Джон Макдональд - More Good Old Stuff

They were steered to Kelz’s office, a big room with golden oak furniture and brilliant maps on the walls.

A pimply girl sat by the window, chewing gum, her waiting fingers resting on the keys of a stenotype. A dark, sullen man in immaculate tweeds sat behind Kelz’s desk. Davo recognized him as John Kroydon, the district attorney. The chief of police, Walter Lanker, was there. He sat with a fat hip on the corner of the desk, his thumbs in his lower vest pockets, a damp cigar butt clenched in his teeth.

A stranger, a meek little man with silvered hair and rimless glasses, stood by the windows, looking at one of the maps on the wall. A muscular young man in a sloppy sports jacket and gabardine slacks leaned against the far wall, a small smile on his lips, his hands shoved deeply in his pockets.

Jud took two of the chairs from the far wall and placed them squarely in front of the oak desk. He motioned Davo and Jane to sit down.

Kroydon turned to the pimply girl. “Get all this, Miss Arkle.” He looked at Davo. “You first, Davo. Tell this whole thing from the beginning.”

The keys of the stenotype began to click as Davo started to talk, the ribbon unwinding from the machine. In a flat voice, Davo told it from the beginning, told of Western Boulevard, Arthur Wescott, Danerra, Vittano, Benet Brothers Construction, being beaten up, the newspaper, the death of Vincens — every detail of the whole affair. He limited himself to facts.

He finished. Kroydon said, “Thank you. And now you, Miss Fay.”

She told it rapidly and well. Davo knew all of it right up to the death of Vincens. Then as she went on, he turned in amazement and looked at her.

Jane said, “I was sick when I went back upstairs. I know that somehow they had caught on and the paper wouldn’t be printed. I knew they would destroy every copy. I wanted to run away. Then I saw the copy Mr. Vincens had brought upstairs. It still had a mark on it where he had touched the wet ink, smearing it.

“I took the paper, folded it and got it into a large envelope I found in Vincens’ office. I found stamps, and after I looked in the phone book, I addressed it to the local office of the Collector of Internal Revenue. I marked it special delivery. I sneaked out the side door to the office and mailed it in the corner box. Then I went to an all-night drugstore and called the state capital.

“I got the number of Mr. Berman’s home, called him and told him what had happened. I told him he had better get down here fast with help. Then I phoned Mr. Lord at his home. He’s in charge of the local office of the Internal Revenue Service. He said he would contact the FBI. The police found me in the phone booth and cut off the call when they yanked me out of the booth. I tried to twist away and fell. They brought me here.”

“Why didn’t you tell me all this?” Davo demanded.

“I didn’t want to get your hopes up. I thought that nothing might come of it. They brought me here and put me in a dirty cell where the women took ten dollars and my clothes and—”

Kelz said angrily, “He don’t want to hear about that.”

District Attorney Kroydon said, “Shut up, Kelz. We’ll make this jail and the conditions here part of the record.”

Dave and Jane added statements about the county prison. Just as they had finished, the office door opened so violently that it banged against the wall. Farner strode in, followed by two men. His wide, beefy face was sullen and dangerous.

He snapped at Kroydon, “What the hell goes on here, John?”

“I’m getting statements from these people,” Kroydon said quietly.

“Why? You’ve had your orders.”

“Orders? Orders? What do you mean, Mr. Farner?... There are two men here in the room you haven’t met, Mr. Farner. That man by the window is Mr. Berman of the State Comptroller’s office. And the young man over there, Mr. Feldman, is with the FBI.

“For your information, Mr. Farner, I am asking Chief Lanker to pick you up along with Arthur Wescott, Stanley Hoe, the officials of Benet Brothers Construction, Vittano, Danerra and as many of your personal strong-arm men as we can find.”

Farner spun on the chief of police. “Are you in this too, Walter? Damn it, man, I can prove you’re part of my organization! And you too, John. If you try to crucify me, you’ll go right down with me.”

Lanker didn’t answer. He looked toward the windows.

Kroydon said, “I’ve told these gentlemen that you would probably try to implicate the two of us, even though, as you know, we have no connection with you, Mr. Farner.”

“You lie, John!”

“There is no connection. There are no written records to involve us. Good day, Mr. Farner. Walter, you might pick him up right now. Tell your men out in the prowl car.”

Farner, with a speed amazing for his bulk, kicked the door shut and pulled a short, heavy revolver out of the side pocket of his overcoat.

His face was twisted. “Rats leaving a sinking ship! This is warning that the ship isn’t sinking. I’ll get you two if it’s the last thing I do.” He turned and spoke to the two dark quiet men with him. “Cover me, you guys. This setup stinks to me. I’m leaving.”

One of them said, “Too big, Stobe. This is federal stuff. You’re all by yourself.”

The other one nodded agreement. They both drifted away from him. Everyone in the room was silent, all eyes watching Farner. The sweat beaded his cheeks under his eyes. He looked at Kroydon’s impassive face, at the small smile on the lips of Feldman.

“Don’t be a chump,” Chief Lanker said gently.

Farner put the gun on the edge of the oak desk. He seemed to deflate, to sink in on himself, to suddenly become very much older.

District Attorney Kroydon smiled at Davo and Jane. “You can rest assured that there will be no charges against you. This was an unfortunate error. You are free to go where you wish. We’ll be in touch with you.”

Davo stood up and walked with Jane to the door. He pulled it shut behind them, and they walked out past the front desk and across the long corridor, out into the dusk.

“I’m starved,” Jane said.

Davo grinned. “The upkeep on you is going to be expensive, lady.”

They walked along, side by side, toward the restaurant down the street. His fingers touched the bills that had been given back to him.

He laughed.

She said, “What is it, darling? What could possibly be funny?”

“I was thinking, Jane. We were talking about going away. You know, I have a hunch this might turn into a pretty fair town in which to live.”

She took his arm. “Anything you say, but let’s talk about it after we eat. I’m starved!”

She came to the back door of the cheap new frame house, and Stan Ryan didn’t ask her in. He went out, pulling the door shut behind him. The back porch was a six-by-six platform, without roof or railing, supported by cinder blocks. New unpainted steps, giving promise of a short life, descended steeply to the muddy, grassless soil of the backyard.

Stan looked at her, saw that she was young and too thin, a vanishing prettiness in her pale face. Her brown hair was coarsened by a cheap permanent, and great blobs of yellow-brown mud were stuck to her shoes. Her hands were reddened, the skin rough, the knuckles swollen.

He gave her a polite and distant smile, and she opened her mouth to speak, but had to wait because of the whining grind of a trailer truck going by on the highway that led to the city eight miles away.