by Parnell Hall
“You don’t want to advise me?” she said.
He smiled and shook his head. “I don’t want to suborn perjury, compound a felony or conspire to conceal a crime.” He looked at her and said, pointedly, “That’s why I’m not advising you to look in those windows, and if you should look in those windows, it would certainly be without my knowledge. That advice I can’t give you. I’m perfectly willing to advise you on legal matters.”
“Then you’ll be my attorney?”
“Just as soon as you give me a retainer.”
Sheila bit her lip. “You’ll have to get that from Uncle Max.”
“All right. Get your purse.”
Sheila looked at him. “We’re going to see Uncle Max?”
“I’ll call on him later. Right now I want you to take me to Fifth Avenue and show me where you were window-shopping.”
Sheila looked at him, and a light dawned. “You mean you want me to-”
“I want to get the time element straight,” he interrupted, pointedly. “The time element’s going to be very important.”
She stared at him, blinked. “Yes,” she said, slowly. “I can see that it is.”
13
Dirkson grabbed up the phone.
“Yes,” he hissed.
“Maxwell Baxter’s attorneys are Marston, Marston, and Cramden,” Reese told him.
“Great. And could you tell me why it took so long to get that information?”
“Because I’ve been on the phone with the Dunwoody Golf Course.”
“Oh, yes. And?”
“The gentlemen in question are not pleased. They seemed to take the attitude that I was preventing you from keeping your golf date.”
“Yes, yes,” Dirkson said impatiently. “How did you resolve it?”
“They’ll meet you in the clubhouse after the round. They didn’t mention future campaign contributions.”
“Fuck you, Reese.”
“Yes, sir. And Lieutenant Farron just came in.”
“Send him in.”
Farron didn’t look happy, but then Dirkson wouldn’t have expected him to. After all, Farron was pretty much in the doghouse over this one.
“What now?” Dirkson asked.
Farron shook his head. “We still haven’t traced him.”
“You came here to tell me that? Come tell me when you have traced him.”
“You know the girl’s prints are on the knife?”
“Yesterday’s news. Anything else?”
Farron held out a paper. “Autopsy report.”
“Why didn’t you say so,” Dirkson said irritably. He snatched it from him and looked it over.
“The only thing significant is the time element,” Farron said.
Dirkson looked. “Twelve-thirty to one-thirty.”
“That’s right.”
Dirkson looked at Farron. “Wasn’t her call logged at one thirty-eight?”
“Sure was.”
Dirkson frowned. “Well, that’s sure cutting it a little thin. Can’t we do any better than that?”
“Don’t look at me. Talk to the medical examiner. Those are the times during which he says it could have happened.”
“What time did she get home?”
Farron shook his head. “We haven’t found the cab driver yet.”
Dirkson looked at him. “Then what the hell are you doing here?”
Farron gave him a look, turned and walked out the door.
The phone rang. Dirkson scooped it up. “Yeah, what is it?”
“Yes, sir,” Reese said. “There’s a Mr. Marston, of Marston, Marston, and Cramden on the phone.”
“Oh, shit.”
14
Sheila and Steve Winslow stood in front of Saks Fifth Avenue.
“This is one of the windows you looked in?” Steve asked her.
“Yes.”
“How long were you looking in this window?”
“Four or five minutes.”
“What were you looking at?”
Sheila looked in the window. “I was particularly interested in a blue dress with silver trim on the sleeves and hem.”
“Your memory is excellent,” Steve said, dryly. “Now then, it would have taken you about ten minutes to walk here from your uncle’s apartment. The cab ride home would be about fifteen minutes. That leaves an hour and twenty minutes you must have been window-shopping.”
‘That’s right.”
“So, I want you to retrace your path to all the stores you visited this afternoon and try to remember how long you stayed at each of them.”
“I understand,” Sheila said.
“Good. First you can walk me to Uncle Max’s. You should start from there, anyway.”
“Okay.”
They walked off down the street.
Realizing they were on the way to Uncle Max’s made Sheila uneasy. She stole a glance at Winslow. She’d been relating to him as a person, because she was caught up in her own problems. So she’d forgotten what he looked like, what her first impression of him had been. God. This man was going to call on Uncle Max. This man was going to ask him for money.
“Do you want me to go in with you to talk to Uncle Max?” Sheila said. She tried to make the question sound casual.
“No, you don’t have to,” Steve said. “I can introduce myself. You just start from outside the building and retrace your path to all the stores.”
“Okay,” she said.
He grinned. “You sound relieved.”
She flushed. Damn. She couldn’t hide anything from him. “Well, I have to warn you,” she said. “Uncle Max is going to be difficult.”
“You mean about the money?”
“More than that. He’ll probably insist on hiring his own lawyer to represent me.”
“Well, why don’t you let him?”
Sheila’s eyes flicked for a moment as she thought of the real reason-the cocaine.
Steve noticed. He said nothing, but as with the window-shopping bit, he made a mental note that for some reason the girl was holding out on him.
She recovered quickly. “Because I don’t want him running my life. I want my own lawyer who’s working for me, not some stooge of Uncle Max’s who’s taking his orders and reporting back to him.”
