Life remained something that came in doses no bigger than a man could swallow, one at a time.
For him. But for Dave Corday, who was about to be interviewed by that iceberg, Captain Martin, the pills were about to grow to horse-doctor size. And no man has a throat as big as a horse’s.
Jim Latson grinned. The door opened, one of his secretaries brought in the mail, he saw there was another letter from his wife and he stopped grinning.
DAVE CORDAY’S GIRL, Alice, held the door for Captain Martin and then closed it behind him.
Martin crossed the office at his steady pace, looked down at Dave Corday, and held the pose for a full minute. It was a lovely day over the city, a beautiful morning, and the clear light came into the high office and made Martin’s features clearer than usual. Still, Dave Corday could read nothing there.
Finally, Captain Martin said, “Tell your secretary to hold all calls.”
Dave Corday started to bluster. He said all the usual things: this was his office, he would run it, a chief deputy district attorney amounted to something, and so on. He used phrases like common courtesy, chain of command, and perhaps the word protocol got in there.
When he finished, Cap Martin was still standing in front of the desk, still impassive. Dave Corday flipped the intercom and said, “Hold all calls, Alice.” This, of course, did not cut off the red phone hooked to the high emergency desk at police headquarters.
Cap Martin looked Dave Corday over. He was sure that there was no gun on the man’s body, but there was undoubtedly one in his top desk drawer; experience knew the type. Well, Captain Martin could stop Corday getting at that gun; he did not want a suicide on his record. He went and sat down.
“I’ll give it to you straight, Mr. Corday,” he said. “Short and simple. I have an accusation against you. The DeLisle case.”
Then he leaned back. His eyes kept steady on Dave Corday’s; his ears let a wave of indignation go by them. Preposterous, unheard-of and insolence left him untouched, as did incompetent and irresponsible; but he felt a slight twinge of respect for vaporous extravagations. He hoped he would remember to work that into a conversation with his brother-in-law.
When the noise subsided—with, of course, a threat to get his badge—he said, “Yes.” Then he opened his notebook, keeping his feet squarely on the floor; he wished he also had a bowler hat, like a Scotland Yard man in a movie. If he had, he would have kept it on.
“Statement by James Latson, police officer,” he read. “Dated yesterday. I read: ‘I escorted Hogan DeLisle, or Beverly Hauer, to her apartment from the Zebra House. I opened the front door with a key she gave me, and followed her in. David Corday, known to me personally, was hiding behind the apartment door. When it was closed, he appeared, threatened me with a revolver, and took from my armpit holster a Skoda .38 which I carried there. Using a pillow to muffle the noise of the report, Mr. Corday then shot Miss DeLisle with the Skoda, emptying the gun into her and returning it to me. Seeing that she was dead, I then left in company with—’”
The eyes told Captain Martin what he needed to know; Dave Corday was involved. Latson might have shot the girl; or Latson might have told the truth, but Corday was involved.
He shut the notebook, held it ready, and got a pencil from his pocket. “Want to add anything to that, Mr. Corday?”
Guts Dave Corday didn’t have and never had had. His brain content was a dubious matter; he probably had more brains than he ordinarily used. But his lawyer’s training was an asset frequently available to him; he’d bought it hard and it stuck with him when courage and thinking power failed.
So he said, “Is that statement signed?”
Captain Martin shook his head. Dave Corday said, “Then it is worthless.” His voice was still clear and firm. But his face was the color of cream left on the coffee table overnight, and his hands were beginning to shake.
“Why, yes,” Captain Martin said. “It is. In a court of law. But I have good evidence that Chief Latson was in the neighborhood of the girl’s apartment at the time of the killing, and that he committed criminal acts to conceal that fact. Using those for levers, I think he’ll sign the accusation against you. Sooner or later.”
“Either that,” Dave Corday said, “or face a murder rap himself.”
“To escape which, he’ll formally accuse you.”
“Nothing to say,” Dave Corday said. “Nothing to say.”
“You do not wish to file a counter-accusation against James Latson?”
“Nothing to say,” Dave Corday said. “Nothing to say.”
