something more than a coincidence.
“Agreed,” said the mayor. The defused bomb had been taken to police headquarters on Second Street; the detective could examine it at his convenience. But, the mayor continued, his voice suddenly faltering, there was another problem.
Billy did not speak. He had seen too many men make agreements, give their word, and then walk away from their promises. He knew what was coming, and he prepared himself. He wanted to react with calm dignity, not with anger. His temper was famous, and he had grown old enough to be embarrassed by it.
The mayor’s words came out slowly, forming uneasy sentences. It was the manner of a man who was unpersuaded by his own logic or reasons. There were “political realities” in Los Angeles, he explained. At their last meeting perhaps he should have disclosed the situation to the detective with more clarity. He had needed, of course, to inform General Otis and the Merchants and Manufacturers Association, as well as the Citizens’ Committee, of Burns’s appointment to head the investigation.
So much for the mayor’s promise, so much for secrecy, Billy thought. But now that the damage had been done, temper would accomplish nothing. Resigned, he let the mayor go on.
These groups, the mayor said, wanted their own representative to work with Burns. They felt they needed someone who would report to them on the course of the investigation. Bombs had been planted at
their
homes. For their own safety they insisted on knowing what progress, if any, was being made.
“They’ve picked a man, Mr. Burns.”
“Who?” Billy asked.
“Earl Rogers.”
Billy felt as if another bomb had just exploded. This was the man who had represented Patrick Calhoun. The man who had been on the side of all that was corrupt in San Francisco. It would have been difficult to suggest a more inappropriate individual. Still, Billy measured his words:
“He’s a lawyer, not a detective, and what you need at this time is the service of the latter. Besides, I cannot cooperate with Rogers.”
Mayor Alexander tried to persuade Billy, but the detective cut him off.
“Turn the entire matter over to the M&M and the Citizens’ Committee. I quit.”
Billy remained in his hotel room, brooding. He told himself he had done the right thing. He had had no choice: He could not work with Rogers.
But at the same time he also realized that if he was truly resigned to leaving the investigation and to relinquishing the opportunity to solve the crime of the century, at this moment he’d be on his way to the Bankers Association to give his speech.
He waited.
Billy was relieved when the house phone finally rang. Mayor Alexander was on his way up.
Alexander did not argue or try to reason with the detective. With a politician’s well-practiced canniness, he offered up a very personal plea.
“If you refuse to consent to act with Rogers, I will always be blamed if we fail to apprehend the men responsible,” the mayor said. “My administration would be discredited . . . I need your help, Mr. Burns.” His voice quivered as he spoke, and Billy felt the emotions were genuine.
Billy understood that this was his last chance. The mayor could not be expected to beg him again. “A great detective requires great cases”—that was another of his precepts. Billy believed in his talents, but his vanity demanded that others acknowledge his skills, too. The apprehension of the men responsible for the destruction of the
Times
Building, for twenty-one deaths, would bring him national acclaim. He had grown used to the power and thrill of celebrity. A case of this magnitude would ensure his fame. He weighed all that was to be gained, and he made his decision: He would have to tolerate the presence of Earl Rogers. He’d simply have to find a way to prevent the attorney from meddling.
Billy, however, did not rush to share his change of heart. With a natural showman’s timing, he let a few reflective moments
“Agreed,” said the mayor. The defused bomb had been taken to police headquarters on Second Street; the detective could examine it at his convenience. But, the mayor continued, his voice suddenly faltering, there was another problem.
Billy did not speak. He had seen too many men make agreements, give their word, and then walk away from their promises. He knew what was coming, and he prepared himself. He wanted to react with calm dignity, not with anger. His temper was famous, and he had grown old enough to be embarrassed by it.
The mayor’s words came out slowly, forming uneasy sentences. It was the manner of a man who was unpersuaded by his own logic or reasons. There were “political realities” in Los Angeles, he explained. At their last meeting perhaps he should have disclosed the situation to the detective with more clarity. He had needed, of course, to inform General Otis and the Merchants and Manufacturers Association, as well as the Citizens’ Committee, of Burns’s appointment to head the investigation.
So much for the mayor’s promise, so much for secrecy, Billy thought. But now that the damage had been done, temper would accomplish nothing. Resigned, he let the mayor go on.
These groups, the mayor said, wanted their own representative to work with Burns. They felt they needed someone who would report to them on the course of the investigation. Bombs had been planted at
their
homes. For their own safety they insisted on knowing what progress, if any, was being made.
“They’ve picked a man, Mr. Burns.”
“Who?” Billy asked.
“Earl Rogers.”
Billy felt as if another bomb had just exploded. This was the man who had represented Patrick Calhoun. The man who had been on the side of all that was corrupt in San Francisco. It would have been difficult to suggest a more inappropriate individual. Still, Billy measured his words:
“He’s a lawyer, not a detective, and what you need at this time is the service of the latter. Besides, I cannot cooperate with Rogers.”
Mayor Alexander tried to persuade Billy, but the detective cut him off.
“Turn the entire matter over to the M&M and the Citizens’ Committee. I quit.”
Billy remained in his hotel room, brooding. He told himself he had done the right thing. He had had no choice: He could not work with Rogers.
But at the same time he also realized that if he was truly resigned to leaving the investigation and to relinquishing the opportunity to solve the crime of the century, at this moment he’d be on his way to the Bankers Association to give his speech.
He waited.
Billy was relieved when the house phone finally rang. Mayor Alexander was on his way up.
Alexander did not argue or try to reason with the detective. With a politician’s well-practiced canniness, he offered up a very personal plea.
“If you refuse to consent to act with Rogers, I will always be blamed if we fail to apprehend the men responsible,” the mayor said. “My administration would be discredited . . . I need your help, Mr. Burns.” His voice quivered as he spoke, and Billy felt the emotions were genuine.
Billy understood that this was his last chance. The mayor could not be expected to beg him again. “A great detective requires great cases”—that was another of his precepts. Billy believed in his talents, but his vanity demanded that others acknowledge his skills, too. The apprehension of the men responsible for the destruction of the
Times
Building, for twenty-one deaths, would bring him national acclaim. He had grown used to the power and thrill of celebrity. A case of this magnitude would ensure his fame. He weighed all that was to be gained, and he made his decision: He would have to tolerate the presence of Earl Rogers. He’d simply have to find a way to prevent the attorney from meddling.
Billy, however, did not rush to share his change of heart. With a natural showman’s timing, he let a few reflective moments
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