CHAPTER TWO

Tuesday—6:15 P.M.

A sheet of cold rain, aided and abetted by a sharp blast of frigid air, helped Clancy to open the doors of the precinct. He pushed them shut behind him with an effort, and started toward the desk. His raincoat, now as wet inside as out, clung to him affectionately; he reached down, dragging it free of his clammy trousers with a muttered curse.

A large patrolman, his black raincoat glistening, stolidly barred his way. “Lieutenant …”

Clancy looked up. “Yes? What is it?” His eyes suddenly narrowed. “Wait a second, Mathews—aren’t you supposed to be on duty in front of Mr. Kirkwood’s apartment?”

“Yes, sir.” The patrolman eyed him evenly. “But Mr. Kirkwood doesn’t live there any more. Not at the address you gave me. And he didn’t leave any forwarding address. I asked the superintendent.”

Clancy shoved his hat back in a gesture of disgust. It was a mistake; water cascaded down his neck. He shriveled and then recovered, glaring at the patrolman, as if it were somehow his fault. “And did it ever occur to you to look in the telephone book?”

“Yes, sir. The telephone book has the same address you gave me.”

“Oh.” Clancy thought about that for a moment, and began stripping his raincoat free. It came loose reluctantly; it was an effort to refrain from tearing it off in pieces. “Did you try calling the number?”

“Yes, sir. There wasn’t any answer. And information didn’t have any dope on any new address.…”

“All right. Come on back to my office and we’ll see what we can do.” He turned to the desk. “Sergeant—”

“It’s all set with the judge, Lieutenant. He’ll be home expecting you about eight-thirty tonight.”

“Good. Any word from Stanton or Kaproski?”

“Nothing yet, Lieutenant.”

Clancy shrugged and marched down the hall, followed at a discreet distance by the patrolman. He clicked the light on in his small cubicle, tossed his raincoat back of the door, and flipped his hat onto a filing cabinet. It landed with a wet plop. Clancy fell wearily into his chair and reached a hand for the telephone.

“Sergeant, call personnel records and see if they can give us any scoop on Roy Kirkwood’s address. Or his telephone number. And don’t tell me he’s on the D.A.’s staff and not the force, because I know it. He apparently moved without leaving a forwarding address. And telephone information doesn’t have anything.”

“Yes, sir. If personnel doesn’t have anything, I’ll try Mr. Johnson at the phone company. He’ll dig it out for us.”

“All right, but make it fast.”

“And Stanton just walked in, Lieutenant.”

“Well, don’t hold him there against his will.” Clancy hung up and shook his head at himself. Damn this rain! Clancy, he said to himself, in wet weather you just aren’t worth living with! He reached for a cigarette; Matthews stood rigidly half in and half out of the doorway. Stanton brushed past him and then looked back over his shoulder.

“Hi, Mathews.” He turned to Clancy. “Decided to get yourself some protection after all, Lieutenant?”

“Sure,” Clancy said. “I figure I need it inside the precinct. What happened at the mother’s?”

“Not much.” Stanton pulled off his raincoat and draped it over a chair. He sat down, straddling another. “You didn’t really expect too much, did you, Lieutenant? Well, anyway, she swears that the last time she saw her Lenny, which was a few days over two weeks ago up in Sing Sing, they talked about a job she lined up for him when he got out—a job with an old friend of Lenny’s dad. Over in Jersey someplace, a used-car lot. They got a part of the yard over there where they wreck cars for junk, she says, and Lenny was going to work in that part. Which would be a good job for the punk, when you come to think about it—wrecking cars. Anyways, she swears he talked like he was just waiting to go up before the parole board, and that he was sure he’d get off. And that’s about it.”

“That’s it?”

“Just about. And when I say she swears it, I mean just that. She runs into the other room and digs around and finally drags out this big old Bible and she brings it back and puts her hand on it in front of me and really swears on it that her Lenny is a good boy and is going to go straight, and not have anything to do with the gang, and all that crap. I’m telling you, a real nut.”

“And did you ask her why, if her Lenny was such a good boy, he broke out of prison?”

