“Bon giorno, Signor Vito,” the boy replied, already rubbing the shoe with a polishing-cloth.
Vito looked quickly at the newspaper which was on the top of the pile. The front-page headlines were the same as yesterday’s. The Germans were falling back in North Africa, or the Germans were advancing—they had been the same all that Spring of 1943. He tossed the paper into the waste-basket and began to skim through the morning mail. Nothing important. Restlessly he changed feet on the box at the boy’s tap and looked out the window.
Across the street was a park, and beyond it the grey stone of Criminal Courts. He felt like a gladiator looking out at the arena. It had been always like that, ever since he had been a boy in Little Italy downtown. The challenge of the symbol of authority. To flout the law was too easy; to make it ridiculous by its own standards was the fun. It was the profit too. Freeing the guilty conscience of its legal bonds was a lucrative profession.
He felt a tap on his foot signifying that the shine was finished. He spun a quarter toward the boy and turned back to his desk. The telephone buzzed as the boy left. He picked it up.
“There’s a Maryann Flood here to see you,” the receptionist’s voice said in his ear.
The name wasn’t familiar. “What does she want?” he asked.
“Client,” the girl’s reply came laconically. “She says you were recommended to her.”
“By who?” he asked.
“She said she would tell you when she saw you. She also said she pays cash in advance.”
Vito grinned to himself. Whoever the woman was, she knew her business. “Send her in,” he said.
A moment later the door opened and his secretary appeared, followed by a young woman. Vito struggled to his feet. “Mr. Vito, Miss Flood,” his secretary introduced.
The young woman came toward him, her hand outstretched. Vito took her hand. Her grip was firm and casual like a man’s, yet there was an electric warmth in it that made you know she was a woman. “Thank you for seeing me,” she said. Her voice was low and well modulated.
“You’re quite welcome.” Vito gestured toward the chair opposite his desk. “Please sit down.”
His secretary retrieved his coat from the sofa where he had thrown it, and went out. Vito sat down and looked at the young woman.
She wore a light tweed suit and matching topcoat, and a white silk blouse showed beneath the jacket. Her hands were well-shaped. She wore no jewellery, and no make-up other than a gentle shading of lipstick. Her eyes, set wide apart, were large, dark-brown, almost black. Faint strands of blonde hair peeped out from beneath her soft cream-coloured beret.
Vito prided himself on his ability to appraise a client. This girl had breeding. It was evident from everything about her. She had come to see him about her brother or some relative who had got himself into trouble. This was the sort of case that he liked. It meant money. He smiled at her. “How can I help you, Miss Flood?” he asked.
The young woman didn’t answer immediately. She took out a cigarette and waited for him to light it. He did so, even more sure now of his analysis. Only girls of fine background had that imperious manner of waiting to have their cigarettes lighted. He watched her draw the smoke gently into her mouth.
“I hear you’re a good lawyer, Mr. Vito,” the young woman said softly. “The best in New York.”
He preened inwardly. “That’s very flattering, Miss Flood,” he said modestly, “but not quite true. I do my best, that’s all.”
“I’m sure that’s more than anyone else can do,” the girl said. There was a hint of a smile in her eyes.
He noticed it and went on the defensive immediately. He wasn’t going to have a society broad mocking him. “I try very hard, Miss Flood,” he said, his voice chilling.
The girl looked straight into his eyes. “That’s why I came to you, Mr. Vito. I need a lawyer, and I want the best.” There was no laughter in her eyes now.
“Why?” he asked.
“I received a call this morning from a friend of mine. A warrant has been issued for my arrest and I’m to be picked up this afternoon.” Her voice was flat and emotionless.
A sense of shock ran through him. “You’re to be arrested? On what charge?”
She still looked into his eyes. “Grand larceny after committing an act of prostitution.”
For a moment his voice failed him. “What?” he managed after his voice came back.
She smiled, genuine amusement in her eyes, and repeated the charge. “That’s why I’m here,” she added.
