A Dog's Ransom (25 page)

“Tell him you
wanted
to call him,” Fenucci said.

“Hello, Ed,” Clarence said. “Please excuse me for—” He received another swat on the back of the head. “They are making me telephone you!” Clarence shouted. “I wish to excuse my—”

Fenucci yanked the telephone from Clarence’s hand. “Hello, Mr. Reynolds? Detective Fenucci here. I think Dummel is going to confess for us. He wanted to talk with you.”

“I did
not
!” Clarence yelled.

“I’ll pass you to Clarence.” Fenucci handed the telephone to Clarence.

“Ed—”

“What’s up?”

“I am not confessing anything! I want to say I’m sorry that I bothered you at this hour but I was not able—”

This time Fenucci delivered a harder punch in the stomach, almost casually, and took the telephone from Clarence and dropped it into the cradle.

Clarence’s heart was pounding. He couldn’t speak for a few seconds, because the blow had knocked some breath out of him. “And what—what’s the purpose of that crap?”

Fenucci smiled thinly. “Just to show your chum Ed what a sap you are. We succeeded. Now you can call up your ex-girlfriend.”

Clarence could breathe again. “No, I can’t. I don’t know where to reach her.”

“We do. We’ve got the number.” But it took Fenucci a ludicrously long time to find it, thumbing through notebooks and scraps.

Clarence recognized it as Dannie’s number. He dialed this. To his joy, there was no answer.

Around 1 o’clock, Fenucci said, “Okay, you can go home.”

Clarence was startled out of a semi-daze, although he was on his feet. He stood straighter. He had been standing, at Fenucci’s request.

“Go, I said. Home. See you tomorrow. Say around two in the afternoon? Give you a chance to get some sleep,” said Fenucci.

Clarence pulled on his coat, started to close his shirt collar and tie and gave it up.

“You are disgusting,” Fenucci said.

Clarence went out. He let the cold air chill him awake. The air blew down his shirt collar, icy against his sweat. He caught a taxi. At his apartment, he took off his shirt and washed, brushed his teeth and drank two glasses of water. He was thinking of calling Ed, explaining, despite the hour. Then he decided against it: wouldn’t it be more annoying to ring at this hour, when perhaps they were asleep? Clarence wanted to take a shower. Then he thought, no, ring the Reynoldses now, before the shower, because after the shower it will be even later. Yes, he had to apologize, and tonight, otherwise he wouldn’t be able to sleep for thinking about it. Clarence dialed their number which he now recalled exactly.

Ed answered.

“It’s Clarence again. I’m home. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“That’s all right. What’s the trouble now?”

“They forced me to telephone you. I didn’t want to call you at all!” The rise in Clarence’s voice shocked him, and he tried to control it. “I am sorry, Ed. They were at me all day, you know. I did
not
confess.” It suddenly occurred to him that his telephone could be bugged also, same as the room where he’d spent all day. Clarence laughed a little crazily. “I have no intention of confessing. It’s absurd! But I—I wanted to apologize for disturbing you in a—a way I never would have done.”

“That’s all right,” Ed said, thinking Clarence was a bit hysterical. “Get some sleep.”

“You didn’t possibly see Marylyn?”

“No,” said Ed.

“They made me telephone her, too. Fortunately she wasn’t in. Down on Eleventh Street.” Clarence felt that Ed wanted to wind up the conversation, and Clarence desperately wanted to hang on, to explain, above all to make sure that Ed was still on his side. “Thank you for today, Ed. Thank you.”

“No need to thank me.—But I really hope it’s the last of it. I’m not coming to see them again. I don’t know if I can refuse to let them in the house again, but I’m going to be too busy to come to see them again. Enough is enough.”

Words, in a surge, rose in Clarence’s mind. He couldn’t get them out, couldn’t decide which words to say first. Gratitude. Shame. Failure. Regret. And the fact that he blamed no one, certainly not Ed. The fact that he understood why Ed, why Marylyn—and really maybe everyone except Greta—considered him a pariah, because he had killed someone.

“Better try to get some sleep, Clarence.”

“Can I—I don’t suppose I can see you some time tomorrow? I’ve got to see them again at two but—”

“Clarence—no. It’s for your own good. Can’t you understand that? Do you want them to think we’re in conspiracy? They’ll be watching you, won’t they? Or mightn’t they?”

“Yes, sir,” Clarence said, exhausted. “It’s true I’m upset.—Good night, sir.”

Ed hung up. “Good God,” he whispered.

Greta was awake. She had been almost asleep, and Ed had been reading by the lamp on his side of the bed. “What’s happened?”

Ed walked on bare feet to the window, and turned around. “He says he hasn’t confessed. He must’ve had twelve hours’ questioning today—questioning or worse.”

“Where was he calling from?”

