“Just a minute — hold on a second.” Karsh’s cry was desperate and futile; the connection was already broken. Terrell heard Karsh’s ragged breathing for an instant before he put the receiver quietly back into its cradle. He stood perfectly still, rubbing his hands on the sides of his trousers. Finally he moved to the middle of the room, and fumbled for his cigarettes. He couldn’t seem to think; it was as if his senses had been mercifully numbed by the effects of a terrible blow.
When he heard the knob turn he put a cigarette quickly between his lips and raised his hands to cup the flame of his lighter. The door swung open and Karsh walked into the room, his manner brisk and business-like. “I’m squared away now,” he said. “Tell me what you’ve got, Sam. All of it, from start to finish. Then we’ll see how much we can use.”
Terrell’s face was partially concealed by his cupped hands; he needed that defense now. “Okay,” he said, turning away from Karsh. He forced himself to speak evenly, almost casually. “As we both knew, Caldwell was framed. Eden Myles was murdered by a paid gunman named Nick Rammersky. He was paid by Ike Cellars. The unholy triumvirate was Cellars, Dan Bridewell, and our beloved mayor, Shaw Ticknor. Does this surprise you?”
“Dan Bridewell? That’s a jolt,” Karsh said.
“Isn’t it? This story is a gathering of the hypocrite clan. Well, the side angles you know about. The fact Paddy Coglan was unlucky enough to see Rammersky, the attempts to put pressure on Coglan’s widow — it fits together, and it’s all characterized by the same gamey flavor.”
“Can you prove this? Supposing we get slugged with libel suits?”
Terrell couldn’t make himself turn and face Karsh. He stood in profile to him, trying to bring his nerves and emotions under control. Now his hand trembled as he raised the cigarette to his lips, and he was almost physically sick with a blend of shame and anger and pity.
“Well?” Karsh said. His tone was puzzled. “I asked you a question, Sam. What’ve we got? Provable stuff we can back up with witnesses and written evidence? Or guesses — regardless of how accurate they may be. How much of what you’ve told me can we print?”
Terrell turned at last and stared at Karsh. For a few seconds neither man spoke, but Karsh frowned faintly at the look in Terrell’s eyes. The silence stretched out until Karsh made a worried little gesture with his hand, and said, “What’s the matter, Sam? I’m just asking you what we can use.”
“Why not ask Ike Cellars?” Terrell said, softly. “From the weather to classified ads — he’s the boy to ask. Isn’t that right, Mike?” His voice rose suddenly in anger. “Well? Isn’t that right?”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Karsh’s puzzled smile was a good effort, but his face had turned clammy and white.
Terrell said bitterly, “Don’t lie and squirm. Spare me that. You knew the girl wrote a note. How? How did you know that?”
“I told you—”
Terrell pointed to the extension telephone. Karsh’s voice trembled and then he wet his lips and stared at Terrell in silence.
“I heard you talking to Cellars,” Terrell said.
“Listen to me — you’ve got to understand.”
“Understand what? That you’re working for him? I know that now?”
Karsh took a step toward him and raised his hands in a clumsy and incongruous gesture of supplication. “Sam, I was trying to save you — you’ve got to believe me. From the moment you talked to Coglan and got his story about the prowler — from then on you were slated for the morgue.”
“I brought you the whole story,” Terrell said. “You could have smashed them to bits with it. But you killed it. We’d wait until we had it all, you said, the drama and the color, but the whole thing in one piece, like a beautiful symphony.” Terrell’s voice became savage and ugly. “But you were lying. I had the guts of the story the first night, but you threw it out. Threw away Caldwell’s only chance. Then I traced down Paddy Coglan, and got the truth from him, a scared, drunken little cop hiding in a cheap flea trap in Beach City. But he was dead before his testimony could do any good. Then Mrs. Coglan came in with her story, and you buried that, too. More lies. Wait till we have it all, the drunks singing
“I fell for it like any prize fool. But I was too close to you, Mike. I believed in you. You taught me this business. For a dozen years you were my model — I even tried to dress like you when I was a copy boy. It’s a laugh, isn’t it? And you played on that, didn’t you — on my feeling that you were an old-style hero, colorful, romantic, generous, anything for a pal, always good for a touch, kind and decent to the core.” Terrell’s voice was trembling. “That was my picture of you. And it was there for you to use.”
“No, Sam, no — listen to me, for God’s sake.”
