by Horace McCoy
“He’ll feel worse if you don’t keep him piped down.”
Red said, “I know what’s eating him. He’s jealous ’cause they sent for me.”
“You son-of-a-bitch,” Trickett said. “Minute one of you bastards gets east of the Mississippi he thinks he’s God Almighty.”
“That ain’t it,” Theban said. “Harry’s got him on a diet.”
Red Pringle doubled up and started whimpering like a baby.
The five-piece orchestra at the Golden Cock was playing an innocuous tune and Amanda was sitting with John Conroy at their usual table for two in the corner. “... only about six miles across Lake St. Peter at this point,” she was saying. “I went in a speed boat and the fish were so thick that the last mile I am sure I could have got out and walked ashore on their backs. Do you like fishing?”
“I never tried,” he said.
“My father used to like to fish. Well—the best part of the trip was from Nicolet in to Valois. Little villages. Green rolling country. Cows and sheep—” She broke off abruptly as he gulped his cognac. “You’re bored,” she said.
“No, I’m not,” he said.
“You’re restless.”
He smiled at her. “If I had to list your charms, do you know what I’d put at the top?”
“What?”
“Your intuition. You’ve got the swiftest intuition of any woman I’ve ever met.” He nodded to the waiter and he came over with the check.
John followed Amanda down the three steps to the floor.
“Good night, Miss Waycross,” said the maître d’hôtel at the door. “Good night, Mr. Conroy.”
They went out and John signaled for a cab. Amanda was surprised.
“Aren’t we going to walk? The hotel’s not far—”
“We’re not going to the hotel,” he said. He helped her in. “The Grosvenor House,” he said to the driver.
“Why there?” she asked.
“Be romantic, will you? I want to sit on your veranda and look at the lights of the city—the way I did the first night I met you.”
“But the apartment’s closed. It may be sublet by now for all I know.”
“Then we’ll un-sublet it.”
She smiled and put her hand in his.
He nodded. “You remember Dean Roughead. Remind me to send him a telegram. Because I was right. I told him that power corrupts. Yes, sir, a man’s ego is a fearsome thing. Did you see the way the women looked at me when I walked out of the restaurant?”
“Those creeps,” she said.
“Creeps? They were beautiful.”
“I noticed you took your time about getting out.”
“Just trying to make it last as long as possible,” he said, “as long as possible.”
“Win, lose, or draw, make up your mind to one thing,” she said. “Your days of anonymity are over.”
“Well,” he said, “I hope you know how to compete for my favor.”
She pulled him over and kissed him.
There were two strands of copper wire on the desk in John’s office. They were about ten feet long and were bumpy and a little twisted.
Eimick said, “That’s known in the trade as e.b. copper wire. Sometimes it’s used in radio construction, but mostly it’s used for detonating wire.”
Cicero said, “No doubt about this?”
“Positively,” Eimick said. “That was under all the debris. That is what was used.”
“We’ll have trouble tracing that, won’t we?”
“It’ll be like looking for a needle in a haystack.”
“Police Lab might show something.”
“I don’t see what we can lose,” Eimick said.
“Do that, then,” John said.
As Ansel and Eimick went out they were almost run over by two men coming in. One of them was in the uniform of a Deputy Police Commissioner. The other man was smaller and wore a neat brown suit with a blue shirt and a blue knit tie.
“I’m Commissioner Decherd. This is Inspector Zumbro,” Decherd Said. “We’re cops. Professional cops, that is.” His words and his manner were brusque.
John was instantly angry, but he tried not to show it. “How do you do. This is Cicero Smith, Amanda Waycross—”
“Yeah,” Decherd said. “We know who you are. You mind if we ask you a few questions?”
“Not if you make it snappy,” John said, still burning. “We’re about to have tea. I’m sure that wouldn’t interest you gentlemen—”
“Look, lad,” Decherd said. “You better change your tone. You got no call to feel superior just because you got a lousy piece of paper from the governor. All you’ve done since you been here is get people killed.”
