Carmody froze, tightening his grip on Langley’s wrist.
“Easy now,” he whispered.
“Maybe you got trouble, copper.”
“You’ll get it first.”
Carmody was in an awkward position. With one band he couldn’t open the door and still keep an effective grip on the gun. And Langley might break if he put away the gun to open the door.
“Maybe we got action,” Langley said, laughing soundlessly.
“You won’t see it,” Carmody said; raising his gun he slugged him at the base of the skull, not hard enough to injure him but hard enough to silence him for a few moments. Langley sagged against him and Carmody caught his arms and lowered him to the floor.
Then he turned the knob, releasing the catch, and stepped quickly back to the shadow of the stairs. The door swung open and Myers, the little detective from his shift, walked into the hallway.
“Good Lord,” he said closing the door quickly, and glancing from Carmody down to Langley’s sprawled body.
“How did you find me?” Carmody said.
Myers was breathing rapidly, his small cautious face tense with excitement. “That can wait, Mike. Ackerman’s sitting across the street in his car. With Hymie Schmidt. Did you know that?”
Carmody felt a quiver of excitement go down his spine. It wasn’t over yet; not by a long sight. Ackerman was the man he had come closer to fearing than anyone else he had known in his life. And now Ackerman was waiting for him.
“There’s an alarm out for him,” Myers said. “He’s wanted for questioning. And he’s on the run.”
“How did you know I was here?”
“I spotted your car down the block. That old mobster at my wife’s sanitarium gave me the tip on this guy.” He glanced down at Langley. “Someone in Chicago told him a guy named Joie Langley had come East to do a job on a cop. A pet stoolie of mine tipped me off he was staying here. I came out just to look around and then I saw your car. That scared me. So I decided to come in. That’s when I saw Ackerman and Schmidt pull up and stop across the street.”
“They’ve seen my car, too, then,” Carmody said. “We don’t have much time. They’ll either clear out or come in here shooting.”
“I got it all thought out,” Myers said, gripping his arm. “They don’t know me from Adam. To them I’m just a little guy who lives here or is hunting for a room. Well, look: I’ll walk out again and go down to the sidewalk. I take out cigarettes, pretend I need a match and cross the street to their car. When I get there I put my gun in their face. And that’s the end of it. You can cover me from here. Okay?”
Carmody hesitated. It was a good bold move but Myers wasn’t the man for it. “No,” he said.
“It will work.”
“What the devil are you trying to prove?”
Myers shook his head slowly. “They killed a cop, remember? I’m going to prove they can’t get away with it. That’s what’s important to me. Don’t you ever know what makes people tick, Mike?”
“No, I’m too dumb,” Carmody said wearily. Then he put his hand awkwardly on Myers’ shoulder. “Forgive me, will you? You’re a better cop than I could be in a thousand years. Go out and arrest those bastards.”
“You watch me.” Myers opened the door and went down the stone steps to the sidewalk. From the crack of the partially open door Carmody saw Ackerman’s long black car parked across the street, and the faces of the two men in the front seat, pale triangular blurs in the darkness. He watched Myers fumble through his pockets, bring out cigarettes and stick one in his mouth. Weaving slightly, Myers dug around again in his pockets for matches. Carmody felt perspiration starting on his forehead; the little detective was overdoing it, playing it like a drunk on a stage. But it was too late to drag him back. Myers had started across the street to Ackerman’s car, weaving on rubbery legs.
“You guys got a match?” Carmody heard him call.
“I think so.” It was Ackerman’s voice, carrying clearly across the silent street.
“Good guy,” Myers said, laughing cheerfully.
That was when Ackerman shot him, as he approached the car, doing his imitation of a drunk’s lurching walk. The report blasted the silence and sent shattering echoes racing along the dark blocks.
