Badge of Evil

by Whit Masterson

  The doctor could only shake his head resignedly at this. Holt didn’t care what the doctor thought as long as he got his way. He got it, but not without a struggle that involved, among other things, a call to the duty officer and — for all that Holt knew — a check with Chief Gould himself. Eventually, however, the police surgeon departed, muttering to make the examination. Holt waited.

  “You sure like to stir things up, don’t you?” Zook commented mildly. Holt didn’t reply and the sergeant settled down to dispose of a welter of paper work. One way or another, it didn’t matter to Zook; it was just another routine night.

  The police surgeon never returned but finally a matron appeared to say that the examination had been completed and that Holt could see his wife if he chose. Apparently, the doctor felt that the sight of Connie might convince Holt of his foolishness.

  It didn’t. It made him want to cry instead. Holt stared in through the bars of the small cell and felt the tears burn his eyes. Connie lay on the fold-down bunk, unaware of his presence. Holt hardly recognized her; he doubted if Connie would have recognized herself at this moment. She was usually the epitome of neatness and good grooming, even when at her housewifely chores, but now her hair was rumpled wildly and her lipstick was a gross red smear across her delicate mouth. She was wearing only the lacy slip in which she had been found and a brown army blanket covered her legs. Her breathing was shallow but regular and even at a distance Holt could sniff the sweet aroma of marijuana.

  “Would you like to go in with her?” the matron asked sympathetically.

  Holt surprised her by declining. He longed to hold her in his arms, to comfort both her and himself, but he feared he might break down if he did so. This was no time to lose control of himself. “I’ll wait till she’s awake.”

  “Such a pretty young thing,” the matron murmured. “Why do they do it?”

  “To shut me up,” said Holt but they weren’t talking about the same thing. He turned away. “I’ll be out front. Call me when she wakes up.”

  “If you need a bondsman for the bail, the desk sergeant has a list he’ll show you,” the matron told him.

  “I won’t need it,” said Holt. “My wife is staying in jail.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  THE night, as if following some occult pulse beat, throbbed slowly to its conclusion and the day arrived. Mitch Holt, seated on a bench in the draughty corridor of police headquarters, watched the morning sunshine creep in through the big archway and was grateful. It had been a long night, filled with worry and fear and endless waiting, and the day — whatever it held — could not help but be an improvement.

  He had not returned to the Vice detail office but had kept his vigil in the corridor, preferring his own company to that of others, even the taciturn Sergeant Zook. He was not disturbed. The night tour was busy with its own concerns and the reporters had departed long before.

  Shortly after dawn, one of the reporters he had seen earlier passed him on the way to the press room. He was reading the Sunrise Edition of the Sentinel and, when he discovered Holt, paused momentarily as if intending to speak. But he didn’t. Instead, he hastily folded his newspaper and shoved it in his pocket before hurrying on. Holt was grateful. He had no desire to read today’s headlines.

  It was eight o’clock when the matron arrived to summon him. Connie was awake and calling for him. In addition to this news, the matron also bore a steaming cup of coffee. “You look like you can use it, Mr. Holt.”

  “Thanks,” said Holt. “I guess I can.” He was touched by her kindness; brooding alone, it was easy to believe that the whole world was his enemy. It wasn’t true, of course. Even here, in what might be considered the enemy’s camp, there was still friendliness to be found. “Can I see her now?”

  The matron escorted him to the women’s section of the jail. Regulations forbade her from leaving him alone with a prisoner but she remained discreetly out of earshot while Holt went in to meet his wife.

  Connie was sitting up on the edge of the bunk, the brown blanket draped around her shoulders like a toga. She gave him a sick smile and murmured his name. Holt sat down beside her and put his arm around her shoulders. She subsided weakly against him and for a moment they just sat there without saying anything.

  Finally, Connie raised her head. “Mitch, what’s happened to me? I feel so funny. What is this place?”

