Honest Money

by Erle Stanley Gardner

Smoot walked over to a chair and sat down.

  “You ain’t told this lawyer anything, have you?” he asked of Briggs.

  Briggs seemed a little nettled.

  “When you interrupted me,” he said, “I was in the middle of a statement concerning what I had seen and heard.”

  “Oh, ho,” said the detective, “you know something then.”

  “Yes,” said Briggs. “I had just finished telling Mr. Corning about it.”

  Smoot’s heavy face settled into a portentous frown.

  “Listen, guy, when there’s been a murder committed, and you know something about it, the thing for you to do is to get in touch with the police, not go running around telling lawyers all you know, Do you get that?”

  Briggs said: “I guess I have a right to talk with whom I wish, haven’t I?”

  Ken Corning strolled nonchalantly over to the desk, Briggs had covered two pages of stationery with his statement. It was, of course, as yet unsigned. Corning slipped the papers into his pocket while Smoot glowered at Briggs.

  “I’m just telling you,” said the detective, “for your own good. You don’t want to get in no trouble, do you? Well, the thing to do is to get in touch with the police when you know anything. Now what is it you know?”

  Briggs said: “I know that Dangerfield wasn’t driving his car last night, that other men took out that car, and that they returned it. I know that their conduct was suspicious when they took the car out and also when they returned it. I believe this whole crime was framed on Amos Dangerfield.”

  The detective’s face was dark.

  “Now listen, guy, you’re goin’ too far and too fast. You can’t know all this stuff without being mixed up in the thing some way. And what you know ain’t right, See? We got the deadwood on this case. What you’ve done is to listen to this lawyer until he’s got you all balled up about what you did see.”

  Ken Corning said: “Don’t let this man browbeat you, Briggs.”

  Smoot whirled on Corning.

  “I’ve half a mind to run you in,” he said, “tampering with witnesses.”

  Ken Corning said in low, ominous tones: “Have you a warrant for me?”

  “Not yet,” said the detective. “That ain’t saying I ain’t going to have one.”

  “All right,” Corning told him grimly, “when you do get one, you can serve it. Until you do get it, your talk don’t mean a damned thing, except that if you keep on looking for trouble you’re going to find it.”

  “Yeah? Well, guy, I’m going to report what I’ve found out here, your tampering with a state’s witness.”

  Corning suddenly pushed forward.

  “All right. Go ahead and report. Now get out of my way!”

  The detective stood on one side.

  “How about that statement?” he asked Briggs. “You didn’t sign anything, did you?”

  “No. I hadn’t finished it, so I didn’t sign it.”

  “Where is it?”

  Corning, at the door, turned.

  “I’ve got it in my pocket,” he said. “It’s my statement, made for me at my request.”

  Smoot strode towards him ominously.

  “You can’t get away with that,” he said. “Give it up!”

  Ken Corning planted his feet wide apart.

  “That statement,” he said, slowly, “is in my inside coat pocket. It’s going to stay there. Do you think otherwise? If you do, just try to get it.”

  His eyes blazed into those of the detective.

  For fifteen seconds they stood there, the big detective sullen and enraged, Corning flashing fire from his eyes, standing his ground, cool and deadly.

  “You’ll hear from this!” said Smoot.

  “Bah!” said Ken. “Go hand your line to some kid who’s afraid of you!”

  He turned on his heel and walked down the stairs.

  Helen Vail took the sheets of paper.

  “Put them in a lock box somewhere,” Corning told her. “Don’t trust to the safe in the office.”

  “You think it’ll bust the case?” she asked, looking down at the scrawled writing on the paper.

  “Can’t tell. It’ll give the District Attorney something to worry about. I want to get hold of Dangerfield now and have him surrender. Then I can get a date set down for the preliminary hearing and have a subpena issued for this witness.”

  “Do you know where Dangerfield is? Wouldn’t that be dangerous?”

  He grinned at her.

