by Henry, Kane,
“Have all the words you like, Peter.”
“In the corridor, if you please.”
Gunn opened the door. Jacoby narrowed his eyes but followed. “What?” he said, outside.
“I’d like to pick him up.”
“York?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Remember you asked me my interest in this.”
“Two clients you said, one of whom was dead.”
“The one that’s alive is Mike York.”
chapter 16
It was generally known to those interested that Mike York was a parvenu who liked to surround himself with the best people. It was generally known that Mike York shunned like plague, at least in public, the shadier elements of the labor rackets. It was generally known that Mike York attended the best parties, was clothed by the best tailors, squired (he was a bachelor) the most beautiful starlets, was a member of one of the best golf clubs, and had a fashionable box at the races to which he invited the best people of the town. It was generally known that Mike York donated huge sums to charity (but always with sufficient fanfare to make it generally known), that he never turned down a request to put his efforts behind a charity drive (especially when the drive was headed by a well-known actor or a member of society), and that he was a man who, through wise investments, had accumulated immense wealth. It was generally known that Mike York, by his very nature, could not play second fiddle in any orchestra, that he had psychological need to be top-dog in whatever the venture, and that it rankled that in his very own union there was a topper-dog, one Steve Bain, and that that was actually the basis of any contention between the two. It was not quite as generally known—but quite generally admired by those who did know—that Mike York had had the services of an elocution tutor for four years and that he spoke very well, except for occasional slips, for a man who had fled elementary school in the seventh grade and never returned and who had entered into the labor movement twenty years before as a strong-arm strike-breaker in Detroit.
Mike York had come a long way to his present residence in a seven-room penthouse and when Peter Gunn was ushered into his presence, he was in the card-room engaged in a six-handed game of poker with five well-known luminaries—a motion-picture mogul, a famous director, a famous writer, a famous literary agent, and a famous lawyer, probably the most famous criminal lawyer in the State of California, old and crafty Alonzo Fitzsimmons. York nodded when he saw Gunn, finished the poker hand, rose, tapped Fitzsimmons on the shoulder, said, “Will you gentlemen carry on without us for a while?” and ushered Gunn and Fitzsimmons into a drawing room. He offered drinks, both men refused; he poured brandy for himself, sipped, said, “You know, Mr. Gunn, in a way I was expecting you. It’s one of the reasons I invited Mr. Fitzsimmons tonight. Always good to have a legal brain near by. Do you two know each other?”
“I recognize Mr. Fitzsimmons but I’ve never met him,” said Gunn.
“Alonzo Fitzsimmons. Peter Gunn,” said York.
“Oh, I’ve heard of this young man,” said Fitzsimmons, extending his hand. “A pleasure to meet you, sir.” Fitzsimmons was plump and pink, with a cascade of snow-white hair and bushy white eyebrows beneath which twinkled small, blue, cynical, wise old eyes. His voice was a deep baritone. “This is the young man whom you’ve retained on the Bain matter, isn’t that right, Mike?”
“Right as rain,” said York, “and it’s my hunch he’s here on that very matter. How’s about it, Mr. Gunn?”
“Well, in a way…” said Gunn.
“The cops want to talk to me, don’t they?” said York.
“Yes, as a matter of fact, they do,” said Gunn.
“Figured they’d be getting around to that, but figured it for earlier in the day. I had Alonzo on tap all day, and I insisted that he sit in on the poker with us tonight.”
“A pretty smart apple,” said Fitzsimmons, grinning with tobacco-stained teeth toward Gunn.
“Who has to be smart to figure that?” said York. “Why did they send you, Mr. Gunn?”
“They didn’t send me, Mr. York. I volunteered my services.”
“Well, that’s very nice of you, Mr. Gunn.”
“After all, you paid me a retaining fee.”
“Not me, Mr. Gunn, the union, really.”
“Nevertheless, I feel an obligation toward you.”
The old lawyer picked that up quickly, wise old eyes innocently blinking. “Obligation? Obligation? Don’t you think they want to talk to Mike as a matter of routine investigation?”
“At this hour, Mr. Fitzsimmons?”
