Leaving her, Moran walked the five miles to his own apartment, hoping to tire himself out so that he could sleep without tormenting himself with visions of what she might be doing, or who she might be with.
But once in bed, he knew the walk hadn’t helped. He was wide awake and strangely nervous. After half an hour of tossing he sat up and snapped on the bed lamp. It was five-thirty in the morning, and he had a report to make on the murder in about four hours. He needed sleep, he needed to be rested when he told his story, and thinking about that made sleep impossible.
He picked the evening paper from the floor, glanced over the news. There was a murder on page one, not his, but somebody else’s. He thought about his murder then and realized with a slight shock of fear that it had been on his mind all the time. It was the thing keeping him from sleep. Not Cherry Angela.
He frowned and stared out the window at the gray dawn. What was his trouble? This killing tonight was just like the others. And they hadn’t bothered him. There must be a difference somewhere, he decided. It came to him after a while. The others had been killings. This one was murder. And the difference was that murder made you think.
Moran lay back in the bed, but he didn’t go to sleep. He kept thinking.
At ten after eleven Moran had finished his report. He read it over twice, frowning with concentration, then took it down to Lieutenant Bill Pickerton’s office.
There was someone with Pickerton, a young man with mild eyes and neatly combed hair. He was sitting beside Pickerton’s desk, and the two men were talking baseball.
Pickerton nodded to Moran, said, “This is Don Linton from the commissioner’s office, Moran.”
Moran shook hands with Linton and put his report before Pickerton. Pickerton handed it to Linton. Linton said, “Excuse me,” put on rimless glasses and bent his head to the report.
Moran lit a cigarette and dropped the match in Pickerton’s ashtray. He guessed that Linton was here to look into the Dinny Nelson killing. His eyes were hot from his sleepless night and he was irritable.
“Is that all you want?” he asked Pickerton.
Linton answered. He said, “No. I’ve got a few questions. Have a chair, Sergeant.”
Pickerton remained silent.
Moran sat down, trying to control the heavy pounding of his heart. They had nothing on him. It was his word, the word of a cop, and it was the only word they’d get.
“Okay, this seems clear,” Linton said. He put his glasses away, studied Moran directly. “I’m from the commissioner’s office, Moran. The commissioner wants me to ascertain that the shooting of Dinny Nelson was justified. Let’s start with this. You’re a homicide sergeant, assigned to roving duty in the Loop. Why did you make it your business to go to Nelson’s room to arrest him on a gambling charge?”
Moran was ready for that one. He explained that he’d seen Dinny taking bets in the hotel lobby, that it seemed a pretty flagrant violation, so he’d decided to pick him up, even though it wasn’t his beat.
Moran’s voice was steady as he talked. All of this was true. He had seen Dinny taking a bet, had tried to pick him up, and Dinny had given him the slip. On that ground Moran felt confident.
“Okay,” Linton said casually. “Now according to our information Dinny Nelson usually carried a sizeable amount of cash with him. But there was just thirty dollars on his body after you shot him. Got any ideas about that, Sergeant?”
“No,” Moran said.
There was silence. Pickerton and Linton exchanged a glance. Then Linton put his fingertips together precisely and looked at Moran. “Did you leave the hotel room at any time after the shooting? I mean did you step out and leave the body alone?”
“No,” Moran said. He wondered what Linton was getting at.
“You see, there was a bellhop on the floor at the time. He had brought some aspirin up to a woman. He has a record for theft and it occurred to us that if you left the room for any length of time, he might have slipped in, stolen the money and left before you returned.”
“I didn’t leave the room,” Moran said. He felt scared. They might be telling the truth, but he doubted it. They were setting a trap, leaving an opening for him to dive into. A man guilty and scared would grab any out. Moran wet his lips and kept quiet. Crooks who got caught got scared. They started lying, blundered, and hung themselves talking. That wouldn’t happen to him. They had his story.
Linton asked him then why he hadn’t subdued Dinny with his fists. That was better. That was the sort of stuff he expected. Half an hour later Linton said he had enough, and Moran walked to the door. He was sweating. He was glad to get out. Linton might look like a law student, but his mind was sharp, strong like a trap.
As he reached the door, Linton said, “By the way, you know Cherry Angela, don’t you?”
Moran’s hand froze on the knob. He turned and his body was stiff and tense. “Yeah,” he said. His voice wasn’t steady.
Linton looked pleasantly interested, that was all. “I’ve heard her sing,” he said. “And I heard you were a friend of hers.” He said nothing else, volunteered no other information, but continued to watch Moran with a polite expression.
Moran stood uncertainly for a moment, then nodded quickly to the two men and went out to the elevators. Waiting for a car, he wondered how Linton knew he was a friend of Cherry’s. They must already have done some checking into his activities. Moran lit a cigarette and wasn’t surprised to notice that his fingers were trembling . . .
That day was hell. He couldn’t sleep, and food tasted like sawdust. Also, he kept thinking, turning everything over in his mind a thousand times. That made him tense and jumpy.
That night Moran went to the Diamond Club for Cherry’s early show. When he walked through the archway he saw her sitting at a corner table with a man. There was a champagne bottle beside them in an ice bucket and they were talking very seriously. Moran felt a bitter anger and unconsciously his hands balled into fists.
He started toward their table, moving deliberately. This is the time for a showdown, he thought. I’ll chase that punk out of here and have it out with her.
Then he recognized the young man with her, and the shock of that recognition sent a cold tremor through his body.
It was Linton, the investigator from the commissioner’s office.
Moran’s face felt hot and stiff. He turned clumsily, hoping they hadn’t seen him, and went back across the room, forcing himself to walk casually.
But splintered thoughts were flicking into his mind with frightening intensity. What was Linton doing here? What was Cherry telling him? More important, what was Linton asking her?
Ignoring the head waiter’s puzzled smile, Moran hurried out of the club. He walked a block quickly before his heart stopped hammering and he was able to think. He knew he had behaved foolishly. He should have gone to her table, said hello and sat down. Any change in his normal routine would look suspicious now.
Lighting a cigarette, he realized that he must see Cherry tonight, find out what Linton had been after. He retraced his steps until he came to a doorway about fifty feet from the entrance of the Diamond Club. There he stopped and prepared to wait. For he had to be sure that Linton was gone before going in to see Cherry.
It was a long wait.
The last show ended, noisy customers streamed out, but still Linton had not appeared. Moran’s throat was dry from too many cigarettes, and his eyes burned from lack of sleep. But he waited, a deep shadow in the doorway.
Then Linton appeared and Moran cursed bitterly under his breath. For Cherry was with him, bundled up in furs and chattering so that her voice carried along the street to him.