Badge of Evil

by Whit Masterson

  “It sounds pretty hopeless, doesn’t it?” Connie murmured.

  “Not completely. I have to thank McCoy for one thing and that’s proving to me that I’m right. If he hadn’t gotten panicky I’d probably have dropped the whole thing. But McCoy over-reached himself. He blew out our front window with a shotgun to warn me off. Then he stole my brief case to find out what I knew. When he learned it wasn’t evidence he had to fear — there wasn’t anything in the brief case that wasn’t already a matter of record — he decided that it was only my persistence that represented the threat. So he tried to get rid of me tonight.” Holt fingered his lapel moodily. In the darkness he imagined that the bullet had scorched the material. “Lucky for me that he’s an old man. He probably can’t see too well in the dark any more.”

  “It won’t always be dark,” Connie reminded him. “Mitch, I’m scared. What are we going to do?”

  “Well, we’re not going to start shooting back, that’s for certain. That’s why I sent Oscar packing. I’ve got to keep my hands clean, even though I’m up against an outlaw.”

  “What about the police? They’re supposed to protect people.”

  “Cops are human beings, too. Gould called me a political opportunist this morning and a mental case this afternoon. He doesn’t believe one thing about my story, even that the shotgun attack was genuine. So what’s the use of telling him about what happened tonight? I couldn’t prove it. That’s the hell of it, Connie — I can’t prove anything yet. In a showdown, it’s only my suspicions against McCoy’s word. If you were Gould, who would you believe? That’s what I’m up against. I don’t have a single solitary ally in the world.”

  “You have me,” Connie said gently. “And right now I’m going to take you to bed. You sound like you need a good night’s sleep.”

  “I need more than that.” But he let her pull him to his feet. “Lots more.”

  “It’ll do for a start. In the morning, you’ll think of something. I know.” She put her arm around his waist. “Remember one thing, Mitch. You’re only doing what you think is right.”

  “Yeah,” he agreed wearily. “But so is McCoy.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  HOLT was more tired than he knew and so he slept soundly, although Connie reported the next morning that he had tossed and turned all night, as if wrestling with demons. Perhaps she was right for when he awoke the answer was there in his mind, full-grown and entrenched, without his having to summon it consciously. It wasn’t the answer he wanted but it was the only one he had.

  Over breakfast — his first decent meal in the past two days, although he didn’t tell Connie this — Holt revealed his plans. “Last night I said I didn’t have an ally in the world, but that’s not precisely so. At least, I believe I know where I can find one.”

  “Good. Where, Mitch?” In answer, he held up the morning newspaper. Connie was startled. “You serious?”

  “I’m serious. Connie, I know I’m right in what I’ve discovered — about McCoy I mean. Up till last night, I was willing to go through the proper channels, even if that meant fighting everyone from the mayor on down. But now I’m worried. What if something happens to me?”

  “Mitch, don’t even talk like that!”

  “Well, it’s a possibility and we may as well face it. Suppose next time McCoy doesn’t miss — if there is a next time. With me gone, the truth might never come out, or at least not in time to make any difference to anyone. But if I should break the story now …”

  “You said yourself it would only be your word against McCoy’s,” Connie pointed out. “This doesn’t sound like you, Mitch.”

  “It’s true that I can’t prove a thing at this point. But once somebody on the outside knows the story — I mean somebody who’d have no reason to cover up, the way Gould and Adair do — then I’m protected to some degree.”

  “Adair will never forgive you if you go behind his back. You know that.”

  “I know it.” Holt grimaced. “Hell, Connie, I don’t like the idea even a little bit. It’s treason, that’s what it is, and Adair would be acting strictly within his rights to fire me. While I was shaving I decided to resign — I was even drafting the letter in my head — but then I changed my mind. Let Adair fire me. Maybe that would dramatize the whole business enough to start the ball rolling. Once it starts rolling, McCoy is finished.”

  “I don’t know as much law as you do, but aren’t you likely to be sued?”

