by Howard Fast
“Shirley can take care of herself,” Cynthia said. “It’s just that sometimes you can get into a situation where nobody can take care of himself. Don’t you agree?”
“I agree. Absolutely. Did you try calling her again last night?”
“No answer.”
“And this morning?”
“I went over there this morning. They got a cop in the hall downstairs, but Shirley hasn’t been there all night. And that big flat-footed lug in the hall wouldn’t tell me a thing.”
“Did you try calling this Lieutenant Burton again?”
“I even did that. So the cop who answers the phone asks me who I am. So I tell him. So he tells me that Burton is busy, and that he has no comment to make.”
“Wouldn’t you know it,” Mr. Bergan commented bitterly. “Wouldn’t you know that when you want a cop or need one, you can die screaming in the middle of Fifth Avenue and every cop in New York is at Idlewild waiting for Kennedy. But just go through a red light or drop a piece of paper and every cop on the force is swarming all over you.”
“I called her apartment again,” Cynthia said. “No answer.”
“Poor kid.”
“And what about that louse, Mr. Morrow?” Cynthia demanded.
“He will not fire Shirley,” Mr. Bergan said with determination. “Not unless it’s over my dead body.”
On his way to Mr. Bushwick’s office, where he had been summoned early that afternoon, Mr. Bergan reflected on the basic fallacy of drama, whether on stage, screen or television; namely, that in moments of deep crisis, it always placed the hero in conjunction with the heroine. He did not overestimate his role as a hero, yet he did realize that some such hero-possibility situation was vaguely present in the background, and that at the one moment Shirley might need him desperately, he had not the vaguest notion of where she was. As much as he pictured himself fighting against the most desperate odds for her safety, the plain fact of the matter was that he was here and she was elsewhere. All he could do for Shirley was to stand up against Mr. Morrow, whom she detested—a small and colorless step against the lurid fabric of danger and brutality in which Shirley was enmeshed.
He could be forgiven for saying to himself, “They also serve who stay at home and wait.” It was a bleak moment in his existence.
When he reached Mr. Bushwick’s office, Mr. Morrow was already there and apparently had stated his case. The Bushwick in question was Gerald Bushwick, one of the three brothers who had, in a process of dizzy growth, become known as the pacemakers of the industry. In the course of his employment at Bushwick Brothers, Mr. Bergan had numerous meetings with Mr. Bushwick, but they had always been conducted with reserve and with an emphasis on the hard facts. This was the first time that he, Mr. Bergan, had been placed on the carpet and challenged to prove his position. Mr. Morrow regarded him with the satisfied superiority of rank, and Mr. Gerald Bushwick came directly to the point, demanding to know whether he, Mr. Bergan, knew of any reason why Mr. Morrow should not discharge one Shirley Campbel?
“I don’t know of any reason why he should,” Mr. Bergan replied stoutly.
From the notes he had made, Mr. Bushwick referred to insubordination, insolence, absenteeism and a generally bad effect on the morale of the office.
“Aside from the fact that Miss Campbel has been away from work today,” Mr. Bergan said stolidly, “none of that is true.”
“That’s a very serious statement, Mr. Bergan, since this information has been supplied by Mr. Morrow.”
“However, I am closer to the actual operation of the office than Mr. Morrow,” Mr. Bergan said.
Mr. Morrow snorted. “Closer to the empty-headed young ladies who work there!”
At this moment, Mr. Bergan realized that Mr. Morrow had gone a step too far. Even the most cautious and conniving of men will overreach at times. Mr. Bergan remained tactically silent as Mr. Bushwick said coldly:
“Am I to take it, Mr. Morrow, that this is your opinion of employees you have hired to work for Bushwick Brothers—empty-headed? Is this your notion of a trustworthy and efficient employee?”
“It was simply a manner of speaking, Mr. Bushwick.”
“That is precisely what I was referring to,” Mr. Bushwick said icily, his heavy cheeks quivering with irritation. “A manner of speaking.”
“I did not mean to imply that these employees are either stupid or inefficient. I was referring to their social outlook.”