“It’s a war,” John said. “People get killed in a war.”
Zumbro looked at Decherd. “We don’t know if Timberlake’s dead yet.”
John felt the rush of blood to his cheeks. “Timberlake? Dead?”
“Well, he’s missing.”
“Since when?” Cicero asked.
“We don’t know that either. Since six o’clock yesterday we know. He didn’t get home for supper.”
“What we want to know is if any of you heard Tom say anything about what he was going to do yesterday afternoon,” Decherd said. “Did he get any phone calls or anything?”
“Not that I know of,” John said. “We’ll ask the guards at the door.”
“We already asked them,” Zumbro said.
“Well, Commissioner,” John said sincerely, “you name it and we’ll do it. Anything at all to help. I’m sure Timberlake is all right. You know how wives are.”
“No, I don’t,” Decherd said. “I ain’t married.”
He and Zumbro started out. Decherd paused at the door. “And I’ll tell you one other thing. That piece of paper you got don’t make you no cop, either.”
There was a big photograph of John Conroy’s head on the wall of Nemo’s cellar, four feet square. Beside it was a life-size cut-out. The two photographs of John were enlargements from newspaper pictures.
Red Pringle was standing in front of the enlargements, staring at them with blinking eyes and twitching lips. When he heard the door open behind him he whirled around like an animal.
It was Kip Theban.
Red raced across the floor and flung himself into Kip’s arms.
“Where-is-it-where-is-it?” he asked.
Theban stroked the back of his head like a father with a baby. “It’s on the way, Red. It’s on the way,” he said.
Red was trembling so hard and sobbing so loudly that he didn’t hear.
Theban lifted Red’s head up with his left hand and slapped him smartly across the face with his right. Red blinked his eyes. Theban said into his ear again, “It’s on the way. Be here any minute.”
“On the level? On the level?” Red asked.
“On the level, Red. You know me, I’m your friend.”
Red tried to smile.
Theban shook him a little and stood him up. “Come on now, Red,” he said.
The delectable thought of what was coming gave Red some stamina.
“I’m fine. I’m fine.”
“Get that face in your mind, Red,” Theban said, pointing to the photographs of John Conroy. “Nobody to put the finger on this guy for you. You got to get that face in your mind, Red. No chance for a miss here. You understand that?”
“Sure,” Red said. He was still shaky, but he was rational. “I got his face in my mind. I could pick him out of a million guys.”
“Good boy, Red,” Theban said.
Red said, “You know, this Nemo Crespi ain’t so big.”
“He’s pretty big, Red.”
“If he’s so big why do I got to wait so long for the stuff? If he’s so big why can’t he get the stuff right away?”
“The heat’s on, Red—but after tonight all the heat’ll be over. You know what Nemo’s gonna do? He’s gonna give you a whole trunkful of the stuff after tonight.”
“Is h
e that big?” Red asked.
“He’s pretty big, Red. Now, go look at that face some more. I’ll have the stuff down here in a few minutes.”
Red nodded. “I love you, too, Kip,” he said.
Theban went back upstairs.
Nemo Crespi, Ackerman, Harrigan, and Trickett were there.
“He’s fine,” Theban said. “But not for much longer.”
“I got the stuff on the way over,” Nemo said.
“That’s good,” Theban said. “I got to let him have some.”
“We got six, seven hours to go,” Trickett said. “It’s too early to puff up that punk now.”
Kip Theban looked calmly at Nemo Crespi. “You want this job done?”
“Yeah.”
“Then tell that son-of-a-bitch to lay off me. You,” he said to Trickett, “stop trying to tell me my business.”
“Stop it, stop it, stop it,” Harrigan said.
“He’s been riding us ever since we hit town,” Theban said.
“Shut up, Verne,” Nemo said. “Leave him alone.”
“Red was right,” Theban said. “He’s jealous.”
