Night Extra

She shook her head quickly. “I’m not sure. I heard a voice, and I just assumed it was Frankie.”

“You were in the bedroom again, eh? Didn’t Eden let you out to meet her friends?”

“Stop hounding me. Stop it.” She was gripping the edges of the chair with her hands.

“Who was that on the phone?”

“A friend, I told you.”

Terrell sat down beside her and took one of her hands. “Ice cold,” he said. “Your face is white and your lips are trembling. Cute friends you’ve got. What did he say? To shut up? To keep quiet?”

“Maybe,” she said, pulling her hand free. “Why don’t you go to the police yourself? They’re paid to hunt killers. I’m paid to sing in a club.”

“And I’ll bet you’re in for a raise pretty soon,” Terrell said quietly.

She looked quickly at him, her expression guilty and defiant. “Don’t bother needling me. I’m scared. Do you expect me to be ashamed of that? I’m weak and gutless and anything else you want to call me. I’m not hero material. I’m not a judo expert or some selfless saint who does what’s right and damns the consequences.” She paused, breathing rapidly, and stared down at her hands. “I’m keeping my job, and I’m keeping my health. And I’m minding my own business.”

Terrell watched her for a few seconds, but she wouldn’t and meet his eyes. “I might feel the same if I were in your shoes,” he said finally. “I’m not sure of what I’d do. I wasn’t needling you. I’m just a reporter at work. If you change your mind, you can always get me through the paper. Will you remember that?”

“It’s no use,” she said.

“Remember Caldwell then,” he said, getting to his feet. “He’s facing the loss of his career, reputation, his family, everything — even his life. And he’s no more guilty than you are. Remember him while you’re singing college songs to bald-headed drunks in Ike Cellars’ joint.”

“Why don’t you leave me alone?” She was very nearly in tears.

Terrell sighed and picked up his hat. “Okay, I’m going. But you can reach me at the paper if you need me.”

6

It was almost dawn before Terrell reached his apartment in center-city. He slept six hours, then shaved, and showered and dressed. As he went through his mail he drank a cup of black coffee, and smoked a cigarette that made him resolve to cut back to a pack a day — soon. After checking the mail, he wrote a note to the cleaning woman, asking her to put in coffee, eggs and a few other staples. Then he went to work.

At his corner desk he settled down with a carton of coffee to look through the final developments on the Caldwell story.

The late editions were beautiful examples of dramatic journalism. Pictures of Caldwell and Eden Myles stared out from beneath heavy black four-column headlines, and there were shots of Eden’s gray-haired mother, and the town house on Manor Lane. Every angle of the story had been covered thoroughly and vividly; by professional standards the edition was a superb job, a Karsh special. There were sharp, pertinent stories on Caldwell’s campaign, his legal career and social connection. Eden Myles had been profiled by the nightclub editor, who had tastefully referred to Frankie Chance as a local sportsman. On page three were more pictures: Frankie Chance attacking Caldwell at the hearing, a young and frightened-looking Connie Blacker in Eden’s apartment, and a show-business print of Eden wearing a bathing suit that displayed her handsome body to the legal limits of propriety. It was a terrific story; it had everything. Sex, violence, prominent people, social gradings — everything but the truth, Terrell thought.

Caldwell’s two sons were in a picture with their mother, a placidly beautiful woman in her late forties. Flanking them was a photograph of their handsome fieldstone home in suburban Morristown.

Karsh hadn’t missed anything. Every element in the story had been welded into a powerful, dramatic unit.

Caldwell’s version of what had happened seemed pathetically feeble. He admitted having had two martinis before dinner, and a brandy and soda afterwards. Then, around ten-thirty, Eden Myles had called and asked if she could see him. He had said yes, adding parenthetically that Eden Myles had been supplying his staff with information about gambling in the city. That would get a laugh, Terrell thought sadly. It was raw material for the local wits. Caldwell also admitted that he had had another brandy when Eden arrived at his home. She had seemed very nervous and asked for a drink, he said; he had taken one with her. There were no witnesses to what happened after that. Caldwell said he was struck from behind and had blacked out. When he regained consciousness Eden Myles was lying on the floor, and a patrolman was talking on the telephone. There. was no evidence to support Caldwell’s story; the bruise on his temple might have come from a blow, or from a fall, the police surgeon testified. There had been a fight; the girl’s torn clothing indicated that. Caldwell could have tripped and struck his head against the corner of a table.