Honest Money

by Erle Stanley Gardner

  “Go on,” she said. “What happened?”

  “The News, ” he told her, “goes to bed around two-thirty or three o’clock. Copley was leaving the paper. There’s an owl street car that makes a swing, and Copley had been in the habit of taking that car. He didn’t see very well, and he was afraid to drive his own car. He was always prejudiced against a hired chauffeur.

  “Anyhow, he got to the front of his apartment house, got out of the car. The car started on. An automobile swung around the corner, coming fast, and Copley hugged the safety zone. That car held him there, so he couldn’t dodge.

  ‘“Another machine was running directly behind it, without lights. As the first machine flashed past, the second swerved out from the rear, cut directly across the safety zone and smashed Copley down. Both cars sped away.”

  “Kill him?” asked the girl.

  “Deader’n a door nail.”

  “Was Dangerfield mixed up in it?”

  “He says not. He got me here, said he knew that the crime was committed by certain political enemies, and that he’d been tipped off there was going to be an attempt made to involve him in it. He didn’t have any particulars, just had an anonymous telephone call telling him he was to be put in a bad spot, and he’d better run for cover.”

  “He didn’t know who called him?” she asked.

  “No. It was a woman’s voice.”

  “You told Mm to skip out?”

  He grinned down at her.

  “Gosh,” he said, “you’re worse than a detective. No. Of course not. I told him that if he were not apprehended before morning papers came out, he’d doubtless have an opportunity to learn something of the facts of the case that would be built up against him. And, of course, in the case of a frame-up, the more one knows of what the evidence is going to be, the more one can tell what to do about it.”

  He reached in the inside pocket of his coat and took out a leather wallet. From the wallet lie took two fifty-dollar bills, a twenty, three tens, and a check for nine hundred dollars.

  “Retainer,” he said. “Enter it up in the cash.”

  She turned the check over in her fingers. It was signed Amos Dangerfield in a hand that showed slight irregularities.

  “Looks like he was sort of nervous when he signed that check,” Helen Vail said.

  “Try waking yourself up at two o’clock in the morning and finding that there’s a murder charge hanging over your head, and see how you feel,” he told her.

  She grinned. Her mouth twisted in a little grimace. “No, thanks,” she said. She moved towards the door, paused. “They got any motive?” she asked.

  ‘Lord, yes! They’ve got motives to burn. Dangerfield was at swords’ points with Copley. At one time Dangerfield had political ambitions. He started getting them again, lately. Copley should have been the one to support him. His paper’s against the administration. Of late he’s been getting a lot of stuff on graft. He was preparing to blow the lid off the town and expose the whole machine that’s in power. If the campaign had been successful it would have swept the old bunch out of office and Copley could have written the slate. Dangerfield thought Copley should give him something nice. Copley had other plans.”

  Helen Vail’s eyes narrowed.

  “They won’t dare to show that as a motive,” she said. “And, at that, it isn’t much of a motive. A man wouldn’t go out and murder someone just because he couldn’t get some political job.”

  “Sure,” he told her. “But be your age. They’ll use the quarrel the two men had, a bitter quarrel. Everyone in the office of the newspaper heard it. Dangerfield accused Copley of giving him a double-cross. He threatened to do everything from horsewhipping Copley to blowing up the paper and suing him for libel. You see, in the mess of stuff that Copley had collected to show graft and what-not, he uncovered a dump down on Birkel Street. It’s rather a tough neighborhood. There was a sort of dance-hall running there. It was a place that paid protection money, and the sort of things went on there that you’d expect to run if you were paying protection money.

  “Copley chased back in the records to find who owned the building, just on general principles. He found that the owner was Amos Dangerfield. Dangerfield didn’t even know what sort of a place it was or what was happening down there. He turned the whole thing over to an agent, and the agent ran the place and collected the rents.

  “But Copley was going to publish the story of this dance-hall as the opening gun in his campaign. He had a sob sister story on a couple of the dancers there, and a straight case of bribery, clean up to a sergeant.

  “Naturally, it’d have put Dangerfield on a political spot. He could have made all the alibis he wanted about not knowing what was going on there, and all the rest of it, but he’d never have been elected even to the office of dog catcher on a reform ticket. Copley knew that and that’s why he was throwing Dangerfield over. If he’d teamed up with Dangerfield, he’d have had to throw away one of his best stories. He figured it’d be cheaper to get some other guy for office.”

  Helen Vail let her face squint up with thought.

  “Gee,” she said, “some of that stuff must have been hot— politically.”

  “Of course it was,” he said. “It was dynamite.”

  “What happened to it?”

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  “Nobody knows. Probably nobody ever will know. The authorities took charge of everything. They claimed that they had to dig up evidence about the murder. They pawed through a lot of stuff. They claim they didn’t find anything.”

  “You mean they had someone slip it out of the safe or wherever it was, and destroy it?”

  He said:

  “I don’t mean anything except that they didn’t find anything. The authorities who made the investigation were the same authorities who were to be put on the pan by the evidence that Copley had collected. You can draw your own conclusions.”

  “Well,” she asked, “what do you think?”

  He grinned at her.

