Peter Gunn
Page 15
“Haven’t you eaten yet?”
“I’ve had a nibble but nothing real.”
“What time is it?”
“One-fifteen.”
“How’d the recording go?”
“Fine.”
“How’s the weather?”
“Hot.”
“My, don’t you look beautiful!” She was wearing a red blouse with a stand-up collar and a scoop neck, dark-blue, tight toreadors, and red, open-toed, high-heeled shoes. “Man,” he said, “these pants!”
“Like?” she said.
“Crazy,” he said. She smiled and pirouetted. “Out,” he said, “or I gird for attack.”
“What do you want for breakfast?”
“I’ll tell you after my shower. Out!”
When he came to the kitchen, coffee was perking, perfuming the air.
“My,” she said, “don’t we look handsome?”
He was wearing black slacks and sandals, a white sport shirt, and a gray jacket, shirt collar open over jacket collar. “Thanks,” he said and lifted the afternoon paper she had brought. The headline featured the arrest of Michael York for the murder of Steve Bain. There was a large photograph of York and a large photograph of Alonzo Fitzsimmons, and the story was complete. “Leave it to Alonzo,” said Gunn.
“What?” said Edie.
“The picture,” said Gunn.
“What about the picture?”
“Leave it to that old boy to get himself free publicity and entirely ethical.”
“What do you want for breakfast?” said Edie.
The bell rang.
“Did you click the clicker?” said Gunn.
“Yes. It’s locked now.”
Gunn opened the door. It was Western Union. He tipped the boy, read the telegram, tapped it thoughtfully against his chin, folded it, put it into his pocket. “Well, breakfast,” he said. “Let’s see now. Do you have any particular preference?”
The phone rang.
Edie sighed. “A nice, peaceful morning.”
“It’s afternoon.”
“Like morning to me. I thought we once settled that. Answer your phone.”
It was Jacoby. Jacoby sounded worried. “You’d better get down here right away,” said Jacoby.
“What’s the matter?”
“Bombshells are due to explode. You want to be in on the fireworks?”
“Yes.”
“Get down here right away.”
“I’m practically there.”
And in the kitchen Gunn said, “Canceled.”
“What’s now?” queried Edie.
“Business.”
“Now?”
“Now.”
“And I was looking forward to a pleasant afternoon,” wailed Edie.
“You want to cook?” said Gunn.
“I’m dying to cook.”
“Cook,” said Gunn and laid his keys on the kitchen table. “Cancel the breakfast and cook up a wonderful dinner. Go out and shop and cook and be domestic.”
Edie brightened. “Wonderful. Wonderful idea. Corned beef. Corned beef and cabbage. Oh, man, I’ve been dying for some real home-cooked corned beef and cabbage.” She pursed her lips, spread them in a smile. “Shrimps. I can make a wonderful cocktail sauce. Shrimp cocktail, corned beef and cabbage, coffee and cake. It’d be a pity to make it just for us. As long as I’m being domestic, can’t you bring home company?”
“I’ll try. Shop up enough.”
Housewifely enthusiastic, she said, “All right, out, out, out, I’m busy. See you later. Give me a buzz like when. You know your own number, I hope.”
He kissed her forehead. “’By, now.”
“But you haven’t eaten a thing.”
“I’ll grab a bite on my way down.”
“Where you going?”
“Jacoby.”
The office was clean, neat, quiet. Jacoby was alone, clean, neat, quiet. Gunn knocked, entered, glanced about, smiled. “Looks peaceful enough.”
“The lull before the storm,” said Jacoby. “But the storm-signals are flying. Soon the peace will be disturbed.”
“Want to fill me in before the rockets go off?”
“Sit down, Pete.” Gunn sat, lit a cigarette. “First off,” said Jacoby, “Harold Smith went to work. Got a court order for Lockwood’s release, which was okay by us. Eleven o’clock this morning, Lockwood marched out.”
“York?”
“In the can where he belongs.”
“So where’s the prospect of the excitement?”
“Alonzo Fitzsimmons.” Jacoby sighed and now he lit a cigarette.
“Dear old Alonzo. Never say die.”