Carmody charged down to the sidewalk as he saw Myers fall, and heard his shrill incredulous cry of pain. His gun banged twice and the glass in Ackerman’s windshield shattered with a noisy crash. He saw Ackerman clearly then but before he could fire again something struck his shoulder and spun his body around in a full circle. There was no pain at first, only the incredible, sledge-hammer impact of the bullet. He was on his knees, feeling for his gun when the pain hit, driving into him like a white-hot needle. The breath left his body in a squeezing rush and he put a hand quickly on the pavement to keep himself from falling on his face. When he raised his head, Ackerman was standing above him, looking as tall as the buildings. “You rotten filthy dog,” he said, staring at Carmody with furious eyes. “You fixed me good. But you’re where you belong now, on your knees and ready to die.”
Carmody fought against a dizzying pain and nausea. “You’re through,” he grinned, and the effort stretched the skin whitely across his cheekbones. “It wasn’t a bad night’s work.”
“I’ll be alive when you’re dead,” Ackerman said, his voice trembling with passion.
Windows had gone up along the block and from a distance came the faint baying of a police siren.
“Boss, let’s go,” Hymie Schmidt shouted from inside the car.
“Just one more second,” Ackerman said, putting the cold muzzle of his gun against Carmody’s forehead. “Don’t worry about me,” he said, leaning forward and speaking slowly and clearly. “I’ve got judges and lawyers in every pocket. And shooting a crooked cop is an easy rap to beat.”
“Damn you!” Hymie Schmidt yelled, and let out the clutch with a snap. The car shot forward with a deep roar of power. Ackerman spun around, his face twisting with alarm. “Stop!” he shouted, and ran a few yards down the street, waving both arms in the air. Finally, he halted, cursing furiously at the fading tail-light.
When he turned around, Carmody was kneeling as he had left him, but Myers was sitting up in the street with a gun in his lap, his little face frozen and white with pain.
“You won’t kill any more cops,” he said weakly, and shot Ackerman through the head.
14
A police car took Carmody to St. David’s hospital where a doctor cut away his shirt, removed the bullet and dressed the wound in his shoulder. Afterward, Carmody sat on a bench in the starkly clean accident ward and smoked a cigarette. He felt empty and drained but in a little while strength began flowing sluggishly back into his body.
“Hell, man, you’re indestructible,” an intern said, as Carmody got slowly to his feet.
“Don’t bet on that,” Carmody said. The uniformed cop who was waiting to drive him to Headquarters put a coat gently over his bare shoulders. “Ready, Sarge?” he asked.
“We’ll wait until we hear about Myers,” Carmody said.
A nurse came down from the operating room a few minutes later. “How’s he making it?” he asked her.
The nurse was a pretty girl with soft warm eyes and something about Carmody made her feel like taking him in her arms. For all his size and toughness he seemed so bewildered and lost.
“He has a chance,” she said.
“How good?”
“Pretty good, I think.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” the nurse said, and touched his arm timidly.
Carmody smiled at her, then glanced at the cop. “Let’s roll,” he said.
The record room at Homicide was jammed with police and reporters, and the noise of their excited, splintered conversations rumbled through the smoky air. There was an uproar when Carmody came in. Reporters on deadline tried to get to him for any kind of statement, but Abrams begged them to shut up and clear the hell out of th
e way. “You’ll get your stories,” he shouted, circling Carmody like an indignant hen. “But give us a break first, for the Lord’s sake.”
Over the heads of the crowd Carmody saw Karen and George Murphy standing against the wall. She stood on tiptoes, watching him anxiously, and Murphy was patting her shoulder with a big clumsy hand. Abrams took Carmody’s good arm and said, “They want you in Wilson’s office, Mike.”
“Just a second.” Carmody pushed through the ring of reporters and cops and walked over to Karen. “Can you stick around?” he asked her. “I’m going to be busy for a while.”
“Yes, I’ll wait. Are you all right?”
“What? Oh, sure.” He glanced down at the splint and sling on his arm. “It’s not bad.” He felt suddenly as if he were walking through a dream. “Did you identify Langley?”
She nodded and wet her lips. He saw that she was very pale. “The police took me to see him a few minutes ago.”
“You’ll stick around?” he said, frowning slightly.
“Yes, Mike.”
