Hook has come to a decision he knows will haunt him in the future: the decision to be a clever fellow.
When cleverness arises, lies flourish. He forgets who said that, if indeed he ever knew, but the speaker wasn’t just banging his gums.
He is about to betray his partner. Ex-partner, truth be told, and thick as old barn wood, but a fellow officer nonetheless, who trusts his word.
After asking around the station, he manages to locate Constable Quam in Leonard’s Cafe, seated halfway down the counter and tucking into a slab of blueberry pie with a large scoop of vanilla ice cream.
Hook’s misgivings increase; nevertheless he continues. “Mr Quam. Just the man I’m looking for.” Hook has never felt like such a phony. When he was caught lying as a boy, his father would beat him with his belt to within an inch of his life. Which only happened once, but the fear of it has stayed with him.
Quam looks up like the little boy who stuck in his thumb and pulled out a plum, but as soon as he sees who it is his face becomes wary and apprehensive. “Hello, Sergeant Hook.”
“Constable, you have some pie on your upper lip.”
“Sorry, sir.” He uses his napkin to wipe off the purple moustache. “I was just having a spot of lunch.”
DS Hook takes the stool next to him. Quam exudes the old sour apple smell and an air of incomprehension. Hook lights an Ogden’s and reaches for the ashtray. “There’s something you might want to know about Mr McCurdy.”
Quam reluctantly sets his fork down. “You mean the informer? The one who writes for the paper?”
“That’s the bird.”
“I assure you, sir, Sergeant Rocco had no idea he was one of ours.”
“Of course he didn’t. No reason why he should have. In fact, that’s what I’d like to talk about. I was a bit short with you folks there, when in fact you should have been commended. I want to apologize for it.”
The eyes grow misty. “Sir, you’re not being sarcastic, are you?”
“Not a bit, Mr Quam. I really should have known better. The Dry Squad’s conviction record speaks for itself.”
Quam reflexively brushes a few crumbs from the sleeve of his cheap jacket, which has already gone shiny at the elbow.
“And as for the McCurdy fellow, it turns out that your first instincts were as sound as a pound.”
The constable frowns: “Sound in what way, sir?”
“Oh, didn’t you know? He’s disappeared.”
“Disappeared?”
“Into thin air. Oh, he was up to something, we’re now certain of that. There are discrepancies in his receipts and suspicious gaps in his reporting.” DS Hook says this with not a clue as to what he is talking about.
Quam’s toddler forehead forms something like a frown. “Do you know, sir, I’m not at all surprised. Sergeant Rocco said he was damned queer.”
“A bit light on his feet, you say? That could be as well. In any case, give Sergeant Rocco my congratulations—kudos from DS Hook.”
“Sir, are you quite sure you’re not being sarcastic?”
“Far from it, Constable.” Hook gets up as though about to leave. “And by the way, tell Rocco good luck with the Maple Hotel bunch.”
Relieved at having switched to another subject, Quam goes back to his pie before the ice cream melts. “The Maple Hotel is Joe Celona’s place, sir,” he says with his mouth full. “Sergeant Rocco says it’s off limits. Orders from the mayor’s office.”
“I believe him. And that’s what makes it such a rum situation.”
“A rum situation? How so, sir?” Quam looks sadly at his empty plate; if he were alone, he would lick it clean.
“It seems there are a couple of grifters from the States selling whisky out of one of the rooms. Canadian Club, premium product. For some reason they think being in the Maple makes them immune to raids from the Morals Squad, the Dry Squad—from anyone. I can’t imagine why.”
Quam stops wiping his mouth. “You can’t?”
“Are you being sarcastic now, Constable?”
“Certainly not, sir. But it seems obvious to me that they are hiding behind Mr Celona.”
“By heaven, I think you’re right. Well the cheeky buggers!”
“Very nervy of them I must say.”
“You’re not whistling Dixie, Mr Quam. Hiding under Celona’s coattails, taking the brothel king for a sap? They must have bigger balls than a Jersey bull.”
“They really are asking for it, sir. Mr Celona will not be pleased when he finds out—which he will.”
“Indeed. I should expect a police raid would be a blessing in comparison.”
“You know, sir, you make a good point.” Quam’s face takes on a brighter cast at the prospect of occupying the moral high ground, for once.
“Well, I must be off. Remember to give my regards to Sergeant Rocco.”
“Bet your life I will, sir.”
By now Quam knows the routine well.