Jacoby sighed again. “I don’t know what he’s got up his sleeve but it’s nothing trivial, I can tell.”
“How can you tell?”
“He called, breathing bluster, brimstone and fire. He shouted about a frame-up, declared that perhaps we the police were not a party to it, but that if we weren’t, then Lockwood had rimmed it to us but good. He said it would save a lot of trouble and court proceedings if we had the District Attorney here when he came. He said he wanted Lockwood here too. He said he was going to drop a blockbuster and that he was gentleman enough and lawyer enough to warn us to be prepared for it.”
“You think he has something?”
“He’s got something, all right. He’s got something big. I could tell from his voice. Alonzo’s no dope. Alonzo’s a brilliant guy. He doesn’t shoot up the works with dummy ammunition. As you saw last night, when we had York dead away, all he did was rant and rave, but there was no serious action. It was just a lawyer yapping through his paces. But when he called today, it was different, all the way different—he wasn’t ranting and raving, he was calling his shots.”
“Any idea what he’s got?”
“Not the faintest idea in the world.”
“Did you get to the D.A.? You’ve got to match a legal brain with a legal brain.”
“You’re telling me?”
“Is he on his way?”
“No. He’s in court, trying a case. I got word to him and he’ll be here as soon as he’s free. There’ll be an assistant D.A. here, Jack Silvers, a bright guy, but of course Fitzsimmons’ll blow his top.”
“When is Fitzsimmons due?”
“Two o’clock, he said.”
“And the rest of the cast of characters?”
“Any minute. I called Smith and of course he’ll cooperate. He’s bringing Miss Bain too. York—”
There was a knock.
York entered, manacled to a policeman.
“What’s with the cuffs?” said York to Jacoby. “You don’t expect that I’m going to break out?” York’s clothes were wrinkled, and there were bristles on his face but his eyes were arrogant.
“When it’s murder it’s serious and that’s what you’re booked for, Mr. York. You and Phil—that’s the cop, Phil Stone—can sit on the bench there together, and neither one of you will be too uncomfortable.”
“What’s up?” said York.
“Your lawyer called for a grand conference.”
“Oh.” York and Phil Stone sat on a wooden bench.
Jacoby clicked his intercom. “I want three policemen and a stenographer.” And he clicked off and then there was a knock and he called, “Come in.”
The door opened and a young man with a bald head, chewing a thin cigar, waved and said, “Hi, Jacoby.”
“Hi, Jack. Jack Silvers—Peter Gunn. The guy attached to the policeman is Mike York. What’s the word on the D.A., Jack?”
“He’ll be here as soon as court adjourns. I’ll sit in on his behalf in the meantime. What’s the beef?”
“I don’t know yet,” said Jacoby, and called, “Come in,” to another knock. Harold Smith entered, followed by Alice Bain, followed by Sam Lockwood, followed by three policemen in uniform, followed by a police-stenographer carrying his stenotype machine.
“Sit, sit, everybody, sit down, will you, everybody,�
� ordered Jacoby and flapped a handkerchief and wiped his face and put the handkerchief away and looked at Gunn and said, “It used to be so peaceful once.”
Alice Bain was very beautiful in a crinoline-puffed, flowered, pink dress, her blond hair brushed and shimmering, her face rested and assured, one brown eye winking at Gunn as she smiled and nodded. And Sam Lockwood was very handsome, shaved and combed and straight and tall, in an expensive custom-tailored russet-brown creation, and he too nodded at Gunn, throwing a big-toothed, gleaming, rugged-American grin. And Harold Smith said, “Just what is the occasion, Lieutenant?”
“You know as much as I do, Counselor,” said Jacoby, pointing at the clock which declared five minutes after two, “but we’ll both be finding out any minute.”
And as though responding to cue, Alonzo Fitzsimmons flung open the door and stood framed in the doorway, as pretty and dramatic a picture as any lawyer had ever made. “Gentlemen,” he said and bowed an old-world, courtly bow. And glimpsing Alice Bain, said, “Ladies and gentlemen,” and bowed again, deeply, from the waist.