“From his apartment. He says it’s not finished yet. He’s going to see them at two tomorrow. But he’s surely going to confess. They mostly do. Don’t they?”

Greta didn’t answer at once.

“Sure they do,” Ed said. “Well, I really don’t care. I’ve lied. Clarence will say he told me—days ago. So I’ve lied.”

“And so have I then. I was questioned too. I am not sorry. I really am
not
sorry.”

Ed wished he could see it as simply as Greta did. She must be right, he thought. Yet he couldn’t see it. At the same time he didn’t think he had been completely wrong. Was there such a thing as being half right and half wrong? No. “I only know I—”

“Come to bed, Eddie. Talk in bed.”

Ed was walking about. “I can’t stand the sight of him. I ought to be—more tolerant. Stronger. I don’t know.”

“You know zomezing,” Greta said, yawning a little, but giving her attention to what Ed was saying, “I am not sure he will confess.”

That was a possibility, a strange one. It might be true. Yet somehow it wasn’t the point. The point was not even that he had protected Clarence Duhamell. It was that he simply and profoundly disliked him now.

24

T
he ringing of his telephone awakened Clarence. He was groggy, and reached slowly for the phone, dropped it in the darkness and found it again on the floor.

“Hello?”

“Hello. This is Pete. How are you, Clarence?”

Manzoni’s voice shocked Clarence awake, to a pained alertness.

“I hear you’re cracking up,” said Manzoni.

Clarence’s anger rose only slightly. He put the telephone down, and fell back on the bed. Slowly he grew more awake, and blinked his eyes quickly in the black of his room. What had Manzoni found out? Maybe nothing. He hadn’t come anywhere near cracking up. He wouldn’t. He damned well wouldn’t. Clarence made himself close his eyes and breathe regularly. The dawn was beginning.

Clarence was half awake when the telephone rang again. But now it was a quarter to 10 a.m.

“Hello, Clare? It’s Mother. How are you, darling? We’ve been trying to reach you. Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m all right.”

“Why didn’t you telephone us? We didn’t want to ring the Reynolds because—I wasn’t sure you’d still be there.”

“No.” Clarence shook his head to try to wake up. “No, I left Friday.”

“You’re sleepy. I woke you. I’m sorry. Are you feeling all right? Not hurting anywhere? . . . Why don’t you come out, Clare? You’ve still got so many days of leave.”

Clarence struggled inwardly. He could lie, insist that he wanted to spend the time alone in his apartment. Or he could tell the truth which was so much easier.

“Clare?”

“Mom, they’re questioning me. On the Pole thing. They want me here in town.”

“Really? Do you know so much about it? . . .”

He ended by lying after all. He had seen the Pole several times, he said. Yes, he would call her as soon as he knew when he had any free time.

Clarence tried to sleep again.

By 2 p.m. Clarence was at the 126th Street Headquarters. He wore tennis shoes, a turtle-neck sweater. He had breakfasted on two eggs and as much toast as he could manage. Again he had to wait a long while, and it became 3:10 p.m. Clarence had brought the Sunday
Times
and a paperback of short stories by Ben Hecht, which he had read twice before.

Morrissey arrived, looking fresh, and gave Clarence a preoccupied glance as he strode past and went to the same room (Clarence thought) as the one he had been in yesterday. Another twenty minutes passed, and Clarence put his head against the wall and fell asleep. It seemed a better sleep than he had had all the preceding night, but when a middle-aged cop shook him awake, Clarence saw that only ten minutes had passed. Clarence was ushered to a room, the same room as yesterday, where Morrissey awaited him behind the desk.

“So Dummell—it’s only a matter of time now. Isn’t it? Minutes, maybe. Sit down.” Morrissey was seated. “We’ve spoken with Edward Reynolds. He sounds no longer so ready to defend you—protect you.” Morrissey smiled. “You have nothing to say to that?”

“No.”

“And Miss Coomes—she won’t be turning up either. You’re all alone today. No chums. Let’s go to another room for a change.”

Morrissey led the way, leftward in the hall to another door. It seemed to Clarence that a couple of cops in the hall looked at him with a strange amusement, but he might have been mistaken. They went down some stairs, then into a larger square room with a desk in its center. There were no windows in the room, and there was a whirr of an electric ventilating machine, or maybe the heating system, which evidently operated by means of the grilled vents near the ceiling. There were two straight chairs, and Morrissey took one, but he said to Clarence:

“Walk around a little. You look sleepy.”

Clarence did not feel sleepy. He laid his coat on the other chair and walked around, slowly. He was still walking an hour later, circling the desk widely, reversing when he wished. This was what he had expected. This could go on until he dropped. Clarence did his best not to listen. He thought this a good precaution against becoming angry.

