Clandestine

"Look at this," he said, digging into his coat pocket and pulling out Maggie Cadwallader's diamond brooch.

"Jesus!" I said. "Where the hell did you get that? Is it real?"

"Dudley says so. He knows a lot about this kind of stuff, and he says it's legit. I found it at Engels's apartment hidden away in a tie rack."

"Jesus," I said, feigning awe, my wheels turning. "Jesus. When I searched the Cadwallader dame's apartment, I found a little photograph of her. She was wearing a brooch just like this one!"

"Christ, Underhill! What did you do with it?"

"I lost it when I had the newspaper photo reprinted."

"Shit. I'll tell Dudley."

Carlisle disappeared through the door that connected the two rooms, and I busied myself throwing water on my face and combing my hair. When I entered the interrogation room Dick Carlisle was slapping Eddie Engels awake, and Dudley and Mike Breuning were huddled in conversation. Seeing me, Dudley waved me toward him.

"Freddy, you're sure you saw a brooch like this one in that photograph you found?" He held it up for me to see.

"I'm positive, Dud."

"Grand, another confirmation. You sit back, lad. Remember your cue."

Carlisle went back to rousing Engels. "Wake up, wake up, you goddamned degenerate!" he shouted, then gave up in frustration, and stripped his belt from his trousers and lashed it across Eddie's bare back.

Engels, coming out of his doped stupor, curled himself into a fetal ball, his arms covering his face. "No, don't hit me, you can have it. You can have it all, don't hit me!" he shrieked.

Carlisle shrieked back: "We want the truth, you homo! The truth!"

"I'm not a homo!"

"Prove it!" Carlisle flailed Engels again with his belt. The heavy brass buckle catch ripped shreds of flesh loose from his shoulder blades, and Eddie threw himself onto his back to protect himself.

Dudley wrenched the belt from Carlisle and wrapped it around his broad right fist. "Ask Janet!" Eddie pleaded.

"I did, lad. Shall I tell you what she said?"

Engels faltered. "Tell me," he whispered.

Dudley Smith moved to the bed, picked up Engels under his arms and threw him across the room. He landed in a wild tangle of arms and legs and screamed. I gasped at the feat of strength. Dudley walked to Engels and jerked him to his feet with his left hand, then slammed a leather-encased right hand into his stomach. Engels screamed again, and doubled over, still held erect by the hand Dudley had dug into his shoulder.

"Janet told me that you were a dirty, cock-sucking degenerate," Dudley said, "who spurned her bed for the bed of a muscle-bound nancy boy. Is that true, Eddie?"

"No!"

"No?" Dudley dug his hand into Engel's shoulder until little geysers of blood shot out. "No, Eddie?"

Eddie Engels screamed, "No!"

"No?"

"No!"

"No?" Blood was trickling down Engels's chest, combining with his sweat. Dudley gritted his teeth and dug his hand in full force. "No?" he screeched, his brogue almost breaking. He released his hand and Engels fell to his knees, sobbing.

"Yes," he blubbered.

"Good, lad. Now answer a few more questions for me. Do you pay income tax?"

"No."

"Ahhh, yes. Do you take bets on the ponies?"

"Yes." Engels pawed at his shoulder. It was a giant purple swelling with deep puncture wounds.

"Get to your feet, lad," Dudley said. Engels managed to bring himself upright, and Dudley swung a huge roundhouse right at his midsection. Engels stifled a scream and fell to the floor, clutching his stomach. "More questions, lad. Janet told me you hit her. Is that true?"

"No!" Engels elbowed his way toward the wall, drawing his arms protectively over his head. "No! No! No! No!" he shrieked, drawing himself tighter into a ball with each screaming repeat of the word.

Dudley smiled menacingly. "No?"

"Yes," Engels said softly.

"Ahhh, grand. Did you hit her often, lad?"

"Yes."

"And other women?"

"Yes."

"Why? You filthy scum-sucker!"

"I . . . I . . . I don't know!"

"You . . . don't . . . know." Dudley tried the words on his palate like a connoisseur tasting a fine wine. "Tell me about the muscle boy, lad."

I looked around the room. Dick Carlisle was sipping a beer by the bathroom door, Mike Breuning was writing rapidly on his steno pad, and Dudley Smith was inching himself slowly toward the prostrate form of Eddie Engels. He squatted next to him and said softly, "Do you believe in God, lad?"

Engels nodded his head. "Yes."

"Then don't you think God wants you to be rid of your guilt, like a good believer?"

"Yes," Engels said, his voice surprisingly calm.

"Good, lad. Tell me about the muscle boy."

"His name was Jerry. I met him at Larry's Log Cabin. He was on dope. He needed help and I helped him."

"Did he like to hit women, too?"

"No!"

"Did the two of you prowl for lonely young women to beat up, then go home and commit sodomy with each other?"

"No! Please God, no, please God!" Engels wailed.