“Yeah, I did, as a matter of fact. But she don’t answer that. She just goes back into the old routine about how her Lenny was going to work over in this yard in Jersey, and wouldn’t ever get into trouble again.…” Stanton’s eyes were shrewd. “Personally, if you ask me, the old lady don’t want to admit even to herself that her Lenny is in the biggest batch of trouble he ever saw.”

“Has she heard from him?”

“She swears she hasn’t, and I’ve got a hunch from the way she said it that it’s true. And she says that he’d call if he was in trouble, because that’s what a mother is for and Lenny knows it because he was raised right, and all that.…”

The phone rang. Clancy held up his hand to Stanton and picked it up. It was the desk sergeant.

“I finally got Mr. Kirkwood’s number, Lieutenant. What a sweat! The phone company doesn’t have it, and—”

Clancy made a rude noise. The sergeant paused in sudden understanding. “You want me to call it?”

“That would be very kind of you,” Clancy said politely. “I’ll hold on.”

They waited in silence. Clancy remembered the cigarette and put it in his mouth. Stanton leaned over with a lighter. The telephone at the other end was ringing endlessly, unattended. Clancy was about to click the bar for the sergeant when the receiver was finally lifted. A familiar voice came on, slightly breathless.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Roy. This is Lieutenant Clancy …”

“Hi, Clancy! Long time no see. I was outside the door, just coming in when the phone rang. Eva and the kids are staying with friends until we get settled; they’ll be home tomorrow. I had to go through about a jillion keys before I found the one for the front door. Why in hell they don’t make keys …”

Clancy cut in on him brusquely. “Where are you?”

“Home, of course. Hell, that’s a silly question—you just called me, didn’t you?”

Clancy kept his temper. “And where’s home?”

“Oh. Washington Heights. We just moved in a few—”

“The street address!” Clancy said savagely. “What’s the number of the building, and the apartment number?”

“2450 West 187th Street, Apartment 604. But—”

“Hold it.” Clancy clamped a hand over the mouthpiece, holding up at the waiting patrolman, Mathews. “2450 West 187th, Apartment 604. And better stop by his old place; there ought to be another man there covering the back, if he hasn’t got disgusted and gone home. Assuming he also found out Kirkwood’s moved.” Mathews nodded abruptly and left the room; Clancy turned back to the telephone.

“What do you do, Roy? Move and not leave any forwarding address?”

Kirkwood laughed. “You must have asked the superintendent at the old apartment. Hell, he knows where I moved to—he forwards my mail. But he just doesn’t like to give out information. He’s cagey.”

“Cagey?” Clancy snorted. “He’s asking for trouble if he clams up on the police department! One of these days—” He dismissed the subject. “And how come the telephone company doesn’t have a change on you?”

“Oh, that? I subleased the old place, phone and all. Hell, I had to. We wanted a bigger place, and we found this one, but I still had six months to go at the old place and the landlord is a bastard.” There was a pause. “By the way, how did you get hold of me?”

“I don’t even know. I can ask the sergeant if you really think it’s important.” Clancy forced the sarcasm from his voice. “Look, Roy; you’re going to be covered by a couple of men for the next few days. I just wanted you to know.”

“Covered?” The voice suddenly dropped. “Why?”

“Because the police department wants to cover you, that’s why. At least until Cervera is picked up.…”

“Clancy, you’re kidding.” The voice had risen; almost, Clancy thought, as if in relief. “I know all about the break, of course—hell, that’s all they’re talking about downtown. But do you mean because of those wild-eyed threats he made in court three years ago? That’s ridiculous, Clancy. Hell, he was—”

“Roy, don’t argue. Those are the orders I got, and they’re going to be carried out. So don’t get cute and try to shake them.”

“But, Clancy! I’m trying to run an election campaign! How can I look like the great defender of justice, fearless and all that, if I’ve got a couple of cops on me everywhere I go?”

“Roy, it’s pointless to argue. You’re going to be covered. If it’s any satisfaction to you, your opponent is in the same spot.…”

There was a pause. “That’s right; Kiele was on the bench, wasn’t he?”

“That’s right,” Clancy said; and added to himself, As if you didn’t know!

