by Henry, Kane,
“Are the facts being withheld? said Fitzsimmons. “I mean the facts of culpability?”
“Not in this case, Mr. Fitzsimmons. We’ve let the facts out to the public, hoping for the usual backwash of additional corroboration.”
“Am I regarded as a member of the public?”
“You certainly are, Mr. Fitzsimmons.”
“May I have the facts?”
Jacoby recited the facts without omission.
Fitzsimmons peered, up-gaze, at Harold Smith. “You have a rather tough one on your hands here, Harold. Perhaps you’d better retain me right here and now.”
“I’m afraid you might find your interests divided, Alonzo.”
“Ah, yes,” said Fitzsimmons, turning to Jacoby. “Now what’s the situation as regards my client, if you please?”
“Well, sir, when young Lockwood was brought in he told us a story.”
“Has such story been made public?”
“No, sir, it hasn’t. It is an uncorroborated story. I’m a policeman who doesn’t believe in unwarranted character assassination. The story was not made public, and shall not, unless there is corroboration.”
“I take it such story involves my client?”
“It does.”
“I thank you on behalf of my client, Lieutenant, and sincerely, for your discretion. And now may I be informed of this story.”
Jacoby told his story.
Gunn watched York.
York’s occasional smile was a grimace of amazement, his squint one of pondering disbelief, but that was all. He smoked his cigar and listened, silent, impassive, and in complete control of himself.
“… we showed him some rogues’ gallery photos,” said Jacoby, “and he picked out Mike York. And now, as you heard, he’s positively identified him.”
“You don’t take this seriously, do you, Lieutenant?”
“Do you, Mr. Fitzsimmons?”
“Not at all. May I ask this boy a few questions?”
“Certainly.”
Fitzsimmons placed himself squarely in front of Lockwood. “Mr. Lockwood, you realize you’re in serious trouble, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“And do you think that with this kind of wild tale you can mitigate the seriousness of your trouble?”
“Oh, no, none of that!” shouted Harold Smith.
“Mr. Fitzsimmons,” said Jacoby, “I suppose I’m going to have to act as judge on the bench here. Mr. Smith is right. You’re not cross-examining the prisoner. This is no court of law and you’re certainly not the prosecutor. If you want to ask him any questions which apply to your client, okay. If not, forget the whole bit.”
“Yes, I’m sorry,” Fitzsimmons smiled. “An old warhorse like me is bound to forget himself.”
“Yeah, that’ll be the day,” Jacoby said pointedly.
“All right then, Mr. Lockwood,” said Fitzsimmons, “let’s get back to the alleged man you saw racing out of the house.”
“I didn’t say racing. I said rushing.” Lockwood’s face was red. He had begun to need a shave. His forehead was shiny with perspiration. His blue eyes were bloodshot but stubborn.
“Um, rushing,” said Fitzsimmons. “And you say that man was my client, Mr. York?”
“Yes.”
“Assuming your story is true—could it have been someone else, someone who looked like him?”
Lockwood pointed at York. “This was the guy. No one else.”
“You insist on that, don’t you? You insist on Mike York, don’t you?” Fitzsimmons baritone voice was bitter. “You picked out a fall-guy in advance, didn’t you? Part of the plan in back of your criminal mind—”
“That’s enough of that,” said Jacoby.
“All right, Mr. Lockwood, what was he wearing?”
“Uh… what?”
“What was he wearing?” snapped Fitzsimmons.
“A suit.”
“What color?”
“I… I don’t know.”
“Single-breasted, double-breasted?”
“I don’t know. He was rushing out, I was rushing in, I didn’t take notice.”
“But in all that rush-rush you took enough notice to be able to identify him as Mike York and no one else in the world. That’s a little strange, wouldn’t you say?”
“No. I saw him. He’s the guy!”
“What color were the gloves?”
“I… I don’t remember.”
“Black, white, blue, green, orange, yellow?”
“Brown, I think, but I wouldn’t swear.”
“But you sure enough noticed them, didn’t you?”
“It was hot… a guy wearing gloves…”
“What about the car, Mr. Lockwood? The car allegedly blocking the driveway? What kind of a car?”
“Black sedan.”
“What make?”
“I didn’t notice. I was in a hurry going in.”
“Could you hear Mr. York from Jacoby’s anteroom?”
“Yes.”
“Then you heard Mr. York say he owned a black Caddy. Was it a Caddy?”
“I don’t know.”
“White-walled tires?”
“I don’t know.”
“License-plate number?”