  Holt told her, as gently as possible, Connie listened, blinking her eyes now and then to clear them. Though conscious, she had not yet fully shaken off the effects of the drug. Holt offered her his coffee and she sipped the hot black liquid slowly. She had to hold the cup with both hands to keep from spilling the contents. “I’m in jail,” she said wonderingly, when Holt had finished. “And it wasn’t you who called, after all.”

  “Is that the way he did it — a phone call?”

  Connie told the story haltingly, the coffee helping memory to return. Sometime last evening, after Holt had been absent for nearly two hours, Connie had received a telephone call. At the time she had believed it was her husband. The pseudo-Holt had instructed her to come immediately to a certain room in the Frontier Hotel on Fathom Street where he would meet her. No reason had been given beyond that it was important to the case. Connie had obeyed, arriving at the hotel by taxi. When she reached the designated room, a man’s voice had bidden her enter. She had been seized from behind, had struggled uselessly … “And that’s all I remember until just a little while ago when I woke up here.”

  “This voice on the telephone — why did you think it was me?”

  “I don’t know,” Connie said, frowning. “I guess because I was expecting it would be you. And he called me Connie, of course. I had a hard time hearing him, it sounded like a bad connection, and he spoke so softly. Then too, you — I mean, he — said something about not wanting to be overheard. So I suppose I was too excited to think about it. It all sounded so mysterious, like something big was up.”

  “It’s not your fault,” Holt said. “I made it easy for him. I should have taken you with me.”

  “I’ve got such a headache,” Connie complained. She ran her fingers through her tousled hair. “And I must look simply awful. I wish I had a mirror.”

  For her own sake, Holt was glad that she did not. He said, “Never mind that now. I’m just thankful that nothing worse happened to you.” He was thankful, deeply so. He didn’t believe that McCoy’s intention had been to kill, only to destroy Holt in the public eye. But McCoy was a cop, not a physician, and the drug that had rendered Connie unconscious could just have easily have killed her. Connie’s reputation had been smeared but a smear might be erased. Death, however, was permanent. “Connie, there’s one more thing. Did you take my pistol with you?”

  “Yes. I stuck it in my purse just before I left the house, and the bullets, too. I guess they are still there.”

  They weren’t, as Holt already knew. That meant that his gun, of which he was the registered owner, was now in McCoy’s possession.

  What use McCoy might put the weapon to, Holt couldn’t guess but he didn’t like the thought. He didn’t tell Connie this, however; she already had enough to worry about. He said, “Well, it doesn’t matter. The main thing is that you’re safe.”

  “Mitch, what about Nancy?” Connie asked anxiously. “Is she all right?”

  “She’s fine. I called the ranch last night. She’s been having a ball with her pony.”

  Connie smiled faintly. “I miss her. Mitch, take me home.”

  Holt hesitated. “Connie, not just now.”

  “Why?” Her eyes widened with surprise. “You mean they won’t let me go? I haven’t done anything!”

  “That isn’t what I mean. I could get you out on bail but I’m not going to.”

  “I don’t want to stay here!”

  “For the next few hours, it’s the safest place you could be.” He held her waist tightly; she was rigid with surprise and disbelief. “I know it’s tough Connie, but I don’t know wha
t’s going to happen. The awful truth is that I can’t protect you. This is the only way I can be sure that you’ll be all right.”

  “But to stay in jail …” she protested. “I’ll be all right, Mitch, I promise I can take care of myself.” Connie looked down slowly at her bare knees that the blanket failed to cover. “I guess I don’t know what I’m talking about, do I? I certainly didn’t take care of myself last night.”

  “That was my fault, not yours. But next time might be worse. Just promise me that you’ll stay here — for a few hours, anyway.”

  Slowly, she relaxed against him. She even attempted a grin. “Well, I really don’t have much choice, do I? I’ve got to take my lawyer’s advice.”

  “Your husband’s advice. That’s what counts.”