“When do these watchdogs start trailing me?” Kirkwood asked.

“They’re on their way now. So don’t try to shake them.”

“All right, Clancy. Hell, I’ll even let them help me push my car when it gets stuck, which is getting to be about every day, now.” Kirkwood’s voice became curious. “Is there anything new on this deal, Clancy? Anything I ought to know?”

“Not a thing. You know as much as I do. But Inspector Clayton doesn’t want to take any chances, and he’s the boss. That’s why you’re being covered. And the judge.”

“I see. How about you?”

“Don’t worry about me. Worry about yourself.” Clancy looked at his watch. “I’m going to hang up now, Roy. Just remember what I said. It may be stupid to take these precautions, but those are the orders. I’ll be seeing you.”

“All right, Clancy. Thanks for calling.”

Clancy hung up and turned back to Stanton. “Where were we?”

“We were all done. What’s next, Lieutenant?”

Clancy thought a moment. “The technical boys are putting a tap on Mrs. Cervera’s phone, and also on the Hernandez girl’s—Lenny’s girl friend. They’re going to be tape taps because they’re short of people and can’t afford the men to stay there. You’re free right now. I want you to listen in at Cervera’s mother’s. You can call downtown and find out where they put it. And I’ll have the sergeant—”

The phone rang; Clancy lifted it.

“Lieutenant? This is Kaproski.…”

“Where the hell have you been?”

“Right here, Lieutenant. She ain’t even come home yet.…”

‘Where are you calling from?”

“A bar across the street from her place.” There was an embarrassed pause. “Hell, Lieutenant, it ain’t what you’re thinking. It’s just it’s the only place around here with a phone.…”

“Yeah,” Clancy said. He stared at the phone, thinking. “Kap—they’re putting a tap on her telephone.…”

“I know, or I guessed. I seen the boys go in; they’re still in there. That’s another reason I was calling.”

“All right.” Clancy made up his mind. “Forget about talking to the girl; it probably wouldn’t be of any use anyway. I want you to sit on that recorder with earphones. If nothing exciting cooks by midnight, put it back on automatic and go home and get some sleep. And stop over there and pick up the tape in the morning and bring it here. Early, about eight. We’ll go over it together, then.”

“Right, Lieutenant. I better hurry if I want to catch the boys before they leave. Anything else?”

“No; that’s it.” Clancy put down the telephone and looked at Stanton. “Well, you heard what I said to Kap. The same goes for you. Cervera ought to call in by midnight if he’s going to call at all. Which I doubt. Personally, I think he’s heading in the opposite direction from New York, as fast and as far as he can go. The last thing he’s going to waste time on, are telephone calls.”

Stanton cleared his throat self-consciously. “Lieutenant …”

“What?”

“Well,” Stanton said reasonably, “you got the judge covered, and Kirkwood, but … Well, this tap they’re setting up is automatic. It could tape alone for a couple of hours, until you’re through for the day and safe at home. I could stick with you.…”

Clancy stared at him coldly. “Stanton, let me tell you something. The chief inspector gives orders to the inspector. The inspector gives orders to Captain Wise. Captain Wise gives orders to me. And I give orders to you. That’s the routine. Let’s just follow it, shall we?”

“O.K., Lieutenant,” Stanton said, but he didn’t sound too happy about it. A sudden thought struck him. “Where’ll I get hold of you if something hot breaks?”

“I’m going out to eat now,” Clancy said. “And then I’m going over to Judge Kiele’s. Then I’m going home to bed. And you are going to sit and listen to telephones.”

Stanton pushed himself to his feet, reaching for his raincoat. He shrugged himself into it.

“You’re the boss, Lieutenant.”

“Now you’re getting the idea,” Clancy said approvingly, and also got to his feet.

Tuesday—8:40 P.M.