“Lawyers don’t do that,” Steve told her.
“You don’t know Uncle Max. He’s stinking rich, and he uses his money to control people. He controls my money, and tries to use it to control me. He thinks just because he’s my trustee he can run my life.”
“And you won’t let him?”
She looked at him and laughed. “Why do you think I live in that stinking apartment? My trust fund pays me two hundred a week. Uncle Max would give me more if I did what he wanted. I don’t, so he doesn’t.”
“Tell me about the trust,” Steve said. “Who set it up, your father?”
“My father died before I was born. My mother was killed in a car accident when I was four.” Sheila sighed. “It was in Vermont. One of those twisting mountain roads. The brakes failed, and the car went off a curve. Suddenly I was an orphan.
“After that, I lived with my grandfather at his house in Vermont. Actually, we’d been living with him before, my mother and I. Before she died, I mean. I’m not telling this well. What I mean is, I was already living there.
“Anyway, my grandfather died a year later. He left a third of his money to Uncle Max, a third to my cousin Phillip, and a third to me. He designated Uncle Max sole trustee for the two of us.”
“Wait a minute. I thought you said your cousin’s father was still alive. You saw him yesterday with Phillip at Uncle Max’s.”
“That’s right. Uncle Teddy was completely disinherited.”
“Why?”
“Uncle Teddy was pretty wild when he was young. Of course, I was too young at the time to understand what was going on. But I do know when grandfather died, Uncle Teddy was in jail.”
“Uh huh. So Uncle Max owns the whole shooting works.”
>
“That’s right And you’re going to have to hustle to get your retainer.”
Steve smiled. “You have no objection to taking money from Uncle Max, I see.”
“None at all. I just don’t want him telling me what to do. But as long as I can hire my own lawyer, I’m perfectly willing to let Uncle Max pay him.”
Steve nodded. “I’m perfectly willing to let Uncle Max pay him too.”
15
Maxwell Baxter, “casually” dressed in a thousand-dollar, tailor-made suit, regarded Steve Winslow as one might regard some rare species at the zoo. Corduroy. A green tie. Blue jeans. Really!
Maxwell Baxter was showing none of this. His manner to Winslow was infinite politeness and elaborate condescension, which, coupled with his icy reserve, was as irritating as he had hoped it would be.
“Mr. Winslow,” Max said with a thin smile. “I don’t wish to seem rude, but you are not my niece’s attorney.”
Steve was seated on the couch. He had declined Baxter’s offer of a brandy, correctly realizing the offer was only an ironic attempt on Max’s part to make him ill at ease. Uncle Max had made himself a drink, and was standing near the bar holding it.
Steve looked up at him, realizing Baxter was standing just so he would have to do that.
They’d exchanged opening remarks. Steve had introduced himself, and begun to explain the situation Sheila had found herself in. Baxter had interrupted to say he knew all about it. He’d followed that by the condescending offer of a drink, and then the flat denial that Winslow was Sheila’s attorney.
“She has asked me to represent her,” Steve said.
Max waved this aside. “Doubtless she has. However, you must be aware of the fact that she has no money with which to pay you. I assume you have no desire to work for nothing.”
“She has her trust fund.”
Max smiled. “Of which I am the sole trustee. The disbursement of Sheila’s money is entirely at my discretion. You will receive a fee only if I choose to pay you. And I do not choose to pay you.”
Steve smiled back. “Did it ever occur to you that I might represent Sheila anyway, sue you for my fee and attempt to upset the trust?”
Max shook his head, pityingly. “Mr. Winslow, I am afraid my niece has not been entirely frank with you. She had lawyers look into the trust three years ago. They found it was impregnable.”
Steve frowned. That seemed strange. Sheila had no money to hire lawyers, and Uncle Max certainly wouldn’t have paid them. Maybe with a trust of that size at stake, lawyers would be willing to work on contingency. But then, if Sheila already had lawyers, why had she called him?
“That may well be,” Steve said. “I haven’t seen the trust yet.”
“Implying you think you could do better? Excuse me a moment.”
Max turned and walked into the study. He was back a minute later carrying a file folder. He presented it to Steve.
“Here’s a copy of the trust. Don’t read it now, it’s quite lengthy. Take it with you and peruse it at your leisure.”
“That’s very considerate of you.”
“Not at all. Merely expedient. Letting you read the trust is the best way to convince you that any action you take is bound to be fruitless.”
Max smiled coldly and sat down in the easy chair. “The attorneys that Sheila had look into the trust are Poindexter and Brown. Perhaps you’re wondering why Sheila called you rather than them in this matter. The answer is simple. She owes them money. They have never been paid for their services. I know because, having failed to collect from Sheila, they billed me as Sheila’s trustee. Naturally, I declined to pay. They have not sued. And the reason they have not sued is because, having studied the trust, they know it to be judgment proof and realize such suits would be futile.”
Steve nodded. “I see. In that case, I might attack the will.”
“The will!”
“That’s right. Your father’s will.”
