John Gardner - The Sunlight Dialogues

Not much of a figure, another Police Chief might have said of him. But not all men are fit to be heroes, any more than all men have the face and stride to carry off the role of the moustached villain. Clumly could say for Figlow, at least, that he was the first after Miller to see with perfect clarity that the Chief of Police had — as Figlow put it directly to Clumly an hour after the pistol-whipping of the Indian boy — a screw loose. It was no mere manner of speaking; it was a judgment. And, to his credit, whether his motives, ultimately, were right or wrong, Figlow could be trusted to make no trouble; he would simply watch him and wait patiently, skeptical of the future, as always, but hoping for the best.

Clumly wadded up the hamburger papers and threw them in the basket. Was it possible, he wondered, for a man to lose his grip and know it, recognize every step of it? But he knew, all right.

Then Will Hodge’s call came in, reporting the murder.

2

“Hooligans,” said Clumly. “That’s what it’ll be. There’s been a lot of that lately. Miller, put every man you’ve got on these teen-ager devils. I want this town cleaned up.” He clenched his fist.

“Hah!” Will Hodge said. “Hooligans my hat!”

Clumly looked flustered — head tipped down, eyes like little beads. You might have thought he’d shot her himself. Miller was expressionless, reserving judgment. “It’s sweeping the country, this hooliganism,” Clumly said. “Juvenile crime’s up sixteen per cent over August of last year. I was reading about it.”

Hodge snorted again, angry now. “Why, hang it all, Clumly, they took nothing but clothes. What the devil do these teen-age burglars want with clothes — and clothes of a man my size?”

They moved back, getting out of the way of the police photographer. The officer at the door shouted at the people in the livingroom, moving them back to let the ambulance men in. A man from the News took a picture over the policeman’s shoulder.

The ambulance people were soaked to the skin, for the rain had come now. It was pouring down like Niagara Falls, and the wind howled like a pack of dogs out of Hades. Something was slamming out in the back yard, a loose garage window, a fence slat. Inside the room it was hot and smoky.

“Keep those people out of here,” Clumly said. He jerked his head toward Hodge. “I got no time to stand here and argue with you, Hodge. We got sixteen burglaries this past three weeks. One of them the boy beat a woman half to death with a mop.”

“He take clothes?” Hodge said.

Miller scowled, concentrating on Hodge. There was something out of whack.

“Damn good market for clothes,” Clumly said fiercely. “Also television sets, typewriters, electric toothbrushes. They take what they can sell.”

The ambulance men put the stretcher down and hunkered a moment, waiting for Rideout to finish. At last the doctor got up and closed his medical bag. He said, “She’s been dead for hours, six or seven, I’d say. I can give you a definite estimate after the autopsy.”

“That’s fine,” Clumly said. “Send in your report in the morning.”

Miller looked at him.

“Or whenever you get it,” Clumly corrected himself. “The sooner the better.” He wiped sweat from his neck, then he crossed to the door, bent-backed, rubbing his hands. “This is what I think,” he said to the room in general, turning to face them all. “They were going through the drawers there”—he pointed at the drawers—“and she walked in on them. Heard them from downstairs, where she was watching TV.” He squinted. “First she thought it was Hodge, you know, but she hadn’t heard him come in: that was funny. She thought about it, went on listening, and after a minute she went over to the foot of the stairs.” He took a few steps to suggest to them how it was, reached out for an imaginary door, opened it, and tipped his head up. “She called to them. They couldn’t hear, because of the television — or, no, she’d turned down the sound on that. They heard, and they tried to work faster. She came up to the apartment. She opened the door with her key and called again. They dropped everything. Kept still. Waited. They heard her coming toward the bedroom, and the one who had the gun took it out from his belt and wrapped it in the blanket and pointed it. Then suddenly there she was in the doorway.” He showed how she’d looked. “Blam!” He clutched his heart. “Then they beat it, out down the stairs and through the back door and away through the gardens and neighbors’ back yards.” Clumly stopped, reflecting, and looked from one to another of them for reactions. At last he said, “That how you see it, Miller?”

Miller rubbed his jaw. “It could be,” he said doubtfully. “With a ballistics test—” He stopped. It was impossible that Clumly hadn’t leaped to the same conclusion he had, whatever he might say to Hodge and the papers.

“Check,” Clumly said. He glanced down at the ambulance men. “Take it away.”

The two men lifted the body onto the stretcher and carried it out.

Miller said, speaking before he’d thought: “Except for the phone. That doesn’t fit. I never heard of a burglar cutting a telephone wire.”

“I’m cognizant of that,” Clumly snapped. He shot a glance of what seemed pure malice at Hodge and said no more. Miller said nothing. Clumly turned to the man at the door. “Tell the paper ‘No comment at this time.’” Then, turning back again: “Hodge, that agreeable with you?”

“Why?” Hodge said. “What’s the reason for it?”

“Because I advise it. You can do what you want, you know. It’s mere advice.”

Hodge looked at the corner of the room and reached no decision. He had something booming in his mind, you could see. He knew something. Miller saw Clumly’s mind filing it for thinking over later.

“Ok,” Clumly said, “let’s get out of here.” To the policeman at the door: “Don’t let anybody in. And nobody out there in the back yard, either.” He turned his iron mask of a face to Miller. “Miller, get Hodge’s description of the clothes and anything else that’s missing. Check the bathroom, especially the razor. And check—” He turned again to Hodge. “What would you do if you came in here and you wanted to get rid of some clothes?”

“There’s a furnace,” Hodge said. “Old coal-type.”

“Check the furnace. Keep every ash. The Troopers’ll run it through the lab for us. They’re likely to end up in on this thing with us anyway. Maybe the F.B.I. One thing more.” His eyes grew crafty. “That new man, Kozlowski. I’m assigning him to you to help with this thing. Good head on him.” He pointed at his forehead. “Ok. Keep in touch.” Clumly saluted, official. Miller half-heartedly returned it. Starting for the door he said over his shoulder, “I want these hooligans nailed, men. Society has a right to be protected from these lawless little hoodlums.”

“Is he crazy?” Hodge said.

Miller said softly, not meaning Clumly to hear it, “You never know, with him. Might be something up his sleeve.”

Clumly’s pinpoint eyes burned more brightly. Up his sleeve. He was reminded of the cracked magician. So was Hodge. Both men kept it to themselves, for their separate reasons.

At the station only the light in the front room was on, and the light in the hallway. Figlow was at the desk, reading a paperback. He straightened up as Chief Clumly came in, but it was too late to hide the book. He saluted and Clumly made a vague pass at the visor of his cap. “Any business?” Clumly said.

“Somebody slashed some tires,” Figlow said.

Clumly dismissed it with a wave.

“It was at the fire house,” Figlow said. “Firetruck tires. Right across the damn street from us. Uphill’s ready to hang us.”