Judge Elmo Kiele lived in one of those monolithic concrete pillboxes that rise in phalanx fashion along the borders of Central Park West, immune alike to structural strain and the deserving sneers of architectural connoisseurs. When the judge had first had the good fortune to invest his life’s savings in a wildly growing economy—or at least, stock market—he had immediately taken his daughter, his library, and a few comfortable pieces of furniture from his old quarters in Morningside Heights and moved them to this eminently superior address, impressed equally by the exorbitant rental and the broad view of the park that seems to satisfactorily serve the Thoreau that dwells in most New Yorkers. The library remained, albeit rebound in golden-etched morocco and stored on mahogany shelves; the daughter and the comfortable furniture had long since gone, one to marriage and the other (at an excellent price) to a secondhand store. The best possible description of Judge Elmo Kiele would be to repeat his own words: he had once told a friend that he felt that—with more effort—he could well have gotten as good a deal on his daughter as he had on his furniture. His friend had never been sure whether the judge had been fooling or not.

The rain had stopped by the time Clancy climbed down from his taxi and entered the ornate lobby, but the heavy carpeting still retained the musty odor of numberless wet feet and dripping umbrellas. He crossed to the bank of elevators under the solemn, accusing eyes of a uniformed personage who sat back of a small desk and apparently did little else. The elevator doors snapped quietly at his heels, and then almost instantly reopened. Clancy was about to push the fifth-floor button again when he saw that he had, indeed, arrived. The wonders of modern science, he marveled with a shake of his head: rapid elevators and plastic raincoats. What else could the world possibly need? He crossed the wide hallway and pressed upon a synthetic mother-of-pearl button.

The butler who opened the door relieved Clancy of his hat and raincoat, handling them with the contempt they deserved. He was about to usher the visitor into the living room when Judge Kiele, himself, appeared at the hall arch, hand extended.

“Hello, Lieutenant. How are you?”

“Fine, thank you, sir.” Clancy took the small firm hand, aware as he did so of the clamminess of his own. He was also sharply aware of the contrast between his worn blue suit and frayed necktie, and the judge’s neat tuxedo with shot-silk lapels and cummerbund bulging politely over the obviously indulged waistline. Clancy took a breath.

“How are you, sir?”

Judge Kiele chose to take this to be rhetoric. “We were just about to have an after-dinner brandy,” the judge said a bit importantly, leading the way further into the huge apartment. “Would you care to join us?”

“Thank you.”

The explanation for the “us” became immediately apparent as Clancy followed the stocky, white-haired jurist into the wide living room; for seated on a pouf beside a kidney-shaped coffee table was a young, serious-faced girl in a simple frock, and a handsome mustached man in his mid-thirties who rose as Clancy entered. Judge Kiele did the introductions.

“Lieutenant—this is my daughter, Mrs. Wells, and her husband, John. Carol, my dear; John—this is Lieutenant Clancy. Of the 52nd Precinct, I believe.”

Clancy nodded politely to the girl and shook hands with the man. He was pleased to see that he was not the only one wearing a business suit, although he was forced to recognize the difference between his own wrinkled clothing and the neat press in the other’s outfit. Judge Kiele hesitated, looking over his shoulder. It was apparent that he was wondering if it were worthwhile summoning the butler for the simple task of serving brandy, particularly in view of the relative unimportance of his guest. A better solution occurred to him; he turned to his son-in-law, relieved by the simplicity of the answer.

“John. If you don’t mind? The brandy?”

Wells nodded agreeably, smiled at his wife, and went to the bar set in an alcove between a pair of leather-covered sofas, making it an intimate though apparently seldom-occupied oasis in the rich but somehow sterile beauty of the room. Clancy glanced about. The oil paintings on the walls, he was sure, were originals; the entire décor was one of wealth, if not necessarily of comfort. Beyond the still-open drapes that framed the wide windows, lights were sparkling in tiny clusters on the curved drives of the park below. Yet there will probably be muggings and possibly murder in that beautiful park tonight, Clancy reminded himself, and turned back to the others, forcing the unpleasant thought away. Wells was moving back from the bar, a bottle and glasses balanced on a tray. Well, Clancy thought, we may not be able to live like the rich, or to dress like them, but at least we can drink like them. He changed his mind about this, also, when he saw the brand name of the bottle John Wells was bearing.

Judge Kiele waved him to a seat and lowered himself into a chair opposite in the same motion. His tiny eyes suddenly narrowed; he could not have been more obvious if he had put his thoughts into words. His duties as host had been accomplished; now it was time for business.