  “Try reading my mind. It’s what a jury will be asked to do.”

  “You think the case will go to a jury?”

  “Sure. They want to make Dangerfield the goat. They’ve got to. They thought they could rub Copley out without leaving any back trail. But, if they did leave a back trail, it was going to be one that led directly to the fall guy, and that’s what Dangerfield is. Even if a jury acquits him, the people will think that he was guilty.”

  “What you figuring on, Chief?”

  “I’m going to try to beat ’em to it and dig up some witnesses.”

  “Going to hire a detective to do the leg work?”

  No. I’m going to do it myself. I can’t trust anybody on this thing. It’s too delicate.”

  Corning rang the doorbell. The woman who answered the ring was broad of shoulder and hip. Her arms were bare, and they were well muscled. Her eyes had an expression of stony hostility.

  “Well,” she said, “what do you want?”

  Ken Corning grinned.

  “I’m an attorney,” he said. “Pm representing Amos Dangerfield who lives next door.”

  “Oh,” she said, “the one who murdered the newspaperman, eh?”

  Corning grinned.

  “No,” he said, “he didn’t murder the newspaperman.”

  The woman said, uncordially: “Well, come in and sit down. Don’t try to get me mixed into the thing, though. I don’t want to go on a witness stand and have a bunch of lawyers yelling questions at me.”

  “Certainly,” he soothed. “Pm just trying to get the facts. Mr. Dangerfield lives next door to you. That’s his flat, the one on this side, I believe?”

  The woman nodded, led the way into a sitting-room. The windows opened out on a strip of lawn. Across that lawn was a driveway. At the end of the driveway were three garages, beyond the garages was a large rambling house.

  “What did you think I’d know?” asked the woman.

  “Something about what time the
car was taken from the garage,” he said.

  “I only know I heard a lot of men out there this morning. It was early, just before daylight. Right around when it was getting gray dawn. They trampled things up and took flashlight pictures. They claim they found blood and hair on the bumper of the car, and that there was a place on the left front fender where …”

  “Yes,” he said, “I know all about that. How about prior to that time? Did you hear the garage door open, or anything like that?”

  “No.”

  “How many people on this west side of the house?”

  “Three.”

  “Can you give me their names and where I can find them? I presume they’re working now.”

  “Two of them are. There’s one that isn’t. He’s out of work now. I think he’s leaving here on the first.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Oscar Briggs. He was an accountant. He specialized in income tax work. There ain’t any business in his line now. His clients haven’t had any income.”

  “I wonder if I could run up and speak with him.”

  “I guess so. I’ll take you up to his room.”

  They climbed stairs, went down a corridor to the back of the house. She knocked on a door. Windows looked down in the driveway, right at the very entrance of the garage.

  Steps sounded from the inside of the room. A man opened the door, saw the broad shoulders of the woman on the threshold.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Markle, but I can’t let you have-——”

  She interrupted him.

  “There’s a gentleman wants to see you.”

  She stood to one side so that he could see Ken Corning.

  The man was tall and slender. He carried himself with an air of dignity. But there was a subtle something in his manner which suggested that his poise was punctured. He seemed a man who had made something of an established position for himself, and had come to regard that position as being secure. Then he had found his values dissolving before his eyes, his very foundations crumbling. Pie kept the outward semblance of dignity and poise, but there was something in the back of his eyes, a suggestion of panic.

  Ken Corning moved forward and held out his hand.

  “My name’s Corning, Mr. Briggs. I’d like to talk with you for a few minutes.”

  “Come in,” said Briggs.

  “You’ll excuse me,” said Mrs. Markle. “I’ve got work to do, and there’s no way I can help you.”

  Corning said: “Certainly, and thank you, Mrs. Markle.”

  Briggs indicated a chair.

  Corning sat down. The windows of the room looked down directly upon the doorways of the garages. There was a writing desk in the room and Briggs had evidently been half way through a letter.

  “I’m representing Mr. Dangerfield,” said Corning.

  “A lawyer?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see.”

  “You’ve read the papers?”

  “Yes. Of course we knew something about it. The police came somewhere around daylight this morning. They wanted to examine the car, and they were trying to locate Dangerfield. He had skipped out. Seemed a mighty nice fellow, too. I understood he was doing some research work. Has the entire upper floor of the building across from us, I believe.”

  Corning said: “Yes,” and waited.

  Briggs moved uncomfortably.

  “That all you know?” asked Ken Corning.

  “Yes.”

  “You didn’t hear the garage doors open or close during the night, didn’t hear the car come in? Didn’t, by any chance, see that Mr. Dangerfield was in his rooms last night at any particular time, or see him driving the machine, did you?”

  Briggs fidgeted around in his chair.

  “Look here,” he said, “who told you to come to me?”

  “No one. I’m representing a client who’s charged with a very grave offense, and I want to see if I can find out something about the facts.”

  Briggs kept his eyes averted.

  “Well,” said Corning.

  “No. I don’t know anything else.”

  Ken Corning said, very solemnly: “It’s a murder case, you know, Mr. Briggs.”

