by Parnell Hall
“This is no joking matter.”
“I agree. Then ask me a question that makes sense. Everyone carries money.”
“You know what I’m getting at,” Dirkson said. “When you entered that apartment, did you have a large sum of money on you? To be specific, did you have ten thousand dollars in one thousand dollar bills?”
“No, I did not.”
“You deny that you had ten thousand dollars on you when you entered that apartment?”
“Yes, I do.”
Dirkson crossed to the prosecutor’s table and picked up a piece of paper.
“Mr. Winslow, I hand you a piece of paper and ask you if you have seen it before.”
“Yes I have.”
“What do you recognize it to be?”
“It is the list of serial numbers off of ten one thousand dollar bills.”
“Where did you get that list?”
“You just handed it to me.”
Dirkson frowned. “Don’t swap words with me. You know what I mean. Last night in my office I asked you to produce a list of the serial numbers of ten one thousand dollar bills. Is that the list you gave me at that time?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Where did you get it?”
“Once again, you are inquiring into matters that are privileged and confidential.”
“But you admit that you had that list in your possession?”
“Yes, I do.”
“And do you admit that you employed Mark Taylor of the Taylor Detective Agency to trace the numbers on that list and find out who withdrew those bills from the bank?”
“Yes, I did.”
“And do you know who did withdraw those bills from the bank?”
“Only by hearsay.”
“I understand. But the list speaks for itself, and it has been checked. Is it not true that, to the best of your knowledge, those bills were withdrawn from the First National Bank by David C. Bradshaw?”
“That is correct.”
“And where did that list come from?”
“There again you are inquiring into things that are privileged and confidential.”
“Did you ever have in your possession the ten one thousand dollar bills whose serial numbers are on that list?”
“That is also privileged and confidential.”
“I’m not asking you what anyone told you. I’m asking you if you had the bills.”
Steve shook his head. “You’re asking, in effect, if a client gave me those bills. That’s privileged information, as you well know.”
“You realize that by invoking your professional privilege you’re forcing us to draw our own conclusions.”
“Go ahead and draw them. I have nothing to say.”
“All right, I’ll draw them,” Dirkson said. “Is it or is it not a fact that when you went to Bradshaw’s apartment, you had ten thousand dollars on you in one thousand dollar bills? Is it not a fact that you searched the body, found another ten thousand dollars in thousand dollar bills on it? And is it not a fact that you then switched bills, placing the ten thousand dollars that you had on the body, and removing the ten thousand dollars that was there?”
“No, that is not a fact.”
“And,” Dirkson went on, as if Steve had not answered, “is it not a fact that before you could leave the apartment you were trapped by the arrival of the police, and, not wanting to be found with the bills in your possession, you hid them in the upstairs hallway of the apartment building?”
“That is not a fact.”
“You deny that you hid any bills in the hallway of Bradshaw’s apartment house?”
“Yes, I do.”
“And you deny that you removed any bills from Bradshaw’s apartment?”
“That’s right.”
Dirkson abruptly changed his tack. “Is Marilyn Harding your client?”
“No.”
“Has Marilyn Harding ever been your client?”
“To the best of my knowledge, no.”
“What do you mean, to the best of your knowledge?”
“Exactly what I said. As far as I know, Marilyn Harding has never consulted me. Does that answer your question?”
Dirkson frowned. He wasn’t sure that it had. But he wasn’t sure that it hadn’t, either.
“Is it not true that you went to Glen Cove and called on Marilyn Harding last night?”
“Yes, I did.”
“And that was after you found the body of David C. Bradshaw?”
“That’s right.”
“And why did you call on Marilyn Harding?”
“There again, I can’t tell you.”
“Was the reason connected with the death of David C. Bradshaw?”
“I’m sorry. I can’t tell you.”
“Did you go to consult with her as your client?”
“I told you. Miss Harding is not my client.”
“And never has been?”
“And, to the best of my knowledge, never has been.”
Dirkson changed his tack again. “When you called on David C. Bradshaw, did you know that he was dead?”
“No, I did not.”
“Had you been told that he was dead?”
“No, I had not.”
“Or that he might be dead.”
“No, I had not.”
“Did you suspect he was dead?”
“You’re grasping at straws, Dirkson.”
“Answer the question.”
“No, I did not suspect he was dead. There. Now you have my thoughts, knowledge, and even my suspicions in the record. Now, do you have anything else?”
“Do you deny that before you went to Bradshaw’s apartment, a client told you that Bradshaw was or might be dead. Or,” Dirkson said, sarcastically, “does that answer betray a confidential communication?”
“No, it doesn’t,” Steve said. “The answer is no.”
“You deny it?”
“Yes, I do.” Steve leaned back in the witness chair. “Now, you’ve asked your questions and I’ve answered them. I’ve told you everything I can without betraying a professional confidence. Now then, do you have anything else?”
