Edge of Panic

by Henry, Kane,

“I left it—”

  “Where?”

  “Up there.”

  “Why, you stupid little—”

  “I just remembered. I called you right away.”

  Pause. Then: “All right, kid. I’ll call you back. Hello, hello, can you hear me?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll call you back. I can’t discuss this now.”

  “Right.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Home.”

  “Stay there. I’ll call you back.”

  “’By.”

  “’By.”

  She put the phone down, sobbing, laughing, trying to talk, trying to say something—but he wasn’t looking at her, he was dialing, sweat running down the side of his face.

  “Hello? Hello? Crawford? Let me talk to Crawford. Thanks. Fred? Take him. Right now. Don’t let him make any phone calls—put the cuffs on him and hustle him out—no talk, no nothing—right now.” He hung up, said, “Come on,” to her, ran back to his office. He bent over the desk to the inter-com. “Send in Foley. Right away.”

  “Captain,” she said. “Captain Brophy.”

  “Not now.”

  She sat in the hard armchair, her hands balled to fists, tight, thumb to thumb, between her knees, her legs squeezing, trembling, her arms rigid, looking up at him, pain at the nape of her neck.

  He went around to the swivel chair, sat, plumping, put his cigar away, reached across for the bottle, drank, poured again, drank, put the glass on the desk. His bald head glistened with sweat, his jowls were red, beads stood on his nose. He took out a handkerchief and rubbed it across his head and down over his face. Foley came. “Captain?”

  “Look, I want everybody off that Joyce Anderson shindig. Everybody off. I want them all over Dale Allen’s place—the Casa Rouge, and his hotel room. Lives at the Granger, East Tenth. I want enough of them to make those joints jump—bust them wide open—we’re looking for a girl friend. I want a girl friend. Somebody he knows well. Somebody he’d trust. Somebody he’d work a deal with, a big deal. And when you catch up with her, don’t go near, understand? You let me know. Check?”

  “Yes, sir. What about him?”

  “Fred’s bringing him in.”

  “Check.”

  “Wait a minute.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He stood up. “All right, Mrs. Martin. Where is he?”

  “Ninety-Six Madison Avenue. Madison and Twenty-Eighth. John Applegate’s apartment.”

  “You hear that, Foley?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That’s where I’ll be. Either there, or right here. Okay?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do it big, Lieutenant. I want that girl.”

  “Yes, sir.” He went out quickly.

  Brophy came around the desk. He put his soft hands on her face, kissed her forehead. “I love you,” he said. “You’re—valiant. Me, I’m a dog. Let’s get out of here.” They went fast, headlights blazing, the chauffeur keeping the siren open all the way. She sat in the rear with him, holding his hand, mumbling, “Thank you, thank you—” He pushed forward, asked the chauffeur, “You been on all night?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Listen to the radio?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “They got the heat off that car, that Harry Martin car?”

  “Oh, yes, sir. It’s been a couple hours, now.”

  “Good.” He sat back, patting her hand. “You’ll be able to go home under your own power.”

  They stopped by the brownstone on Madison Avenue and she led him in. She rang the bell, opened the door when it clicked.

  “Who is it?” John called from upstairs. “Who’s that?”

  “Me,” she said.

  They trudged up. Brophy said, “Hello, counselor. Remember me?”

  “Captain Brophy.” John looked to her. “What—”

  “It’s all right, John. It’s all right.”

  Harry was in the living-room in the rumpled bathrobe, a pallor on his skin, his hair disheveled, sweat on the black bristles of his beard, blood-caked scratches on his cheek, blue circles puffed around his eyes. “Honey,” he said. “You look terrible.”

  Only Brophy laughed.

  John said, “I don’t quite—”

  “It’s all right,” Alice said. “It’s all right, all right—”

  Brophy said, “Let’s all sit down nice and cozy. Let’s have a chat, huh?”

  John took their things.

  “So you’re Harry Martin,” Brophy said.

  “Well—” He tied and untied the knot on the bathrobe belt.

  “I hear you’re a guy that shouldn’t drink.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’m not. What have you got, counselor?”

  “Please don’t call me counselor, Captain. It’s silly.”

  “Check. What’s in the nature of libations?”