It was, of course, true that the Reynoldses would not stand by him. Wasn’t it true? Ed had declined to see him today, not refused exactly, but said it wasn’t a good idea. Marylyn was—in a way unreachable. Clarence’s right leg had begun to hurt. It was the leg in which he had had the bullet wound. He took a breath and glanced at the pale gray walls as he made a turn.

“. . . in the face of the clearest evidence I’ve ever seen . . . wasting people’s time . . . Admit it, Dummell! What’s all this jazz? You’re trying to be a hero? The very . . .”

Morrissey’s voice shut off again as if by magic. Clarence looked at the gray walls which blended to near charcoal in the upper corners. He held his head higher. Morrissey was calling him a lying piece of shit. Worse. In a curious way that seemed comical now to Clarence, he was censoring Morrissey’s unending speech. Clarence felt separate from it, untouchable. That was the word (Morrissey had used it) untouchable, and so what the hell? He was different, fine. But did Morrissey expect him to cringe? Morrissey could think again!

Morrissey sat drinking from a paper cup of coffee. Clarence had not been offered any coffee. (The coffee was muck anyway.) The coffee had arrived via a uniformed lackey some minutes ago, along with a piece of pie. It was 5:37.

Clarence stopped and faced Morrissey with a slight smile.

“. . . not the guts to—” Morrissey’s voice ground to a halt like an old phonograph record.

Not the guts to what? Clarence felt that he could face anything. They could pull his fingernails out tonight, his teeth—which he was now clenching. Morrissey was awaiting a word from him. Clarence wasn’t going to give it. He stared at Morrissey, who was becoming angrier.

“So?” said Morrissey finally.

Clarence was silent. He stared at Morrissey until Morrissey’s eyes flickered and looked down at the papers before him. Morrissey looked even a trifle frightened, Clarence noticed, though there was a telephone and the usual box of buttons on the desk so Morrissey could summon a couple of strong men in a trice if he wished. There was probably a gun somewhere, too, maybe in a drawer.

“So? Can we have it now, Clarence? Just a simple statement, ‘I clobbered the guy on
Barrow
Street.’—Let’s have it.”

Clarence almost closed his eyes, but otherwise he did not move.

“Walk,” said Morrissey.

Clarence didn’t walk, and Morrissey got up and hit him in the jaw. It was quick, more with closed fingers than a fist, but Clarence felt Morrissey’s anger in its sting. Slowly Clarence walked, just as before. He wasn’t angry. He felt in fact marvelous, and stood taller.

Morrissey was on the phone now. The telephone on his desk had buzzed. Clarence was not curious, but he listened just to have a change.

“No, not yet,” said Morrissey. “No, I’m fine . . . You can tell him he’s here, sure . . . Okay . . . Okay.” He hung up. “Your precinct. Want to know if you’re here. If you’ve talked yet.” He gave a short laugh and lit a cigarette. “You probably thought it was Mr. Reynolds wondering about your health.”

Clarence tried to turn Morrissey’s voice off again. Maybe it had been Ed. Morrissey had spoken with a cop, not the person who had telephoned. But probably it hadn’t been Ed. Very probably not. Clarence reminded himself of his newfound strength: he didn’t need Ed any more. Not that he didn’t like Ed. That wasn’t the point, but he didn’t need him, or Marylyn. And the night was young.

“Like a sandwich?”

This question from Morrissey came many minutes later. Clarence was deliberately not looking at his watch any longer. But Morrissey said:

“It’s nearly nine o’clock.”

Clarence was still in a mood not to say anything, so he didn’t.

Morrissey got up and was about to swat him again, so Clarence said:

“A sandwich and milk.”

“Milk? No coffee?”

The coffee, like Morrissey, like everything, was so disgusting, why say so?

Clarence was allowed to sit down while he ate most of a liver-wurst sandwich and drank milk through a straw. Then he was told to walk again.

Morrissey was more tense. He wanted to wind things up tonight. Clarence felt ready to take on Morrissey’s replacement, to walk on and on until he dropped, and even if he dropped, they wouldn’t get anything out of him. How could they get anything out of him, if he didn’t choose to say anything? Now was the time for a lie-detector test, Clarence thought with sudden joy: he felt he wouldn’t have the least reaction. For hours now, Morrissey’s monologue had been rolling off him like—like—

The telephone rang, or something buzzed, and Clarence tripped and had to catch himself. He was a bit tired, he had to admit. Morrissey was talking, laughing. What time was it? Clarence did not look at his watch. It didn’t matter.

“Yeah, you
have
got a nerve,” Morrissey was saying. “Well, all right, all right, you’re excused.” Morrissey looked at Clarence. “Your other chum, Manzoni.”

Clarence faced Morrissey, who was not looking at him now, but talking into the telephone again, joshing with Manzoni,
I’ll talk with the bastard
. Clarence wanted to say, suddenly angry as if Manzoni had intruded on what had been a pleasant atmosphere.

