Night Extra

Williams was in direct charge of the story now, but Karsh stood behind his chair at the city desk, checking every picture and paragraph that was going into the next edition. Terrell dropped his coat and hat on his desk, and walked up the room, past the picture desk where two editors were working on captions, and around the copy wheel where headlines were being chopped to fit the stories funneled over from the city desk.

Karsh turned to look at the clock above his head, and saw Terrell. He waved and pointed to his own office. Terrell joined him there and Karsh closed the door behind them, cutting off the noise from the big city room. They were as isolated in his air-conditioned sanctuary as fish in an aquarium tank; outside the life of the paper swarmed silently past the glass-walled office, oddly unsubstantial and unreal.

Karsh sat down at his desk, twisted a cigarette into his holder, and then looked up at Terrell. He was smiling and one of his eyebrows was raised slightly; his expression was amused but ironical. He showed no effects from lack of sleep and a night of drinking; his skin was fresh and his eyes were clear and steady. “Well, it’s a frame, eh?” he said. “Raw, clumsy and transparent. But effective. There’s a lesson in that. Don’t be subtle. Forget intricate maneuvers — if you want a man out of the way hit him with a meat cleaver, and go on about your business. Sit down, Sam.”

“What do we do now?”

“We’re going to save Richard Caldwell’s neck. This is about the biggest story I’ve ever been near — and I want it. I want it all. Now let’s go back a bit. Tell me just what Coglan told you, his first version, that is.”

Terrell gave Karsh a detailed account of what he had heard and seen so far, and then Karsh lit another cigarette and said, “Well, Stanko probably didn’t consider the possibility that a reporter might call Caldwell’s home direct — as you did. But he scared Coglan into switching his story. And that shouldn’t have been too hard.”

“I may be out of line, but why in God’s name didn’t you use my story?”

“Because I don’t want to waste ammunition on jerks like Coglan and Stanko. I want to know who paid the killer — and I want the killer. That’s the big story, boy. It may turn this sovereign state upside down and shake a thousand grafters loose from their snug little perches — and among those thousands we may find Ike Cellars, and our beloved, corn-fed Mayor.” Karsh came around his desk, his eyes alive and intense; work seemed to burn all the waste and dross from his mind and body.

“Remember this. The difference between good editors and hacks is judgment. What the devil is a story? Two cars bump fenders, barking dog rouses family in burning home. News stories, sure. But they’re pat and obvious. Any child could pick them out. But the big stories are like symphonies, they’ve got balance and mood and excitement to them, and a touch of mystery. You know what makes them significant? The astounding fact that drama has been created by sheer, blind coincidence. It’s just as if a bunch of drunks began shouting and accidentally sang the last act of Faust without missing a word or a note. Now we’ve got the tail of a tremendous story. And we’re going to pull the whole damn mess out into the light.”

Terrell knew that Caldwell had a chance with the paper fighting for him. “We’ll be on the side of the angels this time, Mike,” he said.

“Don’t kid yourself,” Karsh said sharply. “I want the story for sensible, selfish reasons. I don’t give a damn about public morality. In fact, if we let them hang Caldwell it might have a salutary effect on all the other civic busybodies who bore hell out of me.”

“It won’t wash, Mike. You’re on the side of the lawn-watering Babbitts; whether you like it or not. It’s damned embarrassing, I bet.”

Karsh didn’t look amused; he considered himself an unemotional realist, and he resented any tampering with this self portrait. “Your job is to find a killer,” he said shortly. “So get with it. But keep me posted, and take it nice and slow.” He brushed Terrell’s arm with the back of his hand. “I don’t really care if they hang Caldwell, but I’d hate to lose you. Let’s get to work.”

Terrell went downstairs and found a cab to drive him out to Gray Gates. He hoped to talk to Connie Blacker before anyone else did; she had suggested that Eden was frightened of something, and that was a lead he wanted to run down fast.

The lobby of Gray Gates was dimly-lighted at this hour, but the elevator operator was freshly shaved and immaculately turned out in a blue and gold uniform. The young man knew something was up; Terrell guessed that from the very passiveness of his expression. Probably the police and reporters had already been here.

He walked down the silent corridor and rapped lightly on her door. When she answered he knew that she had heard the news; he could sense the fear in her voice.

“It’s Terrell,” he said. “I want to talk to you.”