Dave Corday said, “Now, wait a minute. I wasn’t aware that you had a lawyer’s degree, that you were admitted to the bar, Captain.”
Apparently Cap Martin didn’t think that was worthwhile answering. The phone remained completely silent, and Corday had to carry on the conversation himself. “Immigration would have to prove all this,” he said. “At any rate, I have no intention of releasing Guild to a federal court. He’s ours, and we are going to try him—that is, if you work up a good case for me.”
Again he waited. This time he said, “Are you still there, Martin?”
Cap Martin said, “Sure.”
“Has anything developed in the case itself?”
Cap Martin’s calm voice said, “No.”
Dave Corday took a deep breath. If Latson had been lying, why? If Cap Martin was lying now, why? He asked, “You mean, nothing you can prove, but some good leads for you to investigate?”
Cap Martin said, “Sure.”
Dave Corday’s voice had its solid, judicial boom back in it. “Well, report to me the moment you have anything.”
“Sure,” Cap Martin said, and then there was a click as the captain hung up.
Dave Corday laid his hands flat on the desk blotter, rested his weight on them. The box said, “The district attorney would like to see you, Mr. Corday. I told him you were on the phone.”
Dave Corday said, “Sure.” He raised his hands, and saw that they had left damp marks on the blotter.
But the district attorney only wanted him on a matter of magistrates; one was resigning, and the mayor wanted advice as to the appointment of a successor. It was just a routine matter.
Chapter 12
AFTER HE FINISHED TALKING to Dave Corday on the phone, Cap Martin allowed himself to smile, something he rarely did in office hours. As he saw his duty, his primary function at the moment was to be the conscience of the city’s law-enforcement agencies; and in goading Dave Corday, he had insured his intangible boss, Justice, that the D.A.’s office would not drop the Guild case for another twenty-four hours.
He sighed.
Though the head of no homicide squad can ever be absolutely certain when his day’s work will end, Cap Martin indulged himself in a daydream of leaving the office at five-thirty, getting home at six.
The barb he had sunk in Dave Corday’s rather thin hide would keep on working, festering. Frightened—but not so frightened that they struck back and wiped out one Captain B. Martin—the politicians would turn up his witness for him… He could go home pretty soon now.
His wife would have martini makings laid out, and he would stir two good ones for himself and one for her; with the cocktail he would have—if there were any in the house—some of those little cocktail sausages that Lora broiled under the electric skillet…
Unless the missing witness was a very, very big man indeed, no Dave Corday, no mayor, no politician at all would cover up for him at the risk of his own career. Politicians are not that unselfish.
Renewed by the cocktails, he would suggest that Lora have her brother and his wife over for the evening. Matt was as silent as Cap Martin pretended to be around headquarters; unlike traditional brothers-in-law, Matt’s idea of a big evening was sitting in a deep chair and listening to Cap Martin sound off. On any subject—art, politics, the movies.
Let the wiseacres over at City Hall and the County Building sleep in fear tonight. Tomorrow they’d make a move that would go to Chief Latson and draw utility men to help him and—
At the silent mention of Jim Latson, Cap Martin stopped rubbing his hands together and looking at his wrist watch.
Instead of running for cover—and leaving a trail to that cover—Jim Latson was perfectly capable of doing something so wild and unpredictable that the whole case would disintegrate.
To hell with it. He had earned his pay today.
He got up, put on his hat and coat, moved to the door. Then he stopped, and stood there. From somewhere around his toenails he gathered a sigh, shot it out into the empty room.
Then he went over to the closet, put his hat and coat away again, went back to his desk, sat down, and flipped the intercom. “Jake? Bring me the logs of every cruiser that was working within three miles of Hogan DeLisle’s apartment on the watch when she was killed, and the watch before it.”
He flipped the box shut and picked up the phone, dialed his home and got ready to tell his wife he’d be late for dinner. He didn’t think he’d surprise her.
She had been with him most of the years he had walked his tightrope in the department. She was used to his hours.
He told himself fiercely that it was not civic conscience, the desire to earn all his pay, that made him stay. It was simple self-defense.
