by Otto Penzler
The pneumatic door check swung the door to.
Ken Corning turned in his swivel-chair and sent swift hands to his tie. From the outer office sounded the furious clack of a typewriter. Three minutes passed. The roller of the machine made sounds as the paper was ripped from it. The door of the private office banged open. Helen Vail pushed her way in, in an ecstasy of haste, crinkling a legal paper in her hands.
“All ready for your signature,” she said.
The pneumatic door check was swinging the door closed as Ken reached for the paper. On it had been written with the monotony of mechanical repetition, over and over: “Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of the party.”
The door completed its closing. The latch clicked.
“Get his name?” asked Ken.
“Sam Parks. He’s nervous. It’s a criminal case. I’d have kept him waiting longer, but he won’t stand for it. He’s looking at his watch— twice in the last sixty seconds.”
Ken patted her hand.
“Okey. Good girl. Shoot him in.”
Helen walked to the door, opened it, smiled sweetly. “You may come in now, Mr. Parks.”
She held the door open. Ken could see the big man heaving his bulk free of the chair. He saw him blot out the light in the doorway as the girl stepped aside. He was signing a paper as the big man entered the office and paused. Ken kept his eyes on the paper until the door catch clicked. Then he looked up with a smile.
“Mr. Parks, is it?” he asked.
The big man grunted, waddled over to the chair which was placed so close to the new desk as to invite easy intimacy. He sat down, then, apparently feeling that the chair was too far away, started hitching it closer and closer to the desk. His voice was almost a shrill whisper.
“My wife,” he said, “has been arrested.”
Ken laid down the pen, looked professional.
“What,” he asked, “is the charge?”
The big man’s shrill voice rattled off a string of swift words: “Well, you see it was this way. We had a place, a little restaurant, and the officers came busting in without a warrant … tell me, can they come into a place without a warrant, that way?”
Ken replied crisply: “They did, didn’t they?”
“Yes.”
“Okey, then they can. They’re not supposed to, but they did, they do and they can. What happened?”
“Well, that was about all. They claimed we were selling booze.”
Ken’s voice was sharp.
“Find any?”
“A little.”
“How much?”
“Ten or fifteen gallons.”
“Then they arrested you both?”
The fat man blinked glassy eyes.
“Just her. They didn’t take me.”
“Why?”
He fidgeted, and the layers of fat jiggled about.
“Well, we sort of outslicked ‘em. There had been a guy eating at one of the tables. He got wise as soon as the first man walked in on the raiding party. He ducked out the back. I sat down at his table and finished up his food. The wife pretended she didn’t know me, and asked the officers if she could collect my bill before they took her. They said she could. I paid her fifty cents for the food and gave her a ten-cent tip. Then they closed up the place, took the booze away with ‘em, and put me out. The wife said she ran the place alone.”
Ken Corning twisted a pencil in his fingers.
“I’ll want a retainer of a hundred and fifty dollars,” he said, “and then I’ll see what I can do and report.”
The glassy eyes squinted.
“You ain’t in with the gang here?”
“I’m a newcomer.”
The man opened his coat, disclosed a wrinkled vest and shirt, soggy with perspiration. He pulled a leather wallet from an inside pocket and pulled out a hundred dollar bill and a fifty. The wallet was crammed with money. He tossed the money carelessly on the desk.
“The first thing to do,” he said, “is to see the wife. Tell her you’re going to represent her, see? Let her know I’m on the job, and tell her to keep a stiff upper lip, and to keep quiet, see? Tell her to keep quiet, see?”
Ken Corning folded the money, got to his feet, stood there, signifying that the interview was over.
“Come back when I send for you. Leave your name and address and your wife’s name with the girl in the outer office so I can get my records straight. Leave a telephone number where you can be reached.”
The man turned on the threshold.
“You ain’t in with the ring?” he asked, and there was a note of anxiety in his voice.
Ken Corning reached for a law book, shook his head.
The pneumatic door clicked shut.
Ken set down the law book and fingered the money. He turned it over and over in his fingers. He cocked his head on one side, listening. After a moment he heard the click of the outer door catch. Then Helen Vail was standing on the threshold of the inner office. Her eyes were starry.
Ken Corning waved the money.
“Start an account for that bird, and credit it with a hundred and fifty.”
She was smiling at him when the door opened. Broad shoulders pushed their way across the outer office. From his desk, Ken could see the man as he crossed the outer office. Helen Vail barred the inner office door.
“Whom do you wish?” she asked.
The man laughed, pushed past her, walked directly to Ken Coming’s desk. He flipped back a corner of his coat with a casual hand.
“Who,” he asked, “was the guy that just left here, and what’d he want?”
Ken Corning pushed back the swivel-chair as he got to his feet.
“This,” he said, “is my private office.”
The broad shouldered man laughed. His face was coarse skinned, but the gray eyes had little lights in them that might have meant humor, or might have meant a love of conflict.
“Keep your shirt on, keep your shirt on,” he said. “I’m Perkins from the booze detail. There was a speak knocked over last night. The woman who was running it tried to slip a bribe, and she’s booked on a felony. That big guy was sitting in there, eating chow. He claimed he was a customer. I happened to see him come in here. He looked phoney, so I tagged along. I want to know what he wanted.”