“All right, Lieutenant,” he said, his voice instantly losing its friendliness in a manner Clancy suddenly recalled from the past. “What’s this all about?”

Clancy accepted a drink from John Wells, nodded his thanks, and waited until the handsome man had reseated himself on his pouf beside his wife. He leaned forward.

“You’ve heard about the prison break, sir, I’m sure.”

“Of course I’ve heard about it. And I also assume from your attention that this visit is due to the fact that the Cervera boy is still free. Well, what of it?”

Clancy looked at the other two people in the room with doubt. Judge Kiele waved a manicured hand. “Go ahead, Lieutenant. They know all about the threats. John is thoroughly informed about the case; as a matter of fact I didn’t invite him here tonight just to feed him. John is a member of the Bar, and he also happens to be a member of the State Parole Board. I thought he might be of some use to you.”

Clancy turned to the handsome man. “Oh?”

“That’s true.” Wells smiled. “Although I don’t know what help I might be. But the judge thought that since you were coming here, I might as well stop around and see if I—”

Kiele interrupted impatiently. “Yes. Well, you can discuss that later. Right now I want to make one thing clear to the lieutenant. I imagine you came up here, Lieutenant, to tell me that since Cervera is loose, that I ought to be careful. And I also imagine that you intend putting several men on my heels, or some such nonsense. Well, I permitted you to come here primarily because I wanted to tell you in person that I don’t like it. And that I don’t need it. And that I don’t want it.”

Clancy smiled faintly. He took a sip of his brandy, and twisted the glass slowly in his fingers. “Citizens usually don’t complain to the police about too much protection. Normally it’s the other way around.”

“That may be, but I’m not a normal citizen. Or rather, not a usual citizen.” This didn’t come out any better, but his meaning was quite clear. Judge Kiele laid aside his drink—it was by now his second—and tented his pudgy fingers. His tiny eyes were hard. “You know what I mean, Lieutenant. If I were to hide every time I’ve heard a threat in my twenty years on the bench, I’d have been indoors more than out.”

“Yes, sir,” Clancy said. “But—”

“And not only that,” the judge continued. “I happen to be running for re-election, and it could be a bit embarrassing to have people in uniform all around me during a speech.…”

Clancy smiled. “Your opponent, sir, made the same complaint.”

Judge Kiele snorted. “My opponent! Well, sir, if you want to hear about my opponent, listen to the radio Thursday night. I shouldn’t wonder if he won’t want policemen around after I get through!”

Carol Wells bent forward, speaking almost apologetically, addressing herself to Clancy. Her drink, untouched, had been placed on the coffee table beside her.

“Lieutenant Clancy, you were also threatened by this Cervera person as I remember, weren’t you?”

Clancy nodded. “Your father, myself, and a Mr. Roy Kirkwood of the district attorney’s office. He was the prosecutor.” He looked at her evenly. “Your father’s opponent in next month’s election.”

She disregarded this information. “And how do you feel, Lieutenant?” Her brown eyes held his. “About the threat, I mean?”

Clancy paused awhile before answering. He took another sip of his drink, placed his glass on the end table beside him, and looked down at his shoes. When he looked up again there was a faint smile on his face.

“Mrs. Wells, I’ll admit that when I first heard about this, my reaction was pretty much the same as your father’s. But I happen to work for an inspector I greatly respect, and his reaction was different.” His smile faded. “His instructions were different, too. And my job is to follow his instructions.”

“Well, mine isn’t,” Judge Kiele said.

Clancy chose to pay no attention to this. He turned to John Wells.

“Mr. Wells, you say you’re on the State Parole Board. I wonder if you could give me any information on these four men who took part in the prison break. Information that isn’t … well, a part of their standard file. Information, I mean, that could possibly help me in this case.”

“I’d be glad to, Lieutenant. The only thing is, I doubt if we on the Parole Board have much more information than you do. However … Let’s see … They were Williams, Marcus, Blount, and Cervera, weren’t they?”

“That’s right.”

