“Well, wait a minute. The drunk got a look at Nolan’s shield and remembered the number. And you know who he was? Well, he was Tim O’Neill, brother of old Mike O’Neill, the ward leader. Mike hears about the thing from his brother, and so he calls Nolan in and tells him he’s a fine police officer, a credit to the force, a man who can temper justice with mercy and common sense with the letter of the law. You know how old Mike could spin it out. Well, the pay-off is that Mike put the word in and about eight months later Nolan is made detective.”
“Well, that doesn’t prove much,” Sergeant Ellerton said, after a slight pause. “Everybody needs a little boost now and then.”
“It proves he couldn’t make detective except by turning his back on a job that any cop should be glad to do,” Spiegel said sharply. “I wouldn’t let my own mother off a drunken-driving rap.”
Mark lit another cigarette, realizing that he wasn’t learning anything very important. It was obvious Nolan hadn’t been liked out here; but it was equally obvious that he had been grudgingly respected by everyone but Spiegel.
“Well, I’ve got to be running along,” he said, standing.
“Don’t be such a stranger,” Sergeant Ellerton said.
“Yeah, stop in and see us,” someone added.
Mark waved to them and walked downstairs slowly. He stopped on the steps of the station house and flipped his cigarette away; and then the door behind him opened and Spiegel came out.
“Can I drop you somewhere?” Mark said, but then he saw that Spiegel wasn’t wearing a hat.
“No. Look, Mark, you sure this is just a friendly visit?”
“Why, sure.”
“You aren’t working on anything?”
“Well, theoretically I’m always working,” Mark said, and smiled. “Why?”
“Let’s walk over to your car.”
They went down the steps together and strolled along the sidewalk in the warm sunshine. “I don’t like Nolan,” Spiegel said. “I was working with him the night he killed those two colored boys. We came in from different ends of the alley, see, and I got to ’em first. They were scared silly. I calmed ’em down and then along comes that Nolan with his gun out and swearing like a wild man. The kids were edgy anyway and they bolted. Nolan dropped ’em both with shots in the back. It stank, Mark.”
“Well, so you don’t like him. What about it?”
They had reached Mark’s car and were facing each other. Spiegel brought out a cigarette and took his time lighting it. “Dave Fiest got stuck with a bet of Mike Espizito’s, I’m told. You’d hear this pretty soon, anyway, so it doesn’t matter that I’m telling you. The talk goes that he had the pay-off money with him when Nolan shot him. Mike is awfully hot about it. The pay-off was twenty-five thousand, I’m told.”
“A nice round sum,” Mark said. His thoughts went on to the inescapable conclusion. Nolan now must have Espizito’s money; and that put some sense into Dave Fiest’s murder.
“It may be just talk, of course,” Spiegel said.
“Yeah, probably nothing to it,” Mark said, and Spiegel suddenly grinned and punched him lightly in the stomach. “See you, kid,” he said, and walked back to the station house.
Mark drove slowly to a nearby drug store and ordered a cup of coffee at the counter. He sat there a few minutes, thinking of what Spiegel had told him, and realizing with some concern that he was committed to finding out all he could about Nolan. He didn’t quite know why, but he did know that probing into the activities of a man like Barny Nolan was neither very smart nor very safe. For, if the talk was right, Nolan was a murderer and a thief; and digging into him could only lead to trouble.
When he finished his coffee he smoked a cigarette and thought about a few other leads. Finally he went to the phone and called the Simba. He got Jim Evans, who had happened to come in early, and from him got the singer’s address and phone number. He told Jim he wanted to do a story on her for the paper.
He pushed his hat back on his forehead and hesitated a few moments. This was going to be a final step, he knew. Then he shrugged and began dialing her number.
“Yes?” Her voice was clear and fresh.
“Is this Linda Wade?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“My name is Brewster, Mark Brewster, Miss Wade. I’m with the Call-Bulletin.” He mentioned doing a feature on her, and said, “May I see you some time this afternoon, perhaps?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, but I’ll be busy. How about a little later. About six?”
“That would be fine. Where shall I meet you?”
“Well, you could stop by here if that’s convenient.”
“Fine. I’ll see you at six. And thanks very much.”
He replaced the receiver slowly. Linda Wade. A nice name. And her voice was nice, too. Warm and pleasant. He wondered somewhat irritably how she had got mixed up with Nolan. And what the nature and extent of their relationship was.
Well, those were things he had to find out.
He lit another cigarette and realized he had been chain-smoking all morning.
6
It was two-thirty when Barny Nolan left his rooming house. He was working the four-to-twelve shift, and he had an hour-and-a-half to do several important things.
First there was the newspaper-wrapped bundle containing the twenty-five thousand dollars. That was under his arm as he climbed into his car. He had to put it away where Espizito would never find it. And there was the sixty-three hundred dollars he was carrying in his pocket.
Nolan knew he would have a call from Mike Espizito very shortly; and after that Mike would try to get his money back. First, he’d ask for it; and then he’d tear the city open looking for it.
Nolan was frowning as he drove slowly away from his rooming house. The wop could go to hell; he wasn’t getting hold of this money. That belonged to him now.
He drove to the garage where he bought his gas and coasted back to the greasing racks. The mechanic walked over, wiping his hands on a piece of cheese cloth.
“What’ll be, Barny?”
“Take a look at the plugs, will you? I’m having trouble starting.”
The mechanic lifted the hood and began checking the connections. Nolan took the money from his pocket and counted out six thousand dollars. The remaining three hundred he shoved back into his pocket. Then he took a small pry bar from the glove compartment and walked to the rear of the car. He squatted down alongside the right rear wheel and pried off the chromium plate that covered the hub cap. He put the six thousand inside the plate and banged it back in place with his fist.
“Everything looks okay,” the mechanic said, coming around to the rear of the car. “Maybe the points need cleaning. Something wrong with the wheel?”
“I thought the cap was loose.”
“Maybe it’s sprung or dented.”
“It seems okay.”
“Want me to pull it off and take a look?”
Nolan stifled a sudden anger. “It’s okay, I said. You can check the plugs later.”
The mechanic looked at him and wiped his hands again on the cheese cloth. “Okay, Barny, okay,” he said.
Nolan climbed into the car and headed downtown, traveling east on Chestnut Street. The twenty-five thousand dollars was still beside him on the seat, and he didn’t know what to do with it. He couldn’t leave it in his room, and he couldn’t carry it around with him; and he couldn’t risk putting it in his bank account or in a safety deposit vault.
It was a problem, but he felt he could handle it. This sort of thing was his business, he thought with a touch of pride. He was dumb about a lot of things, but he knew his job. Once he found a place to stash the money, everything would be fine. He’d sit tight for a few weeks, a month, maybe, and then he could put it to work carefully. On Linda.