Terrell paced up and down the apartment, smoking one cigarette after another, tracing and retracing his steps like an animal in a cage. Everything his eyes fell on seemed to remind him of her; the robe she had worn, the lipstick on the rim of a cup, the bow tie she had used for a hair ribbon; they all brought back memories of her face and form. The silence became exasperating, and he fiddled with the radio until he found a program of dance music. That didn’t help particularly, and the announcer kept breaking in to hum the lyrics in a middling-to-bad voice. Terrell cut him off and fixed a drink. He stood in the middle of the room for a few seconds, his frown settling deeper on his face, and then he turned decisively and scooped up the telephone. Superintendent Duggan wasn’t in his office, his secretary said; he could be reached at home if it were important. Terrell broke the connection and dialled Duggan’s home number.
Duggan’s wife answered, and said just a minute, she’d tell Jack, and then Duggan was on the phone, speaking in a soft, worried voice. “Sam, it’s been a wild day. I guess you’ve heard all about it.”
“I haven’t heard anything. I’ve been working. I want to report a kidnapping.”
“A kidnapping? Who’s been kidnapped?”
“A girl named Connie Blacker who worked for Ike Cellars.”
Duggan paused, and Terrell heard his heavy breathing. “Why come to me?” he said at last. “It’s a Federal charge.”
“Aren’t you interested? Did Ike Cellars dampen your flaming official zeal?”
“Who the hell do you think you’re talking to?” Duggan said, in an angry, rising voice. “I’ve been kicked around all day, and I’m sick of it. The Council didn’t suspend me — but only by three votes. Ticknor told me off like I was a rookie cop he’d caught drunk on a beat. I’m not taking any more of it — from you or anybody else.”
“You’re going to take a lot more,” Terrell said. “Ticknor can scare up three more votes, don’t worry. And after that you’re through — another ex-cop winning that he got squeezed out by political pressure. But the charges will read different. You’ll wind up at the track keeping an eye on pickpockets for coffee-and-cake money. And you’ll jump to attention when Ike Cellars and Mayor Ticknor stroll past you to the fifty-dollar window.”
“Save your fight talk,” Duggan said. His voice was under control again. “I’m not throwing away thirty-five years in the bureau. You can talk loud and big, Terrell, because you’re on the outside. But I’m not.”
“You’ll be outside pretty soon,” Terrell said, “because they’re getting ready to plant a boot in your big fanny and kick you out. But if you find that girl you’ve got a chance.”
Duggan said, “What do you mean? What’s she got to do with me?”
Terrell was aware of the quickened interest in his voice; then suddenly he realized that he’d been beaten on this story from the start: Paddy Coglan, Connie — someone was always ahead of him. He was the one fighting shadows in the dark.
“I don’t understand,” Duggan said. “What did you say her name was?”
“I forget,” Terrell said. “It started with Smith or something like that.”
“Why the cute stuff? I asked you a question. What’s the girl’s name? What’s she got on Ticknor and Cellars?”
“Nothing at all,” Terrell said. “I was dreaming.”
“You sound wide-awake to me.”
“It’s a trick I learned in college. Take it easy.” Terrell put the phone down on Duggan’s protesting voice, and picked up his hat and coat. Duggan wouldn’t help. No one would help. She was trouble, and the smart boys would want no part of her. A pillow over her face, the pressure of a finger on her throat — that was the best thing all around. So the smart boys would figure it. But there was still a chance, Terrell knew. He had enough to print now. Enough to blow a loud whistle on Cellars.
When Terrell reached Karsh’s apartment it was late in the afternoon, and the early winter darkness had dropped over the city. The crowd was back from the game and a party was underway in the living room.
“Where’s Mr. Karsh?” Terrell asked the maid, as she took his hat and coat.
“He’s talking on the long distance in his bedroom, Mr. Terrell. Can I bring you a drink or something to eat?”
“No, thanks. I’ll forage.”
Philip Karsh and a half dozen of what obviously were his friends had grouped themselves about the massive record player, the young men in dark flannels and white buck shoes, the girls smooth and sweet in tweeds and cashmeres. They looked wonderful and happy, Terrell thought, like F. Scott Fitzgerald people, or magazine ads plugging gracious living through a judicious choice of deodorants; the cold wind had put color in their cheeks and their eyes were bright with health and excitement — or more accurately, he thought, an inoffensive awareness of their own good fortune.
At the opposite end of the room Karsh’s mistress and an assortment of friends and sycophants were standing in front of the well-stocked bar. To each his own, Terrell thought, as he went over to get a drink.
