Honest Money

by Erle Stanley Gardner

  The woman sat down on the stool opposite Ken Corning. Her face was within three feet of his. Her big hands were folded upon the scarred wood of the long desk. The heavy screen separated them.

  “Hello,” she said.

  Ken Corning kept his voice low pitched.

  “Hello. I’m the attorney that your husband engaged to represent you. He thought you were just charged with unlawful possession of liquor. You’re not. They’ve got you on the charge of offering a bribe to an officer. That’s a felony.”

  He paused expectantly.

  The woman said: “Uh-huh.”

  Ken stared into the oyster eyes.

  “Well,” he said, “I’m to do the best I can for you. Can we go to trial and beat the charge?”

  The eyes didn’t change expression. The heavy face rippled into dull speech.

  “I was running a speak, me and Sam. We went in mostly for cheap food with drinks to sell to the right parties. I don’t see why they had to pick on us. Everybody’s doing it, that is, everybody anywhere round our neighborhood.”

  Ken frowned and shook his head.

  “I’m telling you it isn’t the liquor charge they’ve got you on. I could square that with a fine. It’s the bribery charge. Can we beat that?”

  The woman’s voice was blurred in its accent, indifferent and stolid in tone.

  “I don’t know. I gave him the money. They all take the money. Twice before I’ve had men call on me and say they was the law. I’ve given ’em money. I gave this man money. Then he collared me, They didn’t spot Sam. He sat down at a table and ate some grub.”

  Ken Corning made little drumming noises with the tips of his fingers. He regarded the woman through the wire mesh of the screen.

  “Have they asked you for a statement?” he wanted to know.

  A flicker of intelligence appeared in the pale, watery eyes.

  “I ain’t so dumb. I told ’em to wait until my lawyer showed up, then they could talk with him.”

  “Who was it?” asked Corning, “the one who wanted the statement?”

  She moved her head in a gesture of slow negation.

  “I dunno. Somebody from the Sheriff’s office, or the District Attorney’s office. He was a young fellow and he had a man with him that took down what I said in shorthand.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Nothin’.”

  Corning squinted his eyes thoughtfully.

  “How did it happen that they didn’t spot Sam as your husband? Usually when they make these raids they’ve had a stoolie go in and make a purchase or two. They have all the dope on where the stuff is kept and who runs the place.”

  The woman’s head turned again, slowly, from side to side.

  “I dunno. They just didn’t spot Sam, that was all. I was behind the counter at the cash register. They came walkin’ in. I think I heard somebody say There she is,’ or That’s her, now,’ or somethin’ like that. I didn’t pay so much attention. They made the pinch, and I tried to hand ’em the dough.

  “It was their fault I slipped ’em the money, too. One of the men held up the jug that had the hooch in it, and said: ‘Well, sister, what are you goin’ to do about this?’ I seen he had me, dead to rights, so I opened the cash register, an’ asked him if he’d listen to reason. He said he would. I slipped him the cash, an’ then they said something to each other and told me to come along with them.

  “Sam had got wise to what was goin’ on, an’ he’d gone over to the table an’ was boltin’ down food. I asked the law if I could close up the joint, take the cash an’ collect from the gent at the table. They said I could, an’ I did, an’ that’s all I know about it. They took me here.”

  Ken Corning clamped his mouth into a thin line.

  “Then we’ve got to plead guilty,” he said.

  She shrugged her shoulders.

  “That’s your job. I dunno. I’m tellin’ you what happened. I figured Sam would get a mouthpiece an’ spring me.”

  Corning continued to drum with his fingers.

  “Look here,” he said, “there’s something funny about this case. I’m going to keep a close mouth for a while, and see if I can find out what’s back of it. You seem to be on the outs with the ring that’s running the town. Do you know why?”

  The big head shook slowly.

  “Well,” said Corning, “sit tight for a while. Don’t talk to anyone. If anyone asks you any questions, no matter who it is, tell them to see your lawyer, Mr. Corning. Can you remember to do that?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I’ll have you arraigned and get bail set. Can you raise bail?” “How much?”

  “Maybe three thousand dollars?”

  “No.”

  “Two thousand?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Any property you could put up as security with a bail bond company for the purpose of getting them to issue a bail bond?” “No. Just cash. We had a lease on the joint. It paid fair money. Lately it ain’t been payin’.”

  Ken Corning got to his feet.

  “All light,” he said. “Sit tight. Remember what I told you. Don’t talk. I’m going to see what I can do.”

  The attendant moved forward.

  “This way,” he said to the woman, in a voice that was a mechanical monotone.

  Don Graves, the Deputy District Attorney in charge of the case of the People vs. Esther Parks, was almost totally bald, despite the fact that he was in his early thirties. His face ran to nose. The eyes on either side were round and lidless. He had a peculiar peering appearance like that of a startled anteater.

  He turned the nose directly towards Ken Corning, so that the twin eyes bored unblinkingly into those of the attorney, and said: “We won’t reduce the charge. She bribed an officer. That’s a serious offense.”

  Ken kept his temper.

