by Rex Stout
The lawyer wheeled with a sharp: “What?”
“To refuse the case, sir.”
“I don’t know. No, it wouldn’t. Hang it all, I suppose I’m in for it. But where’s the sense in it? I don’t know the first thing about murder. What if he’s innocent? How could I prove it? Whoever this Mount is, God help him. I suppose I’ll have to go and see him.”
“Yes, sir.”
Though Mr. Leg talked for another half-hour, while Dan listened respectfully, he could arrive at no other conclusion. There was no way out of it—he must go and see the man, Mount. Heavens, what a frightful, unexpected thing, to have a murderer thrown on one’s hands! Really, there ought to be a public defender.
At ten o’clock he put on his hat and coat and started for the Tombs.
Let us talk about him while he is on his way. Mr. Simon Leg was known among the members of his profession as well as any lawyer in the city, but not as a lawyer. In fact, he wasn’t a lawyer at all, except in name. He hadn’t had a case in ten years.
He had inherited a large fortune, and thus, seeing no necessity for work of any kind, he refused to do any.
It was apparently to maintain his self-respect that he kept an office and spent his days in it, for all he ever did was to sit in the swivel chair and consume novels and tales of adventure at the rate of five or six a week, with now and then a game of chess with Dan, who gave him odds of a rook and beat him. At first sight it would appear that Dan and Miss Venner had absolutely nothing to do, but they were in fact kept pretty busy picking up the novels and tales from the floor as their employer finished them, and sending them to the Salvation Army.
As for Mr. Leg’s wide popularity among the members of his profession, that was accounted for by the fact that he was a member of all the best clubs, a good fellow, and a liberal friend.
He is now at the Tombs. Entering the grim portals with an inward shudder, he explained his mission to the doorkeeper, and was at once ushered into the office of the warden, to whom he exhibited the letter from Judge Manton by way of credentials. The warden summoned the attendant, who conducted the lawyer to a small, bare room at the end of a dark corridor, and left him there. Five minutes later the door opened again and a uniformed turnkey appeared; ahead of him was a man with white face and sunken eyes, wearing a seedy black suit.
The turnkey pointed to a button on the wall.
“Ring when you’re through,” he directed, and went out, closing the door behind him.
The lawyer rose and approached the other man, who stood near the door regarding him stolidly.
“Mr. Mount,” said the attorney in an embarrassed tone of voice, holding out his hand. “I’m Mr. Leg, Simon Leg, your—that is; your counsel.”
The other hesitated a moment, men took the proffered hand.
“Glad to meet you, Mr. Leg,” he said. He appeared to be also ill at ease. It is a curious thing how the lighter emotions, such as ordinary social embarrassment, continue to operate even when a man is in the shadow of death.
“Well—” began the lawyer, and stopped.
The other came to his rescue.
“I suppose,” said Mount, “you’ve come to hear my side of it?”
“Exactly,” Mr. Leg agreed. “But here, we may as well sit down.”
They seated themselves, one on either side of the wooden table in the center of the room.
“You see, Mr. Mount,” began the lawyer, “I don’t know the first thing about this case. I was assigned to it by Judge Manton. And before you give me any confidences, I want to tell you that I have had no criminal practice whatever. To tell the truth, I’m not much of a lawyer. I say this so that you can ask the court to give you other counsel, and I think you’d better do it.”
“It doesn’t matter,” returned Mount quietly. “There’s no use putting in a defense, anyway.”
Mr. Leg glanced at him quickly. “Oh,” he observed. “What—do you mean you’re guilty?”
The lawyer shrank back from the quick, burning light that leaped from the other’s eyes.
“No!” Mount shouted fiercely. Then suddenly he was quiet again. “No,” he continued calmly, “I’m not guilty, Mr. Leg. My God, do you think I could have killed her? But there’s no use. I was caught—they found me there—”
“Wait,” the lawyer interrupted. “I really think, Mr. Mount, that you’d better ask for other counsel.”