  “All right, darling. But you’ve got to promise me something. I’ll be good if you will. I don’t want you doing anything foolish while I’m not around to help.”

  Holt promised, but with misgivings. Every course open to him seemed foolhardy and reckless, to put it mildly. He said, “I’ll try not to make any more mistakes than I usually do,” and Connie was satisfied. They sat together for a little longer, their conversation consisting mostly of endearments and reassurances, and then Holt beckoned for the matron. As he left, Connie was asking for toilet articles and something with which to cover herself.

  He strode down the corridor, a nagging idea echoing with every footstep. The gun, the gun … McCoy had stolen his gun. There was something important in the fact but Holt couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

  Abruptly, he realized that he had been thinking about it negatively. He had been worrying about what use McCoy might make of his registered pistol. What he should have been examining was what use he — Holt — might make of McCoy’s possession of the gun.

  The gun in McCoy’s possession would demonstrate that McCoy had doped Connie in the hotel room last night. It was a form of proof, solid steel proof with registry numbers engraved on it!

  He’d had no sleep and no food but Holt did not pause for either rest or breakfast. The work of the day had begun all across the city and his own with it. He drove to the Civic Centre and went to Van Dusen’s office. He was disappointed. The chief investigator had not reported in this morning and no one had seen him. Holt left, conscious of the curious glances from the district attorney’s staff, his former co-workers. They had read the morning newspapers.

  He ran squarely into Adair at the elevator door. The district attorney had also read the papers; he was, in fact, still scanning the Sentinel as Holt met him. It was a meeting that neither man sought but neither could avoid.

  For a moment they eyed each other without speaking. Adair was obviously embarrassed. He cleared his throat. “Good morning, Mitch. I — ah, I’m very sorry about what’s happened.”

  “Are you?” Holt coolly took the Sentinel from Adair’s hand, HOLT’S WIFE NABBED ON DOPE CHARGE. That was the headline, and there was more, all of it lurid. There was also a large picture of Connie, clad in her slip, being helped into police headquarters between two uniformed officers. Holt was nearly blinded by the wave of rage that passed over him but when he spoke his voice was level. “So nice of you to care.”

  “Now hold on,” said Adair. He took Holt by the elbow and guided him to a nook across the hall. “I hope you don’t think that I’m being motivated by any personal grudge. I’m going to have to announce your dismissal, Mitch, but it’s for the good of the office. You must see that, especially after this new development.”

  “Oh, I see a lot of things.”

  “I must say that this” — Adair nodded at the newspaper — ”comes as a great shock to me. I know Connie, and like her immensely. It’s the last thing in the world that I would have pictured happening. I’m truly sorry.”

  “Why should you be sorry?” Holt asked sardonically. “It’s a perfect frame — pardon me, a perfect case. Connie makes frequent trips across the border, that’s easily proved. And her folks’ ranch down at Ensenada — that’s where the marijuana is raised, of course. Connie has undoubtedly been a narcotics runner for some time and made the mistake of getting hooked on her own product. On top of everything else, she’s of Mexican descent. You can make a lot out of that because, as every American jury knows, it’s the foreign-born that cause all our crime and vice. Why, it’s open and shut, Adair, any clown in the office can win this one for you.”

  His cold sarcasm made Adair writhe. “Mitch, I know you’re upset, but get hold of yourself, son. I’ve never heard you talk like this — ”

  “You don’t know how upset I am. And I’m going to do a lot more than talk from now on. Pass the word, if you care to.” He turned without a farewell and went down the stairs, not waiting for the elevator. At the bend of the staircase, he saw Adair still standing in the hall, staring after him.

  “Big talk,” Holt muttered to himself scornfully. “But what are you going to do, bright boy?” He didn’t have any answer to that. Van Dusen had been his one small hope and the investigator had apparently decided not to stick his neck out for Mitchell Holt.

  Yet when he returned to the parking lot to reclaim his car, there was a piece of paper stuck under the windshield wiper. Holt read the note and felt a small glow kindle inside him.

