“Barbara!” Farrell said sharply. “The police notified Janey just a few minutes ago. Do you think you could go over and stay with her?”
“Yes, Angey will be all right. And I’ll call Dr. Webber. But what in the name of God happened?”
“Norton got in a brawl tonight with Duke Resnick. He was cut up pretty badly and he didn’t want to go home. So he went to the Detweillers’. Det called Malleck and the three of them went off to settle up the score.”
Farrell had got the rest of the story in splintered fragments at the police station. He had heard part of Malleck’s and Detweiller’s testimony to Lieutenant Jameson, had listened as Sergeant Cabella gave a professionally impersonal recapitulation to the reporters and cameramen who had appeared like vultures on the scene, scrambling for choice bits and pieces, tense and stimulated by the carrion scent of the story. And he had watched as Duke Resnick was booked for murder, and had seen the boy’s arrogance dissolving in fear as he was led to the cell block by a pair of cops.
The atmosphere had been gaudy and tense; police officers working with a suggestion of hard, pleased efficiency, cameramen firing their Graphics like barrage guns, shooting at everything and everybody, reporters talking into phones in sharp insistent voices, and a drunken vagrant muttering querulously to himself in a comer, piqued at having been forgotten in the excitement...
“They drove over to the Chiefs’ clubhouse on Matt Street,” Farrell explained. “As they arrived Duke was just coming up the stairs. Norton jumped out of the car — Det and Malleck say it happened so fast they couldn’t stop him — and chased Duke down the alley. Duke went up a fire escape at the rear of the building, and Norton followed him. They had a fight on the roof and Duke pushed him off.”
“Why? Why did a thing like this happen?”
“Honey, Janey’s going to need you.” Farrell closed his eyes. Barbara’s question was like a blow. “I’ll see you there later.”
“All right, I’ll hurry.”
Farrell left the phone booth. The fight was over and a cheery announcer was discussing the merits of his sponsor’s product: “Yes, it’s the beer with the built-in smile, fight fans, good for you today, good to you tomorrow. So enjoy delicious, sparkling Harvester’s to your heart’s content — the beer with the built-in smile.” The announcer’s happy face dissolved into an animated beer bottle which flexed its arms and smiled brightly and glassily at its unseen audience. The bartender turned off the set and eddies of conversation stirred among the men at the bar.
Farrell ordered a beer, postponing the time of accounting for a moment or so; the barroom was a warm and noisy haven, a refuge of anonymity, where he was nothing but a voice asking for a drink, a stranger raising a glass with strangers.
The man standing beside him said: “You’re John Farrell, aren’t you?”
Farrell started. “Yes, that’s right.”
The man smiled. “I don’t do it with mirrors. My name is Wiley, Lynn Wiley. I’m with World Press Services. I saw you at the station.”
“Did you follow me here?”
“Well, I wanted to talk with you, and I also wanted a drink, so it was a happy coincidence when you turned in here.” Wiley was in his thirties, short but sturdily built, with blunt gray features and a dark crew cut.
He seemed used to putting people at ease; there was a suggestion of callous sympathy in his manner, Farrell felt, like that of tax examiners and undertakers.
“This is a damn sad business,” Wiley said, taking out a pack of cigarettes. “Smoke?”
“No thanks. What did you want to see me about?”
“I gather you were a friend of Wayne Norton’s.”
“Yes, we were neighbors.”
“He seemed to be a steady, decent sort of guy. Family man, home owner, that sort of thing.” Wiley lit his cigarette. “Is that an accurate estimate, would you say?”
Farrell was silent, staring at his drink.
“This is just background, you understand,” Wiley went on in a pleasant and almost cheerful tone of voice. “I’ve got the facts, such as they are. But there’s still something odd about it.”
“What exactly do you find odd about it?”
“The why. The why of it,” Wiley said. “It’s an odd end for a steady character like Norton.” He took a folded sheaf of yellow copy paper from his coat pocket and glanced at his notes. “This chap Malleck rather intrigues me. He doesn’t live in Faircrest, I see. Is he a friend of yours?”
“I know him slightly.” Farrell paid for his drink. “You’ll have to excuse me now.”
“Well, it’s a sad business,” Wiley said, shaking his head. “Sure you won’t have another drink? One for the road?”
“No thanks.”
Dr. Webber opened the door at the Nortons’ for Farrell. He was preparing to leave.
“How is she?” Farrell asked him.
“Well, she’ll be a lot worse before she gets any better,” Dr. Webber said. He buttoned his overcoat and picked up his bag from the hall table. “I’ve given her a sedative and your wife is upstairs with her now. It’s a ghastly thing. Smashing a decent, lovely little home like this. I must confess the world seems to be a stupidly managed business at times. Well, I’ll be at home if Mrs. Norton needs me. Don’t hesitate to call me.”
“Yes, of course.”
When the doctor had gone Farrell removed his hat and coat and went into the silent living room. Everything was tidy and clean; there was nothing in the still and carefully appointed room to suggest that Wayne Norton would never see it again. Magazines were stacked on the coffee table, as precisely as if they had been lined up with a ruler. A few fallen petals from a bowl of roses had been collected and placed in a shining ashtray. Farrell noticed only one thing out of place, the telephone book lying open on a desk. He started to close it but hesitated as a name caught his eye: Solomon. His eye went down the column. Soltari... Solters... And then the name of Soltis seemed to leap up at him, the letters black as char against the white page. Farrell closed the book and placed it under the telephone.
From above his head he heard a softly rising moan, then the sound of quick light footsteps. He sat down with his hands hanging limply, helplessly, between his knees, and he was still in that position a few moments later when Barbara came quietly down the stairs, pausing between steps to soften the click of her high heels. He glanced up into her face.
“Is she asleep?”
“Yes, the sedative Dr. Webber gave her seems to be working now. But I’m afraid Junior may wake. I can’t think of what I’ll say to him.”
“Well, let’s just hope he doesn’t wake.”
“Are you all right, John?”
He sighed wearily, and said, “For what it’s worth, sure.”
“Do you know what happened tonight? What you told me on the phone seemed so sketchy.”
“Yes, I know what happened,” he said. “I think I’m the only one who does. But it’s not over, honey. It’s just starting.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Well, I’m a big part of the why of what happened tonight,” he said. “I’m responsible for Norton’s death.”
Farrell looked away from her and she touched his cheek with the tips of her fingers. “You were always pretty strict with yourself,” she said.
Farrell shook his head. “Strict is a nice little word for nice little mistakes. Kids misbehaving and a teacher named Miss Priscilla something-or-other taking away their taffy apples. This is different.”
“When you’re in the wrong you admit it,” she said. “You don’t blame others for your mistakes. You don’t make tricky little reassessments until everything is all right. I always respected you for that.”