Glass Cell (21 page)

“Ah, do you think I couldn’t get money to him if I had to, if I owed him any? I’d just get somebody else to give it to him for me.” Gawill shrugged, lifting a big hand, palm up.

“No-o. Who could you trust, for instance? You’d have to explain why you owed O’Brien the money, wouldn’t you?”

Gawill looked at the floor and pushed himself back farther on the sofa.

Carter wondered what was going on in Gawill’s head? It was anybody’s guess, since Gawill was a bit cracked. But he knew if Gawill wanted to demolish him, all he had to do was say,
I know you did Sullivan in, because O’Brien said he met you on the stairs going up when he was coming down—when Sullivan was still alive
. But Gawill wasn’t saying that. Gawill said:

“If I’d hired O’Brien, don’t you think I’d have paid him by now? And
if
I’d hired him, do you think anybody could ever find it out? Do you think they’ve found out anything now? No. Just the damned dope that wasn’t even mine.”

Gawill was very angry about the dope, much more than about the O’Brien situation.

“Tailing me now as if I’m in a dope ring, and I got nothing to do with the damned dope,” Gawill said, standing up.

“Then why was it in your house?”

“Ah, I was keeping it a couple of days for Grasso.
I
never got anything out of it.”

Carter had suddenly had enough of Gawill’s whining. “Like the Triumph thing, I suppose. The chiseling there.
You
never got anything out of it.”

Gawill turned, stormy-faced. “I didn’t!” he screamed, hoarse and falsetto.

He’d trap himself with his blatant lying, Carter thought. Or with his blatant truth telling, which he sometimes did, too. Carter set his empty glass down on the floor by his chair, and stood up. “You never got anything out of it, not on your many weekends in New York with Palmer.”

“
No!
” Gawill screamed again, as if he were being tortured.

“I’ll be off,” Carter said.

He left. He had found out what he came for. O’Brien was the only man who knew the truth.

As Carter walked out of Gawill’s building, he noticed a black car parked at the opposite curb in the dark street. It looked like a police car. Had it been there before? Carter didn’t remember, and didn’t care. A man was sitting in it, looking his way, Carter thought, and then a light came on in the car and the man bent, presumably to write the time of his departure. Carter looked at his own watch under the streetlight at the corner: 11:35.

Hazel was up and not yet undressed when Carter got home. She was curled in a corner of the sofa with her shoes off, reading some of her mimeographed office papers.

He smiled at her as he hung his coat in the closet. “Well—”

“Well?”

Carter came into the living room slowly, unbuttoning his jacket, happy to breathe the smell of home. “Gawill hasn’t paid O’Brien, doesn’t know how he’s going to. Of course, says he doesn’t owe O’Brien anything.”

“Did you find out anything you didn’t know?”

“Gawill’s very annoyed because the police are after him for having dope in his house.”

“How after him? They don’t seem to be doing anything to him.”

“No, they’re letting him out on a string. But he’ll be fined something, probably. They may be attaching what money he has now. All the more reason why he finds it hard to pay O’Brien.” Carter laughed a little. “Also they’re shadowing him everywhere, which Gawill hates. He can dish it out, but he can’t take it.— There was a police car across the street from his place tonight.”

Hazel looked startled. “That means they saw you, then.”

“Yes. That doesn’t bother me. They could have had a tape recorder in the apartment tonight for all I care. I was trying to find out what Gawill knows. The police are trying to find out the same thing.”

Carter had sat down on the sofa, not close to Hazel, but she suddenly reached out and put her hand over his right hand. Carter’s fingers took hers. It was the first affectionate gesture he could remember from her in weeks.

She looked in front of her. She was not about to speak, not tense or strained. It was as if the touch of her hand spoke words of love and loyalty that did not need to be said.

He set his teeth. He had told Hazel that he thought O’Brien’s lie-detector test had shown some agitation, more than his own, anyway. That was true, but the remark perpetuated the bigger lie. Hazel had not taken that as conclusive, Carter thought. In New Hampshire afterward, she had asked him about hallucinations. He was continuing to lie tonight, because he loved her. She was necessary for his own life. Was that love or was it self-interest? Carter pulled her to him, and held her in his arms.

She did not answer, but she stayed in his arms for several minutes, several wonderful minutes. At last, she pushed gently away and said, “I suppose it’s getting late.”

