by Jerry eBooks
“It proves he couldn’t make detective except by turning his back on a job that any cop should be glad to do,” Spiegel said sharply. “I wouldn’t let my own mother off a drunken-driving rap.”
Mark lit another cigarette, realizing that he wasn’t learning anything very important. It was obvious Neelan hadn’t been liked out here; but it was equally obvious that he had been feared by everyone but Spiegel.
“Well, I’ve got to be running along,” he said, standing.
“Don’t be such a stranger,” Sergeant Ellerton said.
Mark waved to them and walked downstairs slowly. He stopped on the steps of the station-house and flipped his cigarette away; and then the door behind him opened, and Spiegel came out.
“Can I drop you somewhere?” Mark said, but then he saw that Spiegel wasn’t wearing a hat.
“No. Look, Mark, you sure this is just a friendly visit?”
“Why, sure.”
“You aren’t working on anything?”
“Well, theoretically I’m always working,” Mark said, and smiled. “Why?”
“Let’s walk over to your car.”
They went down the steps together and strolled along the sidewalk in the warm sunshine. “I don’t like Neelan,” Spiegel said. “I was working with him the night he killed those two colored boys. We came in from different ends of the alley, see, and I got to ’em first. They were scared silly. I calmed ’em down, and then along comes that damned Neelan with his gun out, and swearing like a wild man. The kids were edgy anyway, and they bolted. Neelan dropped ’em both with shots in the back. It stank, Mark.”
“Well, so you don’t like him. What about it?”
They had reached Mark’s car and were facing each other. Spiegel brought out a cigarette and took his time lighting it. “Dave Fiest got stuck with a bet of Mike Espizito’s, I’m told. You’d hear this pretty soon, anyway, so it doesn’t matter that I’m telling you. The talk goes that he had the pay-off money with him when Neelan shot him. Mike is awfully hot about it. The pay-off was twenty-five thousand, I’m told.”
“A nice round sum,” Mark said. His thoughts went on to the inescapable conclusion. Neelan now must have Espizito’s money; and that put some sense into Dave Fiest’s murder.
“It may be just talk, of course,” Spiegel said.
“Yeah, probably nothing to it,” Mark said, and Spiegel suddenly grinned and punched him lightly in the stomach. “See you, kid,” he said, and walked back to the station-house.
Mark drove slowly to a nearby drugstore and ordered a cup of coffee at the counter. He sat there a few minutes, thinking of what Spiegel had told him, and realizing with some concern that he was committed to finding out all he could about Neelan. He didn’t quite know why, but he did know that probing into the activities of a man like Barny Neelan was neither very smart nor very safe. For, if the talk was right, Neelan was a murderer and a thief; and digging into him could lead only to trouble.
When he finished his coffee, he smoked a cigarette and thought about a few other leads. Finally he went to the phone and called the Simba. He got Jim Evans, who had happened to come in early, and from him got the singer’s address and phone number. He told Jim he wanted to do a story on her for the paper.
He pushed his hat back on his forehead and hesitated a few moments. This was going to be a final step, he knew. Then he shrugged and dialed her number.
“Yes?” Her voice was clear and fresh.
“Is this Linda Wade?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“My name is Brewster, Mark Brewster, Miss Wade. I’m with the Call-Bulletin.” He mentioned doing a feature on her, and said: “May I see you some time this afternoon, perhaps?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, but I’ll be busy. How about a little later—about seven?”
“That would be fine. Where shall I meet you?”
“Well, you could stop by here if that’s convenient.”
“Fine, I’ll see you at seven. And thanks very much.”
He replaced the receiver slowly. Linda Wade. A nice name. And her voice was nice, too. Warm and pleasant. He wondered somewhat irritably how she had got mixed up with Neelan, and what the nature and extent of their relationship was.
Well, those were things he had to find out.
Chapter Six
IT WAS TWO-THIRTY WHEN BARNY NEELAN left his rooming-house. He was working the four-to-twelve shift, and he had an hour and a half to do several important things: First there was a newspaper-wrapped bundle containing the twenty-five thousand dollars. That was under his arm as he climbed into his car. He had to put it array somewhere where Espizito would never find it. And there was the sixty-three hundred dollars he was carrying in his pocket.
