Night Extra

Terrell smiled slightly. “I’ll bet you’ve got enough material to fill my column for the next two weeks. Until after elections anyway.”

“That’s right,” Cellars said, nodding slowly. “I hope you don’t think I’m being heavy, Sam. But fill your space with something sweet. You’ll find that’s a good tip.”

“Maybe I should take a vacation for a couple of weeks,” Terrell said. “Would that be a good idea?”

“Good’s a funny word,” Cellars said, watching him carefully; his eyes were points of dark light between gray, narrowed lids. “I don’t use good and bad. I use smart and dumb.”

One of the big men beside him shifted restlessly. “I think he looks run-down, Ike. Maybe a vacation would be smart.”

“Maybe,” Cellars said.

“You two have a nice act,” Terrell said. “Like an organ grinder and a monkey. Why don’t you send him around the lobby with a cap and a tin cup, Ike?”

Cellars shoved the folder of pictures roughly into Terrell’s stomach. “Don’t be funny with me, snoop.” The power of the man was suddenly naked in his face; Terrell could see the sadistic needs in his eyes, and in the turn of his cold, thick lips. “You take these pictures. And you look at them every day, and you remember what I been telling you.”

Terrell’s mouth was dry, and he knew that his forehead was damp with perspiration. But he let the pictures drop from his hands to the floor. “My space is booked for the next two weeks,” he said. “I don’t have a paragraph to spare.”

Ike Cellars looked down at the prints that lay at his feet. The powdered face of a clown stared up at him, mocking sadness with a false nose and drawn-on spaniel’s eyes. Cellars let out his breath slowly and carefully, as if he were releasing a volatile and dangerous substance that could conceivably explode in his face. “That’s all I had to say, Sam. Beat it.”

“It’s a pleasure,” Terrell said.

9

Terrell stopped for coffee in a drugstore opposite the Clayton, and gave his nerves a chance to untighten; there had been nothing funny or casual in the encounter with Cellars. Ike was a powerful man with a short temper and a long memory. He wasted nothing, least of all threats. Terrell sat with the coffee until his fingers were steady, and then went out and hailed a cab. He had decided to see Sarnac again; Caldwell and the reform ticket must have something damaging to use against Cellars. Otherwise Ike wouldn’t have made such an obvious and stupid play.

The atmosphere of Caldwell’s campaign headquarters had changed drastically since his visit forty-eight hours ago. Then the mood had been one of missionary enthusiasm; Caldwell was astride the white horse of good government, and the forces of evil were fleeing in disorder before his shining lance. That was the feeling Terrell remembered, correcting a bit for his purple patch. But now the big room was almost empty, and the bunting and pictures seemed woefully incongruous against the dispirited silence. Two young girls looked up at him from a table, their expressions defensive and vulnerable. Terrell was touched by the guilt in their faces. Why should they feel guilty?

One of them went off to find Sarnac and the other made nervous comments about the weather. Terrell turned from her in relief when Sarnac looked out of his office and said, “Won’t you come in, Mr. Terrell?”

Sarnac was pale and nervous; a muscle twitched in his left cheek and he looked as if he hadn’t slept for days.

“You’re in great shape,” Terrell said. “Bright-eyed, radiating a calm confidence.”

“Please sit down. It’s a bit difficult to relax in my position. There’s so much to be done, and at the same time there’s nothing to do. Nothing, nothing—” He clenched his fists. “Nothing that will help. Nothing at all.”

“What have you been doing?”

Sarnac removed his glasses and pressed the tips of his fingers against his closed eyes. “We’ve hired a firm of private detectives. They’re checking everything — Eden Myles’ background and that patrolman — what’s his name — Coglan, who shot himself. They’re going over all the testimony for loopholes. The National Committee has offered us a blank check — they believe in Mr. Caldwell. Money, TV time, their best writers, best investigators, anything they’ve got. They’re standing by splendidly.”

“Well, to be as cynical as hell, he’s their baby. They can’t dump him. That would hurt the ticket from one end of the country to the other. Have you talked to Caldwell today?”

“Yes, early this morning. He still has no idea what happened. He believes he was struck down from behind. The police obviously don’t agree.”

“They’ve got their story all wrapped up,” Terrell said. “Paddy Coglan is dead, but his evidence at the preliminary hearing is a matter of record and admissible in court. Caldwell doesn’t have a prayer as things stand. As a loyal friend, all you can do is tidy up his affairs and comfort his widow.”

“Does his helplessness give you any satisfaction?” Sarnac was angered and disturbed by Terrell’s tone. “Are you pleased that the life of an innocent man is in jeopardy?”