The Casebook of Sidney Zoom

by Erle Stanley Gardner

  A switch on the yacht had been turned, and searchlights rigged on the masts, directed toward the wharf, turned the night into day.

  A man screamed, jumped to his feet, fired almost point blank at Zoom. Zoom returned the fire. The man crumpled as though a pile driver had smashed him in the stomach.

  “They’re running, Sergeant!” yelled Zoom.

  Sergeant Staples nodded grimly.

  Tongues of fire were still flickering toward him from the far corner of the wharf. He ran for cover. A bullet ticked his shoulder, striking with enough impact to falter him in his stride.

  “Get him, Rip!” yelled Zoom.

  The dog charged. The gangster, realizing the import of that charge, jumped to his feet to fire, and was blasted back by two bullets which thudded into his body with simultaneous impact.

  A car exhaust roared. Then a siren sounded. Police whistles were blowing.

  The wharf was now silent.

  The roar of the fleeing car mingled with the wail of a siren. There sounded the spiteful clatter of a machine gun. Then a battery of sawed-off shotguns belched forth noise. The sound of tires screaming in a death skid on pavement was swallowed in a terrific crash, then silence.

  Zoom and Sergeant Staples ran the length of the wharf. A red spotlight flooded them.

  “It’s Sergeant Staples,” roared that individual. “Don’t let them get away. They’ve done murder.”

  The voice of an excited officer sounded from the darkness back of the red light.

  “They’re not gettin’ away, Sergeant. Sol Asher and Bill the Biff were in that car. There was one other one. We don’t know him. They ain’t gettin’ away.”

  Sidney Zoom sighed and holstered his weapons.

  “Come, Rip,” he called.

  Two hours later, Sidney Zoom sat in the hospital beside Sergeant Staples. The sergeant was grinning, smoking a cigar. The room was temporarily cleared of reporters, but the haze of flashlight smoke still clung to the ceiling.

  Sergeant Staples gazed at Zoom.

  “Well,” he said, “it was a great fight. I always figured that if I got in a fight with gangsters I could shoot as well as I do on the targets. I’ve always held that thought in mind, it’s subconscious. I’ve trained myself to think it every time I pull down on a target in the police revolver range.”

  Zoom nodded.

  “You sure cleaned up on ’em tonight, Sergeant. The gang was the toughest bunch of birds that’s ever been rounded up. Sol Asher confessed the whole business. They pulled a couple of frying jobs before this one. Those that aren’t killed will be meat for the chair.

  “And it cleans up that Harmiston job.”

  Sergeant Staples let his smile fade. A pucker appeared between his eyebrows.

  “What gets me, Zoom, is how this chap happened to be on your boat.”

  Zoom grinned, a frank and open grin.

  “I went into the store to get a pendant for my secretary,” he said. “I wanted her to see it. This man came out to bring the pendant, also one other. They were found in his pocket, you’ll remember.

  “I paid a deposit of two hundred dollars on the pendant. Fortunately, I have the receipt, which fully accounts for his presence on the yacht. You see, he had a drink or two, and became a little befuddled. He was sleeping it off in the adjoining cabin. I guess he woke up, heard some of your conversation when I gave you the guns, and realized you were an officer.

  “That bothered him, and he tried to make a sneak. He couldn’t take the forward companionway without having to pass the open door of the dining salon. So he took the back exit, and the lights were blazing down on the deck there.

  “He came out, was recognized by Sol Asher and the gang, who felt he had turned state’s evidence, and were waiting to bump him off. Then you know what happened.”

  Sergeant Staples sighed.

  “Yes,” he said. “I know what happened. But I’d sure like to know what was back of it all. It was a funny coincidence that you happened to shove two loaded guns into my hands just before the fireworks started!”

  Zoom grinned.

  “It was that! Well, I’ll toddle along and let you get some sleep. They tell me you’re slated for a captaincy, and you’ll want to get your beauty sleep so you can look pretty for the pictures.”

