“That’s what the doctor said.”
Bannion looked over Cranston’s head and out at the city, brightening to nighttime life now as the street lights went on, and automobile headlights cut through the gray gloom of the streets.
“So he’s dead, eh?” he said. “That leaves the organization.”
“It will die, too. If they leave me here for six months, if the public stays awake, it will die. Take a look at the papers. The Ins don’t have a chance in the elections. Some honest men are coming, and by God it’s about time. Deery’s note was the bombshell, all right. You can take a bow, Dave.”
“Thanks.”
Cranston raised his eyebrows. “You did it alone, didn’t you?”
“I thought so at first,” Bannion said. “Lonely figure against the mob. That wasn’t it, Inspector. I had help, all I could use. From Lucy Carroway, from a detective in Radnor named Parnell, from you and Burke, and from a colored woman in Chester.” He shrugged, smiling slightly. “And there were some G.I. friends of mine, and a priest and a girl named Debby. Hell, Inspector, I had a mob with me. All the decent people in the city, I guess.”
“I’m glad you see that,” Cranston said.
“Where’s Stone, by the way?”
“We haven’t located him yet. We have no reason to pick him up, but I want to keep a line on him. We need a warrant and an indictment first. We’ll get them, and we don’t move until we do.” There was a slight, unmistakable edge in his voice, and he met Bannion’s eyes squarely. “This is going to be legal, remember, Dave.”
“Why sure,” Bannion said. “He’s your baby.”
“Well, keep that in mind.”
Bannion smiled; his casual tone hadn’t fooled the old man. “Be sure you get him, Inspector.”
“I’ll get him, don’t you worry.”
Bannion stood up and they shook hands. “Get some sleep, Dave,” Cranston said.
“I’ve got nothing else on my mind. Goodnight, Inspector,” Bannion said.
Cranston watched him leave, and then he sat down and put in a call to Homicide. “I want to talk to Detective Burke,” he said.
He was frowning.
Chapter 18
Stone entered his apartment at eleven o’clock that night. He switched on the overhead lights, all the floor lamps, and then shouted for Alex. The room was cold, he thought, rubbing his hands together and pacing restlessly.
Alex came hurrying in, and Stone laughed at the look in his face. “‘Well, what’s wrong with you,” he said, taking a queer pleasure from the man’s fear.
“Nothing, nothing, Max. It’s just — just that everything’s up in the air.”
“That’s a lot of Sunday School talk in the Hall,” Stone said. He had spent the day winding up a few deals, and making arrangements to transfer his cash assets to banks in Detroit, Chicago and Los Angeles. It had been one nightmare after another all day long; Lagana’s death coming right after Deery’s statement had been a terrible jolt. Everything was slipping: Lagana was dead, and Cranston had the city in his hands.
“I want a drink, a double Scotch,” he told Alex. ‘Then pack me a bag and take it down to the car. Well, get going, damn it.”
Stone felt better after the drink. He checked his plane tickets, his cash and the gun in the pocket of his overcoat. This was the time for a vacation, a nice, long one. After about six months of sun, say, he could come back and knock down any indictments or warrants that had been issued for him or his friends. Art Keene was staying; he was a damn fool. Keene thought the heat would be off in a week, but Stone knew otherwise; this was the big blast and it was going to stick for a while.
Alex came in and told him the bag was down in the car.
“Good,” Stone said. “Now listen: I’m taking a plane trip. I’ll leave the ear at the field, in the parking lot with the keys in the glove compartment. You pick it up tomorrow morning. Give it to Jerry at the garage, and tell him to put it on blocks. If anybody wants me you tell ’em I went up to Maine to do some fishing. Got all that?”
“Sure, Max, sure. Am I supposed to know when you’re coming back?”
“Yeah, I’ll be back next week.”
“This trouble is bad, isn’t it?”
“Stop stewing. It will be over in a month.”
“But everybody’s scared, Max. Judge McGraw killed himself, I read.”
“He was always a weak sister. Do I look scared?” Stone laughed at Alex. “Take a drink and warm up, for God’s sake: So long, I’ll see you next week.”
He took the service elevator down to the garage. He unwrapped a cigar, and lit it, listening to the steady, reassuring hum of the elevator cables. He was relieved to be on his way.
The elevator came to rest with a soft jar. Stone let himself out and snapped on the lights in the garage. He walked to the corrugated iron doors, punched a wall button, and watched them roll smoothly up and out of the way. It was a cold night, with a light rain falling. Stone glanced up at the sky. It was probably okay for flying, he thought.
He turned back into the garage and his heart gave a sudden, uneven lurch.
There was a man standing beside his car, a huge man in a wet trenchcoat, a man with a pale, tired, merciless face. It was Bannion, Stone saw, and slowly, casually, he let his hands slip into the slash pocket of his coat.
“Taking a trip, eh?” Bannion said.
“Anything wrong with that?”
“It may disappoint Inspector Cranston. He’s thinking about arresting you next month, or maybe it’s next year. Depends on how long it will take to do it legally.”
“I don’t make plans that far in advance,” Stone said. “If he’s going to arrest me let him do it tonight.” His hand touched the gun in his pocket. He must slip his fingers around the butt, get one over the trigger, bring the muzzle up and shoot through his coat — without letting Bannion see what was coming. Stone wet his lips. He had eaten hurriedly today and had drunk a lot, and his stomach was burning painfully. He could taste the last drink he’d had, and, underneath that, something else, something dry and harsh and cold.
“You’re not going anywhere,” Bannion said. “I can’t wait for Cranston to make it legal. I don’t make plans that far in advance either.”
Stone wet his lips, tasting again the cold, dry harshness beneath the last drink. “You’re making a mistake, Bannion,” he said, and his hand closed over the gun in his pocket.
Bannion laughed. “All right, you’ve got the gun in your hand now, Stone. Go ahead and shoot. Think of my wife while you’re shooting.”
“You sonofabitch,” Stone shouted, and twisted the gun up to cover Bannion. “Now you get yours.”
“I’m waiting,” Bannion said.
Stone backed slowly into the alley, wetting his lips, moving his legs with great effort, and trying desperately to close his finger down against the trigger. Something was welling in him, washing away his strength; he heard his stomach churning, and felt fear running like an electric current through his arms and legs. Sweat broke out on his face. “I’ll kill you,” he shouted, but his voice was pitifully weak in his ears. The wind seemed to tear it from his mouth and carry it away down the dark alley. Bannion was coming toward him slowly. He saw the overhead light in the garage touch the detective’s cold, hard face, and heard his footsteps strike the concrete with a deliberate, measured tread.
“No, you aren’t killing anybody else,” Bannion said.
“Don’t come any closer,” Stone shouted. “I’ve got guys to take care of you. I’ll put in a call. I’ll turn on the heat, you stinking cop.”
Bannion laughed.
Another voice said calmly, “Get your hands out of your pockets, Stone. You’re under arrest.”
Bannion moved swiftly to one side, and a gun appeared almost magically in his hands. Stone wheeled to the new voice, and a little cry of terror broke from his lips. He saw a shadowy figure at the side of the garage, and the blur of a lean, pale face. Suddenly his strength returned; this was just another cop, a fifty-dollar-a-week slob, a chump to be jerked around on the end of a string. He almost sobbed with relief. This was a thing he could handle; this wasn’t Bannion.