Night Extra

“Yes, I know,” Terrell said. “I stopped at his district first and Sergeant McManus told me Paddy had decided to use up some of his leave time.”

“He wants to take what he’s got coming before he retires,” Mrs. Coglan said. “You know his pension’s coming up in a few weeks.”

“That’s smart,” Terrell said, smiling at her. “No point in giving the time back to the city.”

“That’s what I said to him myself”

“But you can help me out just as well as Paddy,” Terrell said. “That’s why I came by. We’re doing a round-up of the Caldwell story in next Sunday’s edition, and I want to use a piece on Paddy — a picture, a little biographical stuff, that sort of thing.”

“I could find a picture of himself.” She pressed her lips together and shook her head quickly. “That poor girl, she looked so sweet. But come in, Mr. Terrell. You’ll excuse me, but the house is in a state. I tell you there’s bad blood there, Caldwell, I mean.” Terrell took off his hat and followed her into the neat, plainly furnished living room that smelled faintly of floor polish. “I know they’re supposed to be fine and fancy people, quality, as you’d say, but there’s bad blood there all the same, it only needs looking for.”

“You may have a point,” Terrell said.

“Just sit yourself down, and don’t mind how things look. I haven’t given the front rooms a lick yet.”

“When did Paddy leave, by the way?” Terrell asked casually.

“Yesterday morning, around eight, I think it was. Right after—” Mrs. Coglan pushed a stray hair from her forehead, and then straightened a pile of magazines on the coffee table. “He’d been planning the trip for a long time, you see. There was nothing sudden about it.”

“Sure,” Terrell said. He tried to sound only mildly interested. “Where did he go, by the way?”

“Some people might think it funny him leaving just after testifying against Mr. Caldwell.”

“He won’t be needed until the Grand Jury hearing. No reason for him to give up his trip. Where did he go?”

“Well, he’s visiting some relatives out in Indiana. Two of his sisters live there.” Mrs. Coglan rubbed her hands briskly on her apron. “Well, I’ll get you some pictures to look at.”

“Is there any way I could get in touch with Paddy?” Terrell asked her. “That is, if I need to check an item or a date with him?”

“Well, he’s driving,” Mrs. Coglan said, looking at a spot on the wall. “He’ll just meander along, taking his time. I don’t see how you could, Mr. Terrell.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“I’ll get the pictures now. You can take your pick.”

When she went up the stairs Terrell stood and glanced around the room. His nerves assured him he was on the right track; his body was tight with tension. Paddy Coglan had been told to clear out. To stay away until after elections. His lie had destroyed Caldwell’s only hope. And now he was gone, safely away from Caldwell’s lawyers or suspicious newspapermen.

The room told him nothing; it was tidy and unrevealing. He hardly knew what he was expecting — a letter or postcard perhaps with a return address on it. He looked through the shelves beside the imitation fireplace, moving the dozen-odd books, but careful not to disturb the orderly rows of china figurines. An enlarged tinted photograph of Paddy Coglan as a young man hung above the mantle. His eyes stared with pointless defiance into the middle distance, soft and innocent in his round and vulnerable face.

Terrell sat down as he heard Mrs. Coglan descending the stairs. “Well, here we are now,” she said. She was breathing with some difficulty. “Up and down, up and down, I swear those stairs will be the death of me.” She carried a bulky cardboard box which Terrell helped her to place on the coffee table. “I’ve always kept everything,” she said. “Newspaper clippings, transfer orders, letters from the pension and medical officers — you know how it is. You never know when they’ll ask you for something they sent you five years ago. And here are the pictures. You should find something in that bunch.”

“I’m sure I can.” He sat on the sofa and began turning over snapshots of Paddy Coglan. Most of them were from local papers, probably turned over to Paddy by reporters. Paddy standing beside the mayor at a parade, Paddy at the scene of a four-car crash, Paddy holding a baby whose mother had been burned to death in a fire.

“He worked hard, if I do say so,” Mrs. Coglan murmured, studying the photographs with a softened expression. “He never got on though in the bureau. He always had enemies, false friends who carried tales.”

“That’s a damn shame,” Terrell said.

“You’ve known Paddy a good while, and you know he’ll take a drink. He’s never hidden that — take me or leave me, that’s Paddy Coglan. He wouldn’t put drink in a can of fruit juice, the way old Captain Maloney always did. Or pretend it was medicine. But it always worried me. As God is my judge, it was his only fault. He never, well — you know, had his hand out for favors, or anything like that. Just the drink.”

“It’s no crime to take a little nip now and then.”