Ken Coming’s voice was hard.
“This,” he said, “is a law office, not an information bureau.”
The gray eyes became brittle hard. The jaw jutted forward. Perkins crowded to the desk.
“Listen, guy,” he said, “you’re new here. Whether you’re going to get along or not depends on whether you play ball or not. I asked you who that guy was. I asked because I wanted to know….”
Corning moved free of the swivel-chair.
“You getting out?” he asked.
The lips of the broad shouldered man twisted in a sneer.
“So that’s your line of chatter?”
“That’s my line of chatter.”
The man turned on his heel, strode towards the door. He turned with his hand on the knob.
“Try and get some favors out of the liquor detail!” he said.
Ken’s tone was rasping. He stood with his feet planted wide apart, eyes glinting.
“I don’t want favors,” he said, “from anybody!”
The broad shouldered man walked from the office, heels pounding the floor. Slowly the automatic door check swung the door shut.
Ken was ready to leave his office, seeking an interview with his client at the jail, when the door of his private office framed the white features of Helen Vail.
“It’s Mr. Dwight,” she said.
“What is?”
“The man who just came in. Carl Dwight. He’s outside. He wants to see you.”
Ken whistled. “Show him in,” he said.
She motioned towards the desk.
“Shall I get you some papers?”
“Not with him. He’s a wise bird. He knows. Shoot him in.”
Helen stood to one side of the door and beckoned. Carl Dwight came in. He walked with a slight limp. His lips were smiling. He had pale eyes that seemed covered with a thin white film, like boiled milk. Those eyes didn’t smile. His skin was swarthy and oily. There was a cut on his forehead, a slight bruise on his left cheek bone.
He wasn’t large, and yet he radiated a suggestion of ominous power. He said, crisply: “I’m busy. You’re busy. You know of me. I know of you. I’ve had my eye on you for the last week or two. You’re a likely looking young man. I want to give you a retainer. Here’s five hundred dollars. That’ll be for this month. There’ll be five hundred dollars more coming next month, and the month after that.”
His gloved hand laid an envelope on the desk.
Ken picked up the envelope. It was unsealed. There were five one hundred-dollar bills in it.
“What,” asked Ken cautiously, “am I supposed to do?”
The gloved hand waved in an airy gesture.
“Just use your head,” said Dwight. “I’ve got rather extensive interests here. You’ve probably heard of me, know who I am.”
Ken Corning chose his words carefully.
“You,” he said, “are reputed to be the head of the political machine in this county. You are reputed to be the man who tells the mayor what to do.”
The filmed eyes blinked. The swarthy skinned man made clucking noises in his throat.
“That, of course, is an exaggeration, Mr. Corning. But I have interests in the county, interests which are rather extensive. Now you can sort of look out for those interests. And, by the way, there’s a criminal case, the matter of a woman who was running rather a disreputable joint, gambling, hooch and all that. Parks was the name, I believe.
“Do you know, I think it might be rather a good thing to have that case disposed of rather rapidly. A plea of guilty, let us say. I’m certain you’ll agree that it’s a dead open and shut case. She tried to bribe an officer. There were witnesses. She gave him fifty dollars. Having such things aired in front of a jury don’t do any good.”
He got to his feet. The swarthy skin crinkled in a smile, a sallow, bilious smile. The filmed eyes regarded Ken Corning with the wisdom of a serpent.
“So now,” he smirked, “we understand each other perfectly. I think you’ll like it in York City, Corning.”
Ken slowly got to his feet.
“Yes,” he said, “I understand you perfectly. But you don’t understand me, not by a long ways. Take back this damned money before I slap your face with it!”
Dwight teetered back and forth on his feet, made little clucking noises with his mouth.
“Like that, eh?” he said.
“Like that,” agreed Corning.
Dwight sneered.
“You won’t last long. You can’t …”
He didn’t finish. Ken Corning reached out with the envelope which he held by a corner, and slapped it across Dwight’s mouth. The filmed eyes blazed into light. The mouth twisted in a snarl. Dwight snatched at the envelope, crammed it in his pocket, whirled and started to the door. He paused on the threshold.
“Wait,” he said, significantly.
And Ken Corning, standing by his desk, feet braced wide apart, jaw thrust forward, said: “You’re damned tooting I’ll wait. I’ll be waiting long after you think you’re finished with me!”
The attorneys’ room in the county jail was a dull, cheerless place. There was a long desk which ran down the center of the room. Above this desk was a heavy wire screen. The prisoner could sit on one side of the desk, the attorney on the other.
Esther Parks came into the room through the doorway which led to the cell corridor. Ken Corning watched her with interest. Her face was heavy, her walk plodding. She was a big woman, broad-hipped and big-shouldered. Her eyes were like oysters on a white plate.
She plowed her way forward.
The attendant who had charge of the room stood at the doorway, beyond earshot, but where he could see everything that went on in the room.
The woman sat down on the stool opposite Ken Corning. Her face was within three feet of his. Her big hands were folded upon the scarred wood of the long desk. The heavy screen separated them.