Wells shook his head. “Well, actually the only one of the four who ever came up before us personally was Williams, about a month ago. He was in for stabbing a man in a fight in a bar. Marcus and Blount were also twenty-to-life prisoners, but they had years to go before they would have been eligible for review. Cervera, of course, was five-to-ten, but he wasn’t due to be reviewed for some six months, yet.”

Clancy looked at him in surprise. “Do you keep track of every convict up there this way?”

Wells laughed. “No, I’m afraid not. I wish we could, but we can’t. Besides which, we handle the paroles for men in many other prisons besides Sing Sing. But when this particular breakout occurred, of course, I naturally wanted to see who the men were who were involved. And if any of the people we were reviewing were involved. And then, when the judge asked me to come over and meet you …” He lifted his hands. “I went through my files before we came over for dinner.”

“I see.” Clancy nodded. He thought a moment. “You say Williams was the only one actually up before the Board, and this was a short time ago. What was your opinion of him?”

Wells shook his head positively. “He wasn’t going to make it.”

Clancy smiled. “Do you make that statement based upon the breakout today, Mr. Wells, or based on the facts that were presented to you and the Board at the hearing?”

Wells nodded seriously, accepting the question honestly. “I understand what you mean, Lieutenant. No; he wouldn’t have made it in any event. The decision hadn’t been written, but it was more or less certain. His prison record wasn’t too good, and it wasn’t his first offense. This wasn’t raised at his trial, of course, but he had stabbed a man before—a man who had recovered, fortunately. No, he wouldn’t have made it. We try—and I know the stigma of the word, and the problems—but we try to be liberal. Fair, I suppose would be a better word. But the law, while giving certain latitude to the Board, is still fairly explicit in most cases.”

“I see. And I understand what you mean. But I’m not too interested in Williams, to tell you the truth—and even less so since he’s dead. To be honest, I’m much more interested in the case of Lenny Cervera. What about him? Would he have made it?”

Wells frowned. His fingers twisted his glass slowly as he phrased his answer. “It’s hard to say. I can’t very well speak for the Board, particularly since we haven’t even reviewed his case, yet.” His eyes came up. “Speaking for myself—and this is completely unofficial—I don’t believe his crime was the most serious in the world—”

He paused as Judge Kiele pushed himself to his feet and snorted loudly; but the judge was merely reaching for the brandy bottle. Wells shrugged at the interruption and continued.

“—and he behaved himself in prison as far as I know. But, as I say, no formal review of his case had been made as yet. Just what the decision would have been is difficult to say. And, of course, it is all theoretical, now, since he joined in a prison break.” He looked at the lieutenant. “What makes you ask?”

“Curiosity, mainly,” Clancy said reasonably. “Here we have a prison break just before he’s due for parole—or at least just before a review that could conceivably have led to his parole. That fact has struck several of us as strange. You’ve had more experience in this sort of thing than we have. I’d like your opinion as to what could have led a man in that position to break out? What could have motivated Cervera in doing it?”

“Why he broke out?” Wells nodded to himself, but it was a nod in recognition of the question, rather than of the answer. He looked up. “What do the ‘several’ of you think?”

Clancy laughed. “I should have known better than to try and trade words with a counsellor. Well, I’ll answer you anyway. My immediate boss, Captain Wise, thinks maybe he got tired of the food in prison, or that he wanted to make good his threat to get me before I die from smoking too much. He was, of course, kidding. My big boss, Inspector Clayton, thinks that when a punk like Cervera does something this idiotic, it’s time to watch out. He was certainly not kidding. Now; what do you think?”

John Wells smiled. “I might agree with your Captain Wise if I knew how much you smoked, Lieutenant. I do know that the food at Sing Sing could be better.” His smile faded. “I’ll be serious. I think your Inspector Clayton is a lot closer, but I think he misses the real point. You see, no one knows how much a man can really take of imprisonment. No one knows when some tiny hidden bug of insanity, born of a man’s innate hatred of imprisonment, and growing daily with the cumulative effects of his being caged, will break loose and destroy him—or us. It might happen the first day he’s in jail; it might wait and happen that day before he’s released. Or it might happen any time in between. Only a psychiatrist could even predict the possibility, and they usually don’t get the chance. Or it’s too late by the time they do.”

