Night Extra

Terrell turned and pulled her to him roughly, clamping her elbows to her sides with one arm. She struggled fiercely against him, but with his free hand he forced her chin up until he could look directly into her eyes. “Ike likes obedience,” he said. “He told you to be nice, remember?”

“Let me go!” she whispered in a tight, straining voice.

He put his lips down hard on hers, and held them there until her resistance broke and she went limp in his arms.

“How nice did he tell you to be?” he said bitterly. “The works?”

“You bastard,” she said, crying.

“Come off it,” he said. He released her and switched on the ignition. “Tell Ike I’m not interested.”

“Take me home. Please.”

“Okay.” Terrell swung the car back onto the highway with angry speed. He felt sorry for her, and pointlessly sorry for himself. Sorry for the whole damned mess.

11

Karsh was waiting at Terrell’s desk the next morning, looking fresh and handsome in a Chesterfield overcoat with a white silk muffler knotted about his throat. His face was pink from the crisp, morning air, and his eyes were sharp with curiosity. When Terrell came in he glanced up at him with an odd little smile. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going to toss a grenade? I might have put my fingers in my ears.”

“You heard repercussions?”

“Yes, Jack Duggan, our distinguished superintendent of cops, called me about it. I told him you’d talk to him this morning. What are you going to tell him?”

“Well, what’s your suggestion? Can’t reveal the source, and so forth, or admit I used a piece of gossip.”

“The second idea is smarter,” Karsh said. “Now listen to me.” He glanced about the busy room, then looked back at Terrell. “Play it safe. You know about that gorilla who was seen leaving Caldwell’s. You’re the only one who does. If that gets around you’ll become a lousy insurance risk.” He patted Terrell’s shoulder, in a clumsy and awkward gesture. “You’re the staff for my declining years. Remember that, and don’t be a damn fool.”

“Sure, don’t worry.” Terrell was touched by Karsh’s concern. Without his customary cynicism, Karsh seemed defenseless and vulnerable. He likes me, Terrell thought, and that embarrassed him. It’s that simple. He can’t put it into words.

“Don’t let them trick you into popping off what you know,” Karsh said. His voice was again sharp with authority; he seemed aware of his moment of exposure. “Tell ’em you printed some talk, without bothering to check it. Mea culpa, and so forth.”

Superintendent Duggan’s secretary, a uniformed patrolman, told Terrell to wait, and went into Duggan’s office. He returned almost immediately and said, “Go right in. The Superintendent is waiting for you.” The patrolman spoke with a lack of inflection that was meant to be ominous, Terrell guessed.

Jack Duggan was seated at his desk, a large, solidly built man with bold, direct eyes. He wore a uniform with golden epaulettes, and despite his bulk presented a figure of military severity. Everything about him was clean and neat; his black hair was cut short and the patina of starch on his collar and cuffs gleamed under the bright overhead lights.

Usually his approach was straight and forceful, but now, Terrell saw, he wasn’t quite sure of how to proceed. “Sit down, Sam,” he said. “This item of yours—” He fingered a clipping on his desk. “It’s a strange business. You describe a man in detail, and say we’re looking for him in connection with the Caldwell case. Did you make that up? Or what?”

“I gather then the item isn’t accurate,” Terrell said.

“We aren’t looking for anybody,” Duggan said. “Let’s don’t be cute with each other. The Mayor raised hell with this. I know you’re a good newspaperman. You don’t print gossip or guesses. So it figures that someone gave you the item — someone you trusted. We want to know who it was.”

“You and the Mayor, that is.”

“That’s it. Don’t bother reading anything into his interest. He’s within his rights. Your item indicates we don’t have a complete case against Caldwell. Or that there might be something unexplained and mysterious about it. Neither conclusion is justifiable. But people will leap to one or the other. You knew that when you ran the story. Now I don’t think you’re a trouble-maker, Sam. But the person who peddled this story to you is — a vicious, deliberate trouble-maker. And we want to know who it was. For your good as well as ours. Because he gave you a wrong steer, a dangerous steer.”

“The tip came in anonymously,” Terrell said.

“I wouldn’t advise you to stick to that,” Duggan said. “This time we aren’t interested in anything cute or cryptic. We want the truth.”

“So do I,” Terrell said, “Supposing we trade.”

“What do you mean by that remark?”