by Day Keene
In spite of the handcuffs on his wrists and the dull pain in his bandaged shoulder and head, he didn’t feel too badly. No matter what the law did to him for killing Morgan and Daly, he felt free, really free, for the first time in years. No matter what the big brass decided, he was finished with riding the 8:01 and 1134 E. Elm Street. That phase of his life was over.
He looked up, mildly puzzled, as Bill Gleason entered the office and spoke to the lieutenant in charge, then came over to where he was sitting. His fellow translator seemed embarrassed. “Hi.”
“Hi,” Brady countered. “You’re out a little late, aren’t you, Bill?”
Gleason was more embarrassed. “Well, there was a big pow-wow at the office and Mr. Harper asked me to wait. As you can imagine, when this thing broke in the evening papers, with reporters and cameramen swarming all over the place, he blew his stack.”
“I can imagine,” Brady said. “And after he and Mr. Nelson and Mr. Ferrel talked it over, he sent you over here to tell me I was fired.”
“You know how the old man is.”
“I know.”
Gleason took a slim packet of papers from his pocket. “For you, the usual. Official notification of termination of employment. Your pension plan refund. A check for two weeks’ severance pay. And some personal correspondence that came in today.”
Brady accepted the papers. “Thanks.”
Gleason made certain he understood. “Nothing personal, understand, Jim. If there’s anything I can do—lend you a few hundred dollars, get you some cigarettes—”
Brady was deeply appreciative. “Thanks a lot, Bill, I’ll make out. But thanks.”
“Well. Good luck.” Gleason started to turn away and turned back. “Look, Jim. Just so I can tell the other boys in the office when they ask me. Is it really true you found two hundred thousand dollars on the seat of a taxi cab and spent last night shacked up in a lake cottage with that pretty little nineteen-year-old Southern doll whose picture is all over the front pages?”
Brady considered the question. It was useless for him to try to protect Linda Lou’s reputation. Sergeant Hooper of Manhattan Homicide was a very thorough man and his and Linda Lou’s signed statements covering every phase of the case, even to the estimated times they’d been intimate, were a matter of public record. Looking back, it seemed more like a lovely dream than something that had actually happened. He hoped he could make it real. He meant to try. “Well, yes,” he said. “That’s what happened.”
Gleason sighed. “It should have happened to me. I get so fed up with riding the subway to the office every morning, then riding the subway back home every night, then getting up the next morning and—”
“I know,” Brady sympathized. “Believe me. That’s how this whole thing started.”
When Gleason had gone he looked through the papers he’d brought him. Two week’s severance pay after working for a firm ten years wasn’t very much compensation. However, the ten year pension refund came to a tidy sum. At least it would pay for the divorce. There was nothing else of importance, notice of a special meeting of the Veterans Of Foreign Wars, two small bills he’d had sent to the office and what appeared to be a personal letter from the French perfume firm of Honore Lachaille and Bergerac. No longer interested in anything remotely connected with Harper, Nelson & Ferrel, he slipped the letter in his pocket unopened.
More officers entered and left the inner office. One of them, who introduced himself as a Federal agent, stopped to squat beside Brady’s chair to verify a point in the lengthy statement he’d dictated to a police stenographer.
“This white slip of paper pertaining to settlement in full of his 1957 account and signed L. Dix. You’re sure it was in the parcel when you opened it?”
“Positive,” Brady said. “It was tucked under the band around one of the sheaves of bills.”
The agent seemed pleased. “Thanks, fellow. It may be just what we’ve been looking for. We’ve been trying to establish a Mafia connection with the gangs in this country for a long time. Now, with that little slip of paper and your and Miss Larson’s testimony that Dix admitted it was a Mafia pay-off, maybe we can get somewhere.”
The wait dragged on. To kill time, Brady opened the letter from Honore Lachaille and Bergerac.
Written in precise French, Monsieur Lachaille, as senior partner of the firm bearing his name, wished to assure Monsieur Brady he was deeply appreciative of the personal and efficient attention he had given to their account. Further, while Monsieur Lachaille had no wish to be unethical, as Honore Lachaille and Bergerac were expanding sales to include a complete new line of exports, if at any time M. Brady should terminate his present affiliation with Harper, Nelson and Ferrel, Monsieur Lachaille would be happy to discuss the possibility of his becoming the English speaking Paris representative of Honore Lachaille and Bergerac at a salaire commensurate with his proven ability.
One of the detectives guarding Brady was interested. “You can read that stuff, eh?”
“Yes.”
“From the look on your face it must be good news.”
Brady folded the letter carefully and returned it to his pocket. “It is.”
It was. It didn’t matter where he lived. It wasn’t riding the 8:01 or the subway or the bus to work that made life dull. Under the right circumstances, riding to work every morning was merely modern man’s way of slaying dragons. And he couldn’t think of anything more pleasant than riding the Paris underground or a commuter train into the Gare St. Lazare to slay dragons for Linda Lou.