  “And I don’t want to be put on the stand and have a lot of lawyers yell questions at me,” said Briggs.

  Corning smiled affably.

  “Oh, it isn’t as bad as that. You’ll be subpenaed, of course, and you’ll have to tell what you know. But people won’t do any shouting.”

  “You mean I’ll have to go to court?”

  “Oh, yes. You’ll be called. The fact that you didn’t hear anything might be of some value. Negative testimony, you know, and all that.”

  “But I don’t want to go to court.”

  “Unfortunately, you’ll have to. It’s one of those things that come up at times, like jury duty. And, of course, Mr. Briggs, if you do know anything, it would be far better to tell me now. You see, if you get on the stand and testify under oath and conceal any facts it would be a grave offense. On the other hand, if you should insist to me that you know nothing, and then tell a different story when you got on the witness stand, it would make you very uncomfortable, put you in a false light, you know.”

  Briggs sighed, suddenly raised his eyes to Corning’s.

  “All right,” he said, “if you put it that way, I’ll tell what I know. I hadn’t intended to tell a soul. But I guess I’d have had to weaken before the case was over, particularly if it got to looking bad for Mr. Dangerfield. I don’t think he drove the car at all.”

  “No?” asked Ken Corning, sitting very still in his chair.

  “No. I think he was at home abed. You see, I can look across into his flat. There aren’t any women on this side of the house, and Mr. Dangerfield is a bachelor, something of a recluse, I understand. As a result we don’t draw the shades at night, none of us.

  “I was up late last night. I saw Dangerfield padding around in his pajamas. He went to bed about midnight. I was sitting up, trying to figure some way out of my personal situation. My business is none too good at the present time.

  “Well, about one o’clock, or a little earlier, I heard the sound of the garage door downstairs being opened, rather slowly. I had turned out the light in my room because my eyes hurt. In fact, I’d put on pajamas, and had tried to sleep, but couldn’t.

  “I looked out of the window.

  “There were four men who were pushing a car out of Dangerfield’s garage. They had another car parked at the curb with the motor running.

  “Of course, I thought right away of car thieves. They were evidently running the car out of the garage by man power so that the motor wouldn’t make a noise and alarm anyone.

  “I started to give an alarm, but I didn’t know what to do. There’s no telephone here in this room, you see, and I’d have had to go downstairs and alarm the house in order to get the telephone. By the time I could have notified the police it’d have been too late. And I didn’t want to put my head out of the window and start yelling. One reads so much about gangsters shooting, these days.”

  Corning nodded. His eyes were slitted in concentration.

  “I know,” he said. “Go on.”

  Briggs said: “Well, it was done so smoothly and so rapidly that I couldn’t do a thing. Even while I was sitting there, debating what I was going to do, it was all over. They got the car to the curb. A man jumped m, just one man. He started the car and drove away. The other three got in the other car that was parked at the curb, and followed. I figured Mr. Dangerfield had just lost a car, but I also figured it was insured, and that perhaps he’d just as soon have the insurance as the car, so I decided to forget it.

  “I didn’t go back to bed. I sat there in a chair by the window. About one-forty, I heard a noise. Two cars drove up and stopped at the curb. Then one of the cars was rolled up the driveway, just the way it had been rolled down. It looked like Dangerfield’s car. They had switched off the lights and the motor, and they pushed the car up into
the garage and closed the door.”

  Ken Corning spoke very slowly, sat very still in his chair.

  “Did you,” he asked, “see any of the men so that you could recognize them if you saw them again, or give a description?”

  “I saw the one who drove Dangerfield’s car. He crossed in front of the headlights of the other car, once. I had a glimpse.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “He was a heavy-set man with a white hat. That is, it looked white in the glare of the headlights. It was probably just a light color. He had on a tweed suit and brown shoes. I caught a glimpse of the face, but looking down on it, it was hard to tell very much about it. I saw that there was a scar along one cheek. That was about all I could see.”

  Ken Corning said: “And you’ve told no one about this?”

  “No.”

  “You’d better write it out. Make just a brief statement in your own words. Sign that statement and give it to me. I’ll promise you that I won’t call you as a witness unless I have to. It may be I can get the case dismissed without having to go to a trial.” Briggs moved towards the desk with alacrity.

  “If you could only do that,” he said, “it’d sure be a load off my mind. I didn’t know what to do. When I read of the murder in the paper, and the fact that the police claimed Dangerfield’s machine had done the job … Well, I’ve been in a stew ever since daylight.”

  He sat down at the desk and started to write.

  Ken Corning lit a cigarette. He sat, thoughtfully smoking.

  A knock sounded at the door, a heavy, imperious knock.

  Corning looked at Briggs. Briggs got up from the desk, strode to the door, opened it. A man pushed his way into the room, without greeting, glowered about him.

  “Which one of you guys is Briggs, the guy that lives here?”

  “I am,” said Briggs.

  “Then this other guy is the lawyer, eh?”

  Ken Corning got to his feet, pinched out the cigarette.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “Harry Smoot, of the Detective Bureau. I’m here looking around. I heard you was out here. Your name’s Corning, ain’t it?”

  “Yes,” said Ken Corning.