by Lionel White
The moment the combined warmth and the thick odors of cooking struck him after closing the door, he was glad he had stopped. There was a light snow outside and it had been cold, in spite of his keeping the heater going.
Tomlinson walked past the cash register on the end of the counter and headed for a Formica-topped table. Three men were sitting on stools at the counter itself, leaning over plates of food. Behind the counter was a girl in a starched uniform and a man in an apron and chef’s cap. The girl came at once to the table where Tomlinson sat, feeling for the first time a sense of complete exhaustion. She had a typed menu in her hands and gave it to him wordlessly He didn’t look at it.
"Hot roast beef sandwich, ’ ’ he said. ‘ ‘And a cup of coffee—I ’ И take the coffee now. Then some pie and some more coffee.”
"What kind of pie?”
‘‘Apple, if you have it.”
The girl said she did and left. Passing around the end of the counter, she stopped momentarily and reaching up to a shelf over her head, adjusted the television set, which was turned on but which, until she turned the knob, was soundless.
"See if you can get the race results, sis, ” one of the men at the counter called out.
"They’ll be on right after the six-fifteen news,” the girl said.
Tomlinson was listening closely as an unctuous-voiced announcer finished a commercial extolling the health- giving qualities of a certain cigarette, which seemed, because of its extra length and amount of tobacco, superior in every sense to the normal-size smoke.
A moment later the news commentator of a chain program originating in New York, took the air. His first few minutes were devoted to world-wide and national news events and then he was interrupted by another commercial. When he returned to the air, he gave the latest news of metropolitan New York. The first item had to do with the sensational murder of a young school girl out on Long Island; the murder of Louisa Mary Julio and the discovery of her brutally violated body in the quiet, peaceful suburb of Fairlawn Acres.
Tomlinson, his face studiously blank, looked up as a picture of the scene in front of the Kitteridges' house was flashed on the screen. A moment later the picture shifted and it showed several men walking up the front steps of a police station.
“Late this afternoon,” the announcer’s voice said, "a man named Leonard Neilsen, who lives with his wife and one child at 96 Crescent Drive in Fairlawn, two houses away from where the child’s body was found, was taken into custody by Nassau County Police and is being held for questioning in connection with the crime. It has been learned that Nielsen had deep scratches on his hands and face. ”
Gerald Tomlinson quickly dropped his eyes and reached for the cup of coffee on the table in front of him. The sense of relief he suddenly felt was so overpowering that he had difficulty in controlling his expression and his emotions.
“Neilsen!”
Yes, there could be no doubt of it. That was the name all right. That was the man. The man whose presence had so completely upset his own plans.
God, what a break! The thing seemed almost too good to be true. Here he,
Tomlinson, was gambling everything on sudden flight and all because some drunk had accidentally stumbled on him while...
He drew a long breath and took another sip of the coffee. So—the police had Neilsen and they were holding him for the girl’s murder. It was almost too much of a coincidence. It was the one break he had needed.
Tomlinson was thoroughly familiar with the workings of police departments. He understood the mentality of a detective; knew exactly how they operated . They had a nice sensational murder on their hands; they had the body of the victim and they had a prime suspect. What in the hell had he, Tomlinson, been worrying about anyway? Those cops wouldn't be thinking of a robbery which had happened twenty miles away and which was out of their district in any case. They wouldn’t be thinking of a dead man with a bullet hole in the center of his forehead. A dead man they didn’t even know existed. They’d be thinking of only one thing: getting enough evidence to send a man named Leonard Neilsen to the electric chair.
When Tomlinson left the diner some ten minutes later, he deliberately headed the sedan’s nose south. He started back for New York; for Long Island and Fairlawn Acres. He was safe; he’d continue to be safe. All he had to do was sit tight and let events take their course. Gerald Tomlinson was, after a number of bad breaks and detours, back on his original schedule.