Dirkson didn’t. He suspected Winslow of lying, evading, holding out, and covering up. But he didn’t have a damn thing to back it up. And he didn’t know, specifically, what Winslow was trying to keep from him. And he was a smart enough campaigner to realize that his efforts to find out were not only futile, but were making him look bad.
“No,” Dirkson said. “That’s all.”
20
The atmosphere in Steve Winslow’s outer office was two degrees below zero. Steve noticed it the moment he came in the door. Tracy Garvin was seated at her desk, as usual, but for once her head wasn’t buried in a book. In fact, her book was nowhere to be seen. Tracy’s desk was clean. Tracy was sitting up straight in her chair. Her hands were folded in front of her on the desk. Her manner was crisp, efficient, businesslike.
And cold.
Steve didn’t understand it. All right, so it was almost ten o’clock. He was late. Surely the boss had a right to be late every now and then.
“Good morning,” Steve said.
“Good morning.”
“Any calls?”
“No.”
“Any mail?”
“On your desk.”
Steve Winslow gave her a look, wondering what he’d done wrong. He couldn’t figure it out. He shrugged and went into his inner office.
Steve walked around behind his desk, started to sit down, stopped, and grinned. There on the desk blotter lay a pink, perfumed envelope.
Steve chuckled. Women. You could have a sexual revolution, women’s liberation, and the whole bit, but some things never changed. Tracy Garvin was having a jealous snit.
Steve picked up the envelope. It really reeked of perfume. No wonder it set her off.
Well, there was an easy way to fix that. All Steve had to do was call Tracy into the room and let her open the envelope and pull ou
t the two Bradshaw letters.
Except Steve didn’t want Tracy to know he had them. No, explanations were out. Tracy was just going to have to sulk. Well, she’d get over it.
The intercom buzzed. There. She was over it already. Steve picked up the phone.
“Yes.”
“A Miss Judy Meyers to see you,” Tracy said. Her voice could have cut glass.
Steve sighed. No, this just wasn’t his day.
Being an actress, Judy Meyers made an entrance. She swept into the room wearing a rather daring evening gown, closed the door behind her, and made an elaborate pantomime of looking around furtively before saying in a stage whisper, “Is the coast clear?”
Steve Winslow cracked up. “I should have known better than to ask an actress. My god, you even dressed for the part,”
Judy looked at him. “What do you mean, dressed for the part? I have an audition in a half hour.”
“Oh?”
“And not as a gun moll, either. A woman doctor.”
“Oh.”
Judy frowned. “You think I look cheap? Too flashy? Overdressed?”
“No, no,” Steve said. “I’m just not used to seeing you dressed up in the morning. I didn’t know you had an audition.”
“I look too slinky, is that it?”
“No, no. Really.”
“’Cause I value your opinion,” Judy said. “I mean, you were an actor, you’ve always given me good advice about auditions and-Say! Nice mail.”
Steve looked down at the letter that was still lying on his desk. In spite of himself, he started giggling.
Judy stared at him. “What’s so funny?”
He shook his head, but he couldn’t stop giggling. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s just too funny. I have a secretary out there giving me the cold shoulder because of this envelope. This envelope happens to contain a bit of evidence that I mailed to myself because I don’t want the cops to get their hands on it. I can’t tell her because I don’t want her to know about it. The cops have grilled her once about my business, and they may grill her again. That’s for starters. What she thinks of you, I wouldn’t even want to imagine.”
Judy cocked an eyebrow at him. “Whatever have you done to make the poor girl so possessive?”
“Absolutely nothing.”
Judy nodded. “Ah, the old indifferent act. Good move. Gets them every time.”
“Yeah.”
Judy looked at him. “You’re really in trouble, aren’t you?”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because I’m bantering with you, and you’re not bantering back. In fact, you just told me about your secretary giving you a hard time, which is totally out of character for you, and not something you’d ordinarily tell me. Which means you’re so preoccupied with something you can’t think of anything to say other than the simple truth. So what’s wrong?”
Steve sighed. “Yesterday I testified before the grand jury. I’m holding out evidence in a murder case. The D.A. knows it, and if he can prove it he’s going to try to get me disbarred.”
Judy looked at him. “Oh. Good. I thought it was something serious.”
Steve shot her a look.
“Sorry,” Judy said. “I can’t help myself. Here, let me make your day.” She reached down the front of her dress and pulled out a piece of paper. “Ta da!”
“You got it.”
“Damn right, I got it. Is this it?”
Steve unfolded the paper. Smiled. “That’s it, all right.”
“Great. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“The main thing is to forget you ever saw this.”
“Consider it done. Are you sure you can’t tell me what this is all about?”
“Not unless you’d like to risk going to jail as an accessory to murder.”
“Not today, thanks.”
The intercom buzzed.
“Ah,” Judy said. “That will be Miss Warmth, telling me my time is up.”
Steve grimaced, picked up the phone. “Yes?”
“A Mr. Fitzpatrick to see you.”
“Tell him I’ll be right with him.”
“A client?” Judy asked.
“A lawyer.”