Neelan knew he would have a call from Mike Espizito very shortly; and after that, Mike would try to get his money back. First, he’d ask for it: then he’d tear the city open looking for it.
Neelan was frowning as he drove slowly away from his rooming-house. The wop could go to hell. He wasn’t getting hold of this money—it belonged to Neelan now.
He drove to the garage where he bought his gas and coasted back to the greasing racks. The mechanic walked over, wiping his hands on a piece of cheesecloth.
“What’ll it be, Barney?”
“Take a look at the plugs, will you? I’m having trouble starting.”
The mechanic lifted the hood and began checking the connections. Neelan took the money from his pocket and counted out six thousand dollars. The remaining three hundred he shoved back in his pocket; then he took a small pry-bar from the glove compartment and walked to the rear of the car. He squatted down alongside the right rear wheel and pried off the chromium plate that covered the hub cap. He put the six thousand inside the plate, and banged it back in place with his fist.
“Everything looks okay,” the mechanic said, coming around to the rear of the car. “Maybe the points need cleaning. Something wrong with the wheel?”
“I thought the cap was loose.”
“Maybe it’s sprung or dented.”
“It seems okay.”
“Want me to pull it off and take a look?”
Neelan stifled a sudden anger. “It’s okay, I said. You can check the plugs later.”
The mechanic looked at him and wiped his hands again on the cheesecloth. “Okay, Barny, okay,” he said.
Neelan climbed into the car and headed downtown. The twenty-five thousand dollars was still beside him on the seat, and he didn’t know what to do with it. Once he found a place to stash the money everything would be fine. He’d sit tight for a few weeks, a month, maybe, and then he could put it to work carefully. On Linda.
Thinking of her brought a smile to his lips. Suddenly he pulled over to the curb and parked his car. He had time to call her, to say hello, before going on to work, and so he walked into a drugstore and found a telephone booth. When she answered the phone, he smiled at the sound of her fresh young voice.
“Hello,” he said. “I was just on my way to the District, so I thought I’d give you a buzz.”
“That was nice of you.” Her voice was cheerful. “Look, kid, I’m due for a break around six-thirty, so how about having dinner with me?”
“Oh, Barny, I can’t. That reporter, what’s his name, Mark Brewster, is coming over here at seven, and I—”
“What for?” Neelan snapped, and his big hand tightened on the receiver. “Damn it, what for?”
“He’s doing a story on me for his paper,” she said, and her voice was suddenly cool.
“Look, I told you he was a nosey punk, didn’t I?”
“Barny, if you can’t talk calmly, I’m going to hang up,” Linda said shortly. “Also, I don’t feel that I’ve got to explain everything I do to you.”
“Oh, for God’s sake!” Neelan said, instantly defeated and weary. “I’m sorry, kid. Every time I say something it’s wrong. I got a lot on my mind these days. Could I see you later tonight? I mean, at the club?”
Sh
e hesitated a moment; then she said, “All right, at the club,” in a not particularly enthusiastic voice.
When he hung up after an exchange of brief good-by’s he went slowly to the counter and ordered coffee. It was time for him to be getting on to the Division, but he sat brooding and staring at his figure in the mirror behind the coffee urns. What was Brewster snooping around Linda for?
A man passed behind him and slapped his back. “Hi, Barny, how’s the boy?”
Barny turned and recognized Petey Felickson, a ward lieutenant he’d worked for before he got on the police force.
“Everything’s about the same, Petey,” he said.
“Well, take it easy.”
Petey sauntered out, a small, solidly built man with graying hair, who radiated a cocky confidence. Neelan watched him cross the street and enter a taproom.