  Sergeant Staples sighed again.

  His sigh was one of perfect contentment. It was the sigh of an epicure who has dined well, of the artist who has completed a first class canvas.

  “Zoom,” he murmured contentedly, “I don’t know how you did it, and I don’t give a damn, but it was a pretty fight, and if anybody asks you embarrassing questions, refuse to answer and refer ’em to me!”

  And Sidney Zoom, smiling, tiptoed from the hospital room.

  But there was to be no sleep for him that night.

  The wind had come up. The seas would be crashing out beyond the heads, and Sidney Zoom, the lust for conflict aroused within him, would be unable to sleep until after he had sent his yacht out to fight with those giant combers, letting the huge seas sweep over the frail craft.

  For Sidney Zoom, grim, uncompromising, believer in dealing with criminals as they deserved, detested ways of peace and the humdrum routine of life. He wanted conflict and adventure. His soul craved combat as the soul of many men craves strong drink.

  The girl’s death had been avenged. A desperate gang had been routed in fait fight. A good sergeant had been given the opportunity to go far on the force. A crooked employee and murderer had been given the chance to cheat the chair.

  But Sidney Zoom craved still more action, demanded more conflict before sleep could come to his taut nerves.

  And so he headed for his yacht, anxious to gain the open sea.

  Cheating the Chair

  Chapter I

  Sidney Zoom, tall, gaunt, his profile suggestive of that of a hawk, sat in the spacious cabin of his trim yacht, surrounded by a litter of newspapers. His secretary Vera Thurmond, watched him with eyes that were luminous with solicitude.

  Sidney Zoom was entirely oblivious of her scrutiny. He was concentrating his attention upon the contents of the newspapers. At his feet, muzzle on paws, stretched his tawny police dog, Rip.

  “The rich,” said Sidney Zoom, “get the breaks.”

  His secretary made no answer to a remark which was so patently logical.

  Sidney Zoom indicated a newspaper half column.

  “Here,” he observed, “is the account of a man who is being tried for the murder of a county attorney. The man was a convict. He claims he reformed. He had previously been convicted by this same county attorney.

  “The murdered man was found in his office, an automatic on the table in front of him with one shell discharged. The ex-convict had written a threatening note.

  “The newspapers give it a scant half column now that the case has come on for trial, and most of that half column contains the list of the victim’s official activities during his lifetime. Bah!”

  His secretary was frankly puzzled.

  “But,” she observed, “what would you expect? It’s news from one of the outlying counties. There wasn’t any element of love or greed in the crime, no particular mystery. I read that account myself and didn’t notice anything out of place about it. The man was a criminal. The letter’s in his handwriting. It had been received by the county attorney but a few hours before his death. The ex-convict threatened to kill him to get even for his conviction.

  “The case is dead open and shut. The court appointed a lawyer to defend the convict... what’s his name?... Oh, yes, I remember, Crandall. The man’s receiving a fair trial. What more could you ask?”

  Sidney Zoom crumpled the paper into a ball, dashed it to the floor.

  “I could ask,” he said, in a voice that was vibrant with irritation, yet deeply resonant, “that the newspaper would either offer some explanation of why a convict should write a letter to the man he intended to murder, telling him that he intended to kill him, or else that th
ey wouldn’t print that fact at all.

  “Damn it, they arouse the curiosity of any sane man, and then they go off on some fool tangent. I wouldn’t mind if this man had money; but he hasn’t. He’s a pauper. The court has appointed an attorney to defend him. That means this man gets representation in court, but there’s no one to work out the hidden facts.

  “A criminal case is like an iceberg. The biggest part of it is submerged from view... Where the devil is this place? Dellboro, eh? We could take the boat up there if we had to. There’s a bay, and a river runs up to Dellboro. Probably isn’t a decent hotel in the place. They wouldn’t let dogs in...”

  The young woman regarded him with eyes that twinkled.

  “But why should you want to go there?”