“And precisely what business of yours or mine, Morrow, is their social outlook? Unless these are subversive elements. Are you implying that I have an office full of subversive elements?”
“Absolutely not,” Mr. Morrow pleaded.
“Then say what you mean, Morrow. Use language a little more precisely.” The moment Mr. Bushwick dropped the “mister” as a title for Mr. Morrow, Mr. Bergan knew the game was his. He was prepared and glowing as Mr. Bushwick turned to him and demanded:
“Does this Miss Campbel get out her quota of work?”
“More than her quota, sir.”
“Is she efficient?”
“Absolutely, sir.”
“Polite? Respectful?”
“To a fault,” Mr. Bergan lied, while Mr. Morrow turned purple.
“Has she a record of absenteeism?”
“The first time in months, sir.”
“Then what is all this, Morrow? What is it?”
“Why don’t you mention the police?” Mr. Morrow cried, playing his trump card.
“Police? What’s this about the police, Bergan?”
They were on an equal footing now. Taking a deep breath, Mr. Bergan said, “This poor child, sir, this employee of ours who is scarcely more than an innocent girl was brutally abducted. At this moment, the police of the whole city are searching for her—if the poor kid is alive—” Mr. Bergan let his voice trail away. Mr. Bushwick fixed a cold, hard eye on Mr. Morrow and said:
“Have, you never heard of the word ‘compassion,’ Mr. Morrow? This may be a large business today, but it was once a small business. We have not forgotten the human element. You surprise me and shock me, sir. Indeed you do.”
A step away from a stroke, Mr. Morrow could find neither the voice nor the words to reply.
Passing by Cynthia’s desk, Mr. Bergan whispered to her, “I scuttled the son of a bitch. Don’t you ever worry about Shirley’s job. She’s solid. It’s Morrow who’s on the way out, and if he goes, I give you three guesses who’s in line for his job and twelve thousand, two hundred and fifty dollars a year.”
“I should think you’d be a little more concerned about Shirley than giving the knife to Mr. Morrow,” Cynthia said.
“Both. Both, honey. Look, I’ll wait for you outside at five, and we’ll see what we can do.”
But at five o’clock a Detective Romano was waiting at the street door for them. He intercepted Cynthia first, and then Mr. Bergan.
“You’re Michael Bergan?”
“That’s right.”
“And Cynthia Kugelman. Well, Lieutenant Burton wants to talk to both of you right now.”
“There you are,” said Cynthia. “A whole city of hoodlums trying to kill people, but who does he want to talk to—you and me.”
“We’re trying to find your friend, Miss Kugelman,” Detective Romano explained. “We’re not arresting you. If you don’t want to come with me, I can’t force you to. But we’re counting on the fact that both of you will co-operate with us.”
At that moment, in Lieutenant Burton’s drab office, Mr. Cohen, the assistant district attorney, was commenting on the fact that of all city employees, only the police lived and operated in a nineteenth-century atmosphere of ancient furniture, cracked walls and typewriters that would do credit to the Smithsonian Institution. The garages of the Fire Department were spotless and shining, the schools decently kept, the offices of the administration frequently luxurious—but the precincts were all of them museums.
“If we charged admission, we might raise our wages,
” Lieutenant Burton said sourly.
“Modern police methods—”
“The hell with modern police methods,” Lieutenant Burton said. “In this city, everything is a needle in a haystack. A cop is not supposed to have any brains but he’s supposed to use his brains. That’s the crux of it, not whether the walls are painted.”
“How do you know that the girl’s still in the city?” Cohen demanded.
“I don’t know.”
“So we spent a day showing her picture to people and we came up with nothing. How about giving the picture to the papers and letting me go home to dinner?”
“All you ever think about is dinner.”
“I also think about my work. I did no work today, but I took the taxpayers’ money.”
“So give it back to them,” Burton said disgustedly.
“Will you print the damn picture?”
“I suppose so,” Burton sighed.
“Why be so depressed about it? Don’t you run into this land of thing every day?”
“I’m depressed every day,” Burton said.
