While Riordan read the speech Jake found his thoughts turning back to May. He couldn’t get her from his mind. There was that business she’d had with Mike Francesca, the aging but still potent racketeer. Jake wondered if Martin had a line on Francesca yet.
“It doesn’t cover much ground,” Riordan said, jerking Jake back to the present.
“There’s not much ground we can cover safely,” Jake said. “That speech will be okay if you handle it right. Read it again, then throw it away. Don’t bother trying to memorize it, but get the ideas across in your own words. You’re making just one point today, namely, that no formal charges have been brought against you, that you’re in the dark, and at the mercy of the government until such a time as they stop trying your case in the newspapers and charge you specifically with something — even if it’s only playing your radio too loudly.”
“I get your idea now,” Riordan said.
“Fine. When you start talking, preface your remarks by stating that you’ll answer all questions when you’re through. There may be some embarrassing ones, but don’t say ‘No comment’ to anything. If you don’t want to answer a question, say you can’t do it at this time, or that you don’t know.” He glanced at his watch. “Remember, these guys can spot a phony act a mile away, so just relax and be natural. Now, I’d suggest that you wait in the bedroom until they get here. Do you have anything to add, Gary?”
“One other thing,” Noble said hastily. “The liquor.” Riordan waved to the phone. “Room service will send you anything you need,” he said and left.
Niccolo slumped down in the chair that Brian had vacated. “Did you ever hear a sillier idiot than young Riordan?” he said.
“Maladjusted, mayhaps,” Sheila said.
“He’s making a cult out of it,” Niccolo said disgustedly. He glanced at his watch nervously. “What the hell is holding up the press?”
“They’re in no hurry to get their ears bent,” Jake said. “They’re probably all sensibly having a beer somewhere.”
Ten minutes after the waiters had brought in trays of whiskey and soda there was a knock on the door and Noble squared his shoulders, drew his face into a broad welcoming smile and marched across the room with the springy gait of a Rotary chairman on stunt night.
Fifteen minutes later the room was crowded with photographers and reporters. Jake saw that the release on Riordan’s speech was distributed to everyone, and that the drinks flowed smoothly. He had known many of the reporters for years and he talked with them easily, and almost automatically got across the pitch he hoped they would take back to their editors.
He made the point, unobtrusively, that Riordan was in the dark because Prior, the bastard from the government, was making him out to be a crook in advance of any charges or evidence. That was as far as Jake cared to go, since he knew that most of the men covering the story didn’t give much of a damn about it, merely wanted to get it over with, get it written and off their minds.
Jake, himself, wasn’t too interested in selling them one way or the other, and this puzzled him. Normally, he thought, it could at least be said of him that he worked and fought hard for a client. That didn’t seem to be true now. He decided the trouble was May. Until he knew what had happened to her and why he wouldn’t be good for much else. Why that should be so he didn’t know.
Noble called for attention and after the buzz of talk died he smiled gratefully, and opened the bedroom door. “All set, Mr. Riordan,” he said.
Riordan came out immediately and shook hands all around, and said hello to several of the reporters he’d known during the war. The photographers wanted to get their shots and clear out, so he posed for them and then waved the reporters into chairs and got into his speech.
He was good at handling men. He stood in the center of the room and something in his manner made that the only natural place for him to stand. He stumbled for words occasionally, but he made his points with strong emphasis, and he came through as an angry but baffled man who wanted only to be told what the shouting was about so he could say a word in his own defense.
Afterward, when the reporters had left and Noble had distributed drinks jubilantly, Jake sat down beside Sheila. Noble was telling Riordan how well he’d done, and Riordan was puffing a cigar and smiling cheerfully.
“Well, how did we do?” Jake said to Sheila.
“Oh, fine. I’ll tell you about it some time.”
“I know what you’re thinking,” Jake said. He felt an unaccountable depression. “Does your offer to help me get drunk still stand?”
“If you like.”
Riordan was almost jubilant, Jake noticed. When the phone rang, he said, “I’ll bet this is Meed,” and scooped up the receiver with a strong quick gesture. “Riordan speaking,” he said.
He listened a moment and then he spoke and his voice was low and hard. “I’ll be right over,” he said.
He lowered his hand to his side, still holding the receiver, and stared straight ahead with a curiously disbelieving expression on his face.
“What is it?” Noble said anxiously.
Riordan put a hand to his forehead and shook his head slowly. “Avery Meed was murdered in his hotel room this morning. I — that was a Lieutenant Martin on the phone. He wants me to come over there now.”
He took a step forward and noticed that he was still holding the phone. Frowning at it, he let it drop to the floor. He walked to the coffee table and poured himself a drink.
Sheila had sat up straight, and Noble was breathing heavily, obviously tom between the desire to say something, and the knowledge that there wasn’t anything to say.
Niccolo alone seemed calm. He picked the phone from the floor and replaced it in the cradle. “You’d better take a cab if they want you in a hurry,” he said to Riordan.
“Yes, yes,” Riordan said, putting his drink down. “Call the bell captain. I’ll be ready to go in a few minutes.”
He walked into the bedroom and Noble stared at Jake with shoulders expressively raised. “What the hell does this mean?” he said.
“Who knows?” Jake said. “Somebody’s killed Meed, I gather. I’ll go with Riordan and find out what I can.”
“Fine,” Noble said. He seemed relieved that someone was taking action which, whether effective or not, relieved him of the responsibility of doing anything.
When Riordan came out of the bedroom wearing a hat and topcoat, Jake jumped up and followed him through the door.
Chapter Seven
Avery Meed had lived in a quiet residential hotel on the South Side, about twenty minutes’ drive from the Loop. Riordan explained to Jake on the way out that Meed had maintained the apartment in Chicago, and a place in Washington which he had used when business took him to the capital. Meed had never married and, so far as Riordan knew, had no outside interests.
The hotel lobby was quiet and chaste, with somber green carpeting and straight-backed chairs placed in regular formation against the gray walls. An elderly clerk stood at the reception desk, and behind him were racks of pigeonholes for mail. The only incongruous note in the atmosphere of determined dullness was the presence of the uniformed policeman at the elevators.
Jake told him who they were and he waved them into a car. Lieutenant Martin met them at the door of Meed’s apartment, looking, Jake noticed, tired and stubborn and angry.
“You’re Riordan, I suppose,” he said. “Come on in.” To Jake he said, “What brings you here?”
“I was at Mr. Riordan’s when you called, so I came along. Am I in the way?”
“No, stick around. You got any idea who might have killed Meed, Riordan?”