It was shortly after midnight when Tomlinson reached Crescent Drive and slowed down to make the turn into his garage. He noticed that although his own house was dark, there were lights on in the living room of the house next door; the house in which the Neilsens lived. He had also observed the two cars parked in front of the place. He smiled thinly as he entered his house by the back door.
Each Saturday afternoon for the last two decades, Martin Swazy, senior member of Swazy, Steele, Caldwalder and Kohn, had played nine holes of golf on the links of the Westchester Country Club. When the weather made this impossible, he played bridge in the clubhouse. The routine had never varied, with the exception of two tragic occasions; the first being the sudden death of his wife in a car accident on the Taconic Parkway, and the second when he received notice that his only son was missing in action over North Korea.
Martin Swazy was not a man to let trifling matters interfere with the routine pattern of his ways. This characteristic was both admirable and appropriate, in view of the fact that Martin Swazy was widely recognized as one of the most astute attorneys in New York, and, in fact, the entire country. The firm of Swazy, Steele, Caldwalder and Kohn specialized in corporation law. Among their more important clients was the Eastern Engineering Company and they had handled the firm’s work for a good many years. Swazy himself
devoted a large part of his time to the company’s business and he was a close friend, as well, of George Randolph, the senior vice-president.
It was probably more because of this personal friendship than the actual business relationship that Martin Swazy permitted an interruption to his usual plans for Saturday afternoon and evening.
The message from Randolph reached the lawyer as he was about to deal, from the south position, the first hand in the second rubber. It was brought to him by one of the bellboys and the wording of the message was sufficiently dramatic to cause an interruption in Swazy’s deal. The message was very short. It read: “Call me at my hotel at once. A matter of absolute and vital necessity.
I shall wait to hear from you.” It was signed, “George Randolph.”
The use of such strong language on the part of George Randolph had been inspired by an overwhelming sense of guilt. The vice-president of Eastern Engineering had learned of Len Neilsen’s trouble only a few minutes before he called the attorney; word had come to him from that same Dr. Peatri with whom he and Len had been drinking the previous evening. The doctor’s wife had seen the story in the late afternoon editions of the newspapers and had at once recognized Len’s name as that of the rather nice young man she had met with George Randolph. She couldn’t quite believe, for a moment or so, that it really was the same young man, but then as she had read further in the story, and encountered Len’s address and the name of his wife, Allie, there had no longer been room for doubt. She remembered only too well of Len’s talking to her, in a rather maudlin fashion it must be admitted, of his place out at Fairlawn Acres and his wife and his little boy.
Mrs. Peatri was shocked beyond words and at once called her husband’s attention to the thing. He had called Randolph.
George Randolph had, of course, in turn called the police and verified the facts. The police had been signally uncommunicative, but at least he’d been able to learn that it really was Len Neilsen they were holding and that he was being detained at headquarters in Mineola.
Randolph didn’t for one moment consider the possibility of Len being guilty of the heinous crime. He considered himself an excellent judge of character—which is the principal
reason he had detected in Len those sterling qualities which had inspired him to promote him to office manager of the firm. Randolph figured only one thing; it had been obvious to him the previous evening that Len had not been used to drinking and that the liquor had had an unusually violent effect upon him. At the time this had merely amused Randolph, but now he found it hard to forgive himself for having encouraged, in fact, almost forced, the boy to overindulge. Somehow or other, Len had managed to get himself into this terrible thing and it was beyond doubt merely a result of his having been drunk and probably unable to explain the
facts of the case to the police.
I There was only one thing for Randolph to do; he must get hold of Swazy, the firm’s attorney and his own good friend, and get Len out of it as soon as possible, before there was any further unfavorable publicity. It was not only a matter of a responsibility which Randolph felt fell squarely on his shoulders—there was also the matter of the firm’s reputation.
Even as Randolph reached for the phone to get in touch with Martin Swazy, he smiled just slightly and stopped worrying temporarily. A damned unfortunate thing all around, but hell, he’d have it all straightened out in no time at all.
