The Paul Cain Omnibus (21 page)

Brennan said slowly: “You’re crazy, Gus. That’s full of holes. In the first place, Joice was Barbara’s pal—what the hell would she want to poison her for? …”

“Don’t give me that.” Freberg was leaning forward scowling. “Colt hated Barbara for taking Harley away from her.”

Brennan said: “Oh. How did you know about that?”

“Harley told me.”

Brennan nodded slowly, ponderously, with mock seriousness. “When?”

“A little while ago—he was up here while you were out.”

Brennan nodded again. “So Mister Harley told you that? And because Mister Harley owns this joint and a string of clubs, and has a sixteen-inch bankroll, and wields a lot of influence, you take his lousy steer and want to nail Joice for this?” Brennan’s tone was elaborately ironic.

Freberg said: “Don’t be a damned fool.”

Brennan’s smile was very thin. “What about Lou Antony getting out of Atlanta this morning?”

“I’ve got a tracer on him. He’s the reason the play looked so good to Colt. It’d look like Barbara killed herself because she was scared of Antony.”

“Uh-huh.” Brennan shook his head disgustedly. “What about the guy that bopped me? Does he fit into your murder picture any better than he fits into my suicide picture?”

Freberg said: “I don’t care about him. He was probably in some kind of cahoots with Colt… .”

Brennan stood up, walked to the window, back. He said: “Lousy! I didn’t think such stupidity was possible!” He said it very emphatically.

Freberg started to speak but Brennan interrupted him. “What the hell makes you so sure it wasn’t suicide?”

Freberg said, as if he was making a great effort to speak deliberately, gently: “For one thing, there isn’t a sign of anything in here or in Barbara’s room that strychnine could have been in. For another thing… .”

The phone rang. Freberg answered it, stood with the receiver at his ear, silent except for an occasional grunted affirmative. He finally said: “Okay—call you back,” hung up and grinned coldly at Brennan. “Antony caught the noon train out of Atlanta,” he said. “That train doesn’t get in until some time around eight tomorrow morning. So Antony’s out.” Freberg’s grin broadened. “And this strychnine—Somebody forced it down her throat, or stood over her with a club. How do you like that?”

Brennan said: “I like that fine. That gets us to the point.”

“What point?”

“Harley.”

Freberg shook his head slowly, “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m talking sense. Your Mister Harley rubbed Barbara because he was afraid she’d squawk to Antony about the way he’d treated her.” Brennan was almost shouting; his eyes were hot, intent. “Harley stuffed that strychnine into her while Joice Colt was out. He figured that with Barbara out of the way he could bluff Antony into believing that the talk about him and Barbara was a lot of hooey.”

Freberg shook his head again. He said: “Harley was at the Glass Slipper from five o’clock on—until he came back here and talked to me.”

Brennan’s laugh dripped sarcasm. “So he told you that, too, did he?” he said. “I don’t suppose you went to the trouble to check on it. Mister Harley is too big a man to check on… .”

Freberg stood up slowly. He said: “Listen, Brennan—when I want a two-by-four reporter to tell me what to do an’ what not to do I’ll send for you.” His voice was low, his words clear, distinct.

Brennan stared at him incredulously. “Do you mean you’re going to railroad Colt?”

“I’m not going to railroad anybody. I think she’s guilty as hell. I’m going to pick her up and let her railroad herself. And I don’t need any lousy newsdog to tell me what to do and what not to do.”

Brennan’s face got a little white. “No?” he said slowly. “But sometimes a lousy newsdog has intelligence at least a grade above a lousy dog’s son of a flatfoot.”

Freberg’s face was blank. He raised his head slowly and looked at Brennan and his blue eyes were cold and impersonal. He moved slightly sidewise then he lunged suddenly forward, there was sharp smack as his fist crashed into Brennan’s face.

Brennan moved very swiftly. He caught Freberg by the throat with his right hand drew his left far back and snapped it suddenly forward; he could feel his hard fist sink into the soft pallor of Freberg’s face. Freberg crashed into the wall, sank slowly to the floor.

Brennan stood with his feet wide apart, looking down at Freberg a little while. Then he picked up his hat and put it on and went to the door. He glanced back at Freberg once, expressionlessly, then he went out and closed the door. In the elevator he took out his watch, noticed that the crystal was broken. It was ten minutes after eight.