  “Anybody can sue anybody over anything at any time. That’s one of the first things you learn in law school. That doesn’t worry me, because a lawsuit would be one sure way to get the charges fairly and completely investigated.” Holt smiled faintly. “Me and Emile Zola. But that’s really all I’m after, a fair investigation. I’m not advocating that McCoy be taken out and shot.”

  “Won’t it come to the same thing?”

  “Well, better him than me. If I break this story to the papers, then McCoy won’t dare to take any more shots at me. Call it life insurance, if you like. I’m no hero.”

  “That’s the first stupid thing you’ve said,” Connie told him. “Now eat your breakfast, dear.”

  There were three newspapers in the city, two morning and one evening. In effect, however, there were only two, since two of the papers were owned by the same firm and were identical in viewpoint. This view happened to be pro-administration and, therefore, conservative in the extreme. Holt thought it of no use to approach them with his story. To say that these papers — the Sentinel and the Evening News — were controlled by a political party was not strictly accurate. They were not controlled by the city administration any more than they controlled the city administration. But the publishers of the News and the Sentinel and the incumbent politicians shared the same philosophies, interests and biases. To present them with a cause celébrè which couldn’t help but discredit the administration bordered on the naïve.

  The third newspaper, one of the two morning publications, was the Press-Examiner and it was known to the city government as “the opposition paper,” among less generous epithets. Holt didn’t read the Press-Examiner frequently enough to know whether their opposition sprang from convictions or merely from a desire to sell papers. He didn’t particularly care since he thought the story he had for them would satisfy the Press-Examiner on either count.

  He made an appointment by phone with the Press-Examiner’s managing editor. Holt knew nothing of the hierarchy of a newspaper but “managing editor” sounded as if its bearer should have considerable authority.

  He did, but not enough for what Holt had in mind. The managing editor — his name was Underwood, a lean scholarly man with horn-rim glasses and a British moustache — listened to the story with obvious fascination, but also a certain amount of wariness.

  “It’s the biggest thing that’s hit the town since the war,” Underwood admitted when Holt had finished. “Potentially, that is.”

  “Why potentially?”

  “Well, Holt, you know as well as I do that this is more than a news story, much more. It’ll have political repercussions all over the state, right up to Sacramento maybe. Hell’s bells, the governor used to be D.A. here. He made his reputation prosecuting some of those very cases you want to dig into.”

  “From what I know of the Press-Examiner’s politics, I didn’t think you’d mind.”

  “We’ve also got a responsibility to the truth, though she’s a much-abused lady nowadays. I’m wondering just why you came to us with the story. Out there” — he gestured past the glass of the little office in which they sat — ”the boys in the city room call you the Clam. Say you haven’t got any use for newspapers. Why the sudden change of heart?”

  “I guess I deserve that,” Holt admitted. “It’s true that I haven’t got much use — not for newspapers — but for personal publicity. I’m not looking for any now. I came to you because I couldn’t think of any other way to handle it.”

  Underwood mused, “It could be the biggest story
of the year. Or the biggest flop. I have a sneaking suspicion I should forget I ever heard it — but sit tight for a few minutes, Holt. I won’t be long.” He left the little office and Holt saw him board the elevator for upstairs.

  When Underwood came back, his mouth beneath his bushy moustache was curved in a rueful grin. “Put this down in your book, Holt. Newspaper people are the most optimistic men on earth. We’re born suckers, which is probably the reason we stay in the business.”

  Holt felt a surge of hope. “Does that mean you’re going to print the story?”

  “Not exactly. I followed approved procedure for employees and bucked it along upstairs. You’re scheduled to meet with Mr. Ingram and the rest of the brain trust after lunch. One o’clock all right with you?”

  “Any time’s all right with me. I’m supposed to be on vacation.”

  • • •

  He faced a roomful of sober and curious faces at one o’clock that afternoon. Underwood introduced him briefly around the conference table, but the greetings he received were reserved. The entire executive echelon of the Press-Examiner appeared to be present, with Underwood the lowest rung on the ladder. Editor-in-chief, executive editor, business manager, legal adviser, circulation director, advertising manager … Holt managed to remember their titles if not their names.