Somebody big enough to get personal protection from Jim Latson, who was the big shots’ hatchetman in the department.
Captain Martin did not permit himself to curse Jim Latson. There had been hatchetmen before; there would be others if Latson quit, died, or moved on to higher glories.
But Jim Latson was a smart hatchetman as well as a ruthless one. So long as Latson held the hatchet, it was necessary for Captain Martin to do what he had to do now, not leave it overnight.
If the protected witness was big enough, rich enough and scared enough, it would not be unbelievable for him, Latson, to burn all the departmental files overnight.
Or the department itself.
Captain Martin did not want to do his work in the open air. He was used to his office; he would hate to see it burn down.
Chapter 13
DAVE CORDAY was enjoying a sensation he had never felt before. It was as though his nerves had been cleaned with something refreshing and cooling—perhaps cologne or pure alcohol. Everything that came to him—sight, sound, smell—made more of an impact on him than it ever had before.
This is success, he told himself. This is what it feels like to be a successful man. The world, the air, the very pavement is made to comfort a successful man.
The difference between being a district attorney, he thought, and being one of the deputies—even the chief deputy—is the difference between being a prison guard and being one of the trusties, even the chief trusty, if there is such a thing.
After I take office, I will look back at my jealousy of Latson and wonder at it. Because he will be nothing compared to me; he’ll be a cop among cops and I will be the only one of my kind in the whole city.
He regretted for just a moment the killing of Hogan DeLisle, and then put the thought firmly away from him. He had not killed Hogan DeLisle. He had not! Nor had Jim Latson. A man named Ralph Guild, alias a couple of unpronounceable strings of Czech syllables, had shot the girl. The only thing unusual about it was Frederick Van Lear’s offer to defend Guild. And that could be explained by Van Lear’s need for publicity, the rumor strong around town that the corporation lawyer wanted to be governor. Losing a popular case was as good as winning one for that purpose; the point was to get known by the public.
He had arrived at the Zebra House. The doorman opened the door snappily; the maitre d’ hurried forward to greet him. “Your party’s waiting for you in the Turf Club Room, Mr. Corday. Just this way, sir.”
The man was helping him off with his coat, handing his hat to the checkgirl. “You won’t need a check, Mr. Corday. Freda could hardly forget you, could you, Freda?”
The girl was pert in velvet toreador pants and a white blouse, open far enough down. She shook dark hair at him, blinked dark eyes. “Certainly not, Mr. District Attorney.” Hugging his coat to her expensive looking bosom, she danced to hang it up, deposit his hat on a high shelf.
He straightened his cuffs and followed the maitre d’. Long before the padded, brass-studded door was opened for him he could hear the happy hum of the party; his party, the one gotten up to welcome him to the big leagues.
Then the door was opened; a cloud of expensive cigar smoke and alcohol fumes and lemon juice came pouring out. He went in, and the maitre d’ followed
him and murmured, “Your drink, Mr. Corday? I’ll get it myself.”
“Bourbon and branch water.”
“Tout de suite.”
A hand was grabbing his elbow. Dan Dryce, the State Commissioner of Motor Vehicles. “Dave, ol’ boy.”
“Didn’t know you were in the city, Dan.”
“Drove down with the governor. We made it in an hour and twelve minutes, from the Mansion to the State Office Building here.”
Dave whistled politely. It was ninety-two miles, exactly; he’d turned it in on mileage reports often enough, before he had a county-owned car check issued to him. “Who was driving?”
“The governor. You know how he is on martinis.”
There was a surge, and the two men were separated. Chuckling, Dave moved into a group of brass from the Highway Department. One of the men told a story about three capons and a hen, and the resultant laughter increased the crowd; suddenly Dave found himself standing shoulder to shoulder with Jim Latson.
Another highway man started a story. Latson said, “I’ve heard that one,” and turned away. Dave Corday went after him, and found him holding out his glass to the bartender with one hand, using the other to point to things on the buffet; a waiter was piling a plate for him.
Dave Corday said, “Give me one of everything Mr. Latson takes. And a bourbon and branch water.”
