“Coming, damn you, coming,” I growled as I closed the door after me and lurched heavily out into the street. Everyone protects their own, even police-captains.
The lake came into view as I followed the curving driveway, and the deserted bandstand was outlined against the stars. There were no more leaves on the trees, no boats on the water, no cars in motion along the driveway. It was too late in the year for the park to be used for anything — but blackmail and murder.
Two things glowed red ahead of me as I came along; the ruby tail-light of the car standing motionless in front of the bandstand, and the smaller gleam of a cigarette under the black sheltering roof of the structure. The number checked with the one I had in my notebook, the one I had taken from the car that had gone slowly past our place this morning. I didn’t have to refer to it, I knew it by heart. 060210. So his name was Charles T. Baron, was it?
I kept the motionless car between me and the bandstand as I soft-shoed up on him. So he wouldn’t catch on, break and run. Then when I was up to its rear fender, I came out around from behind it, went up the two steps into the bandstand, with my gun out. I said, “Come here, you.”
He was a silhouette against the lake through the open sides of the structure. I saw him jump with shock, and his cigarette fell down in a little gush of red sparks on the floor.
I didn’t wait for him to come to me. I went to him. I said, “Is your name Charles T. Baron?” He didn’t have to answer if he didn’t want to. It wasn’t, important. The real answer was behind my curved finger-joint, anyway.
I said, “D’you know me? D’you know who I am?” He was too frightened to answer, could only shake his head.
I did want the answer to what I asked him next. My mind was a policeman’s mind, not a congenital murderer’s; it had to have its confession before it executed justice. “Did you see her last night? Did you see her — with this?” I hitched the gun-muzzle upward to emphasize it. “You know who I mean.”
I was gripping him by the shoulder with my other hand, holding him in place in front of me. He could hardly articulate with terror. He’d seen the glint of the gun by now, if he hadn’t before. “Yes,” he breathed, “I... I saw it go off...”
That was his death-warrant.
I pulled the trigger and it flamed out, lighting up his eyes, dilated with unbelieving horror.
It had a terrific kick to it, worse than I’d ever remembered — it was so long since I’d fired it last. Such a kick that it pitched upward, the bullet going off harmlessly over his shoulder instead of into his chest. I tried to right it, bring it down again, so that second shot would take effect, and I’d lost control of my arm. All kinds of hands, that didn’t belong to me and didn’t belong to him either, were grabbing me all over.
Holding my gun-arm stiffly up and away, twisting the gun out of it, pulling me back away from him, holding my other arm fast at my side.
Holmes’ voice was pleading in my ears, like a frightened kid begging off from a licking from his old man: “Don’t, Cap! This is murder! What’s the matter with you, what’re you trying to do? Hang onto him, now, officer, don’t let him get that gun.” He was almost sobbing the words.
He got around in front of me and all I could see was his face, not the other guy’s any more. He didn’t actually have wet eyes, but he had the whole screwed-up expression that went with them, like I was breaking his heart.
I growled, “Get out of my way, Holmes — don’t do this to me. I’m asking you as your captain, don’t do this to me! You don’t understand — my little girl...”
He kept pushing me back in front of him, not like when you fight, but sort of leaning up against me, crowding me. He crowded me back out of the bandstand, and the running-board of the car caught me below the calves of my legs and I sat down on it involuntarily. He leaned over me, talking low into my face. “It’s Holmes, Cap, don’t you know me?” he kept saying. “You’ve nearly killed a man, Cap.” He started to shake me a little, as if to bring me to. “What do you want to do, bust my heart? Don’t you know how we all look up to you? Endicott, Endicott, what do you want to do?”
All I gave him back was, “My little girl, my little girl...”
“But he’s just a kid, Cap,” he said. “Don’t take your gun to him.” There was a motionless form lying on the bandstand-floor in there, with the policeman bending over him trying to bring him around. He’d fainted dead away from fright.
“Just a kid?” I said dazedly. “He’s a resort-operator, he—”
He kept shaking me slightly, like when you try to wake someone up out of a sleep. “Naw, that’s his father,” he said disgustedly. “This is just a kid, a high-school senior. Even the car is his old man’s. If he didn’t go around wearing a misplaced eyebrow on his lip, anyone could see how young he is!”
I ducked my head suddenly, covered my face with both hands. “But you don’t understand,” I said through them.
“I understand,” he assured me, hand on my shaking shoulder. “I’m not a parent, but I guess I know how it is — you just naturally get all burnt up the first time they fall in love. But hell, Cap, suppose they were sweet on each other, suppose she did go around with him after you forbid her to, suppose she did sneak your gun out of the house to show it to him and then it went off accidentally while they were jiggling it around and they nearly got hurt — suppose all that? Don’t take your gun to the brat, Cap! That’s no way. You been working too heard...”
I said, “How do you know all this? Who told you?”
“She did. Luckily I beat, it out to your house when I couldn’t get you on the wire. I was afraid something was wrong. And something came up that couldn’t wait. I hadda bust the door down to get her out. You shouldn’t have locked her up like that, Cap. She told me about it. They had a row when the gun went off, each one blamed the other. You know how it is when you’re that age, they take their love affairs and their rows serious, like we do our cases and our jobs. He’s been following her around ever since in his old man’s car, trying to get her to make up with him.”
I’ve been glad ever since, I didn’t blurt out: “Then she didn’t do it?” like I wanted to. I looked up at him beseechingly, but he interrupted me before I could get the words out: “Come on, Cap, we’ve got a busy night ahead of us. Forget these kids. Feel better now? Are you over it now? Then come on, let’s get going, this can’t wait. The prowl car’s right down the drive a way. You didn’t hear us coming up — luckily.” He turned to the cop. “Send that punk home when he comes around, and have his old man dry him behind the ears and keep him away from Endicott’s girl after this. And O’Toole — if you open your mouth about this, I’ll take it out of your hide.”
He turned back to me. “Come on, Cap. Every minute counts. I’ve got bad news for you...”
I just looked at him as I straightened up beside him.
“Jordan’s been shot to death out at the Beechwood Inn; we found his body in the woman’s apartment when we broke in before. Her and her accomplice, the manager, have lammed out. We’ve got to get those two. They killed Trinker. Her and this guy that runs the Beechwood must have been shaking him down...”
“But Jordan told me himself, just before he was killed, that she had an alibi — and two clues that I was looking for, a heel and a handkerchief, wouldn’t click,” I faltered.
“Well, they did after we got there. We found a heelless shoe and the remains of five partly-burned colored handkerchiefs in the roadhouse incinerator. And as for the alibi, naturally the employees there would go to bat for their employer and his lady friend. It meant their jobs.”