Dick Tracy (27 page)

In fact, his plan to find out what happened to Tess consisted mainly of putting a gun in Big Boy’s face and inviting him to speak.

The door down the hall clanged and footsteps moved toward his cell. He sat up. Through the bars appeared the massive blue-uniformed shape and sad, friendly face of Chief Brandon.

“How are you, son? Bearing up okay?”

He nodded. “I’ll make it, Chief. Any news?”

Brandon winced, but then shook his head.

Tracy got up, met the Chief at the bars. “Look—I don’t want you to pull any punches. If you find Tess’s body, I want you to tell me. Understand?”

Brandon nodded. “She may not be . . . that is, she may still be alive.”

“There’s little hope of that. This frame Big Boy hung on me, probably with the help of Frank Redrum, can only fit this tight if Tess never turns up. Alive
or
dead.”

“Dick . . .” Brandon looked at the floor.

“What aren’t you telling me?”

Brandon sighed. “Dick. The authorities in San Francisco . . . they found Frank Redrum. He washed up on the rocks of Alcatraz. Deader than McKinley.”

“What?” He gripped a bar with one hand. He grimaced, shook his head. “I
told
Pat and Sam the shape of the head and the ears were different! Check the police sketches I had made, Chief.”

“Dick—the papers were half buying your story about the faceless man because of speculation that Frank Redrum was back in circulation. But now . . .”

Tracy smiled humorlessly. “Now they’ll say I just made up this business about the mystery man. That I conveniently implied an old enemy of mine had framed me . . . a trigger-happy nutcase with a track record for revenge.”

Brandon nodded. “Yes, a man who was unlikely to really turn up and contradict your story. Chances were good Redrum was at the bottom of Frisco Bay, leaving you free to pretend he’d returned for revenge.”

Tracy shook his head, laughed mirthlessly, but said nothing.

“After all,” Brandon concluded, “nobody saw your faceless friend shoot Pruneface at the Southside Warehouse, except Influence, who’s not likely to back your story up; even Bug Bailey didn’t see anything—he was drenched in wet cement.”

Tracy’s mouth was a thin firm line. “I’m going to beat this, Chief. Nobody’s going to buy blackmail as a motive. I didn’t write that note in Fletcher’s pocket, no matter what the handwriting experts say.”

“There are those who are speculating that you didn’t intend to blackmail Fletcher,” Brandon said, playing devil’s advocate. “That you were just pretending to, to get evidence on him, to prove he was crooked.”

“Okay, in which case, why in heaven’s name would I kill the man?”

Brandon shrugged. “You were seen arguing at City Hall. There was no love lost between you—let’s face it. So you lured him to that hotel room, to flush him and his crookedness out—but somehow things got out of hand. After all, Tracy—shortly after two witnesses saw someone they think is you going into the hotel, voices were heard heatedly arguing in that same room where Fletcher turned up dead.”

Tracy sighed in frustration. “Yeah, dead from bullets from my gun.”

“You also had the powder burns; the paraffin test indicates you did fire a gun recently.”

“Chief, they must’ve fired a gun off in my hand, when I was unconscious!”

“You don’t have to convince
me,”
Brandon said. “It’s a judge and a jury you have to worry about. And I think they
can
be convinced. I think you can beat this. I believe you, and I believe in you.”

“I . . . thanks, Chief.”

“But it’s not going to happen today. It’s going to happen in court, weeks, maybe months from now. It’s going to be a long, hard-fought battle. You’ve got to stop thinking about nailing Big Boy—and you’ve even got to stop planning to try to find Tess.”

Tracy said nothing.

“Your job right now,” Brandon said, “is to work with your attorney to clear yourself. If, when you finally
do
get bail, you insist on going out and playing tough detective, you’re going to foul up the whole damn case—and your whole damn life, as well.”

“Chief . . .”

“Dick. This is
our
case, now. We’re looking for Tess. The F.B.I. is lending a hand, too—your friend Inspector Trailer is rallying his forces.”

“I’m grateful, and it’s a kidnapping case all right—but no state line was crossed.”

“We don’t know that. Trailer is taking the position that it’s a federal matter. And as for Big Boy, we’ll get that louse. Sam Catchem and Pat Patton are first-rate men and they want nothing more than to clear you and nail Big Boy and all the mobster lowlifes. Trust us to do our job.”

