William McGivern - Savage Streets

“I was damned sorry to hear about this,” Jameson said. “How is your daughter coming along?”

“As well as can be expected, I guess.” Farrell needed a cigarette. He glanced at the nurse behind the desk, and said, “Can I smoke here?”

“I’m sorry.” She smiled. “There’s a waiting room down the corridor.”

Farrell and the lieutenant walked to the waiting room which was furnished with overstuffed chairs and sofa, and a long table covered with stacks of magazines. The window panes were black and the lights of Rosedale sparkled against them in brilliant patterns.

Farrell lit his cigarette and inhaled deeply. “Well, have you found the driver of the car yet?”

“No, not yet. That’s why I’m here. I want to talk to your daughter when the doctor says it’s okay. She might be able to tell us something about the car and the people in it.”

“Didn’t my son get a look at them?”

“I’ve talked to Jimmy. He had only a fleeting glimpse of the car and his description is pretty vague. It was green or blue, and he’s not sure if it was a sedan or a convertible.”

“How about the driver? Did he see him?”

“Yes, but again he can’t give us a workable description. There were several boys in the car, that’s all he can tell us.”

“Several boys, eh?” Farrell said quietly. An ugly suspicion grew in his mind, and with it a swift anger. He felt it must be apparent in his face and eyes; it was too consuming to be masked. But Jameson seemed to notice nothing unusual. He said: “That’s all your son could tell us.”

Wasn’t that enough? Farrell wanted to shout at him but instead he took a long pull on his cigarette and nodded slowly.

“There’s a chance your daughter can help us,” Jameson said.

“How did it happen no one got the license number of the car?” Farrell asked him.

“Apparently everyone at the scene ran to help your daughter, assuming, I imagine, that the car would stop. When they realized it wasn’t stopping, it was too late — the car was already turning off the Boulevard.”

“I see,” Farrell said.

“We always have a tough job getting descriptions on a hit-run,” Jameson said. “Unless you’re a trained observer, or unusually calm and collected, it’s damn hard to recall what happened with any accuracy.”

“I can understand that,” Farrell said. He was controlling his temper with an effort. “I’d like to get back to my daughter now, Lieutenant.”

“Of course. There’s just one other thing.” Jameson met his eyes steadily. “I’ve checked out the Chiefs. They’ve got alibis.”

“Well, that’s good to know,” Farrell said. He managed a stiff smile. “Thanks, Lieutenant.”

Angey had waked while Farrell was out of the room. But she had gone back to sleep again, a faint frown shadowing her smooth face. “She doesn’t remember anything yet,” Barbara said. “She’s worried about being late for school. She asked me if she overslept.”

“I think I’d better get on home,” Farrell said. “I want to talk to Jimmy.”

“Did the police have any news?”

“Not a thing.”

She was watching him curiously. “What’s the matter?”

“What do you mean?”

“You look so odd.”

“Nerves, I imagine.” He touched her cheek with the back of his hand. “You’re a little bit shook up yourself. Try to get some rest.”

“I’m all right. As long as Angey’s okay, why I’m just fine.” She smiled and took his hand. “Run along now. I’ll call you later.”

Farrell parked his car at the curb and went quickly up the walk to his house. The night was cold, with the first feel of frost in the air. A wind rose and swept warningly through the thinning trees, but the homes of Faircrest glowed warmly against the darkness.

Jimmy had had his bath and dinner. He was watching television in his pajamas and robe. Mrs. Simpson was in the kitchen doing the dishes. “How is the child, Mr. Farrell?” she asked from the doorway. “As God is my judge, I wish it could have happened to an old woman like myself instead of that child. Is she going to be all right?”

Farrell told her that Angey was coming along as well as could be expected. Mrs. Simpson had a baby-sitting appointment at eight which she offered to cancel, but Farrell assured her this would not be necessary.

“Well, I’ll run along then when everything’s tidy,” she said. “Your dinner is on the stove, roast beef with dumplings. Jimmy wasn’t hungry, but that’s just excitement, I think. Maybe he’d have another little bite with you.”

“Yes, that’s an idea.”

Farrell put his coat and hat away and went in to the study. He sat down beside Jimmy and put an arm around his shoulders. “Well, everything’s going to be all right,” he said. “The first tiling she thought about when she woke up was school. She was afraid she’d overslept.”

Jimmy laughed nervously, and said, “That’s all that’s on her mind, getting to school and putting fresh water in Miss Cooper’s flowers before Hazel Sims beats her to it. You should see how she acts at school! She’s so polite, it just makes me sick.”

Mrs. Simpson looked in to say good night and remind Farrell that his dinner was ready. When the door closed behind her Farrell got up and made himself a drink. Then he turned off the television and sat down in a straight chair facing Jimmy. In the silence Jimmy blinked and looked down at his hands.

“I want to talk to you,” Farrell said quietly. “I want to ask you a few questions. And I want the truth, Jimmy. Do you understand?”

“Sure,” Jimmy said uncertainly. “What do you want to ask me about, Dad?”

“The accident. First of all, you told the police it was a green or blue car. Can’t you make up your mind? Which was it? Blue or green?”

“Well, it was kind of a dark color. I mean, dark blue or dark green.”

“Was it a big car or a small car?”

“I don’t know exactly. I just saw it from the front.”

“Did they honk their horn at you?”

“There’s always a lot of noise around the Boulevard. Horns and things like that. I don’t remember if they did or not.”

“Who was driving the car?”

“A boy, I guess. I mean, I didn’t see him very well, but he didn’t have a tie on.”

“Who else was in the front seat?”

“Well, there was somebody there, that’s all I know.”

“There were two boys in the front seat? Or more?”

“Just two.”

“And how about the back seat?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t see.”

Farrell lit a cigarette and took a long swallow from his drink. He might have been drinking water; the whiskey didn’t touch the coldness in his stomach. “What exactly did you do when you saw the car?” he asked.

“Gee, Dad, it was so fast. It was coming at me and I just jumped out of the way, that’s all. I shouted at Angey...” He stopped and wet his lips. “It didn’t do any good. I should have grabbed her, I guess.”

“No, that’s all right. You didn’t know she was going to stop to pick up her book. You did okay. Don’t worry about that. Let’s go on.” Farrell finished his drink and put the glass aside. “You jumped out of the way of the car. You turned around and looked at it then, right?”

“I don’t know.” Jimmy’s eyes slid past Farrell to a spot on the wall. “I told the police everything I could think of, Dad.”

“Well, here’s what I’m getting at. You know the car was a dark blue or dark green. You couldn’t have seen that from the front, because from your line of vision all you’d see would be bumpers and grill work. You must have noticed the color when it went past you. Isn’t that the way it was?”

“I think so. Yes, I guess that’s how I saw the color.”