to look into the back of the station wagon.
The backseat had been folded down, forming a truck bed. On that hard, jouncing bed, on a sandy blanket, lay the woman Ed Luby had hit. Her head was pillowed on a child’s snowsuit. She was covered by a man’s overcoat.
The drunk who had brought her to the Key Club was in back, too. He was sitting tailor-fashion. The overcoat was his. He was a big clown turned gray and morbid. His slack gaze told Harve that he did not want to be spoken to.
“How did we get these two?” said Harve.
“Ed Luby and his friends made us a present of them,” said Claire.
Her bravery was starting to fail her. It was almost time to cry again. “They threw you and the woman into the car,” she said. “They said they’d beat me up, too, if I didn’t drive away.”
Claire was too upset to drive now. She pulled over to the curb and wept.
Harve, trying to comfort Claire, heard the back door of the station wagon open and shut. The big clown had gotten out.
He had taken his overcoat from the woman, was standing on the sidewalk, putting the coat on.
“Where you think you’re going?” Harve said to him. “Stay back there and take care of that woman!”
“She doesn’t need me, buddy,” said the man. “She needs an undertaker. She’s dead.”
In the distance, its siren wailing, its roof lights flashing, a patrol car was coming.
“Here come your friends, the policemen,” said the man. He turned up an alley, was gone.
• • •
The patrol car nosed in front of the old station wagon. Its revolving flasher made a hellish blue merry-go-round of the buildings and street.
Two policemen got out. Each had a pistol in one hand, a bright flashlight in the other.
“Hands up,” said one. “Don’t try anything.”
Harve and Claire raised their hands.
“You the people who made all the trouble out at Luby’s Key Club?” The man who asked was a sergeant. “Trouble?” said Harve.
“You must be the guy who hit the girl,” said the sergeant. “Me?” said Harve.
“They got her in the back,” said the other policeman. He opened the back door of the station wagon, looked at the woman, lifted her white hand, let it fall. “Dead,” he said.
“We were taking her to the hospital,” said Harve.
“That makes everything all right?” said the sergeant. “Slug her, then take her to the hospital, and that makes everything all right?”
“I didn’t hit her,” said Harve. “Why would I hit her?”
“She said something to your wife you didn’t like,” said the sergeant.
“Luby hit her,” said Harve. “It was Luby.”
“That’s a good story, except for a couple of little details,” said the sergeant.
“What details?” said Harve.
“Witnesses,” said the sergeant. “Talk about witnesses, brother,” he said, “the mayor, the chief of police, Judge Wampler and his wife—they
all
saw you do it.”
• • •
Harve and Claire Elliot were taken to the squalid Ilium Police Headquarters.
They were fingerprinted, were given nothing with which to wipe the ink off their hands. This particular humiliation happened so fast, and was conducted with such firmness, that Harve and Claire reacted with amazement rather than indignation.
Everything was happening so fast, and in such unbelievable surroundings, that Harve and Claire had only one thing to cling to—a childlike faith that innocent persons never had anything to fear.
Claire was taken into an office for questioning. “What should I say?” she said to Harve as she was being led away.
“Tell them the truth!” said Harve. He turned to the sergeant who had brought him in, who was guarding him now. “Could I use the phone, please?” he said.
“To call a lawyer?” said the sergeant.
“I don’t need a lawyer,” said Harve. “I want to call the babysitter. I want to tell her we’ll be home a little late.”
The sergeant laughed. “A
little
late?” he said. He had a long scar that ran down one cheek, over
The backseat had been folded down, forming a truck bed. On that hard, jouncing bed, on a sandy blanket, lay the woman Ed Luby had hit. Her head was pillowed on a child’s snowsuit. She was covered by a man’s overcoat.
The drunk who had brought her to the Key Club was in back, too. He was sitting tailor-fashion. The overcoat was his. He was a big clown turned gray and morbid. His slack gaze told Harve that he did not want to be spoken to.
“How did we get these two?” said Harve.
“Ed Luby and his friends made us a present of them,” said Claire.
Her bravery was starting to fail her. It was almost time to cry again. “They threw you and the woman into the car,” she said. “They said they’d beat me up, too, if I didn’t drive away.”
Claire was too upset to drive now. She pulled over to the curb and wept.
Harve, trying to comfort Claire, heard the back door of the station wagon open and shut. The big clown had gotten out.
He had taken his overcoat from the woman, was standing on the sidewalk, putting the coat on.
“Where you think you’re going?” Harve said to him. “Stay back there and take care of that woman!”
“She doesn’t need me, buddy,” said the man. “She needs an undertaker. She’s dead.”
In the distance, its siren wailing, its roof lights flashing, a patrol car was coming.
“Here come your friends, the policemen,” said the man. He turned up an alley, was gone.
• • •
The patrol car nosed in front of the old station wagon. Its revolving flasher made a hellish blue merry-go-round of the buildings and street.
Two policemen got out. Each had a pistol in one hand, a bright flashlight in the other.
“Hands up,” said one. “Don’t try anything.”
Harve and Claire raised their hands.
“You the people who made all the trouble out at Luby’s Key Club?” The man who asked was a sergeant. “Trouble?” said Harve.
“You must be the guy who hit the girl,” said the sergeant. “Me?” said Harve.
“They got her in the back,” said the other policeman. He opened the back door of the station wagon, looked at the woman, lifted her white hand, let it fall. “Dead,” he said.
“We were taking her to the hospital,” said Harve.
“That makes everything all right?” said the sergeant. “Slug her, then take her to the hospital, and that makes everything all right?”
“I didn’t hit her,” said Harve. “Why would I hit her?”
“She said something to your wife you didn’t like,” said the sergeant.
“Luby hit her,” said Harve. “It was Luby.”
“That’s a good story, except for a couple of little details,” said the sergeant.
“What details?” said Harve.
“Witnesses,” said the sergeant. “Talk about witnesses, brother,” he said, “the mayor, the chief of police, Judge Wampler and his wife—they
all
saw you do it.”
• • •
Harve and Claire Elliot were taken to the squalid Ilium Police Headquarters.
They were fingerprinted, were given nothing with which to wipe the ink off their hands. This particular humiliation happened so fast, and was conducted with such firmness, that Harve and Claire reacted with amazement rather than indignation.
Everything was happening so fast, and in such unbelievable surroundings, that Harve and Claire had only one thing to cling to—a childlike faith that innocent persons never had anything to fear.
Claire was taken into an office for questioning. “What should I say?” she said to Harve as she was being led away.
“Tell them the truth!” said Harve. He turned to the sergeant who had brought him in, who was guarding him now. “Could I use the phone, please?” he said.
“To call a lawyer?” said the sergeant.
“I don’t need a lawyer,” said Harve. “I want to call the babysitter. I want to tell her we’ll be home a little late.”
The sergeant laughed. “A
little
late?” he said. He had a long scar that ran down one cheek, over
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