“Sure, Chief.”

Brandon’s smile was a thin wrinkle. “You didn’t hear a word I said, did you?”

Tracy smiled back, faintly; his first smile in days. “Oh, I heard you.”

“You just didn’t listen.”

Tracy lifted an eyebrow in a shrug.

“Well,” the Chief said wearily, “I tried.”

“You know, Chief—Big Boy’s having the big horse-laugh on all of us. Can you deny there’s been an upsurge of mob activity in the last forty-eight hours? I’ve seen the papers.”

Brandon’s embarrassment was apparent. The Chief knew as well as Tracy that the gambling joints were back in full swing, houses of prostitution had reopened, small store owners were again being muscled for extortion money. All the key figures Tracy had jailed were out on bail and back in action; even Mumbles—lying low since his third-degree encounter with Tracy the night of the garage massacre—had surfaced, openly rejoining Big Boy’s retinue.

“We were on the verge of putting Caprice out of business,” Tracy said with bitter irony. “Instead, we got the rug pulled out from under us, and he’s flourishing. Champagne flowing like water; money flowing into his pockets, the same way.”

“We’ll get him.

“A bullet would do it quicker.”

Brandon’s face tensed. “That isn’t how we do things. That isn’t how
you
do things.” He touched Tracy’s hand where it gripped the bar. “Hold onto yourself, son. Don’t let them turn you into what they are.”

Tracy swallowed.

Brandon smiled, reached a hand through the bars and tousled Tracy’s hair, like a kid. Then the big old copper moved back down the corridor, his footsteps echoing.

Tracy sat on the cot. Was the Chief right? Was Big Boy’s viciousness contagious? If Tess really were gone, Tracy would have nothing left,
nothing
, if he threw away what he was. And what was he, but a public servant who respected and upheld the law?

But what
was
the role of a police detective in a world where district attorneys and judges and even cops were frequently corrupt? What was his role in a world where holders of high political office and half the city’s social register were among Big Boy’s favored patrons at his illegal casino? A world that gave its tacit approval to lawlessness and vice? Was there a place for Dick Tracy in that world?

He had almost drifted off to sleep when he heard the clang of the door down the hall again, and footsteps moving quickly—too light, too swift a step, for the Chief to be returning.

Tracy got to his feet instinctively and was to the bars of the cell by the time Sam Catchem’s rumpled face appeared there.

And Catchem was smiling.

“You got a visitor,” Catchem said.

“A visitor?”

“He’s just outside.”

“Who . . .”

Catchem remained evasive, playing it cute. “The Chief’s bringin’ ’em in. And I’ve put a call in for the Acting D.A. I think he’s going to be as interested in this new development as you are.”

“New development . . . ?”

But Catchem was gone.

Moments later, the Chief had returned, and with him was the Kid, standing just beyond the bars; the man and child had mutually bright, eager eyes.

“Your actor pal called me to pick the kid up at the orphanage,” the Chief explained, “and bring him around to see you.”

Brandon had the keys and opened the cell door and stepped inside with the boy. Tracy sat on the cot with him, while the Chief stood in the doorway of the cell.

“Tracy,” the Chief said, “your young friend is quite an artist. As Vitamin Flintheart says, ‘The stripling has a remarkable ability to capture the human physiognomy with his pen.’ ”

“Crayon,” the Kid corrected.

“Although, in this case,” the Chief continued, “we’re using the term ‘human’ loosely.” The Chief unfolded a piece of paper he’d been concealing in one hand. “Who is this, lad?”

“That’s the flat-headed creep who shot everybody at the garage on Seventh Street.” The boy looked sheepishly at Tracy, who couldn’t have been more stunned if he’d been hit in the head with a two-by-four. “I seen it all. I was a, what-do-you-call-it . . . eyewitness.”

“Why didn’t you ever say anything, junior?”

“Where I come from, you learn to keep your mouth shut about things like that. I’m sorry, Mr. Tracy. I didn’t know it had anything to do with you. But . . . well, I guess I figured it did, later—when him and that guy that’s always scratchin’ snatched you and stuck ya in that boiler room.”

“He’s drawn equally good likenesses of Itchy and Mumbles,” the Chief said. “They were at the garage massacre, too.”

Tracy slipped his arm around the boy. “Son, this is very important. God bless you, we’ve got ’em, now.”