Captain Martin nodded, and got to his feet. He stowed his pencil and his notebook away, picked up his hat, and went to the door. He didn’t say good-by.
Before he could get out of the secretary’s office, Dave Corday’s voice came after him, through the squawk-box.
“Cancel my appointments for the morning; something important has come up.”
Captain Martin let himself out quietly. Time was on his side now; time would break Dave Corday down, as it would never do Jim Latson.
JIMMY REIN had reported to Homicide, as ordered, and it was a temptation for Captain Martin to send for him, give him a chair in the captain’s office, and invite him to talk over the DeLisle killing. But that was the one thing Captain Martin couldn’t do.
The slightest implication that Rein’s promotion was a bribe for silence, and discipline would go to hell. And it looked as if silence was what was going to result.
The interview with Dave Corday had brought up nothing but ranting and raving. Which was evidence—to Captain Martin—that Latson’s accusation of Corday had been true. But was no evidence at all in a court of law.
So—Captain Martin reached in the top drawer of his desk, got out a pack of cards, and started a game of Canfield—what did you have? Evidence that Jim Latson had been near the scene of the crime. Said evidence being the testimony of a police officer, James Rein.
Evidence that Chief Latson had tampered with the department files to conceal the fact testified to by Patrolman Rein… And how did you go about putting that evidence to a court? You subpoenaed the department records, and you dragged a lot of clerks into court, and it all added up to negative stuff.
Captain Martin put a black queen on a red king.
He had been foolish. In the hopes of using surprise to get a little farther, he had confronted Jim Latson. It had never occurred to him that Latson had killed the girl, and he didn’t think so yet. The chief was neither half-witted nor impulsive. If he’d wanted to get rid of a party girl like that, he’d have had her floated out of town, firmly and in such a way that any accusation against him on her part would sound like nonsensical revenge… And the autopsy had shown she was not pregnant, which was about the only accusation she could make that would amount to anything…
Yeah, Dave Corday was guilty… Maybe Hogan DeLisle—Beverly Hauer—had a brother who could be brought here from Detroit, handed a gun, and told to go get Corday. And maybe he’d do it.
Captain Martin turned up the ace of diamonds, and covered it with a whole run, up to the nine. Big deal. He smiled to himself.
Yeah, and supposing all that happened. Then, would Captain Martin, being consistent with the standard he had set for himself, have to go and arrest Mr. Hauer?
It made a nice problem.
The Canfield was about to come out. He gathered up the cards, carefully shuffled them, and put them in their box. He thumbed his squawk-box: “Afternoon papers up yet, Jake?”
Jake said, “Yes, sir,” and promptly brought in the eleven o’clock edition of the
News-Journal
and the lesser afternoon sheet; the one that specialized in racing news.
Captain Martin put the cards away and opened the
News-Journal.
Yeah. Guild admitted to bond; trial would probably be postponed until Frederick Van Lear took over the district attorney’s post, which might be soon; the D.A. would probably resign in order to campaign, and the governor would appoint Van Lear. The writer—no by-line—pointed out that the new district attorney would be unable to assist in a case where he had once been defense counsel, and that, with a murder case pending, Van Lear’s appointment should be postponed. But it is much easier to get a man elected to an office he already holds… The old typewriter exercise was wrong; there is no time that is not the right time to come to the aid of the party.
Having read the late edition of the morning papers, the rest of the front page of this afternoon-paper-printed-in-the-morning did not interest Captain Martin. He turned to the first page of the second section, to a column called “City Hall” and signed by “The Recorder.”
The third item brought him upright in his swivel chair: “Rumors are hot that there will be a change at Police Headquarters that will really crack pavements around town. A high-ranking, high-rated cop, previously apparently happy to serve out his time with railroad bars on his shoulders, is about to make a move to go to the very head of the class. And is also rumored to have the ammunition to do it with.”
Captain Martin didn’t swear. Swearing without an audience would have been a silly gesture. But he didn’t smile, either. Nobody but he and Corday and Latson—well, and Jimmy Rein—knew that he had placed Latson in the Guild case.