  “That’s a hard charge to prove, and you know as well as I do that the officer kept angling to get her to give him money. You get a jury of twelve people together, and some of ’em are going to think it’s a hell of a note to send a woman to the pen because she had some hooch and an officer kept sticking his palm out at her. It’s only natural to slip a man something when he makes a stall like that. That isn’t being criminal That’s just human nature.” The deputy licked his lips with the tip of a pale tongue that seemed, somehow, to be utterly cold.

  “The penal code don’t say so, brother.”

  Ken Corning frowned.

  “The penal code says lots of things—so does the Constitution.”

  Don Graves said: “Yeah,” and made as though he’d turn away.

  Corning raised his voice.

  “Well, listen, about bail. If you’ll suggest to the magistrate that bail be reduced to a thousand dollars cash, I think she can raise it.”

  Graves turned back to Corning, stared lidlessly at him.

  “You heard what the magistrate said: ten thousand bucks cash, or twenty thousand bond.”

  Corning’s rage flared up.

  “A hell of a bail that is. You’d think the woman was guilty of a murder or something. If you don’t know that these cheap dicks are sticking their palms out right and left and shaking down the people that run the little speaks, you’re just plain crazy! You keep riding me around, and I’ll take this jane before a jury and see what twelve men in a box have to say about the way you’re getting so damned virtuous in York City all of a sudden.”

  The lidless eyes remained hard and peering.

  “Go ahead,” said Graves.

  “I will!” snapped Corning.

  Graves spoke as Ken Corning was halfway to the door.

  “Tell you what I will do, Corning.”

  Corning paused, turned.

  “Take her into court right away, plead her guilty as charged, and I’ll ask to have a minimum sentence imposed.”

  Corning asked: “Fine or imprisonment?”

  “Imprisonment,” said Graves. “To hell with a fine.”

  Corning’s retort was
emphatic. “To hell with you!” he said, and slammed the door.

  Helen Vail had the afternoon papers for him when he walked into his office.

  “News?” she asked.

  He grinned at her, took the papers, touched her fingertips as he took them, and suddenly patted her hand.

  “Good girl,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. You just are.”

  “How about the case?”

  “I don’t know, There’s something funny. You’d think the woman had done a murder or something. And Graves, that billiard ball guy with the snake eyes, told me he’d let me cop a minimum sentence if I’d rush her through the mill and make a plea.”

  Helen Vail’s eyes were sympathetic.

  “You mean send the woman to the pen because she slipped one of these dicks a little dough?”

  “Exactly.”

  “What’d you tell him?”

  Corning grinned.

  “That, precious, is something your little shell-like ears shouldn’t hear.”

  And he walked into the inner office, taking the papers with him. He sat in his swivel-chair, put his feet on the desk, turned to the sporting page, browsed through the headlines, turned back to the front page.

  The telephone rang.

  He called out to Miss Vail: “I’ve got it, Helen,” and scooped the receiver to his ear, holding the newspaper in one hand, the telephone in the other.

  The shrill, piping voice of Sam Parks came over the wire.

  “Listen, is this Corning, the lawyer?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okey. This is Parks. I was in to see you this morning about my wife. Listen, I know why they’re trying to give her the works. I can’t tell you over the telephone. I’m coming over. You be there?”

  “Come right away,” said Corning.

  “Yeah!” shrilled Parks excitedly, and banged the receiver into place. Ken Corning hung up, turned to the paper. There was a frown creasing his forehead. He looked at his watch. It was five minutes to four. Street noises came up through the open window. The afternoon was warm, the air laden with the scents of late summer.

  Ken’s eyes drifted unseeingly to the front page of the newspaper. Why should so much stir be made over the matter of a commonplace woman in a third-grade speakeasy giving some money to an officer who held out his hand for it? Why should a raid be made on a place where the officers hadn’t collected enough information to know who was running the place, and had let the husband slip through their fingers?

  He stared at the newspaper, let his forehead crinkle in thought, and tried to fit the ends of the puzzle together.

  Minutes passed.

  The clock on the city hall boomed the hour of four, and the big gilt hands crept around until the minute hand marked the quarter hour.

  There was the sound of a truck backfiring in the street.

  Something came trebling up through the window, the scream of a child, or of a very frightened woman. Then there was the sound of rubber tires, skidding into a turn on pavement, the shout of a man.

  There was a second of silence, and then the noise made by many voices, the sound of feet running on cement. A siren wailed in the distance.

  Ken Corning, lost in contemplation, did not interpret the significance of those sounds until the siren had become a scream, until the clanging bell of the ambulance sounded almost directly beneath his office window, and until the door of his private office opened and Helen Vail stared at him.

  “There seems to have been a man hurt,” she said.

  Ken Corning put down the paper and went to the window. Helen put her hand on his shoulder as they leaned out. Corning was conscious of the touch of her hair against his cheek, the pressure of her hand on his shoulder. He slid his right arm out, around her waist.

  They looked down upon the street.

  There was no traffic. Such vehicles as were on the street were stalled. Men swarmed about like busy ants, moving in seething disorder. An ambulance was backing towards the curb. A uniformed officer was clearing a path for it. Stalled cars, their motors running, belched forth thin smoke films which made the air a light blue color.

