Night My Friend (6 page)

He slid on to the couch next to her. “That’s enough of the philosophy for now. Tell me about Joan of Arc.”

Nancy forgot about the phone call as her mind switched back to what was apparently her favorite subject. “Well, for the last fifty years or more there’s been a concentrated drive to make a saint out of Joan of Arc. The Catholic Church actually canonized her some twenty-five to thirty years ago, and even people like Shaw haven’t spared the praise.”

“I guess she was a pretty great person.”

“She was a witch. I can prove it.”

“I think they burned her for being one, but I believe you’re a few hundred years behind history if you still believe she really was a witch.”

“This is new evidence. Historical evidence that I’ve uncovered.”

Johnny reached over and poured himself a drink. Only half of his mind was with Nancy’s tale. The rest of him was back in that police car with Harper and Backus.

“Go on,” he told her, aware suddenly that she had paused.

“You’re not listening.”

“Yes I am.”

“Well,” she continued, “there are at least four points of evidence supporting the theory that Joan was really a witch. Some authors like Murray and Smith have touched briefly on this evidence, but to my knowledge it has never been the subject of a full-scale study.”

“Four points?”

“Four points. First, records show that Joan was the commonest of all names for a witch. Quite often girls were trained in witchcraft by their mothers, who gave them the common witch names. Of course there were others, but Joan was the commonest.”

“Not too good as evidence,” Johnny pointed out.

“Let me go on. Second, it was quite common for witches to offer themselves in human sacrifice to Satan, and to avoid trouble with the law they sometimes had themselves falsely accused of a crime and put to death by the public executioner. Thus all their cult could gather for the sacrifice and still be perfectly safe from the law. Joan could very well have done this.”

“Well, now…”

“Let me finish. Point three: Joan’s military commander, Gilles de Rais, a Marshal of France, was actually condemned for sorcery some nine years after she died. The evidence shows that he murdered some two hundred women and children during Satanic rites. And fourth, my dear Johnny, this fact was known to the people and to his servants in Joan’s time. Joan must have known she was serving under a man who practiced human sacrifice to Satan.”

“The prosecution rests?”

“The prosecution rests,” she smiled.

“Well, I’ll think about it, but I don’t know. You intend to make these four points the basis of an entire book?”

“Of course. Johnny, young writers like us—no matter if we write songs or stories—can’t get ahead unless we attack some of the old idols. If I write a sexy historical novel, I might make a little money, but what makes it a better book than a dozen others? What makes me a more important author than a dozen others?”

“It’s important to be important, isn’t it?”

“Now you’re making fun of me, Johnny.”

“Not really.” He glanced at his watch. “Say, it’s time for supper. How about it?”

“Fine!” She jumped off the couch and started combing her hair in front of his mirror.

Johnny walked up behind her and stood very close for a moment. She turned half towards him. “Sing me a song, Johnny. One of yours.”

“For you I could write them.”

“You did once.”

“I did always.” He kissed her lightly on the mouth.

“Come on now,” she broke away. “Let’s not behave like a couple of characters in one of my books or one of your songs.”

He backed away and sighed. “Same old Nancy. Even after all these years.”

They went down to dinner, finding a quiet place not far from his apartment. On the way he bought an evening newspaper and while they waited for their food he read through the article on page one.

“What’s so interesting?”

“A cop I knew was murdered this morning.”

“Was that what the phone call was about, from the congressman?”

“Yes. It’s a crazy thing, all mixed up with this fellow Cotton Cravess who’s running for governor.”

“I saw his pictures around town. What kind of man is he?”

“I don’t know. Newspaper publisher, business tycoon, anything you can name. He got Jim Yorkman elected to Congress, and probably did the same for lots of others. Now he’s running for governor, but apparently his associates aren’t too careful with their pre-election activities. They caused the death of a girl last night.”

It was out now. He’d spoken the words. He’d told someone about it, even if it was only Nancy. He told her the rest of it then, all of it, watching her face for any change of expression that would tell him her thoughts.

“What are you going to do?” she asked him finally.

“Talk to Officer Harper, like I told Yorkman I would.”