“I don’t know.”
Fitzsimmons threw his hands up. “What do you know, Mr. Lockwood, except your insistence upon Mike York for very good reasons of your own?” He turned to Jacoby. “This is preposterous, Lieutenant. You have to agree with that.”
“Perhaps I do,” said Jacoby. “Do you have any questions, Mr. Smith?”
“None at this time,” said Smith.
“Have you anything to say, Mr. York?”
“Plenty. And I’ll make it right to the point.” He stood up and for the first time anger mottled his face. “This is a crumb who’s gotten into a hole and thinks he can get out by shoving me in. That’s a game old as the hills, sometimes it works, most times it don’t. Everybody knows me and Steve Bain were battling away, the newspapers blew it up, made more of it than it really was, with plenty of pictures. This bum has gotten into a jam and figures by fingering me it’ll mix things up—confuse the issues, I think the legal birds call it. I think he’s as phony as a nine-dollar bill and if you leave me alone in a room with him for about five minutes, bare-knuckles, I say I’d come out with an apology for me and a confession for you. How’s about it, Lieutenant?”
“I don’t think your attorney would approve,” said Jacoby. “That isn’t quite legal.”
Fitzsimmons lit a cigarette. “Mr. Jacoby, I think you know as well as I do, and I’m certain Mr. Smith can’t disagree, that you’ve subjected my client to certain unwarranted indignities on the bare uncorroborated word of a prisoner charged with a major felony. I think we’ve cooperated, but I also think it’s time to wind this up. You have nothing on which to hold my client—else the jails would be filled with people who criminals dream up to accuse, and lawyers would have nothing else to do but scamper about for writs of habeas corpus. If there’s nothing else, please let us return to the pleasures of our poker game.”
“There’s nothing else,” said Jacoby.
“Thank you,” said Fitzsimmons.
“Evening, Lieutenant,” said York. “Good evening, all. And I’m sorry about your dad, Alice.”
“I’ll see you around,” said Jacoby.
“Any time, Lieutenant. You know where to find me.”
And when they were gone Lockwood rose to his feet and said, “That was the guy! I tell you that was the guy!”
“All right, all right,” said Jacoby, stifling a yawn. “I think we ought to call it a night, eh?” He motioned to a policeman, who took Lockwood’s arm.
Alice Bain did not fly to Lockwood, did not fling her arms around him, did not hang on his neck. There were no tears: She said quite calmly, quite competently, “Easy does it, Sammy. We’ll be working like the devil for you.” Lockwood looked at her, looked at no one else, then turned and went out with the po
liceman. At a gesture from Jacoby, the stenographer retired.
“I’ll have one of my cops take you home, Miss Bain,” said Jacoby. “All right?”
“Thank you, Lieutenant. Good night, Mr. Gunn, Mr. Smith. I’ll see both of you tomorrow.” And she permitted Jacoby to escort her out the door.
“What do you think, Mr. Smith?” said Gunn.
“I really don’t know,” said Smith. “One hates to come to decision, even an inner decision, in matters as complicated as these. Certainly the boy is entitled to every legal protection that the law provides, and I shall see to it that he gets that. Within the next few days, I intend to retain the best criminal counsel available”—he chuckled—“other than Alonzo Fitzsimmons. As a matter of fact, he’d have been my man if it were not for this peculiar diversity of interest that has risen. And then there is the matter of fees. I don’t know what Mr. Lockwood can afford.”
“He’s got a beautiful house, Mr. Smith. Beautifully furnished.”
“If he can’t afford the fee for special legal counsel, I’m certain Alice will advance it. Alice shall come into a fortune of money as her father’s sole legal heir. That, Mr. Gunn, is more in my line of practice. Mr. Bain’s will is in my vault. As executor of the estate, I shall have to attend to the gruesome matter of having him cremated tomorrow as per the directions of his last will and testament. Then there shall be the duties of transferring the estate, and a vast one it is, to Miss Bain, and advising her as to properly investing it. Then there’s the matter of Mr. Bain’s insurance policy, in the face value of a million dollars, Mr. Gunn, one million dollars, and in this type of death there’s double indemnity, and the beneficiary is Alice Bain. That little girl is going to need a good deal of advice, what with fortune hunters, and young as she is, possibly some restraint, some holding down…”
“She strikes me as being a pretty cool little number,” said Gunn.
“Oh, that child has a hard head on her shoulders, I can vouch for that. It’s just that I wouldn’t want that hard little head turned by sudden acquisition of vast wealth, more than you can imagine, Mr. Gunn, more than you can imagine.”
