Night Extra

“Yes, I’m through.” Only a slight tremor in her voice gave her away; otherwise she seemed completely poised and at ease. “I just had to sign some forms. It was no trouble.”

“Dead people are never any trouble,” Terrell said. “But let’s not be bitter. Can I buy you some lunch?”

“No, I have a date.”

“With Frankie Chance at two o’clock. I know. But couldn’t you be a little late? I’d like to talk to you.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t have time.”

She started past him but he caught her arm. “I still need your help,” he said.

“Please let me go. We don’t have anything to talk about. I told you that the other night.”

“I thought maybe your conscience would be acting up by now.”

“Let me go!” Her eyes were mutinous and angry. “Do you want me to start screaming?”

“I want you to start talking,” he said. “Who was the man who came to Eden’s apartment the night she was murdered? What job did he want her to do? Why was she afraid?”

“Let me go. I don’t know anything.”

“You’re lying, Connie. You can save the life of an innocent man. You can put Eden’s murderer in the death house where he belongs. But if you keep quiet nothing will happen.”

“Nothing will happen to me,” she said tensely.

“And how about Eden?” Terrell’s voice sharpened with anger. “You’ve signed the forms and off she goes by fast freight. Is that the end of it? Have you gone downstairs to look at her? She’s lying like a piece of frozen meat with a name tag tied to her ankle. Like something in a butcher shop. Only they kill animals a bit more humanely.”

“Stop it, stop it.” She turned away from him, tears starting in her eyes.

Terrell released her arm. “Okay I’ll stop.” In his heart he couldn’t blame her; why should she risk her life to help him. She had obviously been warned to keep quiet. If she ignored that injunction there would be a reprisal; it might be swift and merciful, or slow and vengeful. In either case it would be final.

“I’ll drop you at your hotel,” he said.

“No. I’m all right.”

“It’s on my way. Come on.”

Terrell paid off the cab at her hotel, intending to walk the remaining two or three blocks to the Call-Bulletin’s building.

“Thanks for the lift,” she said.

“If you change your mind remember the name. Terrell. I’m with a local paper.”

“I’m not changing my mind.”

“Is he the reason?”

Terrell was looking over her shoulder. The revolving doors of the hotel were spinning, and the sun flashed on the turning glass panels. Frankie Chance had come out to the sidewalk a second or so before, and was looking down the street, a faint frown on his sulky handsome features. He was fastidiously groomed, and wore a light blue flannel suit, a shirt with long collar points and a gaudy but expensive-looking tie.

“Is he the reason?” Terrell said again.

“Good-bye.” She turned away from him, but Frankie Chance had turned also, and was walking swiftly toward them, a tight, angry look on his face. “You’re late,” he said to Connie. “Two o’clock means two o’clock. Okay?”

“Yes, sure,” she said.

“You been crying,” he said. He still hadn’t acknowledged Terrell’s presence. “Is he bothering you?”

“My name is Terrell, Sam Terrell. Now we’re formally introduced, Frankie. You can talk to me direct.”

Chance turned and stared coldly at him. “What do you want with her, Sam?”

“Nothing in particular. I was covering a story at the morgue and bumped into her. I gave her a lift back here. You came along and here we are, chatting pleasantly in the fine fall sunlight.”

“It’s all funny, eh? The morgue part and everything.”

“No, it’s not funny,” Terrell said. “I can guess how you feel.”

“Guess? That’s good.” Chance stared down the street and Terrell saw the lines tightening at the corners of his mouth and eyes. “To you she was a bum. I don’t want you being sorry for her. She can do without your sympathy.”

His emotion was genuine, Terrell felt; he wasn’t a good enough actor to fake it.

Chance took Connie’s arm and turned her toward the hotel. “Keep away from her,” he said to Terrell. “Keep away from us. We’re in different leagues.”

“Well, maybe we’ll meet in the Series,” Terrell said. He watched them walk into the hotel, seeing the sun flash on Connie’s slender beautiful ankles. Then he sighed and headed for the paper.

At his desk Terrell typed out an item for his column. He described Eden Myles’ killer, the big man with the thick, black hair and scarred forehead, and suggested that the police were looking for him in connection with the Caldwell case. For several minutes he sat frowning and staring at what he had written. This was risky business. Karsh wasn’t in or he would have asked his advice. As it was, this had to be his baby. He called a copy boy. and gave him the item as an insert for his column; it would be squeezed in time for the next edition, the two star, and be on the streets around four o’clock. And after that there would be an eruption in the Hall.