“Listen to me, please listen to me,” Karsh said, in a low voice. “You meant something to me. That was on the level. Everything else about me was phony — okay, fair enough. But I respected you — and wanted you close to me. That’s the truth — for what it’s worth.”
“It’s not worth a damn,” Terrell said, and slapped Karsh’s hand from his arm.
“Sam, please don’t leave like this, I can—”
Terrell walked out and slammed the door on Karsh’s entreating voice. The living room was empty and silent; the music had been turned off. Evidently Jenny and her friends had left with the college crowd. Glasses were everywhere and a cigarette was burning a black groove in the shining surface of the coffee table. Terrell found his hat and coat and let himself out.
Terrell stopped at a bar near Karsh’s hotel, and drank two double whiskeys, but the liquor failed to dissolve the sickening coldness in his stomach. He didn’t know what to do next; betrayal, he had found, was mercifully numbing.
The story would break, of course. Nothing could stop it now. When Rammersky was picked up for Coglan’s murder, he would talk — he wouldn’t go to the chair and leave Cellars in the clear. And when Cellars fell he would drag old man Bridewell and Mayor Ticknor with him.
Terrell didn’t need a newspaper to print his story. He could give it to Sarnac, and the national committee of Caldwell’s party would splash it across the country. They had shrewd tough lawyers who would love this case, and press agents who would drop the facts like bombs on the opposition party.
But would that help Connie? No: he could free Caldwell and win an election, but he couldn’t save an honest little blonde whose only mistake had been trying to help him. There was no point in trying his tipsters and contacts for a lead to her. Even if he went about it by hints and indirection, they would be unwilling to stick their noses into Ike Cellars’ personal business. And the word would get back to Ike that the blonde’s whereabouts was becoming a matter of concern and speculation. That might force his hand in the wrong direction.
No — it wouldn’t do. He needed something that would stampede Cellars tonight; that would take his mind off everything but survival.
“Another one?” the bartender asked him.
“Yes, thanks.” An idea had occurred to Terrell, and as he examined it a small, unpleasant smile touched his lips. It might work nicely. And there was something cruel and destructive in it that appealed to his need for reprisal. He walked to the phone booth at the end of the room and looked up the number of the Weston Hotel, where Frankie Chance had an apartment.
The hotel operator connected him with Frankie’s room and after a few rings the connection was made and Frankie Chance said, “Hello?” in a sharp, impatient voice.
“Frankie? This is Sam Terrell. I’d like to see you for a few minutes. Can I come over?”
“We don’t have mutual interests, snoop. And I’m busy.”
“This won’t take long.”
Chance paused. Then he said, “You feeling unhappy about the beating you took the other night?”
“Live and learn,” Terrell said. He began to smile, but his eyes were cold and hard. “This is another matter. I want to tell you who killed your girl. I’ll be over in five minutes.”
“You dirty, filthy scum, I’ll—”
Terrell laughed shortly and dropped the receiver into the hook. He returned to the bar, finished his drink and then went outside and caught a cab. “Weston Hotel,” he told the driver, and settled back to enjoy his cigarette.
The sky was bright and lovely with stars, but the wind surging through the city was soft and exciting with the feel of snow. Lines of traffic stretched up and down the noisy streets, and the sidewalks were jammed with hurrying crowds, young couples on their way to or from the movies, cleaning women lumbering to work in heavy woolen coats, and the usual assortment of panhandlers and drifting young males.
Terrell walked through the crowded lobby of the Weston, and took the elevator to Frankie Chance’s floor. He went along a clean, warm corridor to the apartment and rapped lightly with the back of his knuckles. Frankie pulled the door open and said, “Come in, snoop. I prayed you’d come. I swear to God, I prayed.” His voice was trembling softly and there was a look of murder in his eyes. “Get in here fast.” His hand was in the pocket of a gaudy dressing robe and Terrell knew he was holding a gun.
“There’s no point in being mad, Frankie,” he said. “I’m not here to needle you. I’m here to do you a favor.”
Chance closed the door and took the gun from his pocket. “What did you say about Eden? I want to hear it again, Terrell. I want to hear it before I bust all the teeth out of your head.”
“I’m here as a friend, Frankie, believe me.”
Chance’s eyes narrowed. “You’re trying to be wise, eh?”