NEELAN had hated him back in the days where there were no jobs, and Petey had his choice of tough aggressive kids, who’d do anything for a few dimes, or a few beers. Neelan had been born in the section of Philadelphia called Brewerytown and had grown up fighting the gangs from Strawberry Mansion and South Philly. Neelan’s father, a brawling, blustering laborer, championed Barny’s fights, and threatened to beat him senseless if he ever took any dirt from what he called the foreign element.
The only passion in Neelan’s young life was automobiles. He knew motors and was a superb driver, arrogant and alert; and by the time he was sixteen, he was making a few dollars a week hauling alcohol for a local bootlegger. When Prohibition came, Neelan had drifted almost inevitably into the Republican organization in his ward, and that was when he’d met Petey Felickson. There had been no work anywhere, but Petey was a key that could unlock a lot of doors. Neelan had walked himself dog-tired delivering handbills before elections, and on election days he’d worked as a chauffeur to get out the vote.
Barny had weighed one-ninety then, and had a minor reputation as a street brawler, and he’d used his physical endowments to chase the Democratic canvassers off the streets. He put two of them in Jefferson Hospital, and pretty soon the Democrats were afraid to step into the ward. There had been newspaper stories about it, and the Democratic mayoralty candidate had appealed to the Attorney General for a complete investigation. But the Republicans had won, so nothing ever came of that.
Neelan well remembered the victory celebration at Fireman’s Hall. The Ward Leader had patted his hard shoulder and said: “I been hearing fine things about you, my boy. You’re the sort the party needs.”
Petey had then advised him to take the exams for the Police Department: and six months later he received his appointment.
GREAT days, Neelan thought bitterly, finishing his coffee. He’d still be pounding a beat if he hadn’t accidentally got in right with old Mike O’Neill. That fluke had landed film on the detective force.
He paid his check and went out to his car. The things that happened to him were always outside his control, he thought, heading for the Division. Luck, Fate, God’s will, as his mother said. What was it that jerked him around like a dummy on the end of a string? Everything in his life was gray and empty. His family, his job, his wife. Nothing worked.
Neelan suddenly hammered a fist viciously against the steering wheel. Why was it always like this? What was wrong?
Then, mercurially, his mood changed. He was thinking of the old past, he told himself, beginning to grin. Everything was different since he’d met Linda. That had been the turning point. She’d given him confidence. He was no longer on the outside waiting for something to happen. Unconsciously Neelan touched the newspaper-wrapped bundle at his side and then drove the last few blocks with a musing little smile on his lips.
He parked across from the station and put the bundle of money in the glove compartment. It would be okay there for a while. But by tonight he’d have to find a permanent place for it . . .
When he walked into the Division, Sergeant Odell glanced up at him and jerked his finger toward Lieutenant Ramussen’s door.
“The boss wants to see you,” he said.
“Okay.” Neelan walked around the counter and tossed his hat on an empty desk. There were three other detectives on hand, and Mark Brewster was reading a paper at the window. He stifled an angry impulse to slap the paper out of his hands and ask him about Linda. But that would wait. He was aware of a curious tension in the room. The other detectives, Lindfors, Smith and Gianfaldo, were pointedly ignoring him. They had been talking baseball when he came in, and now, after a brief, too-casual glance at him, went on with their discussion.
Neelan walked over to Ramussen’s closed door and knocked sharply. When the Lieutenant answered, he opened the door and stepped into the big bare office.
“Close the door and come over here,” Ramussen said.
Neelan did as he was told.
Lieutenant Ramussen was a tall, rangy man with scanty brown hair and bright blue eyes. His features were lean, composed and unrevealing: but his disturbingly bright eyes gave his face an expression of bold deliberate challenge. Prisoners had difficulty meeting his steady gaze, and even his detectives complained occasionally among themselves that it got on their nerves.
When he smiled, however, the wrinkles about his eyes changed his expression completely; but he wasn’t smiling now.
He flicked Neelan’s typed report with his middle finger. “This stinks like hell,” he said. “You had no damn excuse for killing Dave Fiest, Neelan.”
Neelan shrugged. “I tried to bring him down. The shot went high.”