  The note was short. It read : “Look in your trunk.” It was signed, A Sucker.

  Holt looked. The portable transmitter with its tape recorder was there.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  HOLT drove fast. He had a fancy that he could blow the doubts out of his head if he kept moving fast enough. His doubts were not about his case but about his ability to see it through. He was up against an unknown quantity and he knew he was running a terrible risk.

  Take the big chance, he kept advising himself. It doesn’t matter how big the chance is when it’s your only one.

  The woman clerk at police headquarters thought he had come about the pistol permit and she was full of excuses why it was not ready. Holt scarcely heard them. Since he no longer possessed the gun, the permit was of little consequence now. He had come to see Quinlan. But the sergeant had phoned in earlier to say that he was sick and would not come to work today.

  “It might be the flu,” the woman said. “There’s a lot of it going around.”

  Holt agreed and kept his doubts to himself. He imagined that Quinlan’s illness was of a diplomatic nature. He secured Quinlan’s home address and drove there, willing to risk infection if necessary.

  Quinlan lived in a court bungalow. The cottages, six of them clustered together on a lot that would ordinarily hold one normal-sized dwelling, were middle-aged and of a stucco-and-tile architecture that had been popular in Southern California thirty years before. There was an air of middle-class gentility about them, worn like an armour to withstand the ravages of time.

  The cottage Holt sought was at the rear, backed up against the alley. There was a faded card tacked above the metal mailbox that read, Mr. and Mrs. Henry Quinlan. It was out of date now, since Holt knew that Quinlan was a widower. But Quinlan had not bothered to change it, or he had preferred not to. Holt rang the bell. At first he heard no answer but when he rang again, Quinlan’s voice bade him enter. Holt did so.

  The living room was comfortably but not expensively furnished, and untidy in the manner one might expect from a man living alone. It was separated from the sleeping quarters by an archway which had once held French doors but these had been removed. Quinlan sat on the edge of the double-bed, still wearing pyjamas. His injured leg stuck out stiffly at a forty-five degree angle to the carpet and his cane leaned against the night-stand. It was a new cane, Holt noticed.

  The two men regarded each other for a moment in silence and then Quinlan growled, “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Looking for you. I was told you’re sick.”

  “It’s my leg. It acts up sometimes.” Quinlan didn’t invite him to sit down. “Well, you’ve found me. So speak your piece and get out.”

 
; “I wanted to make sure you’d seen the morning paper,” said Holt. He walked forward to the foot of the bed and cast the Sentinel, face up, on to the covers.

  Quinlan gave the front page the briefest of glances. “I already saw it,” he said, nodding at the wastebasket. Another copy of the Sentinel lay there, badly crumpled. “So what?”

  “Nice work,” said Holt. “Very professional. The master’s touch.”

  “What am I supposed to do? Cry?”

  Holt didn’t reply. Instead, he walked over to the dresser. Three framed photographs stood on top of it, amid a welter of Quinlan’s personal effects. One was of a pleasant-faced middle-aged woman, apparently the dead wife. The other two pictures were newer, a youth in a navy uniform and a young woman holding a small child. “This your family, Quinlan?”

  “What about it?”

  “My wife’s about the same age as this girl here, your daughter. They’re probably alike a lot. I’ve got a picture of my wife, too, Quinlan. Everybody in town has now. It shows her being taken to jail, undressed.”

  Quinlan shrugged uncomfortably. “Too bad.”

  “That’s where she is now, in jail. Connie’s never been in jail before, Quinlan. It’s quite a shock for her. But you met her the other night. You know a little of what she’s like.” Quinlan said angrily, “What do you come crying to me for, anyway?”

  “I just want to ask you one question.” Holt held up the newspaper. “Do you believe this story?”

  “I don’t know a damn thing about it,” Quinlan said.

  “You ought to recognize McCoy’s work when you see it. You’ve been his partner for thirty years.”