Sergeant Hooper brought him back to reality by beckoning his guards to escort him into the inner office. In the doorway Hooper removed the handcuffs and said, “I’m going to level with you, Brady. You were foolish in trying to hold on to the money. But I don’t think we can convict you of a thing but doing us a favor. Whether the District Attorney asks the Grand Jury to indict you or not is up to him. So just tell him the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.”
“I intend to,” Brady said.
Inside the office, Sergeant Hooper motioned for him to sit on a straight-backed chair identical with the one on which he had been sitting, with one major difference. Linda Lou was sitting in the next chair. With her face washed clean of make-up she looked even younger and more wholesome and very concerned.
As Brady sat down she squeezed his hand and whispered, “They told me you were all right but I worried. How do you feel, Jim?”
“Fine. I feel fine,” he assured her. “And you?”
Before she could answer, an older, white-haired man fingered through the now familiar sheaves of bills on his desk and said emphatically, “I agree with you Federal men. The only thing the money can be is a Mafia pay-off, a percentage tribute levied against Dix’s profits.” He glanced at the night-filled window of the office. “And if that’s the case the poor devil would have been better off to have turned himself in to us. The Mafia plays rough and it isn’t going to appreciate all the attention that’s been turned on it. Right now the guy is probably slinking around out there some place, not knowing just when a knife or a bullet is going to catch up with him.”
“That’s what we think,” Sergeant Hooper said. “Now, about Miss Larson and Brady.”
The white-haired man swiveled in his chair. “Yes—?”
Hooper continued, “We aren’t charging the girl with a thing. But we would like to hold her in protective custody for a few days as a material witness, at least until we pick up Dix.”
“That seems to be a reasonable request.”
“Now on to Brady,” Hooper said. “True, he has killed two men. But both of them were known killers, both of them were trying to kill him and I doubt that if we do take him before the Grand Jury they’ll find him guilty of anything but justifiable homicide.”
The older man nodded. “You have a point. From where I’m sitting I’d say it all depends on his previous civil record and the depth of his gang involvement.” He broke off to answer the ringing phone on his desk. “
I see,” he said into the mouthpiece. He listened a moment longer, then handed the phone to Sergeant Hooper. “Your office. Two of your prowl car man think they spotted Dix down on the lower East Side but before they could pick him up he disappeared into the mouth of an alley and they heard a burst of sub-machine gun fire. When they reached the spot and turned their fights on the spot all they could find was a lot of blood. And of course, none of the paesani in the neighborhood knew anything about it.”
“That’s about the way they do it,” Hooper said, then spoke tersely into the phone.
Brady whispered to Linda Lou. “I asked you how you felt?”
She folded her hands in her lap. “That all depends.”
“On what?”
She whispered, “On whether you still like me.”
“Why shouldn’t I like you?”
Color crept into her cheeks. “Because of the way I acted last night.”
Brady simulated surprise. “I thought,” he whispered back, “that all young wives in love with their husbands acted that way.”
“I’m not your wife.”
“No,” Brady admitted. “But you’re going to be. As soon as I get out of this mess and can get a divorce.”
Linda Lou forgot to whisper. “You mean that?”
“I never meant anything more. I just got a letter from a French firm offering me a job in Paris. How about it?”
“You mean go to Paris with you?”
“That’s what I mean.”
“As Mrs. Brady?”
“Yes. How about it? Will you?”
Ignoring the men watching them, Linda Lou cupped his face between her hands and kissed him. “Oh yes,” she said.
The white-haired man behind the desk cleared his throat and Linda Lou sat back on her chair.
The District Attorney was more amused than annoyed. He was also a little sad. It had been a good many years since any woman had kissed him the way the light-haired girl had just kissed Brady. “And now,” he said, dryly, “if Miss Larson and Mr. Brady have concluded their pledge of mutual affection and discussion of future plans, suppose we get on with our talk of what were going to do about Brady and call this a night and go home.”
Sergeant Hooper returned the phone to the desk and wiped his face with the sleeve of his coat. “At least I know what we can do about her. We might as well let her go. There’s no use holding her as a witness. It was Dix. And he’s dead. Two men working in from the other end of the alley just found his body stuffed into a trash can.”
A long moment of silence followed. Then the District Attorney said, “Good. Now let’s get on with it, Sergeant.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You pulled a package on Brady?”
“No, sir.”
“Why not?”
“He doesn’t have one.”
“You meant he has no previous record of gang affiliation?”
“He has no record, sir. Not even a traffic violation. And both his work and war records are excellent.”
“I see,” the District Attorney said. He leaned forward. “Then suppose you tell me this, Mr. Brady. Just how in hell did you become involved in this thing?”
“Well,” Brady said. “My train was late. It was raining. I couldn’t get a cab at the station. So I walked up Forty-second Street toward Fifth Avenue. Then I saw what I thought was an empty taxi, with the driver fixing his windshield wipers.”
“And all you did was open the door of the cab.”
“Yes, sir. All I did was open the door of the cab.”
Table of Contents
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