He did not push his good fortune that night, did not touch her again, but he felt blissfully optimistic about Hazel.

26

W
hat were the police doing, Carter wondered, besides waiting and twiddling their thumbs? It took only so long to investigate Gawill’s bank account, his sources of money, his own bank account. Were they waiting for O’Brien to get impatient for his money and attack Gawill? Too obvious, and O’Brien wouldn’t risk it. The stillness of everyone, everything, got on Carter’s nerves. It also got on Hazel’s. The only people who seemed to be reassured by it were Jenkins and Butterworth. Carter’s arrival every morning at 9 o’clock might have been to them a guarantee that he was innocent, that the police were letting him alone therefore.

“This frankly—” Butterworth said to Carter, “seems to have been an affair between Gawill, David, and—”

“Your wife,” Carter started to say for him.

“I should say Gawill and David Sullivan.” Butterworth spoke gropingly, but it was evident that he wanted to be friendly to Carter.

The police were concentrating on the Gawill-inspired motive, and O’Brien was mentioned every day in the newspapers: the police were questioning him frequently. “O’Brien, when questioned by police officials in his Jackson Heights apartment today . . .” Whether O’Brien still had his barman’s job or not was not stated, but he was certainly not locked up.

Then on a Wednesday evening at 6 o’clock, just after Carter got home, O’Brien called him up. O’Brien identified himself at once.

“You can hang up if you hear your wife coming in,” O’Brien said. “I’m not where I can see the house, but I know she’s not there now. Mr. Carter, I need some dough. Five thousand dollars.”

Carter had guessed it as soon as he heard O’Brien’s voice. “This telephone may be tapped, you know.”

O’Brien hesitated a second. “Well?— What do you mean ‘may be?’ Is it?”

“I don’t know.— You can’t handle money. The police are going to find it as soon as you get it.”

“Oh, no they won’t. Not in cash. I need it—Friday—and you know the either-or part, Mr. Carter.” O’Brien sounded very determined and sure of himself and almost intelligent. “You’ve got it, I know. Take it out of one of your banks.”

Carter said nothing.

“I’ll make a date with you on the street,” O’Brien said, slowly and distinctly now. “Tenth Street and Eighth Avenue, northwest corner, Friday night at eleven o’clock. Got that? You turn up with the money—in fifties and hundreds—and turn up on time—or I’ll talk to the police by eleven thirty. That’s all, Mr. Carter.” O’Brien hung up.

Carter put the telephone down. He looked automatically at Timmy’s room—lightless, the door ajar. Where was Timmy? Then he went to the closet to hang his topcoat. And five thousand would be the beginning, as blackmail victims always said, and if they caught O’Brien with the second five thousand, or even with the first, they’d ask where he got it. From Carter, he’d say. And why? O’Brien would tell them that, too. O’Brien wouldn’t say it was from Gawill for his job, because Gawill would brazenly and probably convincingly deny such a story. Besides, Gawill would jump immediately to the truth, that Carter had paid O’Brien to keep silent. That might expose O’Brien having been at Sullivan’s house, of course, but as long as O’Brien hadn’t actually done it, Gawill’s intention to have Sullivan killed remained just an intention, or a plot, not a deed.

A difficult spot, Mr. Carter, he said to himself. Yet he felt very cool. Very, very cool, just idealess. Except for a naïve idea, a fantasy: He might meet O’Brien and hand him the five thousand, saying calmly, sweetly, but as if he meant it, “Okay, Anthony, now you have it. Let this be the last of it. If you keep on playing it cool and denying everything, we’ll both go free, you know. Is it agreed?” But men like O’Brien wouldn’t accept that for long. He’d be tempted to ask for more soon. If O’Brien weren’t sorely tempted by money, he would never have hired himself out as a killer. Carter smiled grimly, like a man who has found himself with both shoes in muck, up to the ankles.