Flatly the unimpressed Jacoby said, “Cut the crap, Counselor. Okay, you’ve made your entrance. Now close the door and speak your piece, if any.”
Fitzsimmons lowered his eyebrows in mock disapproval, closed the door, pranced inward, beautifully attired in pale-gray sharkskin with wide-knotted black tie. He peered about the room, said, “Where’s the District Attorney? I requested the District Attorney.”
“Your requests are not yet the command of the constituted authorities,” said Jacoby.
“Very wistful and all that,” said Fitzsimmons, “but I made the request in order to save you people and myself a good deal of time and trouble.”
“He’s on trial,” said Jacoby.
“Have you transmitted my request?”
“By carrier pigeon,” said Jacoby. “He’ll be here as soon as court adjourns.”
“I’m here,” said Jack Silver.
“Well, hello, Mr. Silver,” said Fitzsimmons.
“Mr. Silver is representing the District Attorney’s office,” said Jacoby.
“And a very competent young man, indeed,” said Fitzsimmons, “except, however, without authority without consent of his boss. We need the D.A.”
“He’ll be here,” said Jacoby.
“Are you acquainted with the facts of this matter, Mr. Silver?” said Fitzsimmons.
“Yes, I am, Mr. Fitzsimmons.”
“Well, then…” Fitzsimmons strutted to the center of the arena as a cock in a cock-fight. “Gentlemen, Mr. Smith, Mr. Silver, Lieutenant Jacoby, Mr. Gunn, certain facts have been brought to my attention which entirely alter the complexion of this case. I demand the release of my client, Michael York. Right now one of the attorneys from my office is waiting upon a judge in order to get his signature on a writ of habeas corpus. It was my idea that it would not be necessary to go before such judge for any hearing. It was my idea that if the District Attorney heard the evidence from an unimpeachable witness, who is right now waiting outside in the corridor, he would agree to a consent decree releasing my client.”
“What witness?” said Jacoby.
“Just a moment,” said Fitzsimmons. “Let us get back to the crux of this matter. My client is being held on the statements of a confirmed criminal and the statements of the very one first accused of the crime.”
“Perfectly acceptable statements, as you very well know, Mr. Fitzsimmons,” said Jacoby. “And perfectly damning to your client.”
Loftily Fitzsimmons said, “My client’s defense both prior to and after such accusations was that he could not possibly have been at Mr. Bain’s residence because he himself was at his place at Santa Monica.”
“But uncorroborated,” said Jacoby.
“For the record, once more, let us fix the time. Bain was murdered at twelve o’clock, noon, yesterday, April 11. Correct?”
“Correct,” said Jacoby.
“There is no question of that time, is there? Twelve noon?”
“No question,” said Jacoby.
“And if it can be proved, by an unimpeachable witness, that my client was, as he stated, at his place at Santa Monica at twelve o’clock noon, then certainly he could not have committed this crime with which he is charged? Now that is a fact, isn’t it? It would be physically impossible—”
“Yes, yes, a fact,” said Jacoby tiredly.
“Thank you, Lieutenant. And now, if you will bear with me a moment…” Fitzsimmons crossed to the door, opened it and went out. Instantly babel commenced, noise filled the room, everybody talking at once. Then the door reopened and Fitzsimmons entered with his witness and a silence struck as though upon command. In utter silence Fitzsimmons escorted his witness into the room.
Alonzo Fitzsimmons’ witness was a nun.
chapter 23
She was small, frail, elderly, wrinkled, of great dignity, with enormous clear-blue twinkling eyes. She stood quietly smiling, motionless within the folds of her black gown, her hands clasped before her, as Alonzo Fitzsimmons, in restrained tone, introduced her. “Ladies and gentlemen, this lady is Sister Olympia of the Convent of the Sisters of Charity at Santa Monica.”
“Please don’t get up,” she said as there was the scraping of chairs. She nodded. “I am pleased to know all of you.” She had a clear melodious voice.
Jacoby came around his desk.
“Won’t you sit down, Sister Olympia?”
“Thank you. I would prefer to stand.”