  With one exception. There was no difficulty in remembering both title and name of Jonathan Ingram, Owner & Publisher. Ingram was a throwback to the days when a publisher put his own personal stamp on his newspaper and was, in addition, a personality in his own right. Ingram was a Napoleonic little man who had almost singlehanded built the Press-Examiner up from a weekly throwaway to its present sturdy position. He had once run, unsuccessfully, for United States senator as much, so the story went, to force the Sentinel and Evening News to mention his name (strictly forbidden on all other occasions) as anything else. True or not, the story fitted Ingram’s eccentric personality which also led him to wear sports shirts on all occasions, including formal banquets.

  Ingram wore one now, an expensive loose-weave white wool creation with his initials embroidered in red on the breast pocket. He looked out of place among the sober business suits of his associates but his easy assumption of command gave no doubt that he belonged there. From his position at the head of the conference table, he regarded Holt, who sat at the foot of it, with the same mild interest a boy might examine a butterfly on a board.

  Underwood, as his sponsor, made a short opening address and turned the meeting over to Holt. For the second time that day, Holt told his story. He dealt with it in greater detail than before, developing it logically as he would have developed it for a jury — which, in a sense, his listeners were. In his courtroom experience, Holt had found that he could generally sense the impression he was making but here, in this quiet panelled room atop the newspaper plant, this intuition failed him. The men listened attentively but without much expression, and Jonathan Ingram was the most impassive of the lot. Ingram fiddled with a ball-point pen, clicking the point in and out methodically with the perfect rhythm of a metronome.

  When Holt had finished and sat down, no one spoke. Then, from the way all heads swivelled toward the other end of the table, he understood why this was not like a jury, after all. Jurors made up their minds independently, at least to some degree, but here everyone was waiting to take his cue from Ingram.

  Finally, Ingram put the ball-point pen away. “Thanks for coming to us first, Mr. Holt,” he murmured and an almost visible wave of relaxation passed around the table. Holt shared in it; he couldn’t help himself.

  Immediately, there were questions from the others. How far did he intend to go with this? How much could he prove immediately? What did he expect the Press-Examiner to do? What about possible libel actions? Holt answered each one as well as he was able.

  “There’s still one thing you haven’t told us,” Ingram said, breaking his own silence. “And that’s what you expect to get out of this, Mr. Holt. We’ll get a story, the city will get a shake-up and some men may possibly get justice. But what about you personally?”

  Holt said slowly, “That really doesn’t matter to me. I figure I’m doing my job.”

  “You’re not likely to have a job,” Ingram pointed out. “Of course, there are other jobs. Adair’s, for instance. Would you like to be district attorney?”

  “I don’t think I’m enough of a politician.”

  “I disagree. But that can wait.” Ingram looked around with a slight smile. “Well, gentlemen, the issue has been presented to us. What are we going to do about it? I’m open for opinions.”

  They went around the table in order, and the verdict was mixed. Circulation and Editorial plumped for breaking the story; Business and Legal were inclined to caution. Advertising was on the fence. The argument which ensued was free and sometimes heated, but Holt discovered it had little to do with the merits of the case as he understood them. The abstract ideas of justice and responsibility were not mentioned. The discussion revolved solely on how far the Press-Examiner dared to go, and what the repercussions to the newspaper might be. Holt stayed out of it, having nothing to contribute along those lines.

  Ingram summed up for all of them, when it appeared that the argument had run its course and was turning back on itself. “As I see it, it boils down to this. We all like the story as well we should since it’s a hell of a story. But we’re all scared. The question is, how scared are we?”

  No one cared to define the limits of his cowardice. Ingram continued, “I suggest that Mr. Holt has more to be scared of than any of us. He’s been shot at a couple of times. And yet he’s here. I don’t like to think Mr. Holt is a better man than I am.”

