Lindfors and Smitty came out of the locker room and called for Mark. He joined them and saw that Cabot was also ready to go. As they went out Mark heard Odell’s voice go up a notch as he started on Gianfaldo. Smitty glanced at him as they went down the stairs.
“What’s eating Odell?”
Mark shrugged. “Beats me.”
There was a crowd at the intersection of Crab Street and Ellens Lane when they drew up in Smitty’s car. Lindfors and Smitty got out and walked over to Nolan who was talking with a street sergeant and two uniformed men from the Sixty-fifth.
Lights were on in rooming houses on both sides of the street and people were peering out curiously.
Mark walked down to the lane where Nolan was standing with Lindfors and Smitty beside a huddled body that lay face-down on the brick paving.
“Who is it?” Smitty said to Nolan.
“Who sent for you guys?” Nolan said, glancing from Smitty to Lindfors.
“Odell told us to come over.”
Nolan put a cigar in his mouth and took his time about lighting it. “It’s Dave Fiest,” he said, flipping the match toward the body in the lane. “I was bringing him in and he made a break. I let one go in the air, and then tried to bring him down. It was a little high, I suppose.”
Smitty squatted beside Dave Fiest’s body. “What do you suppose he made a break for?”
“How the hell would I know?” Nolan said.
Lindfors said, “Where did you make the pinch?”
“Over at Broad and Crab.”
Smitty turned the body over and went through the pockets. He found several hundred dollar bills, an empty wallet, a letter postmarked Miami from one Sol Ninski, a hotel key, a sterling silver combination cigarette case and lighter, the stub of a theatre ticket, a palm full of change, a pair of toy dice, and a piece of paper torn from a restaurant menu with a phone number on it.
Two men from the wagon came down the lane with a stretcher. Smitty put the collection of personal effects back in Dave Fiest’s pockets, and then stood up and brushed the knees of his trousers. Mark saw him glance at Lindfors; and saw the faint smile on his bps.
“Okay, you can have him,” Nolan said to the men from the wagon.
Mark Brewster lit a cigarette as the body was carried out of the lane. He had known Dave Fiest casually and had very little feeling one way or the other about his death. His murder, he amended mentally. For he was quite certain that Nolan was morally guilty of having murdered Dave Fiest. Mark had covered a police beat long enough to know when a cop was doing his job right; and this present case was an impressive example of a cop casually behaving like an executioner simply because he had the legal right to use a gun. Still, Mark thought, attempting against his inclinations to look at all angles of the situation, murder was a man-made term to describe a certain kind of killing. And maybe it wouldn’t fit here. Off to the semantic labyrinth, he thought tiredly. Well, what would fit? Manslaughter? At the very least. If you gave Nolan every break, it was manslaughter. Smitty and Lindfors knew that too, he guessed. Their knowledge and complicity was in the brief, unamused smile they had exchanged when Smitty finished examining the gambler’s body.
Mark took a few sheets of folded copy paper from his pocket and walked over to Nolan. He nodded to him and said, “My name’s Brewster. I’m with the Call-Bulletin. Could you give me a fine on what happened?”
“You can see for yourself,” Nolan said.
Mark forced himself to smile. “I need a few details.”
“Well, what do you want?”
“The details,” Mark said quietly.
The two men appraised each other in the filmy light from a street lamp. Nolan was a big man, inches taller than Mark, and weighing well over two hundred pounds. There was a bulge of fat about his waist, but he looked strong and powerful. His features were thick, coarse, and his complexion was ruddy with animal health, He was hardly handsome, yet there was something oddly compelling in his heavy jaw and hard sullen expression. His eyes were light blue and as steady as glass. The hair that showed beneath his gray fedora was a rusty brown.
“I’m busy now, Brewster,” he said, turning away. “See me at the District.”
“We’re on deadline now,” Mark said.
Nolan wheeled back, to him, his face and eyes angry. “What the hell do I care if you’re on deadline? I’m not working for the Call-Bulletin. You want to blow this into a big story, don’t you? Well, there’s nothing to it. A punk tried to make a break and got shot. That’s all.”
Smitty and Lindfors came over and Smitty slapped Nolan on the back. “Brewster’s all right, Barny. He’s been with us at Thirteen for years. He’s okay.”
“Yeah, he’s all right,” Lindfors said. “The boss gives him everything.”
“Well, what do you want?” Nolan said to Mark, making no attempt to conceal his anger. “Let’s get it over with.”
Nolan’s hostility struck Mark as curious; but just as curious, he thought, was his own instinctive dislike of the detective. The hatred between them was as palpable as a stone wall.
“How did you happen to arrest him?” he said.
“He was taking a bet at Broad and Crab Streets, so I made the pinch. We were walking along, west on Crab, when he makes a break down the lane here. I yelled at him to stop, and fired a shot over his head. But he kept going. So I let one go at his legs. But the shot was a little high.”
“What were you charging him with?”
“Gambling, pool selling, loitering.”
“I see.” Mark made quick notes. Then he said, “Who was the character Fiest was taking a bet from? Anybody you knew?”
“Never saw him before.”
“Why didn’t you arrest him?”
Nolan swore. “You trying to tell me how to do police work?”
Smitty glanced at Mark with a puzzled expression. “We don’t pick up the suckers, Mark. You know that. Just the bookmaker.”
“All right, what else?” Nolan said.
“You just fired the two shots, one over his head, and one at his legs?”
“Don’t you listen when somebody’s telling you something?” Nolan said.
“I’m just making sure I have it straight,” Mark said.
“Well, there’s no mystery about it. For God’s sake, see me at the District if you need any more.”
“I think I’ve got enough.” Mark hesitated deliberately, then said: “And thanks.”
Nolan turned without answering and strode out to the sidewalk.
Smitty fell in step with Mark as he left the lane. “Want a ride back to the District?”
“No, I’ll find a phone around here. But thanks.”
“Look, don’t worry about Nolan. He’s all right. Kind of sullen, but okay.”
“He’ll never creep into my heart, I’m afraid,” Mark said.
“Well, don’t let it worry you,” Smitty said, and walked across the street to his car.
Cabot had been hanging about in the background, and now he came over and said, “Did you get everything, Mark?”
“I think so. Let’s find a drugstore. I’ll fill you in then,” he said.
“Fine,” Cabot said. “I was just going to talk to Nolan when you latched onto him.”
Mark stood at the intersection, staring down the lane where Dave Fiest had died. The crowd was drifting off to their homes or to taprooms. Everything seemed anti-climactic. Mark lit another cigarette, for some reason reluctant to leave.
He listened without interest to the comments of the few men and women who lingered at the scene.
“They blazed away at each other for a couple of minutes.”