  “Rye, Scotch, brandy, gin—”

  “I’m brandy. She’s brandy too. You suit yourself. Nothing for him.”

  “Captain,” Harry said, pulling at the belt. “I don’t—”

  “It’s all right,” Alice said. “All right.”

  “Captain,” Harry said. “I don’t like to put a damper on this jolly atmosphere, but certain—”

  “You’re out, son. You’re clear.”

  “But, Captain, I—”

  “Sit down, won’t you?”

  John served drinks. Harry prowled the room. Alice held her glass, her eyes on Harry, not going near him, watching him.

  “Why don’t we sit down?” Brophy said. “Why don’t we all sit down?”

  Harry said, “But, Captain Brophy—”

  “You know, counselor,” Brophy said, “I’m surprised at you. It’s against the law, I’ve heard, to harbor people suspected of crimes.”

  “There are always special circumstances, Captain.”

  “Don’t call me Captain.”

  “Don’t call me counselor.”

  “But, Captain—” Harry said.

  “You didn’t do it, son. I’m just giving you time to let that spread around in your noggin. You didn’t do it.”

  John said, “Look, if Captain Brophy says—”

  “But, I—”

  “Why don’t we all sit down, huh? Why don’t we all sit down?” Brophy pointed at Harry. “I want it from you, Mr. Martin. I want your full version, unexpurgated. How would you like to start from the beginning? How would you like to sit down, first?”

  “Well—” Harry said. “Well—”

  “Boy, I’m not pulling anything on you. I’m cops. Sure, I’m cops. I’ve pulled things before, when necessary, but most of the time I play it straight. You’re out, I tell you.”

  Harry looked toward John.

  “He’s cops, all right,” John said. “He’s Mister Cop, in person. He’s the venerated Captain Edgar Brophy, the one eccentric they permit on the Police Force. He’s Brophy, the gallant, brilliant, learned—”

  “That’s me, bub. Also, slightly an inebriate. Not like you, though—”

  “Captain—” Harry said.

  The phone rang. John took it. He waved to Brophy. Brophy put the receiver to his ear, nodding his head, listening, smiling, rubbing his hand over his bald head.

  “Yes… yes… yes… swell. All right. Back them all away from there. Swell. Now, you take two of the boys and hustle up there. Don’t go up. Wait for me outside.” He hung up. “You,” he said to Harry. “Get dressed. Hurry up.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Go on and get dressed. We’re going to break this now, right away. The gallant, brilliant, learned, eccentric way. Hurry up.”

  Harry went to the bedroom.

  Brophy sat on the wide arm of Alice’s chair. “A wrap-up, Mrs. Martin, thanks to you. From stuff in his room, letters and stuff, and from a bellboy, especially from a bellboy—he’s had a sweetheart for the past three years, one Felicia Dee. A tall brunette, only now she’s blond. Used to be a show-g
irl in the same line with the sister. Has an apartment on Seventy-Second, off Broadway. Oh, Felicia Dee.”

  “What’s it all about?” John Applegate said.

  “Fall-guy,” Brophy said. “Only it worked out better than they could ever have imagined.”

  Harry came out dressed, collar open, tie scraggly.

  “Good enough, kiddie,” Brophy said. “Let’s go. You too, counselor.”

  “Try and stop me.”

  They rolled through thick fog behind the moan of the siren, Brophy between Alice and Harry, John Applegate in front with the driver. Foley met them by the iron-grilled doors of a tall casement-windowed chrome-striped apartment house. He put his head in the window, pointing behind them. “Two men in my car. You want them with us?”

  “You bet,” Brophy said. “A galaxy. The whole damn bunch of us. What’s the apartment?”

  “Six C.”

  They went up, a close group in the small self-service elevator. Brophy motioned them behind him, holding Harry’s arm.

  “Captain—” Harry said,

  “Shut up.”

  He knocked on the door of 6 C, pushed the bell. There was no sound, only the deep rasp of Harry’s breathing. Brophy rang again. Somebody said, “Yes? Who’s there?”

  Brophy leaned against the door, “Dale,” he said. “Dale wants me to talk with you. He says it’s important. Hurry up, Felicia.”

  “Just a minute.”