“All right. Now I’ll tell you what I think. I think you got a nut on your hands. I don’t think this kid was ever in that car that crashed. I think she’s got imagination.”
“She imagined that creep Seppi?”
“Coincidence.”
“Of course. Everything is coincidence after it happens. Is it a coincidence that she disappeared?”
“Then sweat it out of Seppi.”
“Look, Larry, when a man is in the hospital with a shattered shoulder blade, you don’t sweat him—”
It was then that Detective Romano called up from downstairs and informed Burton that Cynthia Kugelman and Michael Bergan were waiting. Burton told him to bring them up, and a few minutes later, they were both uneasily established on rickety chairs in the lieutenant’s office. Burton introduced Cohen to them, and then he explained that they were there because he hadn’t talked to them, and that actually all he wanted to do was talk to them and he had no idea at all whether such a conversation would be profitable, but he hoped they would cooperate.
“Where is Shirley?” Cynthia demanded firmly.
“That is what we are trying to find out, Miss Kugelman. We don’t know where she is.”
“Neither do we.”
“We understand that. But the fact remains that you are a very good friend of hers and that Mr. Bergan here is a co-worker and also concerned with her. You are a good friend of hers?”
“Like brother and sister,” Cynthia replied. “I merely mean as an expression, if you know what I mean. I don’t want you to get any wrong ideas. Shirley and I are two normal girls in a world where your sex leaves a good deal to be desired, to put it mildly.”
Cohen suppressed his smiles and Burton said that he understood. Mr. Bergan observed that he didn’t think it was a matter for laughter. She could be dying right at this moment, and they were sitting there. Cynthia regarded Mr. Bergan with new respect, and Cohen apologized and offered them cigarettes.
“I take it that Mr. Bergan here knows all the details,” Burton said.
“I saw fit to fill him in,” Cynthia nodded. “This is not a burden one desires to carry alone.”
“Miss Kugelman,” Burton said, “is there anything—anything at all in Miss Campbel’s life or past or in anything she ever said to you that might explain why someone might want to kill her?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Was she ever mixed up with—well, was she ever running with a bad crowd?”
“That is absolutely insulting.”
“We’re not trying to be insulting,” Cohen said. “We’re trying to find some lead or clue or direction that will make sense out of this. That’s all we’re trying to do.”
An hour later, they were still trying and still unsuccesfully. Burton was concentrating on Mr. Bergan now, and he wanted to know exactly what Mr. Bergan’s feelings toward Shirley were.
“I’m in love with her,” Mr. Bergan admitted.
“What does that mean?”
“I think some things are personal, even here.”
“Nothing is personal here. Were you engaged to her? Was it that close?” Burton had a notion that Shirley could have done better, but he admitted to himself that perhaps he was too emotionally involved to be objective in his judgments.
“No.”
“As a matter of fact,” Cynthia put in, “it was one of those things.”
“What things?”
“Shirley did not reciprocate,” Cynthia said firmly.
“It was one-sided,” Mr. Bergan agreed. “I might as well admit it.”
“You know this is getting us nowhere,” Cohen told Burton.
“I don’t know one damn thing,” Burton said, taking out one of the pictures that the fat man had shown Shirley two nights before. He handed it to Cynthia.
“Is that Shirley?”
“Of course not,” Cynthia said.
“What do you mean, of course not? You take one look at it, and you know?”
“Naturally.”
“How do you know? It looks like her, doesn’t it?”
“Lieutenant,” Cynthia said patiently, “when you know a person, your knowledge should be deeper than skin deep, don’t you think? There is one thing about Shirley—she has never felt sorry for herself. You know something about Shirley—she always said that if just once in her life she had allowed herself to feel sorry for herself, she would have gone to the top of the Empire State Building and jumped off. There is absolutely nothing about the adversities of life that you can teach Shirley, because she is a specialist in the field. She has been kicked in the pants since she was a day old, and she made something out of herself, believe me. But that girl in this picture—she is so sorry for herself she can’t bear it. Just look at her. She’s a regular professional at sadness.”
Cynthia put the picture down on Burton’s desk, and Mr. Bergan walked over and looked at it.