“That’s not as unusual as it sounds, young man. Police become officious in a murder matter. They enjoy the term ‘working around the clock.’ They’ve been known to root people out of bed in the middle of the night to inquire about the middle initial of a useless witness. Neither time nor courtesy is a matter of consequence to the police in a murder matter.”
“I don’t believe this is quite routine, Mr. Fitzsimmons.”
“No?” said York. “What is it?”
Gunn watched York carefully. “I believe that someone has accused you of complicity in this matter.”
“Complicity?” York’s face remained as bland as milk. “Accused me? Like who accused me?”
“I’m afraid it wouldn’t be proper of me to state.”
“Come now, young man,” said Fitzsimmons impatiently.
“Don’t press him,” said York. “We got us a very proper private eye here. Everybody’s got to have ethics, no? It’s enough, in his own way, he warned us. That’s very nice of you, Mr. Gunn. I appreciate it.”
Gunn made a slight bow. “It was nothing.”
“Who’s in charge?” said Fitzsimmons.
“Lieutenant Jacoby,” said Gunn.
“Well, that’s a break,” said Fitzsimmons. “At least that’s a chap whose badge isn’t too big for him. You’ll get a fair shake with Jacoby, Mike.”
“I’m not worrying about fair shakes,” said York. “Not as long as you’re around, Counselor.”
“Well, I suggest we don’t keep the good lieutenant waiting any longer,” said Fitzsimmons. “Shall we go, gentlemen?”
“Let me tell my guests we’ll be right back,” said York.
Such amenity performed, the three went out into the night. Gunn offered his car but was refused. He used his own car, the other two were transported by Fitzsimmons’ chauffeured limousine. They joined again outside the building that housed Homicide and proceeded together to Jacoby’s office. Jacoby greeted them alone and characteristically glum: Lockwood, Bain, Smith and policemen were in an adjacent anteroom.
“Good to see you again, Lieutenant,” said Fitzsimmons.
“Good evening, Lieutenant Jacoby,” said Mike York.
“Without a lawyer it’s not kosher, is that the bit?” said Jacoby. “God, we’re sure living in complicated times. Everybody trusts everybody. You think guys go to sleep with their wives and keep a lawyer in between just in case of controversy in the night?”
“Mr. Fitzsimmons was my guest this evening,” said York, “and as long as this was a call from cops, I asked him to come along to protect my interests.”
“Maybe I ought to have a lawyer too, to protect my interests,” said Jacoby.
“I think that would be a very wise procedure,” said Fitzsimmons, “and one which should be standard in all police quizzes. The prosecutor would then stand a better chance in court, believe me. More cops ruin more cases—”
“Are you retiring from the defense, Mr. Fitzsimmons? Coming over to our side?”
“Not for the present, Mr. Jacoby. And now if you please, Lieutenant, I left a very interesting poker game, and since I’m a loser, I’m very anxious to get back.”
Jacoby bridled. “Nobody sent for you, Mr. Fitzsimmons.”
“You wish to question my client?”
“Yes.”
“This is not a police state, sir. Our constitution, thank heaven, provides for the
protection of an individual. There are no star-chamber proceedings in the United States. Mr. York is entitled to protection of counsel. I am his counsel. That is why I’m here. Now, if you please, get along with it.”
“Wow,” said York to Gunn. “A pretty fresh lawyer, eh?”
“Not fresh,” said Fitzsimmons. “It is merely a statement of rights, and I know my rights. And I don’t like arrogance.”
“Neither do I,” said Jacoby, “and you’re an arrogant old son of a bitch making the usual grandstand play to impress his client. You happen to be correct about your client’s rights; if you weren’t I’d throw you the hell out of here.”
“And you’d have a lawsuit thrown at you faster than you can bat an eye. You’d also be up in front of your superiors on enough charges to make you dizzy. Mr. Jacoby, I’m not a friend of policemen, I’ve seen too many abuses, I’m on the other side.”
“All right, you’ve impressed your client, I hope you’ll get a big enough fee. Now shut up and sit down, because you’re getting out of order. I know my rights too, Counselor. If you continue these tactics I will throw you out of here, or maybe I’ll throw you into the can for obstructing justice, and if you don’t like that, sue me.”
