by Horace McCoy
Helen had never forgotten those two weeks. She had lived in the old inn in the village, and when her husband had been busy with the aviation mechanics he had got from Montreal, she had helped at the foundling home. And through the years since that time she had been almost the sole financial contributor.
That was where Amanda found her, as she had known she would. She herself was no stranger to Valois. She had come half a dozen times in her later childhood. The moment she saw her mother she knew that the long trip had been useless. There was in her face a softness and a tranquility that Amanda had never before seen.
But she tried, anyway, to persuade her mother to return to the city. It was hopeless. Helen Waycross simply said that she was no longer fit to sit on the bench. She would never leave Valois. She would stay forever. She would atone.
“But you, Amanda,” she said, “must go back and finish your work. It is your world. It belongs to your generation. It will be what you make of it. What all the Amandas and all the John Conroys make of it.”
Amanda’s walking out on John Conroy was the last in a series of unpleasant and disheartening incidents—he made up his mind that it would be the last. He packed up and went back to the only place where he had ever felt a sense of peace, the university. He arrived early in the morning at Dean Roughead’s small cottage, to ask if he might spend a few days with the old gentleman.
“What the hell for?” Dean Roughead demanded.
John tried to explain.
“You mean you’re giving up?” Dean Roughead asked, as if even the idea of such a thing was taboo.
“What else can I do now?” John said. “I’ve ruined it all, the investigation, everything. My father’s dead, Judge Waycross has gone away in disgrace. I’ve even lost my girl.”
Dean Roughead looked at him keenly. “Come in, John boy. We’ll talk this thing out.”
They spent long hours that night and the next in conversation. But John could not be convinced that his return to the city would accomplish anything. So Dean Roughead did the only thing that he knew to do—he telegraphed District Attorney Fogel, telling him of John’s whereabouts. More than that he was helpless to do; less than that he could not do.
Fogel, Amanda and Cicero Smith arrived by special plane and took a cab to Dean Roughead’s little house. Dean Roughead met them at the door and silently ushered them into the kitchen where John was drinking coffee. He looked up, surprised and angry.
“Mind if we talk to him alone?” Fogel asked.
Dean Roughead said, “Of course not,” and went out.
“We know how you feel about this, John,” Fogel said. “We also know how Nemo Crespi’ll feel when he finds out you’ve pulled off the case.”
“You’ve got to come back,” Cicero Smith said.
“Make up your mind to one thing,” John said. “I’m not going back. I’m through making mistakes. From now on—” He shook his head. “There’ll be no more stumbling around. From now on I’m going to be what I should have been all along—just another guy.”
“I’m sure you’re making the ghost of Mike Conroy very happy with that kind of talk,” Cicero said.
Amanda opened her bag and handed him a letter. It was addressed to John Conroy. He read:
Dear John:
I write this to you because I know that sooner or later Amanda will find you—sooner or later the woman always finds the man she loves.
I hope and pray that she will find you in time to finish the job you have started. This may not be; but because I know Amanda, it WILL be that she will find you in time to finish your lives together.
God bless you.
Helen Waycross
John looked at Amanda.
“Mother’s in a small village in Canada,” Amanda said. “So small that it’s not even on the map. She’s doing what she wants to do, and she’s happy.”
John held out the letter to Amanda but she did not take it. She took his hand instead. John’s eyes closed and he pressed his lips together. Then his face relaxed and into it there came the semblance of a smile.
Fogel and Cicero smiled, too.
On the way back to the city in the plane they told John that they had a major surprise for him. Like all good district attorneys, Fogel was something of a dramatist, and that night Amanda and Cicero helped Fogel set the stage for the surprise.
It took place that night in the cabin of a tugboat tied up in the channel. John was sitting watching the door when Paul Sublette walked in.
“He tried to get in touch with you for two days,” Fogel said. “He finally agreed to meet Cicero and me.”
“I have to be careful, Mr. Conroy. Awful careful. They’ll kill me if they ever find out about this.”