Max was genuinely surprised. “But the will has been proven genuine. There’s no question about it.”
“Oh no? Your brother was disinherited by that will. And I understand he’s your older brother. Now, any will that disinherits the firstborn son is particularly open to attack. You just might find yourself out in the cold with Uncle Teddy in the driver’s seat.”
Max smiled, back in control again. “Mr. Winslow, once again you are speaking in ignorance of the facts. Before you get yourself out on a limb, let me try to explain this to you.”
“For my own good, of course,” Steve said sarcastically. Maxwell Baxter was one of those people he instinctively disliked.
Max took no notice. “My father was an eccentric man in many respects,” he began. “But he was a good man, a kind man and a very honest man. He had very high scruples and a great sense of right and wrong.”
“All right, all right, he was a saint. So what?”
“Alice, Sheila’s mother, was his eldest child. The proverbial apple of his eye. In his original will, the bulk of his estate went to her. Alice was killed in a car accident when Sheila was four. Teddy, being the next eldest, should have become the principal heir. But Teddy was rather wild in those days. It happened that the day Alice was killed, Teddy was in New York promoting a fraudulent business deal. He was arrested the following day. Father was outraged, of course, and so, when he changed his will, Teddy was left out in the cold.”
“And, wishing to provide for Sheila, he set up the trust fund, with you as trustee.”
“Exactly. He set up a similar fund for Teddy’s son, Phillip. And to make sure that Teddy couldn’t get his hands on the money, he made me trustee and provided that Phillip couldn’t touch the money until he turned thirty-five.”
“And the same is true of Sheila.”
“Exactly. So if you have the patience to wait eleven years for your retainer, feel free to take the case.”
“Sheila gets the entire principal when she turns thirty-five?”
“Not necessarily. My father put a provision in the trust that if Sheila is involved in any serious scandal that would bring discredit on the family name, the money is to go to charity.”
“Terrific. An open invitation for blackmail. That’s all the police will need to give them an airtight case.”
“That’s why I’ve hired the best lawyers in town to represent her.”
“Who?”
“Marston, Marston, and Cramden.”
Steve shook his head. “Corporation lawyers. Have they ever handled a murder trial?”
“They’ll handle it so there is no trial.”
Steve stood up. “Don’t kid yourself. Within twenty-four hours your niece will be in jail charged with first-degree murder. The only reason she isn’t there right now is because the police haven’t identified the body yet so they don’t know just who the hell to charge her with killing.”
“And when she is,” Max said calmly, “Marston, Marston, and Cramden will represent her.”
“We’ll see about that,” Steve said grimly. He headed for the door.
“Going so soon, Mr. Winslow?” Max said as he passed.
“I have work to do, Mr. Baxter.”
As Steve rang for the elevator, Max followed as far as the foyer door for a parting shot.
“So glad you can afford to work for nothing, Mr. Winslow,” he said. “So few people can.”
16
Steve Winslow came out the front door of Maxwell Baxter’s building onto Park Avenue, and looked up and down the block. Christ. There were never any phones on the damn street.
Steve shook his head and chuckled. Hell, what could you do but laugh? After all, it was kind of funny. Here it was. Just what he’d always wanted. A real murder case. Why should he get a fee for it too?
He headed over to Lexington and spotted a phone on the corner. A woman with a huge load of fancy shopping bags was making for it. Steve Winslow cut in ahead of her. He knew from experience she would take forever, and he was in no mood to be a gentleman.
Steve punched in 411, and asked for the listing. The operator said, “Certainly,” he heard the click and the recording began. Oh hell, the worst of these recording information services, where the hell was a pencil?
He dug in his pockets, pulled out a whole bunch of junk, and finally, an old ballpoint pen. He tried it on an old envelope. It worked.
By that time the recording had already given the phone number and instructed him to stay on the line if he needed further assistance.
An operator clicked on. “Yes?”
“The phone number for the Taylor Detective Agency.”
“We just gave you that number.”
“I missed it.”
“All right.”
There was a click, and the recording began again.
He got it that time. He broke the connection, got a dial tone and dialed the number.
A female voice answered. “Taylor Detective Agency.”
“Mark Taylor, please.”
“Who’s calling, please?”
“Steve Winslow.”
“One moment please.”
There was a click, and Steve was on hold. He hated that. At least there was no recorded music. Another click, and Mark Taylor’s slightly Brooklyn twang said, “Steve, hi. Good to hear from you. Where you been keeping yourself?”
“It’s a long story. Listen, Mark. I got some work for you.”
“Oh yeah? What kind of work?”
“A murder case.”
“No shit. I thought Wilson and Doyle fixed it so you’d never work again.”
“I got lucky. Now look. A man was found murdered in a Miss Sheila Benton’s apartment this afternoon.”
“Yeah. What about it?”
“You heard about it?”
“Can’t say that I have.”
“Well, you will. It happens to be the biggest thing going.”
“Oh yeah? And why is that?”
“Because Sheila Benton happens to be Maxwell Baxter’s niece.”
Taylor whistled. “You mean to say you got a piece of that action?”
“That’s right.”
“Who’s the client?”