It was 6:10. Hazel had said she might not be home until 7, as there were bits and pieces of work at the office. That might mean 8, Carter knew. Hazel’s office was being quite nice. “They’re acting okay—more or less.” Hazel had said evasively when he had asked her how Ginny Joplin, her matronly boss, and Mr. Piers, the in-and-outer, and Fanny, the secretary, were behaving. Naturally, no one would come out and chastise her for immorality, not in these days, but they’d act smug and holier-than-thou, which was worse, maybe even priding themselves on broadmindedness while secretly envying her and—the awful fact remained, the worst fact remained, her husband had been in prison once and they all knew it. Though they had all met him, he’d even met Fanny once when he came to pick Hazel up, and though he appeared to be a nice-looking man, rather like everyone else, they all must be thinking now that he was a tough character underneath, and that killing someone, under these circumstances, would be nothing that would make him turn a hair. Therefore Hazel was working late, because her job was rather shaky now.

“Damn it to hell,” Carter said, and went into the kitchen to get a drink.

While he was pouring it, the door opened, and he went with his glass into the living room, thinking it was Hazel, but it was Timmy.

Timmy glanced up shyly, and removed his cap. “Hi,” he said.

“Hi there. Where’ve you been?”

“Oh, I went out for ink and I ran into Stephen. We took a walk.” Timmy smiled a little at him, chocolate syrup in the corner of his mouth. His tongue moved out and licked off the brown stain.

Carter smiled. “Since when do you take walks in drugstores?”

Timmy hung his head as he walked toward his room, but he was smiling. He stopped and turned. “Mommy’s not home?”

“Not yet. She said she’d be a little late.”

Timmy went on. He turned his light on, but did not close the door.

Carter stood looking at the slightly open door, grateful for it as if it were a pair of open arms. Ten days ago, Timmy would have closed the door, closed his heart, his ears. This was the power of the newspapers, Carter thought, of public opinion. Timmy’s schoolmates were letting up on him, and thinking now that O’Brien might have done it. Or maybe, like children, they were getting tired of the story. At any rate, they weren’t badgering Timmy so much, and Timmy was feeling better. It was the wonderful thing about children, that their crises could quickly blow over, Carter thought, even Hazel and Sullivan’s affair might blow over in Timmy’s mind, like Sullivan’s death, which had really not clouded his New Hampshire holiday. Years from now, when Timmy knew what affairs meant, he would understand, and it would not have blown over, really, but at twelve now, for immediate and practical purposes, Carter thought it had.

Immediate and practical purposes. Friday night. Forty-eight hours away. There was five thousand in one of their savings banks and two thousand in the other. Hazel had said about a month ago, that they should give Tom Elliott another three thousand to invest, that it was silly to have so much in a savings bank when it could be earning more invested. If he took it, he could say he’d given it to Elliott, but to buy what? There’d be no statement from Elliott about buying any stock. That wouldn’t be the end of O’Brien, and it was conceivable that if the police didn’t indict either him or O’Brien, O’Brien could milk fifty thousand dollars out of him. Carter smiled nervously to himself. It wouldn’t go unnoticed by Hazel. He walked about the room, listening for the faintest sound that might be Hazel’s step on the stairs, at the same time trying to think. He got a second scotch and water.

If he could kill O’Brien, everything would be simple. If he killed O’Brien and got away with
that
—

It could look like the work of another of Gawill’s pals. Of course, Gawill wanted him dead so he wouldn’t talk, so he’d never have to pay him, either.

Tenth Street and Eighth Avenue. It was pretty far west, maybe not too well lighted, Carter couldn’t remember, and they might walk farther west. Carter suddenly envisaged a policeman tailing O’Brien—O’Brien would be tailed, no doubt, unless he was clever enough to shake the tailer—and coming right up to them as the money exchanged hands.
All right, Carter. That’s what we wanted
to
know
. Carter walked about the room.

No, no money, he thought, no matter what thoughts entered his head between now and Friday. The blackmail try, Carter thought, might even be an idea concocted by the police to see if he’d agree. The police might have been by O’Brien’s side as he made the call. Carter felt a little relieved that he hadn’t said he would meet O’Brien with the money. But he also hadn’t said anything when O’Brien said, “. . . you know the either-or part, Mr. Carter . . .” Carter wiped the film of sweat from his forehead.

