Night Extra

“I suppose not. But a man on a beat is different. Captain Stanko said—” Mrs. Coglan cleared her throat and pointed to a picture. “There’s himself just after we were married. I used to see Paddy at seven o’clock Mass every morning with his mother and that’s when I set my cap for him.” She smiled at Terrell. “My own mother, God rest her soul, always said, ‘Look for a boy who looks out for his mother.’ ”

“That’s a good thought.”

“I’ve always been afraid—” Mrs. Coglan twisted her apron with rough, red fingers. “I don’t know why I’m talking this way. But each day that brought his pension nearer, I seemed to be more sure he’d get into some trouble. You know, that something would happen while he was off his beat having a nip. I’m running on like an old fool. Nothing can happen now, anyway. You take what you want, and I’ll go on with my work. I shouldn’t be bothering you with my chatter.”

“Not at all. But could I use your phone? I have to check in to the desk.”

“Just like a policeman,” Mrs. Coglan said, shaking her head. “Always checking in. The phone is in the dining room, and you’re welcome to it.”

Terrell followed her into the dining room and she turned on the overhead lights. The phone was on the sideboard. “It used to be nice and bright in here,” she said. “But since all the factories have come in you can’t have a meal without lights.” She lingered in the doorway, still twisting her hands in her apron.

Terrell dialed the Weather Bureau’s information service, which gave a recorded weather report every fifteen seconds. There was a centerpiece of wax fruit on the sideboard, several spools of wool, and a darning egg. A picture of St. Francis of Assisi hung facing Terrell. The rug was a bright green, and the highly polished top of the dining room table mirrored the overhead lights.

The announcer was speaking in Terrell’s ear, giving details of wind and temperature. He nodded and said, “Okay, okay, I’ll check that, too.”

Mrs. Coglan said, “I’ll just be in the kitchen, if you want me,” and left the room.

He smiled at her, and went on talking into the phone. When he heard her footsteps fade away he turned quickly to a small table a few feet from the sideboard. There was a small stack of mail on a metal tray and with the receiver held between his jaw and shoulder, he went through it quickly; he flipped over utility bills, a birth announcement, promotion material from a national magazine, and then he came on it, an envelope postmarked the day before with the name “P. Coglan” written in the upper lefthand corner. The letter was addressed to Mrs. P. Coglan and the return address was the Riley Hotel, Beach City, New Jersey.

Terrell put the letters back on the tray, hung up the phone and strolled back into the living room. He made a selection of pictures, and was ready to leave when Mrs. Coglan came in to ask him if he would like a cup of coffee.

“Thanks, but no,” said Terrell. “I’ve got to run.”

“We’ll be looking forward to your story. It will be kind of a nice ending for Paddy’s days with the police force. It’s really the most important case he was ever connected with.”

“Yes. Well, thanks again.”

Terrell didn’t feel very cheerful as he walked down the steps to his car. The morning was gray and cold, and the sulphurous smoke from the freight yards burned his throat and eyes. Paddy Coglan, he thought taking his mother to seven o’clock Mass, sneaking off his beat for a nip on frosty nights. Somebody had to trip him but it was a lousy job.

Terrell smiled and waved to Mrs. Coglan, who stood in the doorway with her shoulders hunched against the cold wind. Then Terrell got in his car and started the motor. Beach City was a hundred miles away. He could make that in two hours.

7

The Riley Hotel was a gloomy red-brick building four blocks from the ocean, facing an unrelieved stretch of penny arcades, garages, shooting galleries and cheap restaurants. In Beach City’s well-publicized social stratifications, the Riley simply didn’t exist; all values here, personal and material, were estimated from the waterline, and four blocks from the water took one into social Siberia. But there was a kind of despairing defiance in the Riley’s chromium and gilt entrance, Terrell thought; it was incongruous, silly, but rather brave, like a fat woman’s decision to wear a bikini and to hell with it.

The lobby was drafty and needed cleaning; the beery wind eddying from the lounge set little flurries of dusty tobacco and cigar bands skipping across the hard-wood floor. Terrell knew the Inspector of Detectives in Beach City, a man named Moran. He mentioned Moran’s name to the elderly desk clerk, and then asked if he might look at the register.