  “I told them I didn’t know where he is, and I don’t. But I wouldn’t be such a fool as to let a client charged with murder get away without knowing how I could get in touch with him. I can’t go to him, but I can get him to come to me.

  “I just put an ad in the personal column in the Clarion that’ll do the trick. Dangerfield’s watching that column. He’ll communicate with me as soon as he sees the ad.”

  Helen Vail said: “Did you see the late papers about the witness the state has got?”

  “No,” he said. “Who is It? What will he swear to?”

  “Some fellow named Bob Durane. Claims he was driving a car along the boulevard, just after Copley was struck down. He says that a car went past him at terrific speed, running without lights, and that there was a lone man in the car, driving. He says that when the man went past him there was a street light where it shone on the man’s face, and that he’ll recognize him if he sees him again.”

  Ken Corning blinked rapidly.

  “Who is this bird, and where is he?” he asked.

  “The District Attorney’s office has got him sewed up over in the Palace Hotel. The paper said ‘a downtown hotel,’ but the Palace was where they buried those other witnesses, and I suppose that’s where they’ve got this baby planted.”

  Ken Corning paced the floor.

  “A plant,” he said. “Pulling this stuff through the newspapers is going to make things rough for Dangerfield.”

  She stared up at him and said: “Isn’t there anything you can do about it?”

  He nodded grimly.

  “Sure. They come busting in on my witnesses and browbeat them for even talking with the lawyer for the defense. They get their own witnesses and put them under guard. They’d probably arrest anyone that even tried to talk with them. When I try to get a statement about what happened it’s ‘tampering with a witness.’ When they want a statement, they bury their witness somewhere and put a guard around him.”

  “That ain’t fair,” she said,

  “Of course it ain’t fair, but the people don’t know it. They just can’t be bothered.”

  “Maybe there’s some way we could make ‘em know it, Chief. We might be able to let ’em know …”

  “Exactly what I’m going to do right now,” he told her. “I’m going to bust over there and demand to interview the witness. There’ll be some news-hungry reporters hanging around there. They’ll have a guard on the room, and I’ll let the guard throw me out. That’ll make news. Then the people will think maybe there’s something funny about it.”

  She nodded.

  The outer office door clicked. A shadow hulked into the room, then a man pushed his way into the office. It was the same man who had been in earlier in the morning with the officer.

  He held out a copy of a newspaper, damp from the presses.

  “What’s the meaning of this, Corning?” he demanded.

  Ken Corning glanced significantly at the papers which Helen Vail held in her hand.

  She abruptly thrust them down the front of her dress. The detective stared at her.

  “Meaning of what?” asked Ken Corning,

  “Meaning of this personal ad: ‘A.D. Have uncovered evidence desired. Any time now is all right. Telephone first. Ken. ’ ”

  “How should I know what it means?” said Corning.

  The detective moved towards Helen Vail.

  “Say,” he said, “you were hiding something. You don’t want to get mixed in this, baby! It’s going to be a fight. What was i
t you had in your hand when I came in?”

  She pushed towards the door.

  The detective reached out a hand and hooked two fingers down the V-shaped opening in the front of her dress.

  “Now listen, sister… .”

  Ken Corning crossed to the detective in two swift strides.

  “Take your hand away!” he snapped.

  The detective caught the blazing fire of the eyes, whirled around, snarling.

  “Say-y-y-y,” he said, “if you …”

  Helen Vail ducked under his arm, scurried across the outer office and into the corridor. The detective turned awkwardly, made a clutch at the empty atmosphere, glowered at Corning.

  “You don’t try to get along at all,” he said. “You’re just a smart Aleck that don’t know what he can do and what he can’t do. This is your first big case, youngster, and you’re going to wind up by being in awful bad.”

  Ken Corning stood rigid, poised.

  “This is my private office. I don’t want a bunch of roughneck detectives barging in here without invitation. You’ve had too damned many privileges as it is. Now, damn you, get out of here, or I’ll bust your face wide open.”