“Why get involved in it any further, Johnny?”

“I am involved, though. If Cotton Cravess had Backus killed so he wouldn’t talk, he might do the same to me.”

“Let me go with you, then.”

“No…”

“At least to question Harper. There can’t be any danger there.”

Johnny Nocturne sighed. “All right. I think he goes on duty early tonight. We can probably catch him at Headquarters.”

They left the restaurant and headed down the street to the old stone building that served as River City’s Police Headquarters. He led Nancy around the back, to the garage, because this was where it had happened.

“Tom Harper around?”

“Yeah, he’s around. Who wants to know?”

“Johnny Nocturne. Tell him I’d like to talk to him.”

“Hey, Tom! Fellow here to see you!”

From behind a line of gleaming black and red police cars Tom Harper appeared. Johnny was struck at once by the deep, tired lines of his face. He looked as if he hadn’t slept in a week.

“Hello, Johnny.”

“Hello, Tom. I heard what happened.”

Tom Harper frowned at Nancy and then shifted his gaze back to Johnny. “He was so young, so damned young.”

“You think Cotton’s men did it?”

“I don’t know what to think, Johnny. He was shot down right here in this garage, not twelve hours ago. I don’t know what to think.”

“Of course Cotton Cravess approached you?”

“Of course. As soon as you left us last night one of his men appeared from somewhere. He must have figured the girl had gasped out a dying message.”

“They say she died of heart failure.”

“She probably did, but in that guy’s position he might as well have murdered her. If that story got out he wouldn’t have a chance of being governor.”

“They tried to bribe you?”

“Offered us a thousand dollars each on the spot. But I must admit that later, when Cravess himself asked to talk to us, he didn’t offer money.”

“No, he wouldn’t.”

“But he said we’d be promoted, promised us things like that. He explained it all, too. About the party and how the girl ran away.”

Johnny Nocturne sighed. He noticed a spot on the garage floor and wondered if it was grease or possibly the blood of young Backus. “So you believed them and said nothing.”

“I said nothing at first, but this morning I went in and told everything.”

“You told them about Cotton Cravess and the dying girl’s words?”

“Yes. I told them everything.”

“What about Backus?”

“He was young…”

Johnny looked hard into Harper’s eyes, and then he turned away. “Come on, Nancy. We’d better call Jim Yorkman.”

They left the garage and found a pay phone nearby. But no one answered at the congressman’s number. Johnny dialled the office of Cotton Cravess and waited.

Presently a gruff voice answered. “Hello?”

“Could I speak to Jim Yorkman, please?”

“Yorkman? I don’t know if he’s here.”

“He’s there. Let me speak to him. Tell him it’s Johnny Nocturne.”

Outside, a truck was dropping off the first copies of the morning newspaper, for the night travellers who could not wait till dawn for their news. Johnny motioned to Nancy. “Get me a copy of that.”

From the telephone came the familiar voice of Cotton Cravess. “What do you want, Johnny?”

“Right now I want to speak with Jim Yorkman.”

“What about?”

“I told him I’d call. Put him on.”

Cotton Cravess snorted into the phone. “The deal’s off. You can blab all you want now.”

“No songs on your radio station?”

“No songs on my radio station.”

Johnny snatched the newspaper from Nancy and propped it up in the phone booth. “Let me read you a few headlines from the morning paper, Cotton.”

“What?”

“
COP KILLING LINKED TO GIRL’S DEATH: POLICE HINT POLITICAL IMPLICATIONS.
”

“What the hell!”

“It’s all out, Cotton. I’d suggest you resign from the campaign.”

“Go to hell!”

Johnny sighed. “You’re already in on the girl’s death and the bribery attempts, but I can still keep you out of the cop’s murder if you play ball with me.”

“What? Are you crazy, Nocturne? Are you trying to blackmail me?”

“Just let me come up and talk to you.”

He was silent on the other end of the line for a moment, but finally the voice came over again. “All right. Bring that newspaper with you.”

Johnny hung up and left the booth. “Come on, Nan, we’ve got a date.”

“Johnny, would you mind right now telling me what this is all about?” she asked.