  “To find out about that damned letter,” he rasped, irritably, “and to make certain this ex-convict, Crandall, gets a fair deal.”

  She spoke to him in a tone of patient reproach.

  “You’ve got to get rid of this under-dog complex of yours, Mr. Zoom. You can’t use up all your nerve force running around to protect the interests of every poor man who gets entangled in the meshes of the law. I know how you feel. You like to fight. You enjoy the conflict, and you’ve got a heart that’s entirely too big. You can’t use up all your time, though...”

  He was on his feet, shaking his head impatiently.

  Now that he stood up, he showed as a lithe man, tall yet graceful, long of arm, leg and neck, with a strange force of dignity about the expression of his features that made him seem like some gaunt spectre of doom.

  “I’m going to find out about that letter,” he said, “and I’m going to do it before Crandall gets sent to the chair... Oh, Captain, get her out in the stream. I’ll take the wheel as soon as you get her free!”

  And Sidney Zoom strode from the cabin, his long legs moving like stilts, the police dog padding at his side, never letting his master out of his sight.

  Vera Thurmond sighed, stooped, gathered up the papers. She knew the habits of the man for whom she worked well enough to know that he would soon be calling upon her for every scrap of newspaper material dealing with the case of the State vs. Crandall.

  For Sidney Zoom, once started on a case, would no more think of quitting than would a bloodhound, started on a warm trail, think of turning back. Sidney Zoom was not a detective, nor was he interested in crime detection as such. He was a fighter. He loved to battle the raging seas on a stormy night, out beyond the heads, his graceful yacht smashing into the waters or riding the roaring crests of booming waves.

  Then, when calm seas offered no conflict with the elements, Sidney Zoom would bring his craft into port, and restlessly search through the midnight streets of the city, or ponder the newspaper accounts of crime, seeking for some case where the underdog was being persecuted by reason of the fact that he was an under-dog.

  When he had once sunk his teeth into such a case, he never let up.

  Chapter II

  The Letter

  Bill Dunbar, the attorney who had been appointed by the court to represent James Crandall, was plainly flattered that he had been invited to dinner aboard the yacht.

  Sidney Zoom’s craft was far too beautiful and trim not to have attracted much attention among the inhabitants of Dellboro when it swung into dock at the river bank. And Bill Dunbar was far too shrewd an attorney not to recognize the advertising value of being the first citizen of the town to set foot aboard.

  With a good dinner under his belt, a glass of cordial at his elbow, a lighted cigarette between his fingers, Dunbar talked calmly and frankly about the case.

  “Of course,” he said, “there are some things that I can’t tell you. My professional obligations, and my duty to my client require that I use discretion. Crandall was without funds. The court appointed me to defend him. I’ll do it to the best of my ability. It’s a part of the duties of my profession.

  “The facts in the main are as reported. Three years ago Frank Strome, who was then the county attorney, tried a case in which James Crandall was the defendant. The charge was forgery. Crandall claimed he was innocent, but Strome secured a conviction. Crandall was very bitter.

  “A year ago Crandall was released. He dropped out of sight. Where he was and what he was doing are mysteries that the police have never been able to solve. He simply keeps his mouth shut and won’t say a word.

  “On the eighteenth of April, at about three o’clock in the afternoon, Frank Strome was found dead in his private office. There were a lot of legal papers scattered over the floor, also some mail. It looked as though papers had been thrown broadcast.

  “There was an automatic with one shell discharged. It lay on the desk. The door from the private office into the hallway was open. Strome always kept it locked. That showed that someone had left by that door, and, probably had entered by it.

  “Carl Purcell, the present attorney for the county, was chief deputy at that time. He had been in to see his chief upon some matter of business, and found that some papers were required. He went out into the outer office and enlisted the aid of the stenographer in finding the files.