“Why, you little whippersnapper!”
“Last call! Sit down!”
Fitzsimmons huffed about, finally slid into a chair. York pulled a chair for himself but Jacoby said, “Not you. You stand.”
York looked to Fitzsimmons. Fitzsimmons shrugged. York said, “Why? Any reason?”
“I’ll come to that,” said Jacoby.
“Okay,” said York.
“I’m glad you’re more tractable than your learned attorney,” said Jacoby mollifyingly.
“What’s tractable?” said York.
“Skip it,” said Jacoby, sighed, lit a cigarette, paced, returned to York. “Steve Bain was murdered this afternoon. Time of death has been fixed at twelve o’clock noon. Where were you at twelve o’clock noon today, Mr. York?”
“Well, I got up out of bed about nine—”
“Twelve o’clock noon.”
“May I tell it my own way?”
“Yes, please do. I hate being impolite. Your counsel kind of ruffled me up. I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry too,” spoke up Fitzsimmons, smiling broadly. “Perhaps we both lost our tempers, Lieutenant. My apologies. Let us resume in peace and tranquility.”
Jacoby chuckled, shook his head, burst out laughing. “It’s late and I’m tired, that’s my only excuse. I’ve seen you in action before, Mr. Fitzsimmons, many times. This is the first time I’ve let it get to me. It’s part of tactics, part of strategy. Shake up the opposition, throw them off balance, shoot a little fear into them—it can’t hurt and it may help. It’s the opening gambit, see what happens from there. No need for apology. You’re a smart lawyer and I have a hell of a lot of respect for you.”
“Well, peace and tranquility,” said Fitzsimmons. “Lieutenant, may I trouble you for a cigarette?”
“A pleasure,” said Jacoby, offering the cigarette and lighting it. “And if this is to give your client a breather, time to collect himself—”
“It is, Lieutenant.”
“I have no objection,” said Jacoby. “I have no inclination to press him. He can take all the time he wants. Are you ready, Mr. York?”
“I’ve been ready all the time,” said York. “How do you want me to tell it?”
The good lieutenant sure has a couple of Tartars on his hands, thought Gunn.
“Tell it any way you like,” said Jacoby, “but don’t leave out twelve o’clock noon.”
“Well, sir, I got up this morning at about nine. It was a real hot morning. Like a real scorcher, you know. I wasn’t due at the office till maybe two o’clock, so I figured I’d go out to the beach, kind of laze around and take a swim, you know. I’ve got a little shack out by Santa Monica, kind of a four-room bungalow, furnished real cute, real pretty, you know.”
“I didn’t know,” said Jacoby. “I know now.”
“It’s on a little isolated strip, right near the beach, called Seaview Boulevard, only it ain’t no boulevard, really, it’s kind of like a couple of blocks with a few houses here and there. I own the whole property. Real pretty out there, lovely.”
“Beautiful,”-said Jacoby. “How’s with twelve o’clock noon?”
“So I drove out there—”
“Alone, naturally?”
“Naturally. Alone.”
“Naturally,” said Jacoby. “What kind of car?”
“Caddy.”
“Naturally,” said Jacoby. “Type? Color?”
“Hardtop-type sedan. Black. White-walled tires. Automatic transmission. Power steering. Power brakes. Button-control windows. Water-spray for the windshield. Front and rear speakers for the radio—
“Cut it out!”
York grinned. “Well, you asked…”
“How’re we doing with twelve o’clock noon?”
“I went swimming, Lieutenant. Basked on the beach, you know.”
“Alone?”
“Naturally, alone.”
“Anybody see you?”
“It’s a private beach.”
“Nobody saw you?”
“Naturally not. It’s a private beach. And that way I spent the afternoon—which includes twelve o’clock noon. I got to the office maybe two o’clock, feeling nice and clean and refreshed and that’s when I got the news about Steve.”
“Did you see Steve—Mr. Bain—at any time during the day?”
“Of course not.”
“How far is it from your Santa Monica place to Steve Bain’s place?”
“Which place of Steve Bain? He’s got—he had—a place in town and a house out at Bel Air.”
“Bel Air.”