  There was the sound of the click of lights. Brophy moved Harry in front of him, holding his arms near the elbows. The door opened, white light a garish panel. Brophy pushed Harry forward.

  She screamed, once.

  Harry sagged. Brophy let him fall. He pushed against her into the apartment, grabbed her as she ran, squirming, swung the back of his fist under her chin, sitting her down to the floor.

  They carried Harry in.

  “What?” she said. “What—what—?”

  “Nothing,” Brophy said. “Only your boy friend turned lark. Get up.”

  “What? What?”

  “He sang. Dale Allen. Get up.”

  Harry pointed a bent finger. “She—she—”

  “He tagged you,” Brophy said. “Dale Allen. Tagged you good.”

  “He—”

  “You’re it, sister.”

  “Why, the—”

  “Be nice,” Brophy said.

  She sat, cross-legged, looked at Harry, and quickly away from him. Composure came to her face, smoothing frenzy. She sighed, limp, resigned. “A nothing-guy. A little dancing sweet kind of nothing-guy. But I honestly didn’t think he’d blow this one.”

  “Who?”

  “Who do you think? Dale Allen.”

  “He threw you to us. He says it’s all you. Your idea, all you. He says he wouldn’t have had the power, the strength—”

  “Damn right he wouldn’t.”

  “He’ll be our witness. He’ll cut a big piece off his rap that way—”

  “Oh, no he won’t, brother. Not when I’m finished—”

  “Get up.”

  Harry said, “She—she—that’s her—”

  Felicia Dee stood up, tall in silk pajamas, Foley close beside her, wisps of upsweep waving out of her hair net. “I’ll get dressed—”

  “Throw a coat on.”

  “I’ll get dressed.”

  “You’ll go like you are, sister. If you’re in the mood for conversation, we’ll talk on the way down. Otherwise, we’ll stay with his story, which is good enough for us, and which’ll be perfectly wonderful for the D.A.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Brophy. Captain to you.”

  “He’s not going to push me around, Captain. There’s going to be two stories that’ll jibe—anything happens to me is going to happen to him—that I’ll guarantee you. Oh, he shot his face off, all right, there wouldn’t be no reason in the world for cops to be knocking at my door unless he did. I don’t know how you got to him, but whatever he’s shoved on to me, I got more to shove right back at him. And this guy—” She pointed at Harry. “There’s a guy I can’t stomach. Get him out of here, will you? He makes me sick.”

  “All right,” Brophy said. “Get her a coat.”

  Two cars rolled through fog, sirens open. In front, Brophy talked with Felicia Dee. In the second car, John Applegate blew fragrant pipe smoke out of the window and Harry Martin held his wife’s hand, saying nothing.

  They waited in the square bare room of Brophy’s office, Harry clean, washed, hair combed, collar closed, tie straight. Alice had called home and Ruth had told her that the two men had left, policemen, some sort of mistake, yes, the kid was fine. John Applegate said, “Give, Captain,” when Brophy finally came in, rubbing his hands on a handkerchief, smiling, affable.

  “One hell of a night,” the Captain said.

  Harry said, “Sir—”

  “You,” Brophy said. “That’s all we need to complete the file, your statement. First, so that we can get the counselor here off the tenterhooks, I’ll give you the story; after that, you’ll give us yours, not that it really makes any difference any more, but there is no guilty plea on murder, and you’re going to have to take the stand when those two babies go to trial, so it’s good to have a full statement in advance.”

  “I’m all right,” Harry said, “up to a certain point. Then I don’t remember clearly. I mean, at the point of climax—”

  “Give, Captain,” John Applegate said.

  He went to his swivel chair, sprawled, smiling. “She blabbed all the way down, and then we stuck her face in and showed it to him, and then he blabbed, and then we got them together on a couple of rough points. Women,” he said. “They’ve got power.”

  “I’m a bachelor myself,” John said.

  “Women—they’ve got power, imagination, guts. Take a wrong-o like Felicia Dee—I don’t think a man could have pulled that. On the other hand—take the lady here, Mrs. Martin—there’s the other side of the picture. Where a man—you, yourself, counselor—presented with the facts, must accept them—she fights, punches away, all heart, all emotion—and the hell with the facts. Pardon the hell, ma’am.”