“Well, I won’t.”
“But I’m incompetent.”
“It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. She’s dead, and that’s all there is to it. What do I care? I tell you that I haven’t any defense except that I didn’t do it. No, I won’t ask the judge for anything. Let it go.”
Mr. Leg sighed.
“Then I’ll do the best I can,” he said hopelessly. “Now, Mr. Mount, tell me all you know about it. Tell me everything. And remember that my only chance to help you is if you tell me the whole truth.”
“There’s no use in it, sir,” said the other in a dull tone of misery.
“Go on,” returned the lawyer sternly.
And William Mount told his story.
Chapter III
The Amateur Detective
It was well past two o’clock when Mr. Leg returned to his office, having stopped at a restaurant for lunch on the way. As he entered, Miss Venner and Dan looked up with faces of expectant eagerness, and a faint smile of amusement curled the stenographer’s pretty lips. Dan sprang to his feet to hang up his employer’s coat, and a shadow of disappointment fell across his face as the lawyer nodded his greetings and thanks and passed without a word into the other room. But it was not long before his voice came:
“Dan!”
The youth hastened to the door.
“Yes, sir.”
“Come here.” Mr. Leg was seated at his desk with his feet upon its edge and his chin buried in his collar—his favorite reading attitude. “Dan,” he said as the other stood before him, “this Mount case is a very sad affair. I’m sorrier than ever that I’m mixed up in it. As sure as Heaven, they’re going to convict an innocent man.”
“Yes, sir.”
“He’s innocent, beyond any doubt; but I don’t know what to do. Sit down there and let me tell you about it. You’re a bright boy; you play a good game of chess; maybe you’ll think of something.”
“Yes, sir,” returned the youth eagerly, bringing forward a chair.
“You know,” the lawyer began, “Mount is accused of murdering his wife. Well, she was his wife only in name. He hadn’t been living with her for four years. He hadn’t even seen her in that time. He married her seven years ago when he was thirty-two and she was twenty-one. He was head clerk in an insurance office, getting a good salary, and she had been a stenographer in a law office. For two years they lived together happily. Mount worshiped her. Then she seemed to become discontented, and one day, a year later, she suddenly disappeared, leaving a letter for him which indicated that she had found another man, but not saying so in so many words. He searched—”
“Has he got that letter?” interrupted Dan, who was listening intently.
“What letter?”
“The one his wife left.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I didn’t ask him.”
“All right, sir. Excuse me.”
“He searched for her everywhere,” the lawyer continued, “but found no trace whatever. He went to the police, but they had no better luck. By that time, he had lost his position, having continually absented himself from the office for two months. His heart was broken, and with his wife gone, he didn’t care whether he lived or not. He went from bad to worse, and became practically a vagabond. Half mad from misery and grief, he tramped around looking vaguely for his lost wife. More than three years passed, and the edge of his sorrow dulled a little. He obtained a position as bookkeeper in a coal office, and held it faithfully for four months.
“One evening—this was April 2, a week ago last Friday—he was walking across One Hundred and Fourth Stree
t on his way home from work, when a woman, coming in the opposite direction, stopped suddenly in front of him with a cry of surprise. It was his wife.
“Mount, of course, was staggered.
“He remembered afterward that she was very well dressed, even expensively, it seemed to him. She told him she had been searching for him for the past six months; she had discovered that she really loved him and no one else, and she wanted to come back to him. Mount called attention to his pitiable condition, physical and sartorial, but she said that she had a great deal of money, enough to last them a very long time, many years. Poor Mount didn’t even dare ask her where the money came from. He said he would take her back.
“She arranged to meet him the following night at nine o’clock at a drugstore on the corner of One Hundred and Sixteenth Street and Eighth Avenue. He begged her to go with him then, at once; but that she said she couldn’t do. Finally they separated. But Mount couldn’t bear to let her get out of his sight, and he followed her.