In the
Eagle
’s city room, Brennan leaned across the littered desk and waggled his finger at Johnson, the City Editor.

“I told you to have ’em send Freberg because he was the brightest boy they had—and so help me, he’s the prize dope of the season.” He straightened up. “I wanted you to know. From now on that bastard is on the wrong side of our list.”

Johnson was a squarely built pink-faced man. He peered at Brennan through thick tortoise shell glasses, said acidly: “I’ve asked you to lay off coppers for the last time, Cy. Don’t you realize that a paper like the
Eagle
owes its existence to the goodwill of the people like Freberg—the Police Department?”

Brennan smiled. He said softly: “Listen, Johnnie—have we ever gone very far wrong playing my hunches?”

“There’ll be a first time.”

Brennan leaned across the desk again, started intently at Johnson. “I’m going to stick Ed Harley for the Antony gal’s murder,” he said quietly. “That’s our spot page story for the early Sunday edition—I’ll have it finished ahead of the noon deadline tomorrow. I’m going to clean up the details tonight, an’ make the case tight if I have to choke a confession out of Harley. This is the strongest hunch I’ve had in years and I’m going to play it if I have to make a monkey out of Freberg, an’ the Police Department, an’ the whole damned city government.”

Johnson shook his head sadly. “It sounds swell,” he said, “but why the hell do you pick yourself such a tough one? Harley has an awful drag.”

Brennan said: “I like ’em tough.”

As he turned to go a short, sharp-faced man crossed in front of him, sat down sidewise on the edge of Johnson’s desk, said: “Hi, Cy.”

Brennan nodded, “Hi, Frank.” He started away.

The short man asked: “What did you hit Freberg with—an axe?”

Brennan turned. His eyes were wide, innocent.

“He came into the Station a minute ago with his face in a sling,” the short man went on. “He talked to the chief a little while and then three or four of those bastards came out and threw me out on my ear. They said to never darken their door again, or words to that effect.” He turned to Johnson. “They told me to tell you what you could do with the
Eagle
, too.”

Johnson was glaring at Brennan. He said slowly, incredulously: “Did you hit Freberg?”

Brennan nodded. “Uh-huh.”

Johnson said, “That’s bad!” with deep feeling.

“Self-defense.” Brennan made a wide and inclusive gesture with his hands.

The short man sang in a high, cracked voice: “He calls it self defense, but Freberg will probably call it assault and battery… .”

Brennan scowled at the short man. “Freberg won’t call it,” he snapped. “I know where he buries the bodies. That’s why he took Hunch the beating I gave him in the first place.” He grinned. “One reason.”

Johnson shouted: “What the hell’s that got to do with it? I don’t care if they hang you! I’ve got a paper to get out—how am I going to do it without a Police Department tie-up?”

Brennan raised his eyes and his arms towards the ceiling in a melodramatic appeal to heaven. Then he leaned across the desk, spoke slowly, with infinite patience:

“Listen, Johnnie, I’m bringing you the scoop of the season—a story so big, an’ so hot, that you can write your own ticket.” He paused dramatically. “Do you think the police force is going to be in a position to discriminate against the
Eagle
after this story breaks—after the
Eagle
has made ’em look silly at their own racket?” He straightened up. “Why, you can throw five lines of credit their way and have ’em eating out of your hand!”

Johnson was staring morosely at the desk.

Brennan turned his head, snarled at the short man: “You don’t know what I’m talking about do you, Stupid?” He went around the corner of the desk, emphasized his words with a big blunt finger against the short man’s chest. “Ed Harley killed Barbara Antony—or had her killed. Get that fact planted in your skull so you won’t forget it, because there’s an angle of it I want you to work on. Now that they’ve kicked you out of the police station an’ you haven’t any place to play pinochle, you might as well go to work.”

He turned back to Johnson. “I think Harley slipped up on the glass he gave Barbara the whiskey and strychnine in—maybe he got excited or scared or heard somebody coming. Anyway the glass was there when I went up—it had fallen out of her hand and rolled under the bed, and it probably had a few more fingerprints than Barbara’s on it. I figure that Harley got to worrying about it and sent the big guy who slapped me down up to attend to it. You knew about the big guy, didn’t you?”

Johnson nodded.

The short man said: “I phoned in about him when Freberg called in from the hotel to report it.”