But it wasn’t quite that simple.
Swazy had had very little experience with criminal law, but even he realized it wasn’t going to be a simple matter of calling the Nassau County Police and explaining things to them over the telephone. He tried to convince Randolph that the best course would be to let things develop over the week end and get started on Monday morning, when they’d know a little more about the matter. George was having none of that.
“O.K. Martin,” Randolph told the attorney, “if you can’t do it over the phone, the only thing then is for you to get right out and I’ll take a cab out from here. Save time all around. I’ll meet you at police headquarters, wherever that maybe.”
Swazy, with considerable reluctance, agreed to do just that. Itwasadamned nuisance, but after all, Eastern Engineering was just about the most important chent Swazy, Steele, Caldwalder and Kohn carried on their books.
Things didn’t go at all as Randolph had planned. In the first place, Martin Swazy was late in arriving and Randolph spent a full three-quarters of an hour pacing back and forth in front of police headquarters waiting for him, which did little to improve his frame of mind. And then when the attorney did finally show up and they went inside and asked to see Len Neilsen, they were ushered into the presence of a lieutenant of detectives who, although very polite, was completely uncooperative.
“You don’t seem to understand,” he told them after the preliminary skirmishing, "this man, Leonard Neilsen, is being held on a homicide charge. The fact is, we expect to have him indicted for first degree murder. He has only been in custody a matter of hours; he’s still being questioned. I’d like to be able to oblige you, gentlemen, but there isn’t the slightest chance in the world of letting him out on bail.”
Swazy, in spite of his lack of criminal experience, was willing to let it go at that; he could see the complete impossibility of their position. But Randolph was made of sterner stuff.
All right,” Randolph said. “All right. So you feel you have the right man.
You’re entitled to do your job the way you see it. On the other hand, I insist the prisoner has some rights. Mr. Swazy here is his attorney. Neilsen has a right to see his attorney. I believe that is the privilege of any prisoner. If you won’t let me talk to Len, then at least let Mr. Swazy see him.”
Lieutenant Giddeon hesitated. He had never heard of Martin Swazy or even the firm of Swazy, Steele, Caldwalder and Kohn and had no idea of that firm’s importance. Swazy himself had hardly opened his mouth during the interview. On the other hand, this man Randolph was, without a doubt, a big shot of some sort. He seemed like a man who would have connections and important ones. There was no point in antagonizing him. Not that Lieutenant Giddeon was going to let anyone, big shot or not, tell him how to run his business. But the prisoner did have certain rights and it wouldn’t really matter whether the attorney talked to him now or later.
After all, the police weren’t beating the man or misusing him. They were merely questioning him and could be interrupted for a few minutes. Giddeon, by this time, was convinced in his own mind that he had an open-and-shut case.
He called a plain-clothes man and gave him instructions to permit Swazy to see Neilsen.
“He can have a half an hour, ” he said.
While Swazy was gone, Giddeon talked with George Randolph. He explained exactly what had happened. “It isn’t a matter of whether you, or I, think Neilsen is guilty, ” hesaid. “It doesn’t matterwhat anyone thinks. Certainly it is unimportant that you—or I—believe he is not the sort of man to commit this particular type of crime. We have to go on the facts. And the facts are beginning to look pretty conclusive.”
He went on then, for the next few minutes, enumerating a number of the facts.
“So you see,” he ended up, “we do have quite a bit of evidence. And then, to top it all off, there’s that story Neilsen came in and told us. You must admit that it was pretty incredible. A little too fantastic. The thing might just possibly have had some substance to it—if it hadn’t been for this other thing. This business of the girl.
“I’mnot even saying thatNeilsen may not, in his drunken condition, have believed the story. That’s possible. I can see how it might have happened. He was drunk and he didn’t remember a lot of things. Just that there was a dead body and that he was running through back yards and so on. Except and this is giving him all the best of it—he didn’t really remember what happened. It could be that way. I don’t really know. But I do know this; the police can t work on the premise of completely fantastic coincidences. Particularly when we have a file of concrete evidence stacking up against a man. And that we
have.”