York closed his eyes, opened them. “Oh, about a half-hour drive.”
“Were you out there?”
“Where?”
“Bel Air.”
“When?”
“Today.”
“Of course not. I just told you.”
“Yes. You did. Thank you.” Jacoby crossed quickly to the door of the anteroom. Gunn admired the speed and agility. There was to be a sudden confrontation without warning or notice and Jacoby would be as anxious as Gunn to see York’s reaction. Jacoby opened the door, called, “Sam,” and as Sam, alone, crossed the threshold, both Gunn and Jacoby were facing York. Nothing happened. York appraised Lockwood without a flicker of emotion, not even curiosity, but there was a retching, sickening gasp from Sam and every eye in the room veered to him. Sam bent as though he had a stomach cramp, his face went crimson, his jaw muscles worked, and then he straightened and pointed a finger at York.
“That’s the guy!” he said.
“His name is Mike York,” said Jacoby.
“I don’t care what his name is. That’s the guy. That’s the guy I saw rushing out of Bain’s place.”
Hurriedly, flinging cigarette butt into an ash tray, Alonzo Fitzsimmons burst out of his chair. “What’s going on here? What kind of frame is this?”
Jacoby disregarded him. The focus of Jacoby’s attention was York. York frowned, blinked his dark eyes, regarded Lockwood, said quietly, “Who is this mutt?”
“He’s Sam Lockwood,” said Jacoby.
“And who the hell is Sam Lockwood?” York took a cigar from his breast pocket, bit off the point and spat it out derisively.
“He’s a musician,” said Jacoby.
“What am I supposed to do now?” said York. “Break out with a little rock and roll, maybe?”
“Mr. Lockwood has been going out of late with Steve Bain’s daughter.”
“Oh, is this the kid?” York moved forward a few steps, looked Lockwood over, lit his cigar, said, “Looks like a nice enough kid. Why was Steve all burned up? And what’s this about seeing me?”
“I saw you!” said Lockwood.
“Saw me where, kid?”
“Coming out of Bain’s pl
ace.”
“When?”
“This afternoon. You were wearing gloves.”
“Look kid, I’ve never worn gloves in my life.”
“Maybe you had a special reason to wear gloves this afternoon,” said Jacoby.
“That’s enough of that!” said Fitzsimmons.
“What the hell is this all about?” said York.
“I saw him!” said Lockwood. “This is the man! I saw him! Positively!”
Fitzsimmons swarmed over Jacoby. “This is why counsel is needed, this kind of high-handed procedure. Now what’s this all about? I demand an explanation.”
Jacoby shoved him off. “You’ll get your explanation.”
“That’s the man!” shouted Lockwood. “I saw him!”
“Pipe down,” said Jacoby.
“Mr. Musician,” said York, “if you saw me at Bain’s place this afternoon, you’re having hallucinations. You’re smoking too much of the wrong kind of cigarettes.”
Jacoby went to the door of the anteroom and gestured with a beckoning finger. Alice Bain, Harold Smith, policemen and the police-stenographer marched in.
“Weil, a quorum,” said Fitzsimmons. “Hello, Harold, what are you doing here?” He shook hands with Harold Smith.
“I’m representing the young man,” said Smith.
“Lockwood?”
“Yes.”
“He’s being held?”
“Yes.”
“For what?”
“Murder.”
“Aren’t you out of your league, Harold? That’s my department.”
“As a matter of fact, I was thinking of calling you in.”
“Well, it’s not too late, Childe Harold.”
York said to Miss Bain, “Hello, Alice.”
“Hello, Mr. York,” said Miss Bain.
“Now let’s all sit down here,” called Jacoby. “Everybody sit down.”
“Me too?” said York. “I’m allowed?”
“Sit down, everybody,” said Jacoby. “And everybody shut up.”
Everybody sat. Noise simmered to silence, broken by Fitzsimmons. “Now what’s this all about, if you please, Lieutenant?”
“There’s no big secret here, Counselor. We’ve already released our information to the newspapers,” said Jacoby. The stenographer pounded his stenotype machine. “We’ve arrested Mr. Lockwood, Sam Lockwood, for the murder of Steve Bain. We believe we have an airtight case.”