  “Yeah?” asked the detective,

  “Yeah. You’ve busted in here once too often. And when you presume to lay your dirty paws on my secretary, you’ve clean overstepped every vestige of authority you ever had.”

  The detective fidgeted.

  “I didn’t touch her. I just wanted to ask her a question.”

  “The hell you didn’t touch her! You started pawing her over. I saw you and she felt you. Now are you going to get out, or shall I put you out?”

  The detective turned.

  “Oh, all right! If you’re figuring on framing me, go ahead. But remember that you’re bucking something that’s licked many another guy that thought he was going to make a big reputation for himself as a criminal lawyer. You can’t buck the system. If you’re going to get on in this game you gotta play ball.”

  Ken Corning sneered.

  The detective stalked through the outer door.

  Ken Corning stood, feet planted widely apart, watching the automatic door check bring the door to a close. Then he got his hat. He waited for a minute or two, then left the office, locking it behind him. He took a cab to the Palace Hotel.

  There were newspaper men in the lobby.

  Reed Nixon, of the Star, recognized him.

  “Hello, Corning. Hear you’re representing Dangerfield. How about an interview? How about telling us something?”

  “Sure thing,” said Corning.

  Nixon hurriedly piloted him over to a corner of the lobby, where he was screened from the other reporters.

  “Listen, guy, how about this? Give me something nice, a defiant statement, something with a fight in it. Say it’s a dirty political frame-up.”

  “It’s a dirty political frame-up,” said Corning.

  “That’s fine. Where’s Dangerfield?”

  “Dangerfield was called away hurriedly upon a business trip. As soon as he reads that he is wanted, however, he will surrender himself. You can say that I promise to have Dangerfield in the hands of the authorities within another twenty-four hours.”

  “Attaboy!” said Nixon.

  “Where have they got this witness parked, Nixon?”

  “Up on the third floor, 324. You can’t see him. They got a couple of muscle men on guard. You’ve got to have a pass from the D. A. to get in.”

  “That’s not right,” said Corning. “A man should be given some opportunity to know what he’s charged with. The lawyer of one side should be entitled to no advantage that the lawyer of the other side isn’t given.”

  Nixon laughed.

  “Gee,” he said, “that’s a fine lot of hooey, but I’d like to hear you tell the D. A. that.”

  “I’m going to,” said Corning.

  Nixon nodded.

  “That’s the old spirit. Let me in on the ground floor. Give me something else that’s got a wallop in it.”

  “You got a photographer here?” asked Corning.

  “I can get one pretty quick. Why?”

  “Nothing, but if I should try to interview that witness, and should get treated rather roughly, and if you should have a photographer get a flashlight of me being thrown out on my ear, it would make a good action story, wouldn’t it?”

  “I’ll say!”

  Then, as the reporter thought a minute, he added: “It would maybe make the D. A. sore, though.”

  “Why?”

  “Oh, some of the people might get to figuring there was something funny about a witness that the D. A. had to keep all buttoned up that way. When it came to trial you might be able to catch someone on the jury with the argument that the thing was a political frame-up.”

  “A dirty political frame-up,” corrected Corning. “Don’t forget the adjective.”

  “Okey then, a dirty political frame-up.”

  “Going to get the photographer?” asked Corning.

  Nixon squinted his eyes.

  “Stick around,” he said. “I’ll phone. Don’t get chummy with the other boys. The boss might risk rubbing the D. A. the wrong way, if we got an exclusive.”

  Corning nodded, sat down and lit a cigarette.

  Inattentively his eyes, watching the crowds on the street, strayed aimlessly. The big, overstuffed chair was placed in front of the plate-glass window, and he could see the people hurrying to and fro.

  His eyes rested on a roadster in which two men sat. They seemed interested in the front of the hotel Corning remembered that they had passed the taxicab in which he had been riding. He watched them.

