first of the night-workers, the last of the revellers. Malone had not ridden on the subway at night, but as a plainclothesman he had travelled on late trains out of Sydney to the suburbs, riding shotgun as it were against hooligans and, once, a pervert who had been molesting women. Night riders, he guessed, were the same anywhere.
Silent hunched figures, made pale by the callous lighting above them, their reflections staring at them from the dark-backed windows opposite them: some might look happy, a boy or a girl still excited by the lover they had just left, but most of them had the look of people who had seen their own gh
osts at one minute past death. Down there beneath his feet, Malone wondered how much misery was riding uptown, sitting there with their skulls on their hopeless shoulders beneath the advertisements that promised them riches and a better life. But, though he was normally a generous man, he had no pity for them tonight. He was hoarding it for himself, telling himself he needed it. He had reached the last resources of a despairing man.
“Where have you been tonight, Inspector?” Sam Forte, in the middle of the worst night of his life, looked as impeccable as ever. He had had a nap after dinner, then taken a bath, changed his entire wardrobe and come down here
to City Hall determined to sit out the hours till Sylvia and the Malone woman were returned safely. Joe Burgmann had been in touch with him before he had contacted Michael, had told him that the swing now appeared to be back to Michael and that if it kept up the election tomorrow would be in the bag. So one issue was safe; now he could concentrate on the safe return of Sylvia. Oh, and the Malone woman. In the meantime Malone himself looked as if he would have to be humoured. If he started talking to the press in his present mood he might alienate the sympathy that was building up for Michael. “I called you, I thought you might have cared for some company while Michael was out, but my grandchildren told me you had gone out with Captain Jefferson.”
“Where did you take the Inspector, John?” said Hunger-ford.
Malone and Jefferson looked at each other, then Jefferson, face as bland as the black ball on a pool table, said, “I thought the same as Mr Forte - that Inspector Malone might like some company. We continued our tour that was interrupted this morning, showing him how we operate.”
Malone glanced at Michael Forte, saw the quick warning frown and was puzzled for a moment. Then it clicked: ” Michael did not want Frank Padua mentioned in front of those in this room. “I was just filling in time,” he said to Sam Forte. “Trying to keep my mind off what might be happening to my wife and Mrs Forte.”
Sam Forte nodded sympathetically, but Hungerford said, “What were you doing over at The Tombs ? The Mayor said you called him from there. I hope you haven’t been encouraging the Inspector to do a little private investigating, Captain?” He glanced at Cartwright, then looked back at Jefferson. “There are enough of us in the act now.”
Jefferson looked uncomfortable and Malone said, “Blame me, Commissioner, not Captain Jefferson. I persuaded him to let me try and talk to the anarchists, to find out if they knew anything about my wife.”
Hungerford jammed a cigarette into his holder, but didn’t light it. He gave Jefferson a bad-tempered stare, then he looked back at Malone. “I’m refusing you permission to go near them again, Inspector - that’s official.”
“They are my responsibility, Des.” Pat Brendan tightened his gaudy tie, as if trying to strangle his annoyance; but his voice was steady. “However, I agree with you. No more visits to them, Inspector.”
“I saw them as a private individual,” said Malone, trying hard to keep his own voice steady. “I understand that until those blokes are convicted they are entitled to see anyone they wish. It’s part of what Captain Lewton was complaining about this morning when I met him. The rights of prisoners.”
“Jesus!” Hungerford’s holder snapped in his hands; the cigarette fell to the floor unnoticed. “A cop arguing for them Whose side are you on?”
“I’ve already answered that several times today,” said Malone. “My own and my wife’s.”
There was a tap on the door and the Mayor’s secretary, wan and tired-looking, put her head into the room. “Mr Mayor, the State Department is on the line.”
“I’ll take it in here.” Michael Forte picked up the phone, looked around at the other men as they all leaned forward. Only Sam Forte remained as he was, hands resting comfortably on the arms of his chair. Malone, leaning forward himself, had to admire the old man’s calmness. “Yes, this is Mayor Forte. Any news from Algeria?”
The look on his face instantly told the others the news was bad. He listened for a while, once or twice offering a half-argument, but whoever was on the other end of the line gave him no encouragement. At last he hung up, stared at the phone for a moment as if it were some totem that had unexpectedly let him down. Then he looked up and about him.
“The Algerians won’t play ball either. The Swiss said they considered the request for an hour, then came out with a flat no. No reasons, just no and that was it.”
“But why the hell - ?”