“Are you ready to talk now?” John demanded instantly.
Sublette nodded. “I’m ready. I’ll talk.”
Chapter Seven
SUBLETTE SAID THAT HE had wanted desperately to talk to Conroy ever since that morning in the hospital following the explosion. He said he knew who had set off the explosion—Ackerman. There was no mistake. A second before he had been slugged, he had recognized the wrist watch that Ackerman wore on the inside of his left arm.
“Nemo blew up that place, I knew that when I came to. He killed his own sister, Mr. Conroy. But when you and Mr. Fogel came in to talk to me I had to put on an act. Nemo and Roy would have killed me right then if I had let on. They came because they were afraid I had recognized one of them.”
John looked at him. “You realize the spot you’re in, Paul? They can still kill you.”
“I know,” he said. “But I’ll see that son-of-a-bitch burn if it’s the last thing I ever do.”
“Wouldn’t it be safer for him if we locked him up in jail where nobody could get to him?” John asked Fogel.
“It would be safer. But we think it’s better this way. Now we have somebody inside working for us.”
“Don’t worry about me,” Paul said. “I’ll take my chances.”
“You’ve got guts, Sublette.”
He smiled. “No. I’m just a guy who was in love with a woman.”
John shook hands with him. “Thanks,” he said.
Sublette went out.
“He give us anything at all we can move on?” John asked.
“Sure. Eubanks, the ethyl ether guy.”
“Where is he?”
“We don’t know where he is now. Sublette couldn’t find out. But we know where he’ll be. He’s meeting Roy Ackerman in front of the Arcade Building tomorrow morning at nine-thirty.
The capture of Eubanks presented a problem: how to take him without Ackerman knowing who picked him up. If Ackerman knew Eubanks had been taken in custody around the Arcade Building at 9:30 he would realize that John had been tipped off to the rendezvous. Everything would point to a leak in Nemo’s organization. So at 8:15 in the morning John held a conference on strategy. Rader, the clerk from the Eubanks Novelty Company, was present, and Amanda, Cicero, Eimick and Sergeant Tom Timberlake, in civilian clothes.
John held up a diagram of the Arcade Building block. “Look at this. There will be a car spotted at this corner, the one to the north. In that car will be Eimick. There will be a cab across the street from the building, and in it will be Rader and me. In front of the Arcade Building will be Sergeant Timberlake. He knows the man Eubanks is supposed to meet.” John purposely didn’t mention Ackerman by name. “And his assignment is to get that man out of the way. This is only in case that man reaches the rendezvous first, so we can get rid of him without him knowing about us. We are hopeful that Eubanks will arrive first. But we have no way of knowing. Everybody understand that?”
“All I do,” Rader said, “is to tell you when I see Eubanks.”
“That’s right. All set?”
They said they were ...
At 9:20 John and Rader crawled into a taxicab in front of the Arcade Building. John handed the driver a five-dollar bill, telling him they just wanted to sit there and have a conferenc
e.
Sergeant Timberlake was leaning against the wall of the Arcade Building entrance.
They waited ...
At 9:29 Timberlake saw Roy Ackerman coming down the street. He pushed his big frame away from the wall and strolled down to meet him.
“Hiya, Roy,” he said.
Ackerman stopped, frowning. “Hi, Sergeant,” he said, with some reservation.
“Wanna talk to you, Roy,” Timberlake said. “You got time for a beer? Wanna ask a little favor of you, now that we bumped into each other.”
Ackerman’s eyes widened a little. Favor? The chance to do a favor for a sergeant assigned to John Conroy’s squad didn’t come every day. “Okay. But make it fast.”
They went inside the saloon.
By then it was 9:32.
“There he is,” Rader said suddenly. “The heavy-set man with the blue suit. Wearing glasses.”
The man he pointed out was just reaching the curb after crossing the street. John signaled Eimick.
Eimick got out of his car and went up to the heavy-set man.