Brennan went on to Johnson: “The glass was smashed when I came to.” He paused a moment, then said: “I want Frankie”—he jerked his head towards the short man—“to work on the big fella—see if he can get a line on him. We ought to be able to tie him up with Harley… .”

Johnson said: “Okay. This is your show—an’ it better be good.”

Brennan turned to emphasize again his words with a finger against the short man’s chest. “About six feet, two—or three. Very dark skin—black hair—pretty good clothes. He has a couple very deep lines between his eyes.” Brennan put his hand up and drew two lines down his forehead with his finger.

The short man bobbed his head, glanced at Johnson, turned and walked away down the big room between the double file of desks.

Brennan looked after him a moment then turned to smile down at Johnson. “Don’t look so sad, Johnnie,” he said. “If you’re scared you’re going to miss something from Centre Street we can stage a battle. You can fire me, an’ then call up the chief an’ tell him about it—tell him you’ve hung the can on me and the
Eagle
will be aces again.”

Johnson’s face brightened a little. He said: “That’s not a bad idea.” Then he added, ominously: “You know it’ll be on the square if this Harley angle doesn’t work, don’t you?”

Brennan grinned. “I’m betting my job that Harley rubbed Barbara,” he said. “An’ the hunch is so hot I’ll make you a little side bet—my life.”

Johnson smiled faintly, nodded. Then he stood up suddenly, shouted:

“Brennan—you’re fired! I’m damned tired of getting jammed up with the police on your account!”

Everyone in the big room turned to stare at them.

Brennan’s long, heavy face hardened: his eyes were cold, steady. He said slowly: “Okay, Johnnie.” Then he turned and went down the long room towards his desk in the corner near the door.

As he passed the switchboard the operator said: “Mrs Smith called you twice,” in a stage whisper.

Brennan nodded vacantly. “Well, well—Mrs Smith. Probably one of the Chicago Smiths. Did she leave her number?”

The girl shook her head.

“Why not? Haven’t I asked you a thousand times to get numbers?” The girl’s blank face twisted to something that was meant to be a sarcastic sneer. She said with exaggerated sweetness: “She wouldn’t leave it. She said she’d call again.”

“How long ago was the last call?”

“About twenty minutes.”

Brennan went to his desk, sat down.

He took a bunch of keys out of his pocket and unlocked the bottom drawer, took out a quart bottle with about four inches of whiskey in its bottom and set it on the desk in front of him. Then he fished around in the drawer until he found a nickel-plated folding cup; he filled the cup with whiskey, drank it slowly and with very evident relish.

The phone on his desk buzzed. He glanced across at the switchboard girl; she nodded sweetly. He took up the receiver and said, “Hello,” and listened.

The voice was Joice Colt’s. She said: “I’ve called you several times but you weren’t in. I’m sorry I got you mixed up in this, Cy. I lied to you. I gave Barbara that stuff. I was going to beat it but I saw you in the drug store an’ it looked like a swell opportunity to put the finger on Harley. The man who slugged you was a friend of mine—he was waiting for me in the lobby when I took you upstairs. He thought it was a pinch an’ he came up and listened outside the door and heard you on the telephone an’ then he was sure it was a pinch. He busted in an’ smacked you down before I could stop him. We’ve got a car—we’re going places fast right now—far places. I could never beat that case. I just wanted to tell you so you wouldn’t get yourself into any more trouble on my account—an’ I’m sorry, Cy… .”

Brennan’s voice was low, metallic. He said: “They’re making you say that, Joice. They’ve got a rod in your back an’ they’re making you say it. Try to give me some kind of slant on where they’ve got you. Are you uptown?”

“Yes.” There was a sudden sharp sound on the wire, like a needle drawn crosswise over a phonograph record. Joice Colt’s voice went on: “But I did, Cy—I did it. I—“ There was a click of disconnection.

Brennan reached the switchboard in something like three steps. He grabbed the operator by the shoulder, said, “Trace that call—quick,” so rapidly that words were all run together into one word.

The girl stared at him with dazed dull eyes.

Brennan’s eyes were bright, wild; he raised his hands and for a moment it looked very much as if he were going to strangle her. He yelled: “For the love of God! Quick! This is a matter of life and death!—can’t you get that through that peroxide!”

The girl’s face was almost equally divided between fight and the sarcastic sneer. She pressed in a plug, lisped, “Supervisor,” into the mouthpiece.