“I know; that’s in the report. Now get this, Neelan: You’re new in my Division. You’ve got a reputation in the Department for being pretty quick to use your gun. Well, I’m not letting that influence me. I don’t care what you did anywhere else, but here, by God, you’re going to use some judgment. Do you understand?”
Neelan hesitated long enough to verge on insolence. Then he said: “Sure, Lieutenant.”
Ramussen’s eyes grew brighter. He studied Neelan for a few seconds, and then he said, rather unexpectedly: “I’m a cop first of all; remember that, Neelan. I’ll stick with any man of mine who gets into trouble doing police work. But I won’t stand for another instance like last night. Got that?”
“Okay,” Neelan said. His features were impassive, but he felt like grinning. He’d take a slap on the wrist for thirty thousand dollars any day. It was a nice trade.
“That’s all,” Ramussen said.
Neelan nodded to him and walked to the door.
“Oh, there’s one other thing.”
“Yeah?”
The Lieutenant was glancing at another report and fumbling in his vest pocket for his glasses. “Mike Espizito called here awhile back. He wants you to get in touch with him.”
“Mike Espizito?”
“That’s right.” Ramussen put on his glasses. “I told him I’d give you the message.”
“Thanks,” Neelan said. He wanted to ask if Mike had said anything else; but he knew that wouldn’t be wise. “Thanks,” he said again, and walked out.
Chapter Seven
MARK BREWSTER GLANCED UP WHEN NEELAN came out of Ramussen’s office. He hoped to learn something from the expression; but Neelan’s face told him nothing.
The other detectives continued talking, and Neelan crossed the room to take a chair at an empty desk. He picked up a paper and turned to the sports section, pointedly ignoring everyone else.
Mark saw that there was an angry flush of color in Neelan’s face, and he wondered if Lieutenant Ramussen had caused that reaction. Suddenly Neelan turned and met his eyes directly; and Mark saw naked hatred in the detective’s face. The two men stared at each other for an instant without speaking; then Neelan went back to his paper, and Mark let out his breath slowly.
Over their heads the endless talk went on.
Mark lit a cigarette. He noticed that Neelan had been staring at one page of the paper for the past few moments, and wasn’t even making a pretense of reading. Finally he put
the paper aside and turned to Mark with curious deliberation.
“I understand you called Linda Wade,” he said, in a tight voice.
Mark was instantly wary. She’d told him, of course. “That’s right,” he said, and blew smoke at the ceiling. “She a friend of yours?”
“Yeah. What’s on your mind?”
“About her?”
“Yeah, about her,” Neelan said irritably.
Mark deliberately ignored the challenge in his manner. He said easily: “I thought she might make a nice feature for the Sunday paper. She’s very good, you know.”
“Yeah, I know that,” Neelan said. “Whose idea was this feature?”
“Mine, of course,” Mark said, and tried to appear surprised by the question. “I thought she’d be fine for the profile we do every week on entertainers, actors and so forth.”
“I thought you were a police reporter,” Neelan said, with heavy sarcasm. “Isn’t this a little out of your line?”
Mark smiled, but his hands were trembling slightly as he lit a fresh cigarette. He saw that Neelan was watching his hands, and that didn’t help any.
“I’m just trying to get ahead,” he said, still smiling. “You know, impress the boss with my selfless devotion to the cause of the Call. Eager-beaver stuff.”
Smitty walked over, grinning, and slapped Mark on the back. “Get this,” he said: “Lindfors has just announced that Harry Greb could have beat Joe Louis. I told him—”
“We were talking,” Neelan said, glaring up at Smitty. “Why don’t you give that mouth of yours a rest, anyway?”
There was suddenly silence in the room. Smitty turned from Mark and stared hard at Neelan. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry as all hell, Detective Neelan. I didn’t realize I was breaking up your important conference.” There was an angry white line about his mouth.
“It wasn’t that important,” Mark said, relieved at the interruption.
Neelan stood up and brushed past Smitty. He walked to the window and stared into the street for a moment, then wandered to another desk and sat down. Smitty watched him for a few seconds, then shrugged and turned to Mark.