“Let’s go, Eubanks,” he said.
“Go? There must be some mistake,” Eubanks said stiffly. “My name’s not Eubanks.”
“No mistake,” Eimick said. He grabbed him by the arm and hustled him back into the car, putting him in the front seat.
He blew four short blasts on his horn.
Sergeant Timberlake, standing in the corner of the bar nearest the door, heard the four blasts. He looked at the sheet of paper he had been writing on. “Santa Anita, Fairgrounds and Jamaica. Well, thanks, Roy. Hope I make enough for the installment on the washing machine.”
Ackerman smiled. “If you get too far behind, Sarge, let me know.”
Timberlake went out.
The clock in the jewelry window across the street read 9:34.
Eubanks wouldn’t talk. He was petrified with fear. John, Fogel, Cicero and Amanda all took turns working on him. They threatened, they reasoned, they cajoled. Finally they decided it was useless to prolong the agony.
“I want him locked up,” John said to Fogel. “Alone. In communicado. I don’t want anybody to know we’ve nailed this baby. Let him sleep and we’ll have at him again tonight. Nothing must happen to him.”
“Nothing will,” Fogel said.
“I’ll go along,” Timberlake said. He wanted to get to a phone. He had a couple of small bets to make ...
At noon Ackerman reported to Nemo and Harrigan that Eubanks had not shown up. He had waited around till 11:30.
“Something happened between the time I heard from him yesterday morning and this morning,” Nemo said.
“Maybe he got cold feet,” Igo said.
“But why?” Harrigan asked.
“I hesitate to mention this,” Trickett said. “But as a member of Eubanks’s welcoming committee who’s very disappointed that he didn’t walk into our parlor—do you suppose Conroy could have anything to do with this?”
“He ain’t that smart,” Ackerman said. “He can’t read minds. He couldn’t know anything about this.”
“Unless he was tipped off,” Trickett said.
Ackerman looked at him, furious. “Don’t beat around the bush, you bastard,” he said. “Say what you’re thinking. You mean me?”
“Stop it,” Harrigan said. “This fighting among ourselves is no good. We’ll hear from Eubanks pretty soon. Wait and see.”
Harrigan was right. They heard. So did a lot of other people. It was in the afternoon newspapers.
CONROY WITNESS HANGS SELF IN JAIL USES SHIRT WHILE AWAITING QUIZ
“Now how the hell did that punk get hold of him?” Nemo said. “I want to know how the hell it happened.”
“There’s one way to find out,” Ackerman said.
He took Igo and Trickett with him.
Not for a long time had the “cellar” been used. It was a concrete room under the floor in the rear of Crespi and Company where produce had once been stored, but it had subsequently been used for what Nemo’s boys humorously came to call the “persuading” room.
Sitting on the floor in the middle of the room under the dull glow of a 50-watt electric lamp in a heavy wire cage in the ceiling, was Sergeant Tom Timberlake.
He was handcuffed and his face was bloody. His coat and shirt were off and Igo Grodzka was behind him on his knees, his long-bladed knife out, performing an intaglio on the almost insensible sergeant’s back.
“It was a frame, wasn’t it?” Ackerman was shouting into Timberlake’s ear. “You decoyed me while Conroy’s men pinched Eubanks. Who tipped you off?”
Timberlake writhed in agony but he said nothing.
Ackerman kicked Timberlake. The sergeant fell back on the point of the knife and groaned in pain.
Harrigan said, “For God’s sake, don’t you see this man knows nothing?”
“What’s the matter, you got a nervous stomach, Eamon?” Nemo said.
“I’m leaving;” Harrigan said suddenly.
Nemo took his arm. “You’re staying, Eamon. This is the way we built the business that made you rich. A man should know his business from the ground up.”
“Who tipped Conroy?” Ackerman shouted.
Timberlake moaned.
“Ah, it’s useless,” Nemo said. “He don’t know nothing.”
Ackerman took out his pistol. He bent down to Timberlake. “You got one chance. Who tipped you?”