  The car was a police car. The two men were plain-clothes officers. Corning could not remember having seen either of them before, but the maimer in which they wore their clothes, held their heads, stared at the entrance of the hotel, labeled them for what they were.

  Ken Corning smoked up his cigarette. Reed Nixon came back to him.

  “I’ve got the photographer,” he said, “all planted with a flashlight and a camera that won’t attract attention. He’ll follow you down the corridor. Go up to the third floor and turn to the left when you leave the elevator.”

  Ken Corning got to his feet, grinned, and walked to the elevator.

  Reed Nixon strolled to the stairways, vanished from sight.

  Ken Corning left the elevator at the third floor, turned left and walked down the corridor. He checked the numbers on the doors as he went past them.

  When he had passed 318 and was approaching 320 a man who had been standing in the corridor came towards him.

  “What you looking for, buddy?”

  “Three twenty-four.”

  “Got a pass from the D. A.?”

  “No,” said Corning gravely. “I’m Corning, the lawyer who is representing Mr. Dangerfield. I understand that there’s a witness here who knows something about what happened. I want to talk with him.”

  The man grinned.

  “Well,” he said, “he don’t want to talk with you.”

  Corning’s face was baby-faced in its utter innocence.

  “Well,” he said, “if he’d tell me that, it would be all I’d want. That would show that he was biased in favor of one side of the case, you see; and I could spring it on him when I cross-examined him.”

  The man frowned, stared fixedly at Ken Corning.

  “Say, listen, what you doing? Taking me for a goof?”

  Ken said: “Are you?”

  “Am I what?”

  “A goof.”

  The man pushed his way forward.

  “Okey. That’s enough out of you. On your way. I don’t want any more of your lip, buddy.”

  Ken Corning stood his ground.

  “I wish to see Mr. Robert Durane,” he said.

  “On your way, guy. Beat it!”

  The man pushed out a big hand. Ken Corning pivoted from the hip, just the fraction of a deft turn, but it served to take his s
houlder out of the path of the pushing hand. The big man lost his balance as he came forward. Ken Corning’s foot moved slightly. As the man took a swift step forward to catch his balance, his foot tangled with Corning’s. He sprawled flat on his face.

  Corning moved forward, twisted the knob of room 324.

  He heard a roar of rage behind him.

  The door opened.

  Ken Corning saw a man seated in a chair in front of a table, playing solitaire. He was smoking a cigar. He looked up as the door opened, and Ken saw that there was a livid scar down the right-hand side of his face, that t he man had hulking shoulders, a thick neck… .

  Another man who had been seated on the bed, reading, jumped forward. His form bulked in the doorway and blotted out Corning’s gaze of the interior of the room.

  “Got a pass?” he asked.

  An avalanche of human indignation descended upon Ken Corning from the rear. He felt powerful hands grasp his shoulder, felt himself spun around. A fist lashed out and caught him on the side of the face.

  At that moment something went “Pouff!”

  The corridor lighted up with the powerful glare of a flash gun.

  Ken Corning dodged the next blow. The man from the interior of the room rushed him. Hands gripped his coat. He was pushed down the corridor. A foot impacted the small of his back, and he gave a swift leap to take him out of the way of another foot that sent a vicious kick.

  Corning flashed a glance over his shoulder, then buckled down to the business of running, making time down the corridor. He hurled himself around the corner of the stairs. The bigger men made slow work of negotiating the turn.

  Ken Corning distanced them on the stairs. They were slow and clumsy in their footwork. They followed him down the first flight, and part of the way down the second flight. When they found that pursuit was fruitless, they raised voices in maledictions.

  Ken Corning kept right on going.

  He paused to adjust coat and necktie on the mezzanine. A mirror showed him that one eye was swelling badly. The side of his face felt sore to the exploring touch of his fingertips.

  He grinned. After a few minutes he walked down to the lobby, strolling through it casually.

  He met Reed Nixon near the doorway.

  The reporter said, under his breath:

  “Gee, guy, you gave us a break!”