Cowley took the watch; popped it open. There was a picture inside. He showed it to Purvis.
Purvis said, “That’s Dillinger’s old sweetie, Evelyn Frechette. No doubt about it.”
Cowley nodded.
I took a look at it. The picture was of Polly Hamilton. I didn’t say anything.
A couple of Chicago uniform cops, in blue shirts with badges pinned on, pushed through the crowd.
“So this is John Dillinger,” one of them said, looking down at the corpse.
Purvis said, “Yes it is. Uh... what do we do now?”
The two cops looked at each other. Then they looked at Purvis.
“Who’s in charge here?” one of the cops asked.
“I am,” Purvis and Cowley said.
The Chicago cops shook their heads and one of them said, “I’ll call a meat wagon.”
In minutes it was there, and the dead man was put on a stretcher and slung in back of the wagon; Purvis rode with him, with several other feds. Cowley stayed behind. The crowd remained thick. I pushed through toward my parked Chevy.
In the midst of the crowd, by the tavern, I bumped up against a big guy in a fedora. The tavern’s neon turned his face orange. He had a bandage across his nose. I gave him the hardest kidney punch I could muster.
“Oooofff,” he said, and hit the pavement. People were walking on him.
I kicked him in the ribs, while he was down there, and another East Chicago cop, a guy with a puffy face — courtesy Barney Ross — came pushing through the crowd, having seen what I did, and he swung at me and hit some woman in the side of the head. A barrel-chested man with her, her husband I guess, said, “Hey!” And smacked the East Chicago cop in the face a couple of times.
The crowd was such that it didn’t go further than that — no fight ensued or anything; and I was to my coupe, with a small sense of satisfaction in having somewhat settled a score.
But as I pulled away from the Biograph theater, I felt sick to my stomach, and vaguely ashamed. I’d seen this happening, and I hadn’t been able to stop it. Maybe I wasn’t smart enough or brave enough or tough enough. I must’ve been lacking something.
Because a man had died tonight. A man I had, in a roundabout way at least, fingered.
I’d got my first good close-up look at Jimmy Lawrence tonight, when I’d held his dead head in my hands.
And he’d looked less like John Dillinger close up than at a distance.
But he had looked real dead.
20
By a quarter till midnight, I was sitting at my desk in my office in the dark. Neon pulsed through the half-open windows in tempo with the rubber-hose aches and pains that had started in again, now that Sally’s last round of aspirins had worn off. I’d considered stopping in at Barney’s Cocktail Lounge for another sort of painkiller, but was in the sort of black mood that drinking would only turn blacker.
This was the first I’d been back to the office since I took that beating. Barney had cleaned the place up; everything was in order. What did I have to complain about? I had the world’s lightweight champ for a personal valet.
My mouth was trying to remember how to smile when the phone rang.
“Yeah?” I said.
“Nate?”
It was Sally.
“Hi, Helen.”
“I thought maybe you might’ve gone back to your office...”
“Where are you calling from? Didn’t you have a show tonight?”
“Yes — I’m calling from backstage. I tried to get you at my suite, thinking you’d be back there by now... I did give you a key, didn’t I?”
“You did. I just didn’t think I’d be very good company the rest of the night.”
“I understand.”
“You do, Helen?”
“Yes.” A pause. “People are saying John Dillinger was shot.”
“Christ, word travels fast in this town.”
“It’s true, then.”
“Somebody was shot, yeah.”
“Were you there?”
“I was there. I saw it.”
She didn’t say anything right back, and I could hear the Café de la Paix orchestra playing “Whoopee” in the background, Paul Whiteman style.
Then: “I’m going to take a taxi home in about fifteen minutes, Nate. Why don’t you head over to the Drake and meet me?”
“I don’t think I better.”
“We could talk...”
“I don’t think I have any talk left.”
“I’d like to help.”
“If anybody could, it’s you. Tomorrow.”
Another pause; another bride, another groom...
“Tomorrow,” she said.
And hung up. Me too.
I sat in the dark a few minutes; the street sounds were subdued tonight, I was thinking — then the El rushed by. After that I got up to pull the Murphy bed down out of its box. I was reaching up to do that when there was a sharp insistent knock on the door — a three-beat tattoo. Then again.
There was just enough light out there in the hall for me to make out through the frosted glass the shape of the person knocking. It was a small person. Not two cops with a rubber hose.
I unlocked the door and peeked out.
“I’ll be damned,” I said.
She smiled nervously and long lashes fluttered over eyes as blue as Sally Rand’s. But this girl in a white blouse and tan skirt and open-toe sandals was not Sally Rand.
“Hello, Nate,” Polly Hamilton said.
“Hello.”
“Can I come in?”
“Okay, but I’m not going to the movies with you, so don’t bother asking.”
Her lower lip quivered and she glanced down. “You must think I got that coming.”
“Don’t you?” I opened the door wide for her, and she slipped by me, her reddish-brown hair swinging in arcs alongside her face; she smelled like jasmine. I glanced out in the hall to see if anybody else was around. Nobody seemed to be.
I shut and locked the door, reached for the light switch and she touched my hand; her touch was as warm as the air coming in my open windows.
“No,” she said, breathily. “Leave them off.” For a minute I thought she was vamping me, but then I recognized the breathiness as fear. Fear and passion have similar symptoms, after all.
She had a little white purse with her, which she clasped fig-leaf style before her as she looked around the room. The light from the street let her do that.
“I didn’t notice you had that purse at the Biograph,” I said.
She looked at me sharply. “Were you there?”
“Are we going to kid each other, Polly?”
She got wide-eyed and sucked in air.
“No!” she said, as if insulted by the very idea she might be capable of less than truth.
“Yes, Polly, I was there. Across the street with my hands in my pockets, playing with myself. Just like the fed I was with.”
She gave me a reproving look. “Do you have to be so crude?”
“Funny, that’s what that fed’s always asking me. Personally, I think getting shoved on your face and shot in the back a couple times is rather on the crude side.”
She covered her mouth and looked down at the floor with the wide eyes; the hand was shaking. She was shaking. She seemed about to cry. But I didn’t see any tears.
“Why don’t you sit down, Polly?” I pointed to the chair opposite my desk.
She nodded and sat, clutching the little purse, her legs tight together like a virgin on her first real date. And trembling the same way.
I got behind the desk. Sat. Gestured to the lamp, and she nodded she didn’t mind and I turned it on. It didn’t make the room bright — just made a pool of light on the desk, not big enough for either of us to bathe in.