Timberlake said nothing. He tried to part his lips to show his contempt for them.
Ackerman put the pistol almost against Timberlake’s forehead, as if he were administering a coup de grâce.
Harrigan turned away.
There was a single muffled shot, and the sound of Harrigan vomiting.
Nemo and Eamon were sitting at the soda fountain. Harrigan had his face half buried in a big pointed paper cup that frothed with Bromo-Seltzer. He put down the black plastic holder that held the paper cup and wiped his lips on a paper napkin. His face was still pale.
Nemo picked up the check. “You know something?” he said. “If you’d paid to get in to see that, I’d have to give you your money back.”
He walked to the cashier in front and gave her the check and a five-dollar bill. “Some silver,” he said. “Some quarters.”
He walked over to the telephone booth and Harrigan went over and stood outside the booth. Nemo saw his shadow and pulled the door open. Harrigan crowded inside and Nemo closed the door.
“Hello,” Nemo said into the phone. “Lemme talk to Harry Bushrod.”
“Nemo, how are you?”
“Well, I’m holding on, anyway.”
“What’s the angle with this Conroy? Politics?”
“This guy’s a lily-white.”
“Give him time. Give him time.”
“I can’t wait that long, Harry. I got to move kind of fast now. You still got Red Pringle around?”
“Are you kidding? Have the Yankees still got Mantle around?”
“Is he still on that stuff?”
“No more than usual. Why?”
“I’d like to borrow him.”
“Why? You got Ackerman. You got Trickett. Either one of them’ll make a monkey out of Red.”
“They’re local boys, Harry. I got to have an outsider for this in case anything goes wrong.”
“When do you want him?”
“The sooner the better.”
“By airplane?”
“Yeah. Fine. Start him on a diet right now.”
“Okay, I’ll get a seat on the five o’clock plane out of here this afternoon. That puts him in your place at eleven-ten tonight. Municipal Airport.”
“I’ll have Ackerman and Trickett meet him.”
“Red wouldn’t remember ’em.”
“Okay. They’ll both wear white carnations. They’ll meet him right by the passenger gate.”
“Fine. White carnations. Okay. They’ll be there. Eleven-ten.”
“Thanks, Harry. Thanks very much.”
The ground crew pushed up the steps and the passengers started getting off. The tenth passenger to come down the steps was Red Pringle. He was about one hundred and thirty pounds and slender. There was a man with him, taller and heavier, and he held Red’s arm as they moved toward the gate.
“That’s him,” Trickett said.
The tall man and Red approached the gate and the tall man saw two men wearing white carnations.
“Hi,” the tall man said.
“Hello, Red,” Trickett said.
Red just looked at him. His lips twitched.
Ackerman said, “This way.”
They went through the lobby and crossed the street to the big parking lot and found the black Cadillac. They all got in and sat down. The tall man leaned forward. “I’m Kip Theban.”
“I’m Roy Ackerman,” Ackerman said. “This is Verne Trickett.”
“Hi,” Theban said. “This is Verne Trickett and Roy Ackerman, Red.”
“I know him,” Trickett said. “I know you,” he said to Red. “Don’t you remember me?”
“He don’t feel too hot,” Theban said.
“Get him,” Red said. He made no effort to be friendly. “Sure. I remember you.” He looked at Theban. “This is the guy I was telling you about. Through a heavy plate-glass window, it was. First shot he used to knock out the glass and before the guy on the couch knowed what it was all about—ping! Right through the eye.”
“Lay off that,” Trickett said.
“Don’t you like to hear how good you are?” Red asked.
“He knows how good he is, Red,” Ackerman said.
Red’s lips twitched again. “But he ain’t good enough, is he? Aw, he’s all right for the little stuff, but when it comes to the big ones ...”
Trickett leaned back and slapped him across the mouth “I told you to lay off,” he said.
Theban said, “You oughtn’t to do that, Trickett. Red don’t feel so good.”