  “Why didn’t you let her get some clothes on?” John said.

  “Psychology. Keep them off balance. A woman without clothes is easier to handle than a woman with clothes—and I don’t mean that the way your face looks, counselor.”

  “I know what you mean, Captain. When do we get the story?”

  “Now.” He brought out a new cigar. “Murder’s murder. It’s miserable, improbable, unthinkable, unbelievable, detestable—but it is—which is why there’s a homicide bureau in every police department in every city of the world. Once the mind starts working on the killing of a human being, it works hard, but what it works hardest on—is protecting itself. That’s the pitch here. That’s our story. I’m not talking about gang killings, goons, street fights, brawls, family stuff—I’m talking about laid-out-in-advance murder. Am I making myself clear?”

  “Well, not very,” John said.

  “Once it starts murder, the kind of murder I’m talking about, the mind goes evil, cunning, crafty, warped. Sometimes there’s murder on murder, but always it’s cover-up, the mind functioning to protect itself. Mostly, it goes to pattern. Even this one did. Only, we didn’t get the pattern. Because it fit another pattern. Crime of passion. It fit perfectly.”

  “All,” John said.

  “But the minute we get hep, the pattern shifted, it came clear, old as the hills, the fall-guy pitch, the cover-up, the twisteroo. There’s nothing new in murder, that’s a sure thing. I’m talking out of forty-four long years of experience. I’m not saying we get them all. I’m saying they all fall into patterns, all familiar to us, and they repeat and repeat and repeat. How’m I doing, counselor?”

  “Better, Captain.”

  “Don’t call me Captain.”

  “Don’t call me counselor.”

  “Right, Mr. Applegate.” He sucked in cigar smoke.
“Here the pitch was four, five million bucks. They figured it carefully, beautifully, and it worked, even better than they expected, because, though they didn’t know it, they picked a drunk for the fall-guy. The guy himself actually thought he done it. What can be more beautiful?”

  Harry said, “If you please—”

  “Stick to malted milks hereafter, son. There’s them that should drink, and them that shouldn’t. I’m no preacher. Me, personally, I lap it up. But this guy—” He pointed the cigar at Harry. “Son, you stick to malteds.”

  “I don’t need convincing, sir, believe me.”

  “When do we get the story?” John said.

  “Man running, that’s what did it. Man running, the one thing cops hate. Guy on the edge of panic, that’s a dangerous guy. Anything can happen. Even that’s a twisteroo in this case. Guy on the edge of panic, man running—this time it broke it.”

  “How?” John said.

  “Valiant wife. She wouldn’t accept it. She badgered the old Captain, she pulled every trick, she even knocked out a clue—it wouldn’t have helped him a nickel’s worth, none of it. We had the goods on him. We’d have had a signed confession ten minutes after we took him in, with enough corroboration to grease him for the chair. You heard his story, Mr. Applegate. You’re a lawyer.”

  “Yes, but, how—?”

  “Running, he saw her, and that’s what did it. A guy with boats somewhere in back of his head, man running to where he can get a boat to get away—and a lady on the last leg of a gigantic scheme. Running, he saw her. Somebody tumbled to it—the wife—because she believed in him—and she showed us, and the pattern shifted, and from there on in, it was a wrap-up. But—if he wouldn’t have been running—if he wouldn’t have seen her—none of us would ever have known there was anyone to be seen. There’d have been no gimmick, there’d have been no angle, there’d have been no out.”

  “But how,” Harry said, “could they have known about me—my drinking—that on this one day—”

  “They didn’t.”

  “Then how—”

  “They didn’t need that. That was gravy. They needed the setup, that’s all. Once they throw us a fall-guy in a beautiful setup like that, the shine is off them. The guy can wriggle and the guy can holler blue murder—what’s his out? Cops aren’t magicians. They’ve got the guy and they’ve got a full complement of facts. They’re done. I tell you again, if it didn’t shape up panic, a desperate guy running, if you wouldn’t have seen her and squawked about it and thought you’re crazy—there would have been no gimmick. She’d have been in Buenos Aires, and you’d have been in Sing Sing, and the rap for murder is the chair, and you’d be dead. You just wouldn’t be around to pin it on her, ever.”