“But I’m just a juvie . . . a street kid. Who’s going to listen to me?”

“Everybody?” Tracy said. “Look—when all of this is over, I’ve got a job for you.”

“A job?

“Yeah. We’re going to make you the country’s youngest police artist.”

“Really?”

“Really. You’re on my team, junior. From now on. Shake on it?”

He extended his hand, and the Kid took it and shook it, eagerly.

“Well,” Brandon said, pleased by what he’d seen, “I’ll leave the two of you alone for a minute. We need to try to get through to the Acting D.A. again. I’d like to connect with him before the county jail boys arrive to make your transfer.”

“Can’t you spring me, Chief?” Tracy said, standing, gesturing with both hands. “We’ve got Big Boy, now . . .”

The Chief’s big head shook no. “Not really, Dick. You have enough to go after Flattop and company, and Flattop works for Big Boy . . . but that’s not enough to go after Big Boy himself, is it?”

“Damn it, Chief, if I could get back out on the street, I could find Tess and crack this case in the bargain.”

Brandon thought about that. Then, softly, mysteriously, he said, “I’ll see what I can do.”

A strange sensation rushed through Tracy in a wave; at first he couldn’t identify it. Hope. It was hope.

Brandon nodded to the guard outside the cell as he left.

Tracy sat back down next to the Kid and said, “I’m surprised the orphanage lets you stay up this late.”

“It’s not so bad there.” The Kid shrugged, “Good food. And they let you out if a grown-up picks you up.”

“Like Chief Brandon, you mean, or Mr. Flintheart.”

“Yeah. Or like you and Miss Tess—when you find her. And I know you’re gonna find her.”

Tracy said nothing; just tried to smile bravely at the Kid.

“You know,” the boy said, “Chief Brandon gave me my permanent certificate, upstairs, when I gave him them sketches I made.”

“Yeah? You finally picked out a name, huh?”

“Yeah . . .” He got the scrolled certificate out of his pocket and unrolled it. He let Tracy read it.

“Dick Tracy, Junior,” the detective read aloud, in a hushed voice.

“I hope,” the Kid said tentatively, “it’s okay with you . . .”

Tracy put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. The boy threw his arms around Tracy’s neck and the detective hugged the boy; and the boy smiled and hugged back.

Then suddenly Chief Brandon was just beyond the bars again. His face was intense.

“I couldn’t get through to the Acting D.A.,” Brandon said. “We’ll make the transfer to county jail ourselves. A couple of boys are waiting out back.”

Tracy patted the Kid on the shoulder, and the boy stayed behind with the Chief while the detective was escorted by two guards. They cuffed him first, hands in front of him.

“You should always cuff a prisoner’s hands behind him, fellas,” Tracy said. “A guy can do a lot of damage with his hands in front of him, cuffed or not.”

One of the guards, embarrassed, said, “We trust you, Tracy.”

They ushered him into the backseat of a squad car waiting at the rear of the building. Then they shut the door and he was alone in back.

The two plainclothesmen in the front seat turned and the faces of Sam Catchem and Pat Patton beamed at him, a couple of cats who ate a couple of canaries.

“What are you two doing here?” Tracy asked, dazed.

“It’s a long ride to county jail,” Patton said with a shrug. “Could take all night.”

“It’s only five miles,” Tracy said. “What . . . ?”

Catchem was leaning back over the seat, unlocking Tracy’s handcuffs.

“You said you could crack this case if you could get back out on the street,” Catchem said. “Well, welcome to the street, courtesy of the Chief. Your gun, two-way, and your badge are on the seat next to you.”

Tracy glanced to his left, and there they were, in a neat stack. He slipped the .38 in his topcoat pocket and began strapping the two-way on.

“Call for a car to meet us at Thirty-fourth and Central,” he told Patton crisply.

“Isn’t that Mumbles’s apartment building?” Catchem asked.

“Yes, it is. And tell ’em, step on it. Oh, and Pat, tell ’em to bring something along . . .”

“What?” Patton asked.

Tracy told him, and Patton’s round face broke into a grin.

“Let’s go, boys,” Tracy said to his two chauffeurs, and they went.

“I only wish Brandon were here,” Tracy said absently.

“Yeah?” Catchem said. “Why?”

“I’d like to kiss his big red Irish face,” Tracy said.