The Darkest Hour

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Steve Retnick’s release from Sing Sing caused a brief and seemingly casual stir of interest in the file room of the Thirty-First Detective Squad. There were three men present when Sergeant Miles Kleyburg, after a glance at his desk calendar, said: “Today’s the day. You think he’ll come back here?” There was no particular emphasis in the tone of his voice.

Lieutenant Neville stood in the doorway of his private office packing a short black pipe, and it was difficult to tell from his expression whether or not he had heard Kleyburg’s question. He was frowning slightly, and there was an impersonally irritable set to his lean, intelligent features. “You mean Steve,” he said at last, and walked past Kleyburg’s desk to the wide, dirt-streaked windows that overlooked the river. Lighting his pipe, he stared without enthusiasm at the view. Snow had fallen that morning and a high steady wind had packed it slickly and tightly on the streets and sidewalks. Gulls stood out brightly against the swollen, soot-dark river.

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