He saw no alternative but to kill O’Brien. Persuade him to walk a little farther west, where the streets got darker toward the Hudson River. Pull something out of his pocket, or pretend to, as if he were taking out the money, get O’Brien close to him, and deliver the blow that kills, as Alex used to say. Then he thought of O’Brien’s gigantic size, and his right thumb began to ache. Carter collapsed in the armchair, and looked at his right hand. He was holding his thumb tightly against the index finger, ready to strike a sidewise blow. The sides of his hands were no longer calloused, and even if he succeeded, they would learn from Dr. Cassini, from Hazel, that Carter knew judo. The bones in the front of O’Brien’s throat would be broken. It would have to be something like a brick that he used on O’Brien. Carter got up from the armchair.

Then Hazel came in, so suddenly that Carter jumped.

Hazel smiled and closed the door. “Didn’t mean to scare you. Just me.”

He moved slowly toward her, held his right hand out, and she came into his outstretched arm, leaned against his chest.

“What a day! Henny-Penny and Mr. Piers.” She called her boss, Ginny, Henny-Penny.

“Fix you a drink?”

“Yes, please,” Hazel said.

She was tired, so Carter did the dishes after dinner, and Timmy dried them and put them away.

Carter said as he was undressing for bed, “I’ve got to have dinner with Jenkins and Butterworth Friday night. They want me to meet some future client or something. I thought if you wanted to see anyone—”

“I doubt if I’ll want to do anything but get to bed early,” Hazel said, her face almost buried in the pillow.

Thus he prepared for Friday.

And he also considered standing O’Brien up. O’Brien wouldn’t talk immediately to the police, Carter thought, not unless he was in some overwrought and desperate condition which he didn’t appear to be in as yet. He’d wait and try asking for money again. But how long could that last? O’Brien had less to lose by exposing him than by standing trial for murder. Of course, before he ever stood trial, he’d come out with the real story. The plain fact was, O’Brien had him. Carter had got no further than this by Thursday.

He stood looking out of his window at the mist-blurred ships on the East River. A couple of functional tugs burrowed along in the water, and a rather nice-looking black and white and red freighter rode high as she moved out toward the Atlantic. On the other side of Manhattan, more beautiful ships were coming in and sailing off for Europe, South America, the Bahamas. In three months, he might be on one with Hazel. Everything at rest. Everything. Once he got over this hump. Wasn’t it worth it to try to kill O’Brien? O’Brien would never let it be pinned on himself. If O’Brien told his story, and it was not believed, if O’Brien were even tried and convicted, his story would leave a fatal doubt, a fatal wound in Hazel’s mind and in the minds of many other people. Even if Carter withstood all the grilling the police might give him, the doubt would remain, if O’Brien told his story well, and he would, because it was true.

On Thursday night, Carter and Hazel had Phyllis Millen over for dinner, and again nothing was said about the undiscovered killer of Sullivan, nothing about what the police were doing or might be doing. During coffee the telephone rang, and it was the Laffertys. Hazel spoke to Mrs. Lafferty, then to her husband. After a moment, he asked to speak to Carter.

“Hello,” Carter said, and the memory of the conversation they had had in French in the Japanese restaurant came back to him.
Every separation takes a little away from a man
. . . And every murder, Carter thought.

“Well, Philip. How are things?” Lafferty asked in his genial tone, in a manner that did not demand an answer. “What’s the latest on the front? Your wife said you had company, so maybe you can’t talk. But I wanted to say greetings and send you my good wishes.”

“Thanks very much. I don’t know that I’ve got anything to say,” Carter said, his back to Hazel and Phyllis, who were in the far corner of the big living room, and talking to each other now. “Things haven’t changed for several days. That’s all I know.”

“The papers are telling everything? All there is to know?”

“Yes.” Except Gawill’s rage, Carter thought, except the fact O’Brien was impatient for his payment. “Yes, that’s about it.— If anything does happen, I’m sure Hazel will let you know.”

They finished the conversation casually, and Carter returned to the table to pour snifters of brandy. His hand was very steady, rather his hands, as he used both to pour the bottle.

“Nice of them to call,” Hazel said.

“Yes. I like him.” Carter sat down.

“We must have them over. You know the Laffertys, don’t you Phyllis?”

Phyllis did.

The conversation trickled on. Carter hardly listened. He looked at his son, who was finishing his plate of ice cream. Timmy wore his best dark blue suit, a white shirt, and blue tie. The candlelight shone on his neatly combed blond hair. The phonograph dropped a new record and the Goldberg Variations began to play. Carter blinked away inexplicable tears. He took one of Hazel’s Seconals that night to be sure he got to sleep.