“May I?” he asked Burton, and Burton said, “Go right ahead. You’re a young man in love. Is that Shirley Campbel?”
Mr. Bergan stared at the picture. He didn’t just look at it, he stared at it, held, fixed, utterly absorbed.
“Well, what about that picture, Mr. Bergan?” Burton asked him.
“It’s not Shirley,” Mr. Bergan answered, without glancing up.
“Then just what do you read in it, Mr. Bergan?” And when Mr. Bergan didn’t answer, “Do you know her?”
Mr. Bergan looked up now. “What?”
“I said, do you know her?”
“Who?”
“The woman in that picture.”
“No,” Mr. Bergan said strangely. “No, I don’t know her. She looks like Shirley, but it’s not Shirley.”
“Then why were you looking at it that way?” Burton persisted.
“What way?”
“Look, don’t play games with me, boy,” Burton said with annoyance. “You didn’t just look at that picture. You recognized something. What?”
“I just don’t know,” Mr. Bergan replied.
“What do you mean, you don’t know?”
“I don’t.”
“OK, Bergan—begin to make some sense. Either make some sense or I’ll know the reason why.”
“It’s the expression. Like Cynthia said, it’s the saddest face I have ever seen, and I remember that kind of sadness on a girl’s face. I mean, it was a face like this, but it was a little girl. It hasn’t anything to do with this. It’s just that I saw this kid—and then this face in the picture brought me back there.”
“What kid? When? Where?”
“It was ten years ago,” Mr. Bergan replied hopelessly. “You can’t make anything out of it. It was ten years ago, and it had nothing to do with this or with Shirley or with anything.”
“Look, Lieutenant,” Larry Cohen said, “you’re really grasping and you’re way out—way out. You’ve got absolutely nothing here but a crazy coincidence that’s empty.
So he saw a kid ten years ago! You push it this way and where does it take you?”
“Coincidence!” Burton snapped. “What in hell do you know about coincidence, Larry? Be a cop for twenty years, and then you’ll begin to learn what coincidence is. Life is coincidence. The fact that you’re here is coincidence. Did you ever think about it? Did you ever hear about infinity? Well, just pick a moment in infinity and go figure the mathematical odds against the four of us being here in the same room at the same time. To you, coincidence is a problem in statistics; to me, it’s my existence. A cop lives on coincidence and he clutches at straws. Last week, one of my men walked into a bar on Greenwich Avenue at the moment it was being held up by two men. He got them and they got him. He’s dead because of an impossible coincidence. So don’t give me lessons. This Bergan here—”
He broke off to jab a finger into Bergan’s chest.
“—this Bergan’s got a case on the Campbel kid. Why? She pushes him around. She treats him like dirt. Am I right?” he fairly snarled at Mr. Bergan.
“You’re right,” he sighed.
“All right. But he needs her. She clicks a switch somewhere in his mind. I don’t know what it represents and I don’t care, but I saw the switch click when he looked at that photo. So we’ll get down to it, Bergan. What happened ten years ago?”
“I was a junior in Brooklyn College, and my French marks were high. I was always good in languages. Well, on the bulletin board in the main hall downstairs, they would post part-time job opportunities. I had to hold some kind of a job, and I just lost one. So I saw this notice from the University Exchange for a job for a French tutor.”
“What do you mean, University Exchange?” Burton asked.
“I think, as near as I can remember, that it meant the notice was posted in other places, Columbia, NYU—that’s why I didn’t get the job.”
“Allright. Go on.”
“I mean, this was a classy thing, very posh, and I was not that, not so you could notice. Anyway, a girl got the job. They wanted a girl, and because they didn’t have enough sense to specify, I spent two hours traveling to midtown Manhattan and back. I wasn’t even interviewed. Some woman told me the job was filled. But then, I caught a glimpse of this kid—I guess she was maybe twelve years old, maybe eleven, with that terrible sadness on her face. I don’t know what it was. Maybe it was like falling head over heels in love at first sight with a little kid whom I saw for two minutes—oh, it doesn’t make any sense. I told you that.”