Jim Latson’s sardonic face creased into a grin. He peered down at Dave Corday; a haze of blue cigar smoke curled around his face. “Thought you were a vitamin drinker, Dave. Bloody Marys and long, cool Collinses.”
Dave Corday said, “Tastes change.”
Jim Latson chuckled. “Men don’t,” he said. “Thanks, Lawrence.” He took his plate and shoved his chin at the waiter’s burden. “Take your food, Dave.”
Dave Corday did. With a drink in one hand and the plate in the other, he found himself hopelessly tied up. He looked over at Jim Latson. The chief’s long fingers were functioning perfectly: thumb and forefinger of his right hand held the plate, the other three fingers hooked around the glass.
But Dave Corday’s fingers were short and stubby. In desperation he gulped his drink and set it down on the edge of the buffet.
Jim Latson popped a caviar-covered cracker into his mouth, picked up Dave’s glass and put it on the bar; the barman promptly refilled it and held it out to Dave Corday. He took it, while Jim Latson ate a deviled egg and washed it down with scotch and soda.
“I hear the D.A.’s gonna be our next governor,” he said.
“I also hear that Frederick Van Lear’s going to oppose him,” Dave said.
Latson peered at him. The big banquet room was getting smoky. “You can hear anything,” he said. “Fred Van Lear’s not affiliated with any patty. He could belong to ours as well as the opposition… A man of great stature, serving the public weal,” he intoned, and grinned his devil’s grin.
Dave Corday said, “You mean he might run against the D.A. in the primaries?” He frowned. The district attorney was not likely to resign unless he was sure of the nomination.
“Between you and me,” Latson said, “I talked to Van Lear this afternoon. Your boss is a shoo-in for the party nomination; stop worrying about that.”
Dave Corday’s embarrassment fell away. He set the full glass down, ate a stuffed celery stalk, picked up his glass and took a swallow, then put the glass down again. He was the next district attorney. It didn’t matter if he used part of the public buffet for a private table; what might have looked like hick manners in an assistant prosecutor was eccentricity in an important man.
“So they tell me,” he said. “Now, if the police chief would just resign, Jim, you and I would have the running of-this town to ourselves.”
Jim Latson shook his head. “Not me, buddy. The chief’s a fine front for my nefarious practices. I run the department, he takes the credit. What I take is cash.”
Dave Corday felt himself goggling. It was a bad habit; he thought he’d broken himself of it when he was a clodhopping freshman at State U. “You’re mighty frank.”
“Sure,” Jim Latson said. “Tell the truth and nobody believes you. Anyway, there’s no one here but friends, damn it.”
“Damn it?”
“I like to see the enemy. In other words, women, dames, girls. Man’s natural enemies, aren’t they? God bless them.” He laughed and half turned. “Hi, son.”
Ronald Palmer, Dave Corday realized with sudden perception, was a man who had studied as hard to get where he was as Dave Corday had. There was no telling now where Ronald Palmer had started; but at one point in his career he must have had the slick servility of a waiter, and then the insinuating friendliness of a maitre d’. (A phrase Dave Corday had only learned a couple of years ago.)
But now, look at him, in a tweed suit, a blue shirt and a very narrow tie. You would be a very clever man to know that he managed this place; just an occasional sideways look at the waiters and the bartenders gave him away.
He said, “Gents, are you festive?”
“Hilarious,” Jim Latson said. “Bubbling over.”
“Any complaints, don’t bring ’em to me,” Ronald Palmer said. “This is my day to howl. I’m just another guest, eh, Oliver?”
The passing waiter heard his name, and pulled up gently, did a right face, took Palmer’s glass and Jim Latson’s and headed for the bar with them. Before he left, however, he murmured, “Certainly, Mr. Palmer.”
Ron Palmer said, “You don’t come in here nearly often enough, Dave. And, by the way, I like the way you handled that Arnaux case. If a case of champagne shows up at your apartment some time, don’t have me indicted for bribery.”
This was big-league stuff. Dave Corday laughed, and said, “I’ll keep it down to a misdemeanor.”