  A black circle of men were not moving. They were grouped about something which lay on the sidewalk. From that form there was a dark stain which had welled along the cement until it trickled in a thin, sluggish stream into the gutter.

  The man was big and fat. He was lying on his back.

  “Good heavens!” said the voice of Helen Vail, “it’s the man who was in the office.”

  Ken Corning swung from the window. He reached the doorway of the private office in three strides, and gained the stairs. He went down them two at a time. He reached the sidewalk as the men were loading the stretcher. He pushed his way through the crowd. Men muttered comments, turned and stared at him, growled warnings to watch what he was doing. Corning paid no attention to them.

  He reached the inner circle, saw the stretcher bearers heaving against the weight of the bulk that they strove to place in the ambulance.

  Parks had been shot twice. To all appearances he was dead. The bullet holes welled a red trail which dripped from the stretcher. The eyes were half open and waxy. The skin was like discolored dough. The hands trailed limply at the ends of dangling arms.

  One of the stretcher bearers spoke sharply.

  “Give us a hand here, some of you guys!”

  Ken Corning pushed through the circle as two of the spectators swirled forward. A uniformed officer also bent to give a lift. Corning asked a question: “Who saw it? How did it happen?”

  Men stared at him with blank curiosity. He was hatless, wandering about asking how it had happened, and men regarded him as a part of the incident which had broken into the routine of their daily life. They watched him with that expression of impersonal curiosity with which fish in an aquarium stare at spectators who press against the glass tank.

  On the fifth repetition of the question, a man gave an answer.

  “I saw it. He drove up in an automobile and parked the car. He started walking along the street. The guy that shot him was in a roadster. He pulled right in to the curb, and he didn’t drive away until he was sure the guy was dead. The first shot smacked him over. He shot again when the guy was on the cement. I seen him twitch when the second bullet struck!”

  Corning led the man to one side.

  “Drove up in a car, eh? Which car?”

  He indicated the line of parked machines.

  The witness shrugged his shoulders. “I ain’t sure. I think it was the flivver over there. I remember that it was a car that had a smashed fender, You know, there wasn’t no reason why I should notice him until …”

  “Yes,” said Corning, “I know. Now you want some advice?”

  The man looked at him with curious eyes.

  “Huh?” he asked.

  “Get away from here and don’t tell your story to a soul. Go to headquarters, get the homicide squad’s office and ask for Sergeant Horne. He’s on the square. Tell your story to him, and ask that your name be withheld. Otherwise, if you got a good look at the man that did the shooting, you might find yourself parked on a marble slab. Killers don’t like witnesses.”

  The man’s face paled. “Gee,” he said; then, after an interval: “Gee whiz!”

  He spun on his heel, started walking rapidly away. From time to time he glanced over his shoulder.

  His tip gave Ken Corning the chance to be the first man to examine the light car with the bent fender.

  He looked at the registration certificate which was strapped about the steering post of the car. That showed the machine was registered in the name of Esther Parks, and the address which was given was the same address as that of the place which had been raided when the woman was arrested.

  Ken felt of the seat. It was still warm.

  He noticed an afternoon newspaper lying on the floorboards. He picked it up. There was nothing else on the inside of the car to give any inkling as to w
ho had driven or owned it. Ken felt in the flap pocket of the right-hand door. His groping fingers encountered a lady’s handkerchief, a pair of pliers, the cap from an inner tube, and a bit of pasteboard. He pulled out the pasteboard.

  It was red, bearing the insignia of the police department. It was, he found when he deciphered the scrawled lines which were placed in the printed blanks, a ticket for parking within fifteen feet of a fire hydrant on Seventh Street, between Madison and Harkley. The time was checked at three-forty five, of that day.

  Ken pocketed the ticket and walked around to the front of the car, inspecting the dent in the fender. There was but little paint left upon the nondescript car which Parks had been driving. That little paint had been cracked and chipped where the fender had crumpled. And, on the tip of that crumpled fender, was a spot of bright red enamel, evidently taken from the car with which the flivver had collided.

  Ken examined the front of the springs, the radiator, found further evidences of a collision, further bits of red paint. The accident had evidently been very recent.

  Aside from those things, there was nothing to indicate anything whatever about the occupant of the car, or the errand upon which it had been driven.

  Ken walked to the curb, looked at the crowd which was commencing to move along under orders of the uniformed police. The traffic was moving now, crawling past at a snail’s pace, horns blaring. An officer, accompanied by a woman, moved along the parked lane of cars, inspecting them.

  Corning felt that this woman had seen the fat man emerge from a machine, but couldn’t identify the machine. Ken let himself drift away with the scattering spectators. He walked around the block, and back to his office. He climbed the stairs, smiled at Helen Vail’s white face.

  “Was it … ?”

  He nodded, passed into the inner office. She came and stood in the doorway. Ken smoothed out the newspaper he had taken from the car Parks had driven. He spread it out.

  A knife had cut away a section of the front page.

  “Was it because he came here?” asked Helen, mustering her courage.

  Ken Corning reached for the other afternoon newspaper he had been reading when the sound of the shots had interrupted him. He nodded absently as he spread the two front pages out on the desk, one over the other.