“I don’t think he’ll like it, but I’ve never been very good at keeping friends.”
“One more bit of feeling sorry for yourself and we’ll call Nitti and have him cart you out of here right now,” said Groucho.
“Whoever’s pulling all this is always a step ahead and inside my mind. It might take me forever to catch him, or them,” I said.
“Who knew?” said a voice.
I didn’t recognize the speaker. At first I thought someone had come through the door or the radio was on, but the door was closed, and the Arvin on the table was dark and cold.
“Who knew where you were going? Who did you tell?”
The voice came from Harpo. It was the first time I had heard him speak since I met him. I looked at Groucho and Chico, but they didn’t find speech from their brother worthy of comment.
“What?” I said, looking at him. His voice had been soft, almost as if he were speaking to himself.
“Did you tell anyone where you were? Anyone who knew each place you went?”
“Somebody may have been following me,” I said, “but the killer was ahead of me on the West Side, and-” Then I got the idea. It seemed good, and then it seemed stupid, and then it seemed good again. There was only one thing wrong with it, one thing that didn’t make sense.
“Can I use your phone for a long distance call?”
“Be our guest,” said Chico.
I got the operator and placed the call to Miami. It took me and the operator about ten minutes to reach the person I wanted, but when I got him I asked him one question. The answer told me who my killer was.
“Well?” said Groucho. “You look like the cat who swallowed Kitty Carlisle.”
“I’ve got less than an hour to turn myself in to the cops,” I said. “I think you can start packing and stop worrying about that $120,000. I’ll give you a call or be back later.”
In the lobby I stopped to have a talk with Costello. He said he’d have to check with Nitti about what I wanted, but he’d call right away.
Narducy was reading a detective magazine when I got in the cab.
“Know where the Maxwell Street Police Station is?” I said.
He did, and we shot into traffic going south.
If it weren’t so close to two, I probably would have gone back to Merle’s for my.38. I’ve thought about it a couple of times. It would have changed things, probably a lot, but I’m not sure it would have been better.
We hit Twelfth Street and headed east, turned left at an old church, and pulled up in front of a dirty, three- story brick police station that looked like a good man in a bulldozer could level it in five minutes.
“Don’t wait,” I said, paying Narducy off. “This may take a while.” He nodded and drove off.
My watch said it was two minutes to two when I walked up the worn stone steps and pushed open the door.
13
My picture had been on page three of the
There was an old cop on the desk. His face looked like Death Valley. He was in agony over a crossword puzzle he was working on with a well-sharpened pencil, and didn’t look up when I asked for Kleinhans. He directed me through a door marked “Squad Room.”
The Squad Room was a high-ceilinged wreck stained with years of things that come from human bodies- things like tears, vomit, and tobacco juice. It smelled of heavy, ancient sweat. There were four desks and a long table in the room. At the long table, a little man who looked like an insurance salesman, except for his shoulder holster, was patiently going through a mug book with a serious-looking young guy in a brown wool jacket.
The insurance salesman cop was saying, “Are you sure, Mr. Castelli? The man you just identified is Tony Accardo. I don’t think he’d be likely to con you out of five bucks on a street corner.”
“I think it’s him,” said Castelli.
“Let me put it to you this way, Mr. Castelli,” said the insurance cop, “if I thought Accardo conned you, I’d be happy to pull him in, but I don’t think he did, and I think I should tell you he’s not a con man. He’s a mobster.”
“I’m probably wrong,” said Castelli, looking at the picture again.
“Probably,” said the cop. “Let’s look at some more.”
They looked at some more, and I looked around the room for Kleinhans. A cop at one desk was typing a report and singing “Shine on Harvest Moon.” His hair was clipped short, and he had a red bull neck with bristles on it that rubbed against his collar. The woman sitting at the chair near his desk wasn’t singing. She was holding on to her purse with two hands and trying to read what the cop was typing. She looked like a scared bird or Zasu Pitts. At another desk, three cops were looking at something in a folder and laughing. It was loud dirty laughter. I felt at home. It was like most of the police stations and precinct houses I had been in and out of since I was twenty.
Kleinhans was seated at the desk furthest back, near a drafty window covered with bars and so dirty you couldn’t see through it. It was the choice location in the room. Kleinhans saw me before I saw him. He was talking to a thin man with a day’s growth of beard and a brown hat that had gone mad trying to keep its shape. It may have been driven over the brink by the hole in the crown that looked like it came from a bullet. The thin man’s hands were moving furiously in explanation, anguish, pain, and plea bargaining.
Kleinhans smiled at me, and I walked over to him, catching the end of the thin man’s sentence.
“-so what use would I have for such a thing like that?”
“I don’t know, Sophie,” said Kleinhans. “Maybe you can ask the judge that.”
“Aw, Sergeant,” the thin man said, his eyes filling with tears, “you’re not going to turn me over for a couple of pair of shoes? Left-footer soccer shoes. What the hell? The lock-up’s cold, Sergeant, and with my bursitis-”
“You win,” said Kleinhans, holding up his hand. “Your tale touched my heart, Soph. Those tears won me over. Get out of here, and don’t let me see you on the street for a month.”
The thin man fell into shock. His mouth dropped open. He looked at Kleinhans and then at me, but he didn’t move.
“I–I-I can just go?” he said. “No booking? You ain’t even going to rough me a little?”
Kleinhans shook his head.
“Naw, Soph, you’re little fish on the street today. This man’s public enemy number one.” He pointed at me, and Soph’s eyes turned up in confusion and awe. “Wanted in connection with four murders in the last week, and he’s turning himself over to me. What do you think about that?”
“It’s nice,” said the thin man, removing his battered hat, crumpling it and putting it on again.
“Right,” said Kieinhans, “and I don’t have time to write you up Soph, so move. Don’t say thanks, just move and remember you owe me.”
A smile twitched on Sophie’s face as he got up quickly and headed for the exit. He nearly hit Zasu Pitts, and she clutched her purse tighter as he dashed out the door.
“Have a seat, Peters,” said Kieinhans. “Want a cup of coffee?”
Not only couldn’t you see through his window, but the thin draft knifed across the desk. Kieinhans’ concession to the chill was a brown sweater over his shirt and tie. The sweater had a small hole on the right arm.
“No coffee,” I said.
“Well,” he said, stretching and putting his hands behind his neck, “you decided to make me a hero by turning yourself in to me. I appreciate that. It’ll take me off the desk for the day.”
“I haven’t had lunch,” I said. “Someplace we can go for a sandwich and some talk?”
“O.K.,” he said, getting up and putting on his coat. “I’ll introduce you to the best hot dog in the world.”
Kleinhans told one of the three laughing cops to watch his desk because he was going out to lunch. The cop nodded and turned back to the folder.
A uniformed cop stopped Kleinhans as we hit the Squad Room door. He wanted to know where he should put