Jim Latson said, “Dave’s a bright man, Ronald. The governor was saying all kinds of nice things about him before. Wheelhorse of the party was the mildest one.”
Dave Corday felt himself getting red in the cheeks. He didn’t know when he’d enjoyed a party more. He said, “Ron, you interrupted Jim just when he was giving a speech on Topic A. He’s the professional lady-killer of the administration, you know.”
Ronald Palmer said, “I know, Dave. I know. Lord, he’s in here so often with so many little beauties, I can’t keep track. I’d hate to be put on one of your witness stands and told to identify any of your escorts, Jim.”
“Just as well,” Jim Latson said. “Especially the one I had in here last Tuesday. The little snitzel told me she’d never been married, and two days later I see where her husband’s bringing suit against her. And speaking of the devil—”
“What? What?” It was the governor. His appearance was just as famous as his name; he had the sort of face that would appear well on a silver coin, he had the walk and stature of success. “What’s all this about the devil?”
“You, Governor,” Jim Latson said. “I was just talking about you, and here you are. I was telling Dave Corday how highly you thought of him.”
The governor nodded. A couple of state capital men were bustling around him, one getting his glass refilled, the other ordering a plate for him. Those well-packed cheeks of his demanded constant stoking; the Governor’s appetite was notable. “That is a fact, Dave. Jim was telling me what a good man you are, and I was outdoing him in your praise—Thanks, boys.” He crammed his mouth and chewed carefully, getting every bit of nourishment out of the food. When his mouth was empty, he absentmindedly drained his martini glass.
“Teamwork,” Dave Corday said. “Without it we’d none of us be anything, Jim’s department gives us good cases. My staff works up clean, hard cases. When I go to court, that battle’s almost over.”
“Your staff?” The governor looked puzzled for a moment. “That’s right, you’re chief trial deputy, aren’t you…?” He didn’t look at his glass as it was taken away and a new one put in his hand. He drained that one, too, said, “Gives a man an appetite,” and his short, blunt fingers went working around the pl
ate, carrying samples of the different kinds of tidbits to his happy mouth. Around a large stuffed olive, he said, “Let’s see. You’re pretty close to Donald Munroe, aren’t you?” He posed a toothpick load of sour-cream herring in front of his mouth, told it, “A fine man, Mr. Munroe,” and ate his audience.
The liquor, the high company, the luxurious air of the place, all this was having its effect on Dave Corday. He said, “Mr. Munroe’s been a good friend to me. He’s from my home town, you know, downstate. I had a letter to him when I first came here, a green punk out of law school. Well, Governor, he said he could get me placed with the law firm that does his corporate work; but when I said I was interested in politics, he offered to use his influence with the administration, and I became an assistant district attorney; about the least experienced one the office has ever seen.”
The governor accepted another martini, and held out his plate to be refilled. “Made it down here in seventy minutes, door to door,” he said. “Man, we were really balling the jack. What I wanted to see you about, Dave, was—how much do you think Munroe’ll go for in the next election? We’re going to need a sizable war chest, if we want to make a sweep of it—and we do.” He grinned. “I’m up for senator, you know.”
Dave groped in his mind. “Last general election he contributed five thousand.”
“Not enough,” the governor said, put his martini glass down, waved his hand over it to forestall a refill. The blue eyes under the noble brow were suddenly cold, and the firmly chiseled lips narrowed meanly. “Not nearly enough.”
Jim Latson said idly, “He gave the opposition that much last time, too.”
Dave Corday cleared his throat. “Mr. Munroe has very wide interests.”
“What the hell does that mean?” the governor asked. “He’s with us, or, hell, we clobber him next time he wants something. And those rich bastards always want something.”
Jim Latson said lightly, “We can get ten out of him easy, Governor, maybe fifteen. He owns some lots over in Traffic Three, and he wants an exception made to the zoning. You know, over there you have to have parking facilities for one and a half cars per apartment. He wants to build a two-hundred-apartment building. He’ll deal. Just think how much land it takes to park three hundred cars.”
The Body Looks Familiar Page 7
