Being in jail had taken Jack out of his shell. There was never a dull moment, he had been in the eye of the hurricane, the cynosure of every reporter, lawyer, detective, prosecutor, as well as assorted female clerks who came by just to take a look at him. Of course the other prisoners had resented all this, until he sang for them.
“Give us Frankie's âMy Way.'”
He gave them Frankie's “My Way.” Silly lyrics, but most lyrics are. The song had become the favorite hymn of the losers of this world.
“âDat's Amore'!”
He gave them Dino Martino. He felt like a jukebox. But he was loved.
After that, returning to his condo was deflating. He closed the door of his condo behind him and felt more in a cell than he had in the cell. He had been expected to be taken home to dinner with Jane and the kids, but Tim brought him directly to the condo, came in, and shut the door.
“I'm back in jail,” Jack sighed.
“Dad, what you learned about me and Aggie? I've told Jane.”
“You shouldn't have done that.” The voice of experience.
“She would have found out some other way. I wanted to tell her.”
“That must have taken great courage.”
Tim sat, still wearing his coat, arms on the arms of the chair, chin down. Napoleon in thought. “I don't know the difference between courage and cowardice anymore. I was afraid she would find out before I told her.”
“She's a wonderful woman.”
“I didn't strangle Aggie.”
Jack feigned surprise. “Good Lord, who ever thought so?”
“Just about everyone after you confessed. You were sacrificing yourself for your son.”
“Why would I think you did it?”
“We both had similar motives.”
“I am going to have a drink. Do you realize that I have not had a drink in days?”
“I'll wait until I get home.”
“Wise, wise.”
“So who did do it?”
“Who's left?”
“Mario?”
Jack paused in the process of pouring scotch over the cubes in his glass and looked at his son. “Are you serious?”
“You know he was let go by Mallard and Bill.”
“Whatever for?”
“His sister is married to an underworld figure in Milwaukee who has just been indicted.”
“They fired him for that?”
“He thinks Aggie made sure the founding partners learned of it. It had the effect she must have foreseen.”
“I thought that young man was their courtroom star.”
“He was. âIf you are to be one of us, you must be like Caesar's wife.' Mario had been there long enough to believe that. So he resigned when he was asked to.”
“But still blamed Aggie.”
“So Colleen told me. Mario is too proud to go on about it. He pretends he has been liberated, that this is a great opportunity for him.”
“Maybe it is.”
“He asked about coming in with us. Not a chance. For the same reason.”
“And Colleen has resigned.”
“If they're smart, they will postpone the wedding.”
“People aren't smart about such things.”
Silence, as son and father applied that to each other. It was hard to enjoy his drink with his son sitting there morosely. Finally Tim got up to go.
“I can't thank you enough, son.”
Tim hesitated, then took his father in his arms. Jack was as embarrassed as his son. Gallagher men were seldom demonstrative. Tim avoided his eyes as he pulled open the door and left.
Jack sat, drank, looked at the dead eye of the television, sighed. Was it for this that we fought the war? When Julia had died, Jack had mourned like Hamlet for Ophelia but he would not have been human if he did not sense a little leap of joy that he was free at last, thank God Almighty, free at last. He had loved Julia, he had lived a double life in order to spare her sensibilities, and yet freedom had a salty taste. But the salt had lost its savor. His life seemed to be ending in farce, not tragedy, high-school antics at the senior dance and actually getting knocked on his ass by Austin Rooney, twice. He had deserted that arena, and then took up with the insatiable Agatha. That had led to his last great scene, the confessed murderer, but he sensed that he was more pitied than admired. What next? How long, O Lord, how long?
There was a tap at the door. Jack sat still. Eventually another tap and a voice, faintly audible, a female voice. He got to his feet, slowly, and shuffled to the door. But when he opened it he was upright and imperious.
“Isabel?”
“I am a delegation, Jack. People want you to come over to the club for a little welcome-home party. Of course if you don't want to, they'll understand. It can be tomorrow night. It can be any night you wish.”
“Come in, Isabel.”
“What you have been through!”
Jack sighed. “However heartrending, it is overâover for her, over for me.”
Isabel had been advancing into the room with little baby steps as if Jack were the captain issuing orders.
“I was sure they had the whole thing wrong from the beginning.”
“Isabel, I do not wish to put the blame on others.”
“But this woman wasn't your niece.”
Jack looked at her with real fondness. “Dear Isabel. The male animal is a beast forever.”
“âThe male'! The way she came after you?”
“I hope you weren't spying on us.”
“Why would I spy on you and your niece?”
Jack looked at her. “Why indeed?”
“What I don't understand is why that little lawyer didn't come forward. He must have seen everything.”
“What little lawyer would that be, Isabel?”
“Your lawyer. The one with the tweed hat.”
“Ah, Tuttle.”
“As you know, he was parked out there night and day, him or his partner.”
“A very reliable fellow, Tuttle.”
“When he came to my door I thought at first he was investigating you.”
“No reason for him to do that.”