Murphy smiled at him and patted his shoulder gently. “It’s a great story. ‘Cop Nabs Brother’s Slayer.’ The copy desks can ring some beautiful changes on that one.”
“Wouldn’t it be nice if that’s the way it was,” Carmody said.
“Yes, that would be pretty,” Murphy said with a little sigh. “Well, I’ll see you later, Mike.”
“You’ll get the whole story, George. That was the deal.”
“Sure, I’m not worried. Take it easy, pal.”
“I’ll see you as soon as I can,” Carmody said to Karen. “You’ll be here?” Even in his confusion he realized he was pressing the point with absurd insistence.
“Yes, Mike.”
Wilson’s office, in comparison to the record room, seemed like a haven of peace. Myerdahl and Powell were talking together at the window, and Wilson was seated at his desk. When Carmody came in Wilson jumped to his feet, grinning with pleasure and excitement, and led him to a chair. “It was a fine night’s work, Mike,” he said. “The best we’ve had since I’ve been in the department. How’re you feeling?”
“Pretty good, I guess.”
Powell sauntered over and patted Carmody’s shoulder. “I’ll say amen to Jimmy’s comment,” he said. “It was a great night’s work. We’ve got your brother’s killer and Ackerman is dead. The organization is in for a terrific thump.”
“How about Beaumonte?”
“He caught a plane for Miami a few hours ago. But Langley has already confessed that Beaumonte hired him to do the job on your brother. So we’ll bring Mr. Beaumonte back on a murder charge. We still haven’t found the pictures Dobbs was using to blackmail Ackerman, but they’ve already served their purpose. They made him stampede.”
Carmody fumbled for a cigarette and discovered he had none. Powell brought out his case quickly. “Have one of these?”
“Thanks.” Carmody blew a stream of smoke at the floor and rubbed his forehead. He could feel fatigue settling on him with a ponderous pressure. “I wonder how Ackerman knew I was going to get Langley?” Wilson said, “Hymie Schmidt answered that for us. Beaumonte tipped off Ackerman you were going out there.”
Carmody sighed wearily. “He used me as his executioner. I was still on the payroll.”
The mood in the room changed slightly. Powell looked at his watch and said, “I’ve got to get up to my office. We’ll be working all night, as it is.”
Myerdahl took the short black pipe from his mouth and said bluntly, “I don’t take back my words this afternoon, Carmody. But I say this now. You were all cop tonight.”
Carmody smiled faintly. “Thanks, Superintendent.”
When they had gone Wilson sat on the edge of his desk and drew a long breath. He studied Carmody for a few seconds in silence. Then he said lightly, “The peace and quiet is kind of a relief, isn’t it?”
“Peace?” Carmody said, smiling crookedly. “Where is it, Jim?” He sat slumped in the chair, head bowed, staring at the cracks in the floor. The overhead light gleamed on his thick blond hair, on the hard flat planes of his face, on the white sling stretching diagonally across his bare chest. Sighing, he shook his head slowly. “I was wrong, Jim,” he said. Karen had told him to say that, he remembered. And had warned him that the words might choke. But nothing like that happened. It was a relief to say the words. It was like putting down an intolerable burden. “Yes, I was wrong,” he murmured. What came next? You asked for forgiveness, that was it. He’d done that, he recalled, he’d asked Myers to forgive him. But it didn’t seem enough. He hadn’t changed; no bells of hope pealed in his soul, no promise of salvation blazed before his eyes. Maybe what Father Ahearn had suggested fitted in here. Come back little by little. The way he’d gone away.
“What will happen to me, Jim?” he said quietly. He was curious about that in an impersonal manner; it didn’t really matter because the big thing had already happened. He knew he was ruined. The mainspring that was the core of his strength had been smashed. Goodness had destroyed him. And that was almost comical. Mike Carmody had been hunted down, surrounded and destroyed. Cops like Myers and Wilson, women like Nancy and Karen, even big fat George Murphy had been in on the kill. He had thought they were fools, pushovers, weaklings — looking at them but seeing himself — and they had calmly smashed him to bits with their decency and goodness. Everything he believed had been proven invalid. So what was left of Mike Carmody?