  “Strome was alive at that time. He called to Purcell as the chief deputy left the inner office. The stenographer heard his voice plainly. It didn’t sound excited in the least, nor did it sound as though there was anyone else in the room, for he was referring to some very confidential papers. They related, I understand, although it’s being hushed up, to a charge that was being investigated against Sam Gilvert, a banker here.

  “Anyway, the papers were gone. The deputy and the stenographer searched for them high and low. They were occupied for some half hour in the search. The papers were important. They dreaded to tell their boss about the loss.

  “Finally, Purcell decided there was nothing else to do. Afterwards they wondered why Strome had been so patient. He had evidently expected the papers to be brought to him within a matter of minutes. But he sat in his office and said nothing.

  “Purcell went in — and came running out. He yelled that Strome was dead. Subsequent events showed that he’d been dead for some fifteen or twenty minutes. In fact, there’s one way the exact time the shot was fired can be told...”

  Sidney Zoom interrupted.

  “You mean to tell me that the shot wasn’t heard?”

  The lawyer shrugged his shoulders.

  “One of the peculiar facts of the case,” he said. “Yet it’s one of those things about which there can be no doubt. The shot was fired from that private office, and yet no one heard it. That leads up to what I was going to tell you about the time of the murder. There was only one moment when that shot could have been fired, yet not heard.

  “That was when a machine was going past, setting off heavy bombs. It was a part of the drive that was being waged to find employment for some of the needy workers in the city. The car had a lot of publicity stuff pasted on the sides, and was setting off bombs at regular intervals.

  “The sound of those bombs would have drowned the noise of the gun. The man must have managed to get Strome to let him into his private office, through the hall door, then shot him when the machine went past.”

  The lawyer sipped his cordial, stretched out his legs, puffed at his cigarette.

  “That, of course, is a telling point in the case against us. It shows premeditation. Otherwise I’d try to claim that there was an argument, that the murder must have been committed in the heat of the argument...”

  Sidney Zoom’s voice was impatient.

  “The letter?” he said.

  The attorney shrugged his shoulders.

  “After all, that’s a matter for the handwriting experts and for the jury. It was received through the mail. There can be no doubt about its receipt. The stenographer remembers when it came in, remembers when Strome opened it and took out the letter. He showed it to her. He remarked at the time that it was the second threat he’d received from the same party.”

  Sidney Zoom was scowling.


  “And Crandall signed that letter?”

  The lawyer was cautious.

  “It purports to bear his signature,” he said, “and handwriting experts employed by the state are prepared to swear that it’s Crandall’s handwriting.”

  “The gun?” asked Sidney Zoom.

  “Same story,” said the attorney. “The police claim they can show where the defendant purchased this gun, claim they can show his handwriting on the register that the retailer kept. He purchased it in another state several years ago.”

  “Any chance this evidence is faked?”

  “That’s something for the jury to decide. Personally, I wouldn’t trust George Frink any farther than I could throw the courthouse by the cornerstone.”

  “Frink? Who’s he?”

  “He’s the head of the county attorney’s secret staff. He has all the drag around here, acts like a tin god.”

  “Anything else you know about the case?” Zoom inquired.

  “Plenty,” agreed the lawyer, “but I can’t tell it.”

  “And no one knows where the defendant’s been since he left the big house?”

  “No. That’s one thing he won’t tell, even to me.”

  “If he doesn’t tell on the witness stand he’ll go to the chair,” Zoom remarked.

  The lawyer sighed.

  “That’s what I’ve told him. He says that he’ll go to the chair, if that’s the case. He won’t open up about where he’s been.”

  Sidney Zoom dropped one of his long arms. His strong, tapering fingers massaged the dog’s ears as the animal sprawled at the side of his chair.

  “Do you know,” he remarked casually, “I’m glad I came down here, after all?”

  “Why?” interrogated the attorney.

  “Because,” said Sidney Zoom, “that crime never happened the way you and the county attorney seem to think it happened — never in God’s world.”

  The lawyer sipped his cordial, and said: “Well, I’m glad you feel that way. I wish you could inspire me with some of your confidence.”