“She took the subway at One Hundred and Third Street, and he managed to get on the same train without being discovered. At One Hundred and Fifty-seventh Street she got off, and he followed her to an apartment house near Broadway. Soon after she entered he saw a light appear in the east flat on the third floor, so he supposed she lived there. He stayed around till after eleven, but she didn’t come out again.
“The next night Mount was at the drugstore ahead of time. She wasn’t there, nor did she arrive at nine o’clock. He waited nearly two hours. At twenty minutes to eleven he went uptown to One Hundred and Fifty-seventh Street. From the pavement he saw a light in her windows.
“He entered the building; the outer door was open.
“A man was standing in the lower hall. Mount barely glanced at him as he passed to the stairs; he doesn’t remember what the man looked like, only he has an indistinct recollection that he had a suitcase in his hand. Mount went upstairs to the third floor and rang the bell at the flat to the east. There was no answer, though he rang several times, and finally, finding the door unlocked, he pushed it open and entered.
“On the floor, with the electric lights glaring above her, was the dead body of his wife with the hilt of a knife protruding from her breast and blood everywhere. Mount screamed, leaped forward, and pulled out the knife; blood spurted on his hands and sleeves. His scream brought adjoining tenants to the scene. In ten minutes the police were there, and when they left, they took Mount with them.”
Mr. Leg took one foot down from the desk, reached in his pocket for a packet of cigarettes, and lit one.
“That’s Mount’s story,” said he, blowing a column of smoke into the air, “and I’m certain it’s a true one. The man has an appearance of honesty.”
A slight smile appeared on Dan’s lips.
“You know, sir, you believe everything people tell you,” he suggested diffidently.
“True.” Mr. Leg frowned. “Yes, I suppose it’s a fault not to be suspicious sometimes. But that’s what the man told me, and I’m his counsel. I don’t mind confessing to you, Dan, that I’m absolutely helpless. I haven’t the slightest idea what to do. I thought of several things, but they all seemed absurd on analysis. I had it in mind during luncheon. I’ve put a lot of thought on it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“But I arrived nowhere. As I said before, Dan, you’re a bright boy. Maybe you might suggest something—”
The youth’s eyes were alive with eager intelligence. “I could think it over, sir. It’s a mighty interesting case. There’s one curious thing about it—very curious—”
“What is it?”
“I wouldn’t like to mention it, sir, till I’ve examined it more. Maybe I can suggest something then.”
“All right, Dan. If you’re as good at detective work as you are at playing chess, Mount might do worse after all. Exercise your ingenuity, my boy. We’ll talk it over again tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir.”
After Dan had returned to the other room Mr. Leg sat for some time thoughtfully regarding his inkwell. Presently he shook himself, heaved a sigh, and reached across the desk for a book bound in red cloth with a gilt title, The Fight on the Amazon.
He opened it at the first page and began to read. An expression of pure content appeared on his face. The minutes passed unheeded. His chin sank deeper in his collar and his hands gripped the book tightly as he came to the fourth chapter, “The Night Attack.” At the end of an hour he had reached the most thrilling point of the fight and his eyes were glowing with unrestrained joy.
“Mr. Leg.”
The lawyer looked up to find Dan standing before him.
“Well?”
“Why, this Mount case, sir.”
“What about it?”
“I’ve been thinking it over, sir, but before we can get anywhere we must obtain more information. Somebody ought to go up and examine the scene of the murder. I’d be only too glad to do it.”
“All right, that’s a good idea,” agreed Mr. Leg, whose fingers were twitching impatiently as they held the place in his book.
“And there are other things we must do, too, sir. Things absolutely essential. I’ve made a little list of questions, if you’d like to look it over.”
With a gesture of impatience the lawyer took the sheet of paper which Dan handed him. Evidently he had been making use of the stenographer’s machine, for it was covered with typewriting:
First, to verify Mount’s story:
Has he kept the letter his wife left when she ran away? If so, get it from him.