“Well, the whole business is a little strange for me. I don’t usually get involved in politics or things like that. But what you told me about Joan of Arc started me thinking.”

They were walking now through the brisk darkness, passing only occasionally into the pools of light from the street lamps overhead.

“What about Joan of Arc?” Nancy asked.

“I hate to go into it, after you’ve spent over a year gathering your material, but of course your reasoning about Joan is somewhat in error.”

She paused beneath a street light and looked at him. “You should stick to songwriting, Johnny. History is more in my line.”

“You’re not the first person that’s told me that, but I think I have to explain it anyway, so you’ll understand this thing.”

“Go on.”

“Earlier you brought up four points about Joan to prove she was a witch: her name, the manner of her death, her commander’s guilt, and her knowledge of this guilt. I’ll take the points in order. First, you say Joan was the most common name for witches, but this implies that Joan’s parents—or at least her mother—must have also been a witch, and trained her in the black art. If such was the case, though, I’m sure it would have been brought out at her trial, when they tried to uncover all sorts of evidence linking her with witchcraft.”

Nancy Stevens started walking again, and he fell into step at her side. “What’s all this got to do with Cotton Cravess?”

He ignored the question for the moment and went on. “Your second point—that Joan’s death might have been a carefully planned sacrifice to the devil—is hardly possible. Had Joan really been a witch, and really wanted to die, she could simply have told the truth about her Satanic activities. The facts of history show that she certainly didn’t want to die. Which leaves you with only two points, Nan, both of which—even if true—prove only that Joan knew her commander was practising witchcraft.”

“Isn’t that evidence enough against her?”

Johnny gazed up at the night sky, where a thousand glistening diamonds glowed and twinkled. “No, oddly enough it isn’t. I met a man today in a somewhat similar situation. Jim Yorkman isn’t a saint, but he’s that equally rare species, an honest politician. He’s honest, but Cotton Cravess got him his job. He feels that he still owes Cravess something. But I think maybe we can get him out from under, and at the same time spike this whole thing before it snowballs into more murders.”

“That’s not songwriter talk, Johnny.”

“No, I guess it’s night talk. Talk for when the night is warm and clear like this. And when you’re here and I feel I could beat the whole darned world.”

Nancy laughed and linked her arm in his. “I guess you and I never did really grow up, did we?”

“You can write a book about us sometime.”

“I’ll have to, now that you’ve spoiled my theory of Joan of Arc.”

“It’s just that sometimes there are so many different ways of looking at the same set of facts…” He turned in at the tall building that housed Cravess Enterprises. “Here we are.”

They went up in the familiar elevator, rising into the tower offices of Cotton Cravess. But now all was turmoil there. The followers, campaign managers, aides and speech-writers for the would-be governor were all there, talking on telephones, listening to the news on radios, shouting at each other in utter confusion.

Johnny didn’t know many of them, but he recognized Blinky, the man whose card game had been broken up by Harper and Backus the night before. Yes, someone like Blinky would have a place here.

Johnny fought his way through the press of activity, pulling Nancy along behind him. “Blinky,” he called out, when the others seemed to ignore him.

“Yeah?”

“Find Cravess and tell him Johnny Nocturne’s here to see him.”

The gambler gave him a tired look and then retreated behind a thick oak door. He returned after a moment and motioned them in.

Cotton Cravess was there, pleading with some unknown person on the telephone. Finally he threw down the instrument in disgust. “My own newspaper turning against me!” he almost shouted. “What good is it owning a newspaper if they won’t print what I tell them to?”

Nancy slipped into an empty chair and Blinky closed the door behind them, staying where he was on the inside. Johnny looked around the room but no one else was there.

“O.K., Nocturne. Start talking,” Cotton Cravess said, his mask of goodwill suddenly gone. “What have you got to offer?”

Johnny tossed the folded newspaper on the desk. “Judging from the activity outside, you fellows have already seen this.”

“It’s worse than that now,” Blinky said.

Cotton Cravess silenced him with a look. Then he turned his attention back to Johnny. “You might as well know about it,” he decided. “The whole story’s out now, and the opposition’s shouting for my scalp.”