He had never been so wrong in his judgment of a client. He took out a fresh cigar, bit off the end, and applied a flaming wooden match until its tip glowed a cherry-red. Then he put the match down. By this time he had control of himself. “Tell me what happened,” he said unemotionally.
“I was in the bar at the Sherry last night about eleven having a nightcap when this man came up. He was drunk, and insisted on buying me a drink. He told me he was very rich, and waved a fat roll of bills to emphasise it. We had a few drinks there. Then he came up to my place and we continued drinking.” Her voice was as flat and unexpressive as if she were reciting a story about someone else. “He left about four-thirty. He gave me twenty dollars, and I kissed him goodnight.”
“Then what happened?” he asked.
“I went to bed,” she said. “This morning my ’phone rang. A friend was calling me from headquarters. He said this man had appeared this morning and sworn out a warrant for me.”
“Did you take his money?” Vito asked.
“No,” the young woman answered. “He put the roll back in his pocket after he gave me the twenty.”
“Who recommended me?” he asked.
“Detective-Lieutenant Millersen, 54th Street Station,” she answered. “I’ve known him for about five years now. He knows I would never do such a thing.”
He knew Millersen. A good cop. He wouldn’t slip him a bad deal. But the cop could be wrong, too. He shot a shrewd glance at the girl. “Sure you didn’t take the money?” he asked. “You can tell me. I don’t care whether you did or not. I’ll handle the case anyway. I just want to know for myself.”
The girl looked at him, her eyes wide and unblinking. Slowly she reached up and took off her beret. She shook her head and her hair tumbled down around her face in a sparkling shower. “Mr. Vito,” she said in a low husky voice, “I’m a whore, not a thief.”
Chapter Two
“MR. BELL, HOW many drinks did you have before you met Miss Flood that evening?” Vito’s voice was clear and unemotional.
The heavy-set man in the witness chair looked uncomfortably at the judge. The judge stared straight in front of him. “I don’t know,” Bell answered, his voice strained. “I been drinkin’ quite a lot.”
“Ten drinks? Twelve? Twenty?” Vito’s voice was curious.
“Maybe ten,” the man admitted.
“Maybe ten.” Vito turned back to his client. She nodded slowly. He faced the man again. “And how many drinks did you have with her in the bar?”
“Four?” the man replied in a questioning voice.
“I’m sure I don’t know, Mr. Bell,” Vito said sarcastically. “You were there, not I.”
“But I’m not sure,” the man said.
“You’re not sure,” Vito repeated. He walked a few steps away from the witness chair. “You’re not sure how many drinks you had before you met my client. You’re not sure how many drinks you had at the bar with her. Is it possible you know how many drinks you had in her apartment?”
“I—I don’t know,” the man said. “I can’t be sure. I had a lot to drink that night.”
Vito smiled. “That’s something we all are sure of, Mr. Bell.” He turned to let the ripple of laughter run through the almost empty courtroom. He turned back to the man in the witness chair. “Apparently you’re not sure of anything that happened that night, Mr. Bell, are you?”
Bell flushed. “I had fifteen hundred dollars in my pocket when I started th
at night,” he said angrily. “I didn’t have it the next morning.”
“When did you first miss the money, Mr. Bell?” Vito asked. “When I woke up,” the man said. “I looked on the dresser. When I saw the money wasn’t there, I went through my pockets. It was gone.”
“Where was that, and what time, Mr. Bell?”
“In my room at the hotel about nine-thirty in the morning.”
“And you immediately called the police and reported the theft?” Vito continued.
“No,” Bell answered. “I got dressed and called downstairs to the desk to find out if anyone had reported finding the money.”
“Then you called the police?” Vito’s voice was gentle.
“No, I called the cab company to find out if any of their drivers had turned in the money.”
“Was that all the money you had on you, Mr. Bell?” Vito asked casually.
Mr. Bell nodded. “Yes, I never keep change in my pockets. It’s too much bother. I never take any. I always tell ’em to keep the change.”