Where was he employed as bookkeeper during the four months previous to the crime? Verify.
Did he wait inside the drugstore at the corner of One Hundred and Sixteenth Street and Eighth Avenue on the night of April 3, or merely in its neighborhood? Find out if there is anyone in the store or near it who remembers seeing him.
Does he drink to excess?
Does he appear nervous and excitable, or stolid and calm?
Second, from the police:
With what kind of a knife was the crime committed? Were there fingerprints on it other than Mount’s?
Exactly at what hour were the police summoned to the scene, and how long had the victim been dead, according to doctor’s report, when they arrived?
Did they take any papers or articles of any kind from the flat? If so, examine them, if possible.
Has either Mount or his wife any criminal record?
Get a photograph of Mount.
Did the body show any marks of violence besides the wound in the breast?
Having reached this point, halfway down the sheet, the lawyer stopped to look up at his office boy with an expression of admiration.
“All this is very sensible, Dan,” he observed. “Remarkably sensible. These are serviceable ideas.”
“Yes, sir.” The youth smiled a little. “Of course, Mr. Leg, you won’t be able to see Mount again till tomorrow morning, but you can get the information from the police this afternoon. I suppose headquarters—”
“You mean for me to go to the police?” interrupted Mr. Leg in dismay.
“Certainly, sir. They wouldn’t pay much attention to me, and besides, I’m going uptown to the flat.”
“Well, but—” Mr. Leg appeared to be dumfounded to discover that there would actually be work for him to do. “All right,” he said finally, “I suppose I’ll have to. I’ll go first thing in the morning.”
“To see Mount, yes, sir. But you must go to the police this afternoon, at once.”
“This afternoon!” The lawyer glanced in helpless consternation at the book in his hand. “Now, Dan, there’s no use rushing things. I’ll go tomorrow. Anyway, what right has this Mount to upset my whole office like this?”
“He’s your client, sir. This is April sixteenth, and the trial is set for the eighteenth of May. There’s no time to be lost.”
“Yes, hang it all, he’s my client,” the lawyer agreed. “So much the worse for him, but I
suppose I ought to do the best I can. All right, I’ll go this afternoon.”
“Right away, sir.”
“Yes. You want answers to all these questions, do you?”
“Yes, sir. And tomorrow, besides seeing Mount, you must go to the office where he says he worked, and other places. I’ll see about the drugstore myself. There’ll be a lot to do.”
“There sure will, if we follow your orders.” Mr. Leg was beginning to recover his good humor.
“Yes, sir. I’m going up to the flat now, and I—” the youth hesitated—”I may need some money for janitors and people like that. They talk better when you give them something.”
“Dan, you’re a cynic.” Mr. Leg pulled out his wallet. “How much?”
“I think fifty dollars, sir.”
“Here’s a hundred.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Fifteen minutes later, having waited to see his employer safely started for police headquarters, Dan took his hat from the closet. On his way to the door he stopped beside the stenographer’s desk, where that proud damsel was seated at work on her dainty embroidery.
“Maybe pretty soon you’ll think I’m not just a boy anymore, Miss Venner.”
The lady looked up.
“Oh! I suppose you think you’re going to do something great.”
“You bet I am.” Enthusiasm and confidence shone from Dan’s eyes. “You’ll see. And then, when I want to tell you—er—tell you—”
“Well, tell me what?” Miss Venner smiled with sweet maliciousness.
But Dan appeared to have no finish for his sentence. Suddenly he bent over and imprinted a loud kiss on the dainty piece of embroidery, and then, his face burning red, he made for the door.
Chapter IV
A Slip of Paper
It was nearly four o’clock when Dan arrived at the apartment house on One Hundred and Fifty-seventh Street, the address of which he had obtained from Mr. Leg. He first stood across the street and ran his eye over the exterior. It was a five-story stone building, the oldest and smallest in the block, with fire escapes in front. Dan picked out the three east windows on the third floor as those of the flat in which Elaine Mount had met her death.