Downstairs Paul Sublette was just starting down the steps to the cellar when he heard footsteps. He had a small package in his hand, about the size of a box that a straight-stemmed pipe comes in. He ducked behind some crates of lettuce and celery, and Igo Grodzka passed by. Paul, his heart pounding, waited until he heard Igo going up the steps to Nemo’s apartment before he budged.
Then he went down the steps, unlatched the door and went into the cellar.
Red whirled around again.
“Who’re you?” he asked, shaking all over.
“I got the stuff, Red,” Paul said.
Red came over to him. His eyes were wide. “Gimme,” he said.
“It’s locked, Red. They got the key upstairs. See?” He showed Red the package. It was wrapped expertly with heavy twine and there were two gobs of sealing wax on either side. “It’s locked. But you’ll get it. You’ll get it.”
Then Paul saw the pictures of John Conroy and he knew what was being planned. He had suspected, but he didn’t actually know until now. With Pia gone, he didn’t sit in any more meetings.
“They tell you the time yet, Red?”
“Yeah. Tonight.”
“Where, Red?”
“Some eating joint.”
Paul tried to joke about it. “You know why that is, Red. We don’t want him to die on an empty stomach.”
“Get that stuff unlocked,” Red said. “Get it unlocked. Tell Kip—”
Paul went out and closed the door and latched it. He hurried up the steps. He had to get to a telephone.
At 4:45 they all gathered in John’s office—his staff, Fogel, Commissioner Decherd and Inspector Zumbro.
“This thing’s set up for tonight,” Fogel said. “He’s going to pick you off right after dinner. Somewhere near the Golden Cock, probably right in front. They trust to the confusion for him to get away safely.”
“Fat chance,” Decherd said. “I’ll ring that neighborhood. I’ll put every cop on the force in plainclothes.”
“Now, here’s what I think,” Fogel said. “We get a double for you—”
“No,” John said.
“I got a first-grade detective who can pass for you. In size and general appearance, anyway,” Zumbro said.
“No,” John said. “I won’t let anybody else do it. Nobody’s going to put up his life for mine.”
They all argued with him. Decherd, Cicero, Fogel and Zumbro. All but Amanda. She did not argue because she knew it would be useless.
But John was obstinate.
“Well, my boy,” Decherd said finally. “You got plenty of moxie.”
“I think he might make a pretty good cop, at that,” Zumbro said.
John said, “Well, I’ll tell you something, Commissioner. I feel a hell of a lot better with you backing me up.”
“You go ahead and have your dinner just like you always did,” Decherd said. “You leave the rest to us.”
“There’s just one thing,” Amanda said. “He always has dinner with me. If I’m not with him tonight, won’t that look suspicious?”
“Miss Waycross,” Zumbro said, “they want Conroy, not you.”
“But when Nemo’s men see him alone—”
“Nemo’s men won’t see him alone,” Decherd said. “Nemo’s men’ll be miles away. That’s the gimmick in this.”
“All I want is this guy taken alive,” John said. “He’ll do us no good dead. He’s got to be taken alive. Even then you may not be able to get him to talk.”
Decherd grinned a big wide grin. “I’d advise you not to lay too big a bet on that,” he said.
Amanda snapped on the light and walked to one of the twin beds in her room. John was in his shorts, sleeping. She waked him.
He looked up, startled.
“It’s seven-thirty,” she said. “How do you feel?”
“Fine. You know what I was dreaming about?”
“What?”
“Lake St. Peter. Walking across the lake on the backs of the fish. They were that thick.”
She kissed him and went into the office to wait for him.
“Where’s everybody?” John asked when he came in.
“Scattered around Culp’s Square ... Could I ask you once more to let me go with you?”
“Sure. Go ahead and ask.”
“Could I please go to dinner with you?”
“No!” He took her in his arms and kissed her. “You stay here.”
She looked at him. Then she moved to the desk drawer and took out a snub-nosed .38 revolver and offered it to him.
“What’s that for?” he asked.
“For you.”
“I wouldn’t know how to use it. I never shot a gun in my life.”
She put the revolver on the desk. “What are you trying to do? Deliberately sacrifice your life?”