The raid is scheduled to occur in the small hours of the morning, when the occupants are most likely to be inside and asleep, or drunk. This time there are no crying children involved, which is a good thing. Of late he has had troubled dreams along those lines.
The desk clerk was fully alerted about Room 327 and knows what is about to take place there. Other guests on that floor have been directed by the management to remain in their rooms or leave the building.
Now comes the approach.
With torches in hand, they creep up the three flights of stairs in the usual order: McNamara in the lead with a loaded shotgun, followed by Simpson with his axe, then Rocco with pistol drawn, safety off. Quam, the least experienced of the quartet, takes up the rear, with a pistol in one hand (safety on) and a torch in the other, being responsible for backing up, banging up and retrieval in case of injuries. (Another blessing, for his firearms training was over in an hour.)
After positioning themselves on either side of Room 327, and on a count of three from Rocco, McNamara’s shotgun blasts a hole where the lock once was, whereupon Simpson puts his hobnail boot to the door; all four officers lunge through the wreckage and into the room. Rocco’s torch reveals a double bed, where two men simultaneously sit bolt upright, on high alert. Quam recognizes Olson and Flood from the visit to the Mae West house—the two Klansmen supposedly protecting the unfortunate Mr Forrest.
“Police! Stay where you are!”
While Gainer Flood gropes frantically under his pillow for his weapon, Jessup Olson, the faster of the two, leaps to his feet with a .45 revolver extended in front of him. It takes him a second to choose which copper to shoot, and he pays for his indecision when a blast from Simpson’s second barrel sends him reeling backward, roaring and cursing, with a scattering of bloody dots on the front of his union suit. Seeing that the odds are stacked against them in this confined space, Gainer Flood rolls off the bed, crawls underneath it like an alligator, comes out the other side and makes for the window, pausing to squeeze off a shot that misses Rocco but takes off a piece of Simpson’s ear. (The injury will earn Simpson the nickname “Gremlin” for the rest of his career.)
Still at the door, Constable Quam is standing by.
Aiming in a hurry, Rocco fires his .38 Special twice but manages only to hit Gainer’s left thigh, enabling the suspect to push off with his right, roll through the window onto the fire escape and half-tumble down the metal steps, turning at intervals to fire erratically at the window above.
Rocco hugs the wall to one side of the window as McNamara reloads his shotgun and takes the other side, while Quam crawls to the wounded Simpson, now lying at the foot of the bed, swearing. Shoving his side arm under his belt, Quam pulls a sheet from the bed, tears off a strip and attempts to staunch Simpson’s bleeding ear.
At this moment, outside the Maple Hotel entrance, DS Hook is in the act of parking the BSA when he hears muffled gunfire inside the building, followed by louder shots that echo off the walls in the alleyway to his left. He draws his side arm and runs into the dimly lit alley, just as Gainer Flood alights from the fire escape.
Now staggering toward Hook, dragging one foot behind him, Flood lifts his revolver for an easy shot and pulls the trigger, but the mechanism fails to fire. While Flood swears at his weapon, DS Hook holsters his pistol, steps smartly up to the suspect, grabs him by the front of his union suit and smashes his forehead into the offender’s face, flattening his nose and producing a gusher of blood. Flood’s injured leg buckles, he topples backward onto the cobbles, and there he remains—writhing, clutching his thigh and moaning imprecations in the name of Jesus.
From a window three floors up, Rocco’s bald head appears, catching a ray of morning sun. “Hook, you fucking bastard! Goddamn you, there’s no booze here, not a drop!”
“I’m surprised to hear that, sergeant! That’s certainly not what I was told! I guess it must have been another rumour!”
“Pull the other one, Hook! You’ve got us in a real mess up here!”
“Nobody dead, surely to God?”
“No—but no thanks to you!” With an inaudible curse, Rocco disappears inside.
(This understandable resentment on the part of the Dry Squad will dissipate when the team receives a commendation for bravery from Chief Barfoot, as well as mentions in all the newspapers for having apprehended two armed and dangerous American criminals on the lam.)
Flood continues to roll back and forth on the ground, clutching his thigh, wiping blood from his face with his sleeve, swearing continuously. DS Hook drops onto one knee to check the man’s vital signs, which seem to be in reasonable order. Satisfied that the suspect will remain alive for the time being, he retrieves the useless .45 from the cobbles and stands up.
As sunlight trickles through low-hanging clouds and spills onto one brick wall, Hook lights up an Ogden’s and heaves a sigh of relief.
Still, he has a bad conscience. His treatment of Quam has left him feeling vaguely ashamed. Jeanie would not be pleased.