“That’s all, Mr. Bell. Thank you.” Vito walked away abruptly.
The man looked around him embarrassedly, then awkwardly got down from the chair and went back to a seat. Vito waited a moment, then called out a name. A short, thin man got to his feet and went to the witness chair. The clerk administered the oath and the man sat down.
Vito came toward the man. “What is your occupation, Mr. Russo?”
“I’m a cab-driver, sir,” the man said in a guttural voice.
“Who do you work for?” Vito asked.
“The Shaggy Dog Cab Company,” the witness answered. “I woik nights.”
“Do you recognise anyone in this court?” Vito asked.
“Yes, sir,” Russo answered. He looked around quickly. “Him,” he said, pointing at Bell.
“Did you know him by name before you came into this court?” Vito asked.
“No,” Russo replied. “I recanised him because I rode him one night.”
“When was that?” Vito asked.
Russo took out a sheet of paper. “I got my ride sheet for that night. It was Tuesday night a week ago.”
Vito took the sheet of paper from him. “What is this?”
“That’s my ride sheet. It tells where I pick up a fare and where I left him off an’ how much the clock reads. That’s so the boss can tell how much mileage is on the clock an’ how much is cruising. It also tells the time of each call.”
Vito looked at it. “Would you have Mr. Bell’s ride on this sheet?”
The hack man nodded. “Yeah, it’s there. Four-forty a.m.”
“Four-forty a.m.,” Vito read. “72 Street and C. P.W. to the Sherry Hotel.” He looked at the witness. “Is that the ride?”
“Yeah,” the cab-driver answered.
“Sixty cents,” Vito read from the sheet.
“That’s what was on the clock,” the cab-driver said quickly.
Vito looked at him. “How did he pay you?”
“He pulled a dollar bill off his roll an’ tol’ me to keep the change,” the cab-driver said.
Vito looked up at the judge, his face innocent of expression. “One more question, Mr. Russo. What was the condition of your fare? Was he intoxicated?”
“He was drunk as a lord,” the cab-driver said quickly.
“That’s all, Mr. Russo. Thank you.” Vito still looked up at the judge. He waited until the witness left the chair and then a faint smile came to his lips.
A twinkle of answering amusement sparkled in the judge’s eye. He nodded slightly toward Vito.
Vito was smiling broadly now. “I move that the case against my client be dismissed on the grounds that no evidence of any crime on her part is shown.”
“Motion granted. Case dismissed,” the judge said.
“Thank you, Your Honour.” Vito turned toward Maryann as the judge adjourned the court.
She held out her hand, smiling. “Thank you, Hank.”
He grinned at her. “You said I was the best. I dared not do less.”
She stood up and he helped her on with her coat. From the corners of his eyes he could see a man handing Bell a paper. He chuckled to himself as they started to walk out.
Bell pushed up to him as they passed. “Mr. Vito,” he said angrily, waving the paper, “what is the meaning of this?”
Vito answered calmly: “What?”
“This suit for false arrest. Slander—damages to your client’s reputation. Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars!” Bell’s voice was trembling with rage.
Vito pushed Maryann down the aisle before him as he answered the man. “Next time you accuse a poor innocent, Mr. Bell, we trust you will remember there are also laws for her protection.”
Maryann was laughing when they got out of the courtroom. “You had the paper all ready for him. What if we had lost?”
Vito was smiling. “We couldn’t lose.”
“We couldn’t?” she asked doubtfully.
He didn’t answer her question. “We have a date for dinner?” he asked instead.
She nodded.
“What time?”
“Pick me up at my place. Seven thirty,” she answered.
“Good,” he said. “I got to get back to my office. I’ll get you a cab.” He signalled and a cab pulled to a stop. He opened the door for her.
She stepped in and looked at him. “What do you mean we couldn’t lose? If you hadn’t found that cab-driver we’d have had a hard time.”
“Who found the cab-driver?” he asked innocently.
“You mean you—?” She broke off, a growing knowledge in her eyes.