Corday could be eliminated as a silly ass, too scared to move for days. Rein could be eliminated because any other conclusion would cause the Tilt light to go on in Captain Martin’s head. Captain Martin could eliminate himself because he slept with no witnesses but his wife, and anyway, he didn’t talk in his sleep.
Which left Jim Latson. And if Latson had tipped the
News-Journal
to the fact that Captain Martin was about to accuse him of something, Latson had a plan. Latson always had a plan.
Now it was just a matter of figuring out what the plan was. It could be done. Captain Martin told himself how smart he was, how experienced he was, how trained in following criminal reasoning.
Figure out what Latson’s plan was, and come up with a counter-plan and—
Captain Martin shook his head. He had never fooled himself. He was not as smart as Jim Latson. More thorough, yes. Perhaps more analytical. But smarter, definitely not.
And before his methodical, analytical mind started asking itself what it meant by smarter, Captain Martin got to his feet. This was no time for armchair pondering. He was about to have his bacon fried for him, with a year more to go for his pension. If he did not kill this story at once, Latson would be well on his way to charge anything Captain Martin said to jealousy.
As he moved past Jake, muttering, “Press Room,” at the patrolman-secretary, the Captain saw that his Tilt light had failed him. It had been a major error in strategy and tactics to let time go by between seeing Latson and filing charges against him.
He still believed Latson’s story about Corday; but he should have kept Latson with him when he went to see the deputy D.A. Latson could think, and think fast, and act faster and—
There were three reporters in the press room: Cohen of the
Tribune,
Cahoon of the
World,
and Agatt of the City News Bureau. He said, “Hello, gents. Where’s everybody?”
Wade Cohen had been typing; the other two playing gin. They all looked a little astounded at seeing him; as astounded as professional police-beat guys allow themselves to look, no matter how they feel. Cohen said, “Mostly everybody is out trying to see you or Chief Latson. How’d you escape them?”
Captain Martin almost grinned to himself. Supposing he told them that he had almost copped Latson and Corday for a murder, and that Latson was trying to write it all off to departmental jealousy.
It would make a sensation, all right. The newsmen might almost believe him for a minute or two. And then he’d be asked for proof—and he didn’t have any, except theoretical guff. That, and Jimmy Rein’s testimony that Jim Latson had been near the DeLisle apartment when the girl was killed, been there and worried enough about it to steal departmental records to cover it.
And now that Latson had made his move, it was a dead certainty that the chief had figured out a reason why he’d been where he’d been, why he’d doctored the records as he’d done.
All that was left was to deny he was jealous of Jim Latson, and that was as feeble a move as he could think of. But self-respect demanded that he stay on his feet as long as possible… It was time to answer Wade Cohen’s question about the other reporters. “I must have beat it out just a minute before they got to my place. Naturally, they’d see Chief Latson first.”
Cohen was the only one of the three with much more standing than an office boy. He slid out from behind the typewriter, and leaned against the battered press desk, his hands in his pockets, his eyes half closed. “What’s it all about, Marty?”
“You tell me.”
“I know, I know. All you know is what you read in the papers.”
Captain Martin laughed. “Don’t you guys ever get tired of that act? You can’t possibly be as weary as you make out.”
Cohen laughed. “Who’s interviewing who? It’s not my story, really, Marty; we’re a morning paper, and by the time we go to press again the
News-Journal
will have covered us firmly and thoroughly. But just for my own information.”
“For your own information, I honestly didn’t know a thing till I read that squib in the
News-Journal.”
The other two reporters had gone back to their gin game. But Cohen continued to lean against the table. There was a faintly wistful look in his rather heavy features; for once he looked quite young. He said, “If you were to start lying, Cap, it’d hurt me. I dunno why.”
“I’m not lying.” He had to say it, and thought less of himself because he had to.
Cohen nodded slowly. “That item couldn’t have meant anybody else but you. So for once the great
News-Journal
goes flat on its nose. A nice sight.”
Captain Martin fished out cigarettes, offered them. “What were you writing up, Cohen?”
Cohen shrugged. “Feature stuff. Eyewitness account of the raid Jim Latson led this morning. Maybe run it Sunday; for tomorrow, we’ll use a rewrite of city news or the afternoon papers.”