“Sounds like my exit cue. Don’t worry. I’m in your corner all the way and my lips are sealed.”
Steve opened the door for her and smiled. Judy could be a pain in the ass in a lot of ways, but in a lot of others she was a brick.
Steve had just had time to have that charitable thought, when Judy stopped halfway through the outer office, turned back and said-largely for Tracy’s benefit, he was sure, “Do call me about dinner.”
Steve sighed, turned, gestured to his inner office, and said, “Mr. Fitzpatrick?”
Fitzpatrick’s manner was certainly different from when Steve had encountered him at the Harding mansion. The chubby face that had been so flushed and angry looked practically congenial.
He wasted no time with any amenities, however. The minute the door was closed he turned on Winslow and said, “You testified before the grand jury yesterday.”
“That’s right.”
“I read the transcript. You didn’t tell ’em much.”
“No.”
“Among the things you didn’t tell them was the substance of your conversation with my client.”
Steve said nothing.
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“Do you care to comment?”
“Not really. You came to me, Fitzpatrick. You’re going to have to carry the ball.”
“I’d like to know what you discussed with my client.”
“Why don’t you ask her?”
“I’m asking you.”
“Yes, you are,” Steve said. “From which I gather your client hasn’t told you.”
“You can gather what you like. I’m asking you a question.”
“Client clammed up on you, eh?”
Fitzpatrick frowned. “My client is reticent upon certain matters. I’m wondering how much of that reticence I owe to you.”
“I’m sure I couldn’t tell you.”
“Interesting thing about the transcript of your testimony.”
“Oh?”
“Dirkson kept asking you if you’d ever been Marilyn’s attorney. Your response in every instance was qualified with the phrase, ‘to the best of my knowledge.’”
“Naturally. Any response I’m going to give can only be to the best of my knowledge.”
“Exactly. That phrase could apply to the answer to any question. Which is why there’s no reason to say it. And yet in every answer you made regarding whether or not Marilyn had ever employed you, you were careful to include that phrase.”
“If you say so. I haven’t read the transcript.”
“But you gave the testimony. And you knew what you were doing.”
“Thank you for your assessment of my testimony. Now look, Fitzpatrick, it’s real nice swapping words with you and all that, but would you mind telling me why you’re here?”
“I thought we might discuss the case. It occurs to me we might have similar interests. We might be able to help each other.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. Look. I don’t know what your connection is to my client, but you obviously have some interest in this case. And I have an interest in this case. Those interests are probably similar.”
“You think so?”
“Yes, I do. Now let’s get down to brass tacks. I got a problem, and a big one. Confidentially, the case against my client is pretty bad. And she’s not helping me any. And you obviously know something about her situation. And you know what you and she discussed. If you can give me some information to make her open up and level with me, well, we might just crack this thing.”
Steve looked at him. “What sort of information did you have in mind?”
“Anything to crack her shell and start her talking. The fact that she knew she was in trouble before the Bradshaw business happened. Just
the fact that she made overtures to you would be enough. Just so I get her talking and can find out what this is all about. And if I had some inkling of what it was, I might learn something that would benefit you, and then I’d be in a position to reciprocate.”
Steve considered that a moment. He smiled. “Bullshit,” he said.
“I beg your pardon?”
Steve shook his head. “Bullshit. Here you are in the spirit of friendship and cooperation. Mutual interests, indeed. You’ve just come from the District Attorney’s office, haven’t you?”
Fitzpatrick looked somewhat taken aback. “Well, I-”
“Sure you have. Now I’ll tell you what’s going on here. Yesterday I testified before the grand jury. I didn’t give ’em squat, but what I did give ’em, they don’t like. Dirkson’s pissed off and he’s ready to throw the book at me at any given opportunity. And now you come here in the spirit of cooperation. And what do you want to know? If your client ever consulted me. And why? Because I told the grand jury she didn’t. Which means if you can just get me to admit she did, that’s all Dirkson needs. He’ll get me for perjury and obstructing justice, and he’ll have me disbarred. He’s so eager to get me, I bet he offered to let Marilyn cop a manslaughter plea if you could trap me into an admission. That’s what you were talking to Dirkson about, and that’s why you’re here.”
Fitzpatrick’s eyes faltered. “Oh now, look here-”
“No. You look here. This interview is over.” Steve pointed his finger in Fitzpatrick’s face. “So if it wouldn’t be presuming too much upon our mutual interests, would you please take your spirit of cooperation and get the fuck out of my office.”
21
The expert shook his head. “They’re not the same.”
Steve frowned. “You sure?”
He nodded. “Of course I haven’t done a thorough analysis, but just from a preliminary look I can tell. They’re very similar-probably both Smith Corona-and both in very poor condition. But the alignment’s different. The two letters were both done on the same typewriter, but the note about ‘all good men’ is different. For one thing, the t is broken on the note. It shows up in ‘the,’ ‘time,’ ‘to’ and ‘party.’ Whereas in the letters it’s not broken. That alone is conclusive.”