By the time Swazy had returned from seeing Len Neilsen, Randolph realized this was one matter which he “wouldn’t straighten out right away.”
The two men stopped at a nearby restaurant for coffee after leaving the station house. Martin Swazy seemed very uneasy.
"Well,” Randolph said, as soon as they were seated and ordered sandwiches and coffee, “well, what did he have to say?”
For a long moment, Martin Swazy looked at the other man. When he finally spoke, he avoided the question.
“George,” Swazy said, “George, you know this sort of thing is really out of my field. After all, Swazy, Steele, Caldwalder and Kohn...”
“Goddamn it, I know all about Swazy, Steele, Caldwalder and Kohn. I also know all about your ‘field. ’ Haven’t we been paying you around a hundred thousand a year now for the last fifteen years? Just tell me what he had to say.”
Swazy was unruffled by the other’s words and he continued to look at him with half-closed, but unperturbed eyes.
“That’s just the point,” he said. “What he had to say.”
“Stop being a damned lawyer,” Randolph barked. “Don’t go beating about the bush, Martin. Just tell me.”
Swazy nodded and changed his tone. If Randolph wanted it between the eyes, that’s the way he’d give it to him.
“The damndest silly story I ever heard in my life,” Swazy said. “In fact, I could swear the man must still be drunk. He even smelled like it. Smelled like a stale brewery. Anyway, all he did was to completely deny ever having seen the girl or ever having heard about her. But when I asked him what he was doing last night, that is last night after you’d put him in the cab and sent him home, he gave me a completely fantastic story. Something about getting into the wrong house, which he cannot identify, and finding a dead man, and... ”
“I know, I know,” Randolph interrupted. "The lieutenant told me about it. I must admit that it sounds just a little bit strange. ”
“Strange! Why it’s...”
“Yes, I understand. But tell me, Martin, do you think Neilsen may have become temporarily, well say, perhaps have lost his
mind or something?”
“If he expects anyone to believe that story of his, he’s certainly.
“All right, Martin,” Randolph again interrupted. “We’ll skip the story for the time being. Now tell me this. Do you think Neilsen is guilty—that he killed the girl?”
Swazy looked at Randolph and his expression was slightly shocked.
"Now George,” he said, “that’s hardly the sort of...”
For Christ’s sake, stop equivocating,” Randolph said. “Stop being a god
damned lawyer. Just answer my question. Do you think he’s guilty?”
Swazy hesitated for another moment or two and then spoke in a low voice.
"Frankly, I do,” he said.
“Let’s go out and see Mrs. Neilsen,” Randolph said. He reached for the check.
George Randolph and Martin Swazy were still at the Neilsen house at the time Gerald Tomlinson passed on his way home, late Saturday night. They had been joined by a third man, one I. Oscar Leavy. I. Oscar Leavy was, like Martin Swazy, an attorney. Although he was considered by a number of persons, including several judges and a good many fellow lawyers, the top man in his particular field, he and Swazy had never before met and the chances are, had it not been for the Julio case, they never would have met. Leavy was probably the best criminal lawyer in the East and very possibly the best anywhere.
It was while Allie Neilsen was in the kitchen, making a pot of coffee, that the decision had been made. The two men had already talked with her for better than a half an hour and Randolph had suddenly come to the conclusion that what Martin had told him in the car on the way to the house had been right. It wasn’t at all the sort of case for a firm like Swazy, Steele, Caldwalder and Kohn. It wasn’t a matter of whether Neilsen was guilty or not guilty. That was beside the point. What was needed was a smart criminal lawyer, a man who knew his way around in matters of this sort. The fact Randolph had become convinced that Neilsen probably was guilty, made it all the more apparent.