“Hello,” she said.
Ken Corning kept his voice low pitched.
“Hello. I’m the attorney that your husband engaged to represent you. He thought you were just charged with unlawful possession of liquor. You’re not. They’ve got you on the charge of offering a bribe to an officer. That’s a felony.”
He paused expectantly.
The woman said: “Uh-huh.”
Ken stared into the oyster eyes.
“Well,” he said, “I’m to do the best I can for you. Can we go to trial and beat the charge?”
The eyes didn’t change expression. The heavy face rippled into dull speech.
“I was running a speak, me and Sam. We went in mostly for cheap food with drinks to sell to the right parties. I don’t see why they had to pick on us. Everybody’s doing it, that is, everybody anywhere round our neighborhood.”
Ken frowned and shook his head.
“I’m telling you it isn’t the liquor charge they’ve got you on. I could square that with a fine. It’s the bribery charge. Can we beat that?”
The woman’s voice was blurred in its accent, indifferent and stolid in tone.
“I don’t know. I gave him the money. They all take the money. Twice before I’ve had men call on me and say they was the law. I’ve given ‘em money. I gave this man money. Then he collared me. They didn’t spot Sam. He sat down at a table and ate some grub.”
Ken Corning made little drumming noises with the tips of his fingers. He regarded the woman through the wire mesh of the screen.
“Have they asked you for a statement?” he wanted to know.
A flicker of intelligence appeared in the pale, watery eyes.
“I ain’t so dumb. I told ‘em to wait until my lawyer showed up, then they could talk with him.”
“Who was it?” asked Corning, “the one who wanted the statement?”
She moved her head in a gesture of slow negation.
“I dunno. Somebody from the Sheriffs office, or the District Attorney’s office. He was a young fellow and he had a man with him that took down what I said in shorthand.”
“What did you say?”
“Nothin’.”
Corning squinted his eyes thoughtfully.
“How did it happen that they didn’t spot Sam as your husband? Usually when they make these raids they’ve had a stoolie go in and make a purchase or two. They have all the dope on where the stuff is kept and who runs the place.”
The woman’s head turned again, slowly, from side to side.
“I dunno. They just didn’t spot Sam, that was all. I was behind the counter at the cash register. They came walkin’ in. I think I heard somebody say ‘There she is,’ or ‘That’s her, now,’ or some-thin’ like that. I didn’t pay so much attention. They made the pinch, and I tried to hand ‘em the dough.
“It was their fault I slipped ‘em the money, too. One of the men held up the jug that had the hooch in it, and said: ‘Well, sister, what are you goin’ to do about this?’ I seen he had me, dead to rights, so I opened the cash register, an’ asked him if he’d listen to reason. He said he would. I slipped him the cash, an’ then they said something to each other and told me to come along with them.
“Sam had got wise to what was goin’ on, an’ he’d gone over to the table an’ was boltin’ down food. I asked the law if I could close up the joint, take the cash an’ collect from the gent at the table. They said I could, an’ I did, an’ that’s all I know about it. They took me here.”
Ken Corning clamped his mouth into a thin line.
“Then we’ve got to plead guilty,” he said.
She shrugged her shoulders.
“That’s your job. I dunno. I’m tellin’ you what happened. I figured Sam would get a mouthpiece an’ spring
me.”
Corning continued to drum with his fingers.
“Look here,” he said, “there’s something funny about this case. I’m going to keep a close mouth for a while, and see if I can find out what’s back of it. You seem to be on the outs with the ring that’s running the town. Do you know why?”
The big head shook slowly.
“Well,” said Corning, “sit tight for a while. Don’t talk to anyone. If anyone asks you any questions, no matter who it is, tell them to see your lawyer, Mr. Corning. Can you remember to do that?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’ll have you arraigned and get bail set. Can you raise bail?”
“How much?”
“Maybe three thousand dollars?”
“No.”
“Two thousand?”
“Maybe.”
“Any property you could put up as security with a bail bond company for the purpose of getting them to issue a bail bond?”
“No. Just cash. We had a lease on the joint. It paid fair money. Lately it ain’t been payin’.”
Ken Corning got to his feet.
“All right,” he said. “Sit tight. Remember what I told you. Don’t talk. I’m going to see what I can do.”
The attendant moved forward.
“This way,” he said to the woman, in a voice that was a mechanical monotone.
Don Graves, the Deputy District Attorney in charge of the case of the People vs. Esther Parks, was almost totally bald, despite the fact that he was in his early thirties. His face ran to nose. The eyes on either side were round and lidless. He had a peculiar peering appearance like that of a startled anteater.
He turned the nose directly towards Ken Corning, so that the twin eyes bored unblinkingly into those of the attorney, and said: “We won’t reduce the charge. She bribed an officer. That’s a serious offense.”
Ken kept his temper.
“That’s a hard charge to prove, and you know as well as I do that the officer kept angling to get her to give him money. You get a jury of twelve people together, and some of ‘em are going to think it’s a hell of a note to send a woman to the pen because she had some hooch and an officer kept sticking his palm out at her. It’s only natural to slip a man something when he makes a stall like that. That isn’t being criminal. That’s just human nature.”