“Okay. Do you want to talk to him?” Morrissey said, extending the telephone towards Clarence.

Had he spoken out loud? Clarence didn’t know, but he took the telephone. “Manzoni!” Clarence said, a little gaily.

“Dummell. Clarence. I hear you’re getting the treatment! Cracking up, hey Clarence? So they tell me.”

Manzoni’s ugly voice was suddenly a focal point for Clarence. Clarence cursed him. Clarence was fluent.

Morrissey’s laughter made Clarence stop.

“. . . cracking up!” Manzoni was laughing too.

Clarence put the telephone down.

“Why’d you put the phone down?” asked Morrissey, grinning. “
I
didn’t tell you to put the phone down.” Morrissey swung at Clarence, not meaning to hit him, and his hand was inches short.

Clarence resumed his slow walking about the room. Yes, he’d made a mistake losing his temper like that with Manzoni. Still, not a serious mistake. It could be overcome.

“You don’t like the police, do you, Dummell? You’re an outsider.”

“How do you mean
that
? I wouldn’t have—”

“You’re not one of us, so I’m told. You look down on the police force.”

It was too complicated to explain. Also Morrissey didn’t want clarification from him. Things would’ve gone better for him, Clarence supposed, if he’d been “one of them,” one of the kickback-takers, one of the boys. Was that what Morrissey meant? Even though Morrissey had the rank of detective and wore plainclothes, he was one of the boys, Clarence supposed.

“I didn’t—” Clarence stopped, too exhausted to begin.

“What?”

“I didn’t join the force to be a spy, to look—”

“Who said anything about being a spy?” Morrissey laughed.

“I thought a great deal of the police force. That’s why I joined up.” To be of some service, Clarence thought, but he didn’t want to be met with more laughter.

Morrissey nodded with an attitude of contempt.

Cops had protected cops in his situation, Clarence was thinking. He’d heard of it. It was common knowledge. But they weren’t protecting him. Clarence felt anger and self-pity rise in him. He tried to fight it down.
This
was what Morrissey wanted him to feel.

Morrissey was saying something else.

Clarence put his hands over his face. He was tired, angry, frustrated. He heard Morrissey cursing to himself.

Morrissey left the room, impatient because his replacement had not turned up. Morrissey had been yelling into the telephone about it. Clarence flung himself into the straight chair, on top of his coat, put his head back and stretched his legs out, like a boxer resting between rounds. Clarence fell asleep as if being sucked down a black, spiraling hole. Then a hand shook him vigorously on the shoulder, and he looked up into a dark, smiling face. A rugged Italian type of face, a strange face.

“Get up, mac,” the man said in a deep voice, and walked towards the desk.

Clarence got up.

The two men looked at each other. It was plain to Clarence that the man was assessing him: how tired was he, how hostile? Clarence was so tired as to feel mushy; at that moment, no doubt his face looked mushy too, but he wasn’t weaving on his feet.

“Well, it seems—Yeah. Hm-m,” said the dark man, looking at his notes.

In the next minutes, it was the same rehash of the Rowajinski story. The man was limbering up. It had a faintly soporific effect on Clarence. Clarence sat down. He remained seated four or five minutes until the man told him to get up again.

“Keep walking,” he said. “You said in one place here your girlfriend Marylyn is a sound sleeper, she didn’t hear you leave in the morning. Maybe she didn’t hear you that night when you left her apartment and came back. When you went out and found Rowajinski . . . Isn’t that possible? What’ve you got to
say
?”

“I didn’t go out—that night.”

The man continued. Dates. The visit to Bellevue. His effort to start a friendship with the Reynoldses. His attempt at friendship. “. . . nothing to say?”

“No, sir.” Clarence was walking about, circling slowly. A while ago he had wanted to pee, and now he didn’t. Strange. The toilet was down the hall to the right.

“. . . and now your friends have walked out on you . . . Would you stand up straighter? You can make things a lot easier for yourself if you admit these facts which I’ve got right in front of my eyes! If you admit that—that you left your girlfriend maybe around eleven or twelve that night, went straight to Rowajinski’s neighborhood and found him and beat him up! Admit it!”

“I did not!”

“You’re going on trial, you know, and if you plead not guilty, they’re going to slam you!”

“That’s too bad!”

It went on.

“. . . mustn’t think your girlfriend’s going to keep on protecting you. She’ll have a limit just like you, just like everybody . . . our guys aren’t finished with her either . . .”

Clarence dropped to the floor. The dark-green cement seemed to come up and hit him like a punch in the cheek, and he was instantly alert, pushed himself up and stood up, facing the desk over which there was a light. There was a buzzing which seemed to be in the very crown of his head. Or was it the telephone? No. The dark-haired man was half twisted round in his chair, yelling something at him.