  Editorial and Circulation smiled; the others were carefully expressionless. Ingram said, “Underwood, if we should decide to run this story, it would be your baby. How would you propose to handle it? And I said ‘if.’ ”

  “There’s only one way to do it and that’s strictly objective. Straight news reporting, no opinion. Quote Holt throughout.” Underwood stroked his bushy moustache reflectively. “I’d concentrate on the present, the Linneker case. Why did Farnum deny planting the dynamite at Shayon’s apartment? Why did he retract this later? Why does he refuse a lie detector test? Why is Holt forbidden to see him now? All out of Holt’s mouth, naturally. They’ll have to answer those questions and when they do we should have a lever to open up the whole thing. That’s the way I’d handle it.”

  There were nods of approval from the others. Ingram mused, “Sounds logical. And it leaves us an out if we need it.” He stood up abruptly. “Let me see your front page before you plate it.” He nodded to Holt and left by a rear door. The conference was over.

  Underwood rode the elevator down with Holt. “Well, did you get what you wanted?”

  “I guess so. Did you?”

  “A story’s just a story to me. And to the Press-Examiner. Did you hear what Mr. Ingram said about us having an out in case? We can get off the bus any time we choose. But can you?”

  “Is that what they mean by a free press?” Holt asked wearily.

  “If you’re looking for a public institution, go to the library. A newspaper’s a business, as you should have gathered from the round table up there.” The elevator stopped at the editorial floor and Underwood got out. “You better hope that business is good tomorrow.”

  Holt rode the rest of the way down alone. Underwood had made the Press-Examiner’s position clear, if it hadn’t been clear already. The newspaper would ride with him just as long as it appeared that he was winning. That long, and no longer.

  Well, Holt thought, at least that’s more than I had when I came in and I guess I should be grateful. And though the long conference had left him utterly fatigued — he noted with surprise that it was nearly four o’clock — it also left him in better spirits than before. There was a certain relief in committing himself to a course of action, even if that action turned out to be merely burning his bridges.

/>   Holt drove home to his wife. Connie had no news to report that matched his own, but a letter had arrived in the afternoon mail. The contents were a stiff vellum card, chastely white, that announced the marriage the past weekend of Miss Tara Linneker and Mr. Delmont Shayon. The ceremony had taken place in Las Vegas but the postmark was local. On the reverse side of the card, Tara had written, “We’ll always be eternally grateful for what you did.” And Shayon had added, “Corny, but true. P.S. Don’t bother to look for me at the shoe store, after all!”

  “Isn’t that nice?” Connie commented. “You should feel proud, Mitch.”

  He did. It was good to know that he had succeeded in making somebody happy. That was more than McCoy could say.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  THE weather bureau predicted that Friday would be mostly sunny, with night and morning low fog off the coast, light variable winds rising to moderate in the late afternoon and little change in temperature. The forecast was accurate as far as it went. Of the man-made storm that was to break across the city, it said nothing.

  The Press-Examiner was, by definition, a morning newspaper, but Ingram tried to match his competition by stringing out several editions through the day. The Sunrise Edition went on the streets at five a.m.; the Final about one o’clock in the afternoon. It was basically the same paper through all five editions, varying only in front page make-up. Today there was less variation than usual. The same story held top position through every edition.

  COP ACCUSED IN MURDER FRAME-UP …

  The story was the same but it was received in various ways.

  • • •

  Captain Loren McCoy was one of the first to learn of it, although he did not subscribe to or read the Press-Examiner. Unable to break the habit of thirty years, he still rose punctually at five o’clock for his morning cup of caffeineless coffee. As he sipped, he turned on the radio for the early newscast.

  He listened impassively and only the keenest observer would have known that what he heard was of more than casual interest. But when the news concluded, McCoy departed from his usual routine. He left the breakfast table without taking his vitamin pills. They lay ready on the tablecloth in an orderly row — the red one, the brown one, the green one — but they lay untouched for the rest of the day.