He frowned. “Now, what kind of a remark is that?”
“I saw your face when Decherd said that. When he said that, it hit you like a bolt of thunder.”
“When Decherd said what?”
“That all you’d done since you’d been on this job was get people killed. You’ve said practically the same thing yourself half a dozen times. You’ve got a terrific guilt complex. We’ve talked about it before. Now you’re going out to make atonement.”
John smiled grimly. He had thought about that himself, although he had not thought about it in these terms. Was she right? He wondered. Why did he feel so calm, why wasn’t he nervous? “That’s the craziest thing I ever heard of,” he said. “Relax.”
She kissed him. “I’ve got my fingers crossed.” She showed him. He uncrossed them.
“Remember me? Old Caroline Street boy.” He turned to go. Then he turned back. “You must admit I was right about one thing—putting the pressure on Nemo.”
He went out.
She picked up the revolver from the desk and slipped it into her bag and waited a few minutes before she followed him.
Chapter Eight
JOHN WAS SITTING IN his usual place at the table in the rear. He was looking at the waiter.
“Two more martinis—very dry,” he said.
The waiter looked at the seat where Amanda usually sat, now empty. There were two full martinis there in old-fashioned glasses. They had not been touched. He looked back at John, nonplused.
“Two, sir?” he asked.
John smiled at him. He knew that the waiter thought he was crazy. “Do you approve of sentiment?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” the waiter said.
“Good,” John said. “Bring two more martinis and hand me the menu.”
The waiter gave him the menu and went away.
John opened the menu. He took out of his pocket a sheet of heavy bond paper, folded once, lengthwise. He put it inside the menu and looked at it.
It was a not inexpert pencil sketch of Red Pringle, drawn from
the description given to Fogel by Paul Sublette. It was not much, but it was all they had.
John studied it. This was the man who was waiting outside to kill him. He reflected that Pringle had gotten much the better of the deal. At least, Pringle had had photographs to study ...
Pringle sat in the back of an old Plymouth sedan that was parked in front of the Golden Cock. The Plymouth had been bought especially for this one job. It was to be left there when it had served its purpose. It could not be traced. Nemo had seen to that.
In the back with Red sat Kip Theban.
Their technique was simplicity itself. When Red got out the door on the pavement side, Theban was to get out the door on the street side. That was all.
Red’s eyes were dilated and he was steady as a rock. Theban could hear him breathing. It was as rhythmic as a metronome. Theban felt like an animal trainer who had got his beast on just the right edge for a record-breaking performance. That is what he was, an animal trainer.
They had a clear view of the front of the restaurant. They could see past the cashier’s cage for twenty or thirty feet.
That was enough to see John Conroy, and to get set.
There were many pedestrians on both sides of the street. But the pedestrians across the street on the side of Culp’s Square only looked like pedestrians. Decherd and Zumbro had put fifty policemen into civilian clothes and they were spotted everywhere.
Decherd and Zumbro themselves were sitting in the back of the check room of the Golden Cock with a commanding view of the restaurant. They would follow Conroy when he walked out.
Fogel was standing at a curbstone newspaper stand a few doors from the Golden Cock. He wore old clothes, an old hat, and a canvas apron of the kind news-vendors wear. In the big pocket of this apron he had a .45 automatic.
Across the street on the Culp’s Square side there was a tow truck marked Uptown Garage and two men were working with the rear bumper of a car beside it. They wore coveralls that were marked on the back Uptown Garage. They were Ansel and Eimick. The coveralls were unbuttoned down to the fourth button so they would have no trouble getting out their automatics.
Parked almost directly behind the Plymouth sedan was a one-ton truck that bore the legend City Power and Light and a seal of the city. It was the kind of truck that has a hydraulic platform in the rear that raises to enable the workmen to clean and repair the street lights. The platform was raised and the two workmen were very busy with the light on top of the brass standard. They were so close to the Plymouth that they could almost step out on top of it. They were Cicero Smith and Kessel.