His eyes seemed to be staring at his drink, but he wasn’t actually seeing it. He was staring down the cold corridors of the penitentiary, seeing the long line of barred cells as he continued.

“In my estimation,” he said slowly, “every man has his limit. I think Cervera simply came to the end of his rope. We really never know how tough the fibers of the rope may be; or even the length of the rope, until the frayed ends slip through our fingers, and we’ve lost him. But they all have their limit, and he came to his. And for this reason I agree with your inspector that he is a dangerous man. And I consider any threat he made as warranting serious consideration.” He looked at Clancy. “I only wish you could convince my father-in-law—Judge Kiele, I mean—to accept this as fact.”

Judge Kiele snorted again. He had reseated himself during this discourse and was now holding an empty glass once again. His eyes were bright.

“What fancy words and theories for a very simple thing! No wonder your law career hasn’t been marked with startling success, John! The fact is—the true and only fact is—that a convict saw a chance to escape and took it. It’s that easy; that simple. And his rantings and ravings about killing the three of us, made three years ago, have been forgotten by him, I’ll warrant, as quickly as I forgot them myself.”

He had brought the brandy bottle back with him and placed it beside his chair; now he leaned over and poured himself another drink. When he straightened up, he went on.

“And another thing, John; I could use your own argument against you and all your fine theories. You wouldn’t have all of these crazy hopes and wild disappointments if you didn’t keep dangling the idea of parole before their noses like a carrot.”

Wells’ jaw tightened. His wife put out a tentatively restricting hand and then withdrew it. Wells spoke up.

“Do you mean you’re against parole in any form, sir?”

“If you want a straight answer, yes!” Judge Kiele glared about, inviting argument. “What is this five-years-to-ten-years nonsense? Or this life-imprisonment-plus-ninety-nine years, only you can get out in fifteen if you don’t stab another inmate or—pardon me, my dear—spit in your dish at mealtime? What results do you get? Cerveras? Or Blounts?”

His daughter and son-in-law received these words in silence; it apparently was an ancient argument between the two. Clancy pushed himself to his feet, unwilling to enter into pointless disagreements. John Wells lifted his glass in silent invitation for the lieutenant to accept a second drink, one to break the tension. Clancy shook his head.

Judge Kiele continued, speaking dully, almost to himself. “And these prosecutors who accept minor pleas, just to be assured of a conviction, mostly for political reasons.…”

Clancy cleared his throat. “I’ll be going along, sir. I have a hard day tomorrow.”

Judge Kiele looked up, shrugging. His fourth brandy seemed to have made him morose.

“All right, Lieutenant.” His very curtness seemed an apology. “Just don’t have your minions get under my feet. I have a campaign to run, and a damned important radio speech to make.” His eyes stared at the waiting man broodingly. “Makes a man feel like a fool.…”

Clancy nodded; his good-by included the silent daughter. He turned toward the door, accompanied by John Wells. The butler, appearing from nowhere—or more likely, the kitchen—was mysteriously waiting with the battered felt hat and limp raincoat held at finger tips. Clancy took the garments absently, putting the hat on and squaring it. John Wells reached out, opening the front door for him.

“He’s not always like this,” he said apologetically. “I think he’s more upset by the breakout and the threats than he wants to admit. And this campaign is on his mind, too. You’ll maintain the guard on him?”

“We’ll maintain it,” Clancy promised, and shook the firm hand.

He stood at the elevator, pressing the button, waiting for the sleek monster to appear and swallow him, and shoot him downward at its incredible speed. In his mind’s eye he could see the white-haired man slumped in his easy chair, brandy in hand, staring into nowhere. Makes a man feel like a fool, does it? he thought. Well, it should, because you are. And a stubborn fool at that.

The door of the elevator slid open without audible warning, and he stepped inside. And then paused to smile at himself as he remembered his own feelings when Captain Wise had given him the same warning. Fools come in all sizes, he thought, but they’re no less fools for that. His smile faded at the sad thought and he walked out across the damp, limp rug to the tear-stained street beyond.