Jack was trying to sift the wheat from the chaff in Isabel's remarks. The little lawyer in the tweed hat could only be Tuttle. Tuttle had become his lawyer some days before the strangling of Aggie, filing Jack's suit against Austin Rooney. Jack longed to see Tuttleâhe had
been kept from the conference room by Amos Cadbury, Tim, and young Liberati. Of course, being on the wrong end of a murder investigation and on the right end of a suit for damages are very different things. But Tuttle was still his lawyer, now that the trio of giants had saved him from himself.
“Isabel, tell my friends at the clubhouse I would rather postpone our little party. I find I am more fatigued than I realized.”
“It is absolutely up to you.”
“Perhaps tomorrow night.”
“If that is your wish.”
“Let's say tomorrow night.”
Jack took her to the door and as he reached for the knob, pecked her on the cheek. She went giggling into the night. Jack retrieved his now watery drink, tossed it off, and got on the phone to Tuttle.
Cy Horvath's list of suspects in the death of Agatha Rossner was shorter now, both Gallaghers having been eliminated. Tim Gallagher's alibi, that he had been out of town on business on the night Agatha died, took the son as well as the father off the hook as far as Phil Keegan was concerned.
“So who is left, Cy?”
“I suppose I ought to verify that he was out of town.”
The information had come from Jack Gallagher who, in what had to be a first in the experience of the Detective Division, had dropped by to thank Phil and his department for the unfailing courtesy and fairness that had been shown him during the days he had been locked up.
“I wouldn't go so far as to recommend it, Captain, but it did afford me a welcome opportunity to regain my perspective on things.”
“Is that why you confessed, to get a little quiet time?”
Jack could appreciate wit when he heard it and he accorded Phil's remark a generous laugh. “My son thought I was trying to protect him.” There was a chuckle in Jack's voice as he relayed Timothy Gallagher's interpretation of his father's confession.
“And all along he had an alibi.” Jack paused. “Not that I for a moment thought he was involved.”
“You mean in her death?” Cy said.
Jack looked at him. “In her death. Like his father, he was susceptible to her charms.”
“What is his alibi?”
“He was out of town on business.”
And that, Phil told Jack, took both Gallaghers out of the target area.
“Who do you think did it, Jack?”
“Gentlemen, there I must defer to your professional skills. I haven't the faintest idea.” He brought his hands together. “Now can anyone tell me where I can find Tuttle? I called his office and got the biggest runaround of my career.”
“From Tuttle?”
“No, from what I took to be a woman. His secretary, I suppose.” Cy and Phil exchanged a look.
“Try the press room.”
When he was gone, it took minutes for the atmosphere to return to normal. Phil was scowling in the usual way when he suggested that they turn their professional skills to the task of finding who had strangled Agatha Rossner.
“Who was next on your list, Cy?”
“Mario Liberati.”
“Maybe he's got an alibi too.”
But Cy found himself still wondering about Tim Gallagher's. They couldn't accept on hearsay that he had been out of town the night of the murder. Maybe he had and maybe he hadn't. What was for sure is that he, like his father, had succumbed to the charms of Agatha Rossner. Jack had laughed at the interpretation of his confession as an
effort to protect his son, but what other explanation for it was there? And if he had thought that, then it could not be assumed that just because Aggie had transferred her affections to Jack, that Tim had gracefully bowed out.
The law firm with which Tim Gallagher was associated occupied the fourteenth and fifteenth floors of a building near the Outer Drive. Barth, Brach, Frailey, and Kelly. Cy felt like an astronaut as he took the elevator to the observation floor. Swoosh. His ears popped before they got to thirty-five. The view of the lake and the Loop was impressive, though somewhat unreal. Everything had been done to prevent anyone using the observation floor as a springboard into eternity. Double-paned windows were guarded by a railing that kept observers a foot away. But the sway of the building could be felt. Cy was glad to get into an elevator and descend to fourteen where he asked to see Timothy Gallagher.
“He's in conference right now. Would you care to wait?”
“I wonder if I could see his secretary.”
The receptionist had a repertoire of answers for standard questions, but nothing for this. “His secretary?”
Cy had hoped to avoid making this official. He showed his badge and said in a lowered voice, “This won't take a minute.”
“Is it about his father?” She was whispering too.
Cy nodded. “I would rather not bother him.”
She nodded as she rose. They were on the same wavelength. “Come this way.”
She led him down a corridor, telling him how terrible they had felt for Mr. Gallagher and wasn't it wonderful how everything worked out? She ducked into a doorway.
“Phyllis, this is Lieutenant Horvath.”
“I didn't want to disturb Mr. Gallagher.”
“He's in conference.”
The receptionist withdrew, wearing a Girl Scout smile.
“You keep a calendar of Mr. Gallagher's activities, appointments, trips, that sort of thing.”
“Of course.”
“We're just tying up loose ends about his father.”
“Thank God that's over with.”
“I just need to see the appointments for the week of November 30.”
He leaned over the book she turned toward him and he was aware of the musky scent of her perfume.
“Could I have a photocopy of this?”
“Is it important?”
“It clears up one point, that's all.”
She scooped up the book and dashed down the hall. Two minutes later, Cy was on his way, the photocopy in his pocket. He took it out in the parking garage when he had located his car and read it in the eerie light. Agatha Rossner had died on December 3. Timothy's day was accounted for until after five, and the following morning his appointments began at nine. There was no record of travel or of his having been out of town.