Farrell ran down the sidewalk to his own home. He would have liked to do nothing at all; except lock the door behind him and let Norton and Detweiller and Malleck rush on to their own separate disasters. And for an instant — hesitating with the phone in his hand — he was tempted to stand aside and let matters take their course. But he knew in his heart it was too late for that.
He dialed the Hayrack police and asked for Lieutenant Jameson. When the lieutenant answered Farrell said: “This is John Farrell, Lieutenant. I’ll give you this fast. Three of my neighbors just left here to settle a score personally with the Chiefs.”
“Just left, you say? When, exactly?”
“Two or three minutes ago.”
“Hang on a second.”
Jameson returned in the time it took Farrell to light a cigarette. “Okay, the signal is out to our patrol. What was this all about, Mr. Farrell?”
“I’m not sure,” Farrell said.
“Anything else to tell me?”
“Not a thing.”
“Thanks for the tip. You’ve done your friends a favor.”
Farrell replaced the phone in its cradle, but almost immediately it rang shrilly in the silence. Farrell picked up the receiver. “Yes?”
“John? This is Janey Norton. It’s a terrible hour to call. I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“No. What is it, Janey?”
“I hate to be a nuisance. How’s Angey? Still on the mend?”
“Coming along fine, I think.”
“I just don’t think I could bear it if anything happened to that lovely child.”
Farrell hesitated, then said: “What’s up, Janey?”
“This is silly, but I’m worried about Wayne. He took Cinder out for a walk ages ago and he’s not back yet.”
“Maybe he stopped for a beer or something.”
She laughed softly and said, “You don’t know him as well as I do, I guess. That’s the sort of thing he doesn’t care for. Sometimes I tease him about being tied to my apron strings — I tell him he should play poker and go bowling, but he just smiles and says if he liked that sort of tiling he wouldn’t have got married in the first place.”
Farrell put a hand to his forehead. He felt trapped; he had the sensation of being enclosed and smothered by a ghastly kind of innocence. She knew all about her husband, of course. He wouldn’t stop for a beer. Not steady old Wayne. They knew all about each other, accepting the apparent for the truth and destroying one another with trust.
“John?”
“I was thinking, Janey, he might have gone over to the Boulevard for the papers. Supposing I drive over and pick him up?”
“I don’t want you to go to all that trouble.”
“I’m going out anyway, Janey. Why don’t you get back to bed now?”
“Well, all right, John. And thanks loads. I know I’m a fusspot, but when I woke up the house seemed so funny and quiet without him.”
“That’s right,” Farrell said pointlessly. “Get back to sleep now.”
“I guess I will. Thanks so much, John.”
Farrell put on his topcoat and went out to his car. He had no idea of how he would bring Wayne Norton home to his wife. But he felt he had to try.
The night was mild and he drove toward Hayrack with the windows down, appreciating the cool air on his face. He drove carefully, wary of the occasional cars that flashed out of the darkness and more than ordinarily alert for pedestrians and traffic signals. He felt curiously vulnerable, exposed to attack from all quarters; there was no tolerance left for errors tonight, he thought, no leeway for mistakes or miscalculations.
Farrell reached Hayrack ten minutes after leaving his home. Somewhere off to his right he heard the rising cry of a police siren. The sound climbed high above him, then fell in a dying wail as he turned into Matt Street, a block north of the Chiefs’ clubhouse.
Three police cars were parked at the curb in front of the warehouse, the lights above their windshields swinging in slow circles, crisscrossing the windows of shops and tenements with bars of brilliant red light. Farrell parked and climbed out of his car. A crowd was collecting, alerted by the scent of trouble; men were running down the sidewalk, turning occasionally to shout at one another, and there were excited human clusters in the dark doorways of the shops along the street. A brilliant white beam moved over the front of the warehouse, probing at cornices and windows like a mighty lance. The siren Farrell had heard was upon him now, the banshee wail exploding as the squad car swept around the corner and came to a swaying, expert stop at the entrance to the Chiefs’ clubhouse. Windows were opening in rooming houses and apartments and the sound of TV music and laughter spilled eerily over the swelling noise of the crowd and sharp shouted orders from police officers.
Farrell started across the street but a uniformed patrolman blocked his way. “Go on home, Jack,” he said. “Get the details in the morning papers.”
“I’ve got to see Lieutenant Jameson.”
“He’s busy, Jack. I told you, go on home.”
Farrell saw Detweiller and Malleck then; they were enclosed in a knot of police at the entrance to the clubhouse. He shook himself free from the patrolman’s hand, shoving him aside with desperate strength, and ran past the police cars to where Malleck and Detweiller stood with Lieutenant Jameson and several uniformed patrolmen.
In the sweeping red light of the squad cars Detweiller’s broad face was the color of putty. He looked as if he might be sick at any minute; his lips were trembling and each breath he drew sent a shudder through his body. Farrell caught his shoulder. “What happened, Det? What happened?”
A patrolman took Farrell by the arm but Lieutenant Jameson said, “It’s all right,” and the cop shrugged and dropped his hand.
“Det, what happened?” Farrell said, shouting above the noise in the street. From somewhere came the high, thin sound of a woman screaming.
Detweiller looked at Farrell, the glaze of shock dimming in his eyes. “I don’t blame her,” he said, twisting his lips carefully around the words. “It must have been a sight.”
“Where’s Norton? Where is he?”
Malleck’s face was black and expressionless in the red glare of police lights. “No use shouting at him,” he said.
“Norton’s dead.”
Chapter Thirteen
It was after eleven o’clock when Farrell left the Hayrack police station. He pulled up the collar of his overcoat and walked through the darkness toward the bar in the next block. From a booth in the rear he called Barbara at the hospital. The nurse told him it was too late; telephone service was suspended at ten o’clock.
“My wife’s not a patient, she’s just spending the night with our daughter,” Farrell said. He pushed his hat up on his forehead. The air was warm and close, and from the barroom the faint but strident voice of a fight announcer drummed on the glass panels of the telephone booth. “A beautiful left and Costello is bleeding from the mouth now, backing away and looking to his comer for help... He’s badly hurt...”
“Is this an emergency?” the nurse asked Farrell.
“Yes, it is.”
“Well, I’ll ring her room but this is against regulations, you understand.”
Barbara was not asleep. She had been reading and her voice was clear and alert. “John, what is it?”
“Honey, I’ve got bad news. There’s no way to break it gently. Wayne Norton was killed tonight.”
“Oh, no! Dear God, what happened? Are you all right?”
“Take it easy. I’m okay, I’m fine. Now please listen to me. Get hold of yourself.” She had begun to cry and the fight announcer’s voice was rising exultantly. “It may be the finish for this game youngster. He’s trying to get up, but those body punches have taken a terrific toll...”