He grinned at her. “Who was to say no? Bell was so drunk he didn’t remember which driver he had. It was simple enough to get a man from the same company who could remember more than Bell could. Especially a man who works nights and was willing to pick up a few bucks for an easy afternoon’s work.”
“You are the best,” she said, smiling.
He closed the door. “Seven thirty sharp,” he said and walked off whistling.
He looked at his wristwatch. It was almost six o’clock. He picked up the telephone, and when his secretary answered, he said: “Call the barber and tell him to wait for me. I’ll be down for a shave in a few minutes.”
“Right, Mr. Vito,” the girl said. He started to put down the receiver, but her voice continued. “I have Mr. Drego on the telephone.”
“I didn’t call him,” Vito said.
“He called just as you picked up the phone,” the girl explained.
Vito punched the connecting button. “Yes, Ross?”
“I gotta see you tonight. Hank,” Ross’s voice was earnest.
“Can’t it keep, kid?” Vito said. “I talked the ol’ woman into giving me a night off and I got a beautiful babe lined up. Any other time.”
“It’s got to be tonight, Hank,” Ross answered. “They want me to go out west next week. There’s some things we have to straighten out first.”
“Hell! I got no luck at all,” Vito said.
Ross laughed into the phone. “I won’t keep you long.”
“Yeah,” Vito said.
Ross laughed again. “This babe must be somethin’. I never heard you sweat over a dame before.”
“I don’t think there’s another like her in the world,” Vito said. “She was born to be a woman.”
“This I gotta see,” Ross said. “Bring her along if she can keep her mouth shut.”
“Okay,” Vito said. “We’ll be at your place at eight.”
“No,” Ross answered, “better make it the Shelton Club at eight-thirty. I’ll bring a dame, too. That way, if anyone sees us we’ll be out on a ball.”
“Right,” Vito agreed. He put down the telephone. Ross was a bright boy. Sometimes too bright. He picked up the telephone again and dialled a number.
A voice answered. “Get Joker to the phone,” he said. Joker was right. Many years ago he had said the kid would need a lot of handling.
<
br /> Chapter Three
THE CAB DROPPED him at a brownstone house on West 73rd Street. He paid the driver and walked up the steps. The light in the hall was dim, and he had to strike a match to find her name. Maryann Flood. He pressed the bell.
Almost immediately there was an answering buzz at the door. He pushed it open and came into an old-fashioned hallway. Her door, marked by a gold letter C, was at the top of a flight of stairs. He was about to knock when she opened it.
“Come in,” she said, smiling, and stepped back to let him enter.
He came into the room, taking off his hat. At first glance he was surprised. It was neatly and simply furnished, and still there was a sense of the exotic in the apartment. It was in the thick, rich pile of the rug, the bizarre wall fixtures, a sword, an ancient gun, a cat-o’-nine-tails. The light was soft on the deep maroon paint of the walls and ceiling. Under the windows were bookshelves filled with books and knick-knacks.
“Your coat?” she asked, still smiling.
“Oh—sure.” He slipped it off.
She took it from him. “There’s ice and whisky on the side table,” she said. “I’ll be ready in a few minutes.”
He walked over to the side table. The ice bucket was sterling silver. The glasses were good Steuben tumblers. The Scotch was Johnnie Walker Black Label, the rye Canadian, the bourbon Old Grand-dad, the gin House of Lords. “You live pretty good,” he said.
Her quilted housecoat of green velvet swirled as she turned to look at him. “I should,” she said, unsmiling. “That’s the only reward of my profession. And there’s no guarantee that it will continue, so I make the most of the moment.”
He filled a glass and walked over to the bookshelves. They contained current fiction, some good, some bad. “Did you read all these?” he asked curiously.
She nodded. “I generally have the whole day to kill.”
He tasted his whisky. “Can I fix you a drink?” he asked.
“No thanks,” she said. “I’ll get one.” She poured some creme de cassis into a tumbler, added a few ice cubes and then soda. She raised the glass. “To the smartest lawyer in New York.”
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