“The Swiss think the Algerians got in touch with the Cubans in that hour and they’ve both decided it was a good opportunity to embarrass us politically. The State Department agrees the Swiss opinion is probably right. If it had been any other city but New York and if I hadn’t been - well, a national figure-” His glance towards his father was so swift that it could have been no more than a tic of the eye. “Anyhow, that’s how it is. I’m sorry, Scobie. Your wife is being made to pay for being in America.”
“That’s no way to talk, Mike,” said Burgmann, heaving himself quickly off the couch. “Jesus, if a quote like that got out-”
“Relax,” said Malone sourly; he was sick and exhausted. “I’m not going to go quoting the Mayor to the press. I’m sure I’m the only one you’re worried about, so put your mind at rest.”
Manny Pearl, the pourer of oil on waters that looked like developing into rapids, interrupted. “I think we better start getting ready for your broadcast, Mr Mayor. If you gentlemen would excuse him - ?”
In the next few minutes he gave a demonstration of how to clear a room of people and a volatile atmosphere. Only Malone, on a nod from Michael Forte, and Sam Forte stayed behind, as the others, diplomatically herded by Manny Pearl, filed out the doorway. Manny looked back into the room, winked at Forte, then closed the door.
“He’s a genius at it. He once got rid of the Vice-President when he was up here telling me how to run the city.” Michael Forte smiled for the first time since Malone had entered the room. “If I’m re-elected tomorrow, maybe I should put him on to slum clearance.”
“I thought that was what he was doing then,” said Malone; then gestured, “Sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
“Inspector,” said Sam Forte, standing up for the first time and walking slowly about the room; his calmness had been
no more than self-control and now his limbs were stiff with the effort, “each of those men has his problems. They are the wages of our system. We like to think it’s the best system in the world. It isn’t - but as Joe Burgmann said, don’t quote me - but I don’t know of any other that would work any better in this country. The ideal might work, but unfortunately idealism has a natural enemy- human nature.”
“Around this time of night,” said Michael Forte, “my father tends to get cynical but honest. It’s when I love him most.”
“In politics this is the only hour for honesty. But something in your face, Inspector, tells me you already know that.”
“I’ve had experience of it,” said Malone, but he wasn’t going to elaborate on his own cynicism about Australian politics.
Michael Forte had been watching Malone and now he said abruptly, “Where did you really go tonight? I mean, before you finished up at The Tombs?”
“Police Headquarters,” said Malone, not blinking an eye.
Forte shook his head. “No, I called there after I’d called the house. When I talked to my son I had the feeling he was holding something back from me. Was he?”
“Yes,” Malone admitted. “Don’t blame him- I told him to keep his mouth shut. I went to see Frank Padua.”
“Jesus!” Forte thumped his desk with his fist. “Don’t you know when to leave things alone?”
“Ordinarily - yes. But this is different - my wife’s in danger and I couldn’t care less what happens to you and your bloody city!”
“What’s all this about?” Sam Forte said.
His son told him, then looked back at Malone. “And I suppose you got nowhere? I just hope to Christ you didn�
�t let him think Pd sent you - “
“He knows who sent me - you don’t have to worry. We had a bit of a donnybrook, but it paid off.” Malone then narrated the events of the evening. “Jefferson and I have
got this small clue about Latrobe. It may mean nothing, but it’s as much as anyone else has dug up. We want to go out and check it. Unless you want me to turn it over to the FBI and the Police Department?”
Michael Forte looked at his father, who spread his hands, not wanting to make the decision. You old bastard, Michael suddenly thought: all my life you’ve been pushing me, but never once have you laid your neck on the line, not even now. He looked back at Malone, suddenly prepared to listen to the Australian. “What do you want to do?”
“If I were working on my own, I’d turn it over to them -I wouldn’t know my way around. But I think John Jefferson is a bloody good officer - at least he and I get on with each other and he wants to wrap this up almost as much as I do. If it leads to something definite, then it will be a bigger job, too big for us, and we’ll turn it over to the Police Department at once. But first I’d like a crack at it with Jefferson. All my working life I’ve been a cop and this to me is the most important case I’ve ever had. I don’t want to sit on my arse worrying myself stiff while someone else works on it.”
When Malone had gone Michael Forte looked at his father, then up at the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece. Ten minutes to two: seven hours and ten minutes to the absolute deadline. “It’s a crazy time to be making a broadcast. If the kidnappers are as tired as I am, they’ll be asleep.”
“You’re awake because you’re worried. They could be worried too. What are you going to say in the broadcast?”
“Whatever I say, it won’t be political, so don’t be disappointed. I had enough of that, at least for tonight, when I was down at the Biltmore a couple of hours ago.”
As he had come down into the hotel lobby, escorted by Manny Pearl and Joe Burgmann and half a dozen of the