Night Extra

“Go get Mooney,” Terrell said to Prince. “Ollie, you better give the Sixteenth a ring and see if they can tell us anything yet.” He picked up a telephone directory, then remembered that the house on Manor Lane belonged to one of Caldwell’s friends who was now in Europe. Caldwell lived in the suburbs and used the town house when late speeches or meetings kept him in the city. He stayed there with his chauffeur, an elderly man who had been with him for years.

“Ollie, what’s the name of Caldwell’s friend — the one who owns the house on Manor Lane?”

“Just a second,” Ollie waved for silence; he was connected with the Sixteenth. “Sarge, this is Ollie Wheeler at the Call-Bulletin. Say, what’s happening? We just heard you send an ambulance over to Rich Caldwell’s house. Wait, hold on — just a hint, Sarge, for old time’s sake. Christ, we’ve all got our jobs to do! Don’t put me in the middle. Sure, I’ll hang on.” He covered the phone with his hand and looked up at Terrell. “Scared little bastard. But it sounds big, Sam. What did you want? Oh yeah. Sims is the name of the guy who owns the house on Manor Lane. J. Bellamy Sims.”

“That’s it.” Terrell flipped through the directory, found the number and dialled it quickly. The ringing sounded in his ears like the far-away drone of a bee. Then the connection was made, and a voice said cautiously, “Hello?”

“Who’s this?” Terrell said. “I want to talk with Rich Caldwell.”

“You can’t—” There was silence on the line. Then: “Who is this?”

“This is Sam Terrell. Call-Bulletin. Where’s Caldwell?”

“Look, I can’t talk to you. You got to see the detectives.”

“Wait!” Terrell yelled the word. “Is this a cop?”

“This is Paddy Coglan from the Sixteenth.”

“Don’t hang up! Don’t. Are you all alone there? Just give me a lead, Paddy. What is it?”

“I was coming down the Lane when I saw a guy run out of Caldwell’s front door.” Coglan’s voice was low and tense. “I chased him and lost him. So I came back to Caldwell’s. The door was open, lights on in the front room. He’s—” Coglan drew a sharp breath. “The Captain’s here, Sam. Better get over.” The connection was broken.

Terrell put the phone down and glanced at Ollie Wheeler who was still talking to the house sergeant at the Sixteenth. “Thanks, thanks a lot, Sarge,” he said, getting to his feet. “Sure, sure. Thanks.” He hung up and looked at Terrell. “Mooney had better call Karsh, and get some rewrite men and photographers on the way in. We’ll really tear up the front page tonight. There’s a dead girl over at Caldwell’s. And Caldwell is dead drunk.”

“Who’s the girl? Eden Myles?”

“Head of the class, Sam. Eden Myles it is. Or was, Caldwell just strangled her.”

4

Manor Lane was one of the select addresses in the city; the homes were small, old and expensive, three-storied for the most part with splendid doorways decorated with antique brass knockers and numerals. The street ran for two blocks behind the Gothic solemnity of St. Chrysostom’s, and terminated in a mews at the south side of Regent Square.

Terrell’s driver whistled as they swung into the block. Two black and white squad cars and an ambulance were parked in the middle of the street and groups of people stood on the sidewalks watching the windows of Caldwell’s house. The flashing red lights on the police cars transformed the faces of the spectators into vivid masks of tension and excitement.

Terrell paid off his cab and walked over to a patrolman standing beside the ambulance. He recognized him and said, “Hello, Jimmy. They take her out yet?”

“Hi, Sam. No, not yet. Captain Stanko just got here. With one of your boys. The lab men are still working. It’s brutal, I guess.”

Terrell walked up the stone steps of Caldwell’s home, nodded to the patrolman on duty and went inside. He turned from the foyer into the living room, where he saw shirt-sleeved lab technicians taking photographs and measurements.

The Call-Bulletin’s district reporter, a balding man named Nelson, was on the phone talking in a low urgent voice. Terrell nodded to him, then drifted into a quiet corner and stuck a cigarette in his mouth.