Night Extra

Terrell put the paper aside and began work on his column for the following day, typing out a piece he had put together a few weeks ago on a quiet Sunday afternoon. It was an essay on bird life in the cities, a change-of-pace piece nature buffs would admire, and his regular customers would have to tolerate. He usually kept six or eight columns on tap for emergencies and he had a hunch he would use up all of his present stock while he worked on the Caldwell story.

“How do you spell ‘pigeon’?” he asked Wheeler a bit later.

“As in ‘dead pigeon’? You thinking of Caldwell?”

“No, pigeon as in pigeon. This is a graceful, instructive piece on our town’s bird life. In a Charles Lamb mood.”

“Why not follow up on animal life? We’ve got rats, snakes, skunks, all trotting around on two legs — surprisingly like some of our better-known citizens.”

“I get the fine satiric touch,” Terrell said. He finished the piece, called a copy boy, then settled back in his chair and lit a cigarette. The long room was fairly quiet now; an edition was going in, and tension eased as the bell above the city desk began to ring. The forms were locked up, the presses would be rolling shortly and nothing could stop them but a front page story — a sinking liner, a major train wreck, an assassination.

“And so another day’s toil is done,” Wheeler said, stretching his arms and yawning. “It makes a man feel good to realize that he has contributed practically nothing to practically nothing — my estimate of the worth of my efforts and the worth of the paper. Makes a man feel good — good where it counts.”

“And where’s that?” Terrell asked.

“A shrewd question.” Wheeler was in high spirits, a grin on his thin, old face. “The place that counts with me is just above the left elbow. That’s where it hurts if I break my Scout oath. Tell me, how do you like the way we handled the big story?”

“It ties Caldwell up like a Christmas goose,” Terrell said.

“Maybe he deserves it.”

Terrell looked at him. “You know something stinks.”

“Sure; sure. I wrote the story, remember.” Wheeler punched the space bar of his typewriter for emphasis. “Coglan saw a man run out of Caldwell’s home. But Coglan changed his mind. He’s a lush, he’s been on the sauce for years. Maybe he saw something, but it might have been a ten foot robin, or a gaggle of dwarfs beating out the Anvil Chorus on his head.” Wheeler shifted in his chair and frowned at Terrell. “I like that bird life column you were doing. It’s a smart idea. You should stick to stuff like that until after elections. You don’t owe anybody anything. Caldwell is police business, Sam.”

“You think he may be guilty?”

“A case can be made,” Wheeler said drily. “Pillar of society, a paragon of the dull virtues. Who knows what he wanted? A frolicsome babe, kicks that he’d only dreamed about in his little box of tradition and respectability? He tried for it, she told him off—” Wheeler punched the space bar again. “Something snapped. I’ve written that particular story fifty times over the years.”

“Why are you trying to tout me off doing my job?”

“Use your head, boy,” Wheeler said irritably. “If this is a frame — ‘if,’ mind you — it’s been hammered together by people who could step on you like a bug if you crawled across their path.”

Terrell dropped his cigarette into an empty coffee carton. “I’ve got to cut down on these things,” he said.

“That’s right, worry about the eternal verities,” Wheeler said in a disgusted voice. “Dandruff, too many cigarettes — don’t waste time on trifles.”

“That’s the key to mental health,” Terrell said, picking up his coat. “But don’t worry, I’ll take precautions. I’ll wear my press card in my hat band from now on.”

“It will make a nice target.”

The next morning at nine-thirty Terrell rapped on the door of an old-fashioned frame house in a poor and dreary section of the city. Smoke from factories and the railroad yards hung over the streets, dulling the weak sunlight and filling the air with a sharp acrid stench. The area was being strangled to death by the pressure of industrial development; schools and playgrounds had been summarily shifted to make way for factories and warehouses. The river winding through this area had become a cesspool for waste products. A triumph of city planning, Terrell thought, looking along the depressing street.

The door was opened by a woman with graying hair and eyes that were large and anxious behind rimless glasses. “Yes?” she said, drying her hands on a pale blue apron. “Yes, what is it?”

“My name is Terrell, Mrs. Coglan, Sam Terrell. I’m a reporter with the Call-Bulletin.”

“Sure, I know your column, Mr. Terrell. And Paddy has spoken of you, I believe.”

“I’m sure he has. I’ve known him for years. Ever since I covered police on the west side. That’s where I met him. At the old Nineteenth.”

“You want to see him, I suppose, Mr. Terrell, but he’s not here. He’s taken a trip.”