Wilson came over beside him and put a hand on his shoulder. “Damn it, we all make mistakes,” he said, hunting awkwardly for words. “Don’t let this thing beat you all the way down, Mike. What will happen to you is anybody’s guess. The papers will play you up as the fearless cop who avenged his brother’s murder. When the rest of it comes out, that you were on Ackerman’s team, well they may switch around and make you out the biggest bum in the city. Powell is on your side though, and so is Myerdahl, if he’ll ever admit it.” Wilson frowned and then rubbed a hand over his face. “The best thing you can hope for is that they’ll let you resign without pressing charges.”
So I’m through as a cop, Carmody thought, still staring at the floor. That had been important once, but now it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered really. He felt as if his body and soul were vacuums, drained and empty, without even a promise of hope to sustain them.
“What’s the worst I can expect?” he asked.
Wilson shrugged. Reluctantly he said, “Three, four years, maybe.”
“Am I under arrest?”
“No, but you’ll have to stick around. Powell wants me to take a statement from you tonight on your connection with Beaumonte and Ackerman.”
“That fast?”
“We’ve got to do it fast. Before the organization can grow another head.”
“Okay. Can I go outside and say good-by to a friend?”
“Sure, of course.”
The record room had returned to its normal state of quiet efficiency; the reporters had gone up with Powell to work on the story of Ackerman’s death and the patrolmen had been detailed back to their squads and wagons. Abrams was at his desk, studying a file, and the clerk was typing out a report, occasionally pausing to stare through the dirty windows at the dark city. The bright overhead light was merciless on the battered furniture, the cigarette-littered floor, the curling flyers tacked on the bulletin board. It was a room that had been part of Carmody’s life for years, but after tonight that would be all over.
Karen sat alone on the wooden bench at the wall, striking an incongruously elegant note against the drab and dusty office. She was wearing a black suit, high-heeled pumps, and her hair was brushed back from her small serious face. Good people, he thought. That had occurred to him before, but grudgingly and suspiciously. Now it was a simple unqualified tribute.
She rose lightly to her feet as he crossed the room.
“Let’s sit down,” he said. He felt clumsy and constrained with her, hopelessly at a loss for words. “I’ve just got a few
minutes,” he said at last. “There’s a lot of routine to get out of the way, you know.”
“Yes, of course. Don’t worry about me, Mike. I’ll get a cab.”
“Where will you go?”
“Well, I haven’t thought about it. Some hotel, probably.”
The room was silent except for the occasional rattle of the clerk’s typewriter.
“You told me to say I was wrong,” he said, dragging the words out with an effort. “I did that. I wanted you to know.”
She looked at him gravely. “Did it hurt?”
“It wasn’t too bad.” He frowned at the floor, feeling weary and helpless. It wouldn’t work. There was no way to get to her, no way to bridge the barrier of bitterness he had built between them.
But miraculously, she came to him. “Don’t try to do too much all at once,” she said, putting a hand on his wrist. “Take it in easy stages. That works, you’ll find.”
“Look, I was wrong about you,” he said. “That was as wrong as I ever got. Can you believe that? Can you forgive me?”
“That won’t be hard, Mike. But let’s do it the way I suggested. In easy stages. Okay?”
“All right, whatever you say,” he said. Then he sighed and looked at the big clock above the police speaker. “The lieutenant’s waiting for me.”
They walked around the counter together and stopped at the swinging doors that opened on the corridor. “Eddie’s funeral is tomorrow morning,” he said. “Would you want to go with me?”
“I’d like that, Mike.”
“Look, I may be going to jail,” he said abruptly. “They can let me resign, or send me up. Either way, can I find you afterwards?”
“You’ll be able to find me,” she said slowly.
Carmody smiled into her small brave face, and put a hand on her shoulder. For just that instant there was a suggestion of the old hard confidence in his eyes. “I’ll see you, Karen,” he said.
Rogue Cop Page 17