“Sister Olympia came to my office today of her own volition,” said Fitzsimmons. “She imparted certain facts to me and she was kind enough to swear to such facts in an affidavit. The said affidavit serves as basis for my application for the writ. Upon my request, and in order to save time and delay, Sister Olympia graciously consented to come here and tell her story to the District Attorney and to Lieutenant Jacoby.” The stenographer tapped upon his machine. Fitzsimmons said to Sister Olympia, “The District Attorney is at present detained at court in the execution of his duties. He is represented here by an Assistant District Attorney, this gentleman, Mr. Jack Silver.” Jack Silver nodded to Sister Olympia and Sister Olympia nodded in return. “And this gentleman,” said Fitzsimmons, pointing, “is Lieutenant Jacoby.”
“How do you do?” said Jacoby.
“How do you do?” said Sister Olympia.
“You wish to tell us now?” said Jacoby.
“If you please,” said Sister Olympia.
“Thank you,” said Jacoby.
“There isn’t much to tell,” said Sister Olympia. York was sitting bolt-upright, listening intently. “I happened to see an afternoon paper today and I saw the photograph of Michael York and his attorney Alonzo Fitzsimmons. I recognized the photograph of Mr. York and I read the story. Almost at once, I went to the office of his attorney. I felt that there was a great possibility of a miscarriage of justice and I told this to Mr. Fitzsimmons.”
“Why a miscarriage of justice, Sister?” said Jacoby.
“Because of the time element, Lieutenant.”
“Time element, Sister Olympia?”
“At twelve o’clock noon,” said Sister Olympia, “Michael York could not have been at Bel Air. At twelve o’clock noon he was in his house at Seaview Boulevard in Santa Monica.”
Faintly Jacoby said, “How do you know this, Sister?”
“I was there with him.”
“Oh?” said Jacoby.
“Yesterday I was out collecting alms. All day, from eight o’clock in the morning. I was in the vicinity of Seaview Boulevard some time in the afternoon. I came to this house and a man came trudging up from the sea. He was in bathing trunks and a terry-cloth jacket. It was the man in the picture, this man”—she indicated York—“Michael York. I told him I was collecting alms and he invited me into the house. He sat at his desk and wrote a check for fifty dollars. On the wall in back of him, over his head, was an electric clock. I noticed the time. It was exactly twelve o’clock.”
Jacoby licked dry lips. “Are you certain of that time, Sister Olympia?”
“Absolutely, Lieutenant.”
“Was that clock going? Perhaps it had stopped.”
“It was going.”
“How do you know, Sister?”
“The sweep hand was revolving. Oh, it was going.”
“And you can’t say that York prepared this,” said Fitzsimmons triumphantly. “He was coming up from the ocean. He was not in the house. He had no idea this lady was coming to ask for alms, thank heaven that she did. And now if you please, gentlemen, let’s get at the legal aspects.” And then the wrangling commenced.
Fitzsimmons: “I demand that the District Attorney himself give this his attention!”
Jacoby: “It certainly presents a new element.”
Silver: “Now just hold everything, Alonzo! There is sufficient evidence for a Grand Jury—”
Fitzsimmons: “But not if they had all the facts!”
Silver: “The facts for the Grand Jury are simply the prosecution’s facts. If there is sufficient for an indictment—”
Fitzsimmons: “And must an innocent man languish in jail all of that time…?”
Smith: “The lady’s testimony is subject to cross-examination, don’t you believe…”
Fitzsimmons: “You mean you are attacking her credibility?”
Smith: “Not at all. Cross-examination need not attack. Cross-examination may search. Perhaps some error exists that would come to the surface under expert questioning…”
Fitzsimmons: “You ought to be ashamed of yourself!”
Jacoby (hands upraised): “Gentlemen… gentlemen…”
Fitzsimmons: “A signed writ will be here soon enough.”
Silver: “But that doesn’t free him. There will still have to be a hearing before a judge.”
Fitzsimmons: “Certainly. Certainly. But a reduction of charge will be worked out. My client will be amenable to bail. There is no reason for him to rot in jail, pending trial, on a charge of which he is manifestly innocent…”