Jacoby returned, yawned, stretched. “Rough,” he said.
“I shall retain special counsel for the boy,” said Smith.
“Yeah, sure,” said Jacoby, yawning.
“As I said to Mr. Gunn, Fitzsimmons would have been my man except for the business with York.”
“Quite a performance the old boy put on, hey?” said Jacoby, grinning.
“Brilliant, I think,” said Smith. “Now what do you think, Lieutenant?”
“About how brilliant is Alonzo?”
“No. About Lockwood. I’m not a criminal lawyer, as you know, so this is sort of man to man.”
“I dunno,” said Jacoby. “This kid may be as guilty as hell, but shrewd, maybe even a planner for all we know. He plays it cool, real innocent, never heard of Mike York—but he sure picked the right guy to try to put the finger on, a guy the public knows has been at loggerheads with Bain, and a rough, rough customer at that. Maybe more will come out as this thing breaks in the papers, and maybe more that the kid actually worked out a plan beforehand.”
“You think he’s lying about seeing York?”
“I don’t know.”
“There’s one little thing that sort of brings me over to his side, almost inconsequential but, I think, rather revealing.”
“Yes?” said Jacoby.
“Ostensibly it would appear that the boy is trying to involve Michael York.”
“That’s putting it mildly, Counselor.”
“Yet, although he had heard York say he owned a black Cadillac, when Fitzsimmons pressed him on the make of the car, he couldn’t remember. If he were trying to incriminate York, I imagine he would have jumped at that. Certainly that smacks of truth, rather than mendacity.”
“It also smacks of shrewdness, if you follow me,” said Jacoby. “They might have opened up a trap for him, and the kid refused to get snared. I’m not saying that’s so; I’m saying that if you’re smart, and you’re lying, you stay vague on everything except, as in this case, the identification.”
“What about the gloves?” said Smith.
“As Mr. Fitzsimmons would say—the alleged gloves,” said Jacoby.
“If any such gloves ever existed,” said Gunn, “I assure you they no longer exist.”
“Gentlemen,” said Jacoby, “I’m only a cop. I’ve got a clean, clear case against one Sam Lockwood for the murder of Steve Bain and I turn my facts over to the prosecutor’s office tomorrow and he’ll kiss me on both my cheeks and award me the Croix de guerre for handing him one as cut and dried as this one. Lockwood’s accusation of York is without a scintilla of proof and may possibly be a matter for the defense to work out. I think I did my job, fair and square. I arranged the confrontation, and perhaps there I even aided the defense: the kid put the finger on York and we’re all witnesses to that fact, for all the good it will do him. If there was anything to look into, I would as a hardworking cop look into it, but there isn’t a damned thing and all of us know it.”
“Actually,” said Smith, “York’s alibi is no alibi. It’s utterly without corroboration.”
“Actually,” said Jacoby, “York doesn’t need an alibi. Fitzsimmons hit it on the nose, the old bat. Just because a guy held for a crime points the finger at another, that does not put the other on a spot; not without something to substantiate the accusation.”
“Yes,” said Smith grimly, “I don’t suppose you people have the time to go running down every lead.”
“This is not a lead, Mr. Smith, and there’s nothing to run down. If it were a lead, we’d run, we’d run like hell, but we just can’t go running on every little nonsensical finger pointed without basis or we’d be running ourselves ragged. We’ve got enough to do. Murders keep popping at us every day. Did you read the last F.B.I. report? There’s one murder every hour in the United States. Right here, today, in Los Angeles, we’ve had two. Steve Bain and that girl that was supposed to be trying to sell magazines to your client—Effie Vernon.”
“They fix the time of her death?” said Gunn.
“Ten o’clock this morning. Why? You want to confess?”
“Yes,” said Gunn.
“Confess to Lieutenant O’Brien. Effie is his.” And once more Jacoby yawned widely. “You want to drive me home? Save some of the taxpayer’s money. Won’t have to use a squad car.”
Gunn looked at his watch. “Can’t,” he said. “Got a date at Mother’s.”
“I’ll be happy to drive you home, Lieutenant,” said Smith.
“Well, thankee, interim counsel for the defense.” And as they converged on the door, Jacoby said, “Want to bet, Counselor, before I really get bedded down they’ll be calling me back here? Never fails when I’m tired.” And to Gunn, “Don’t you ever sleep, pal?”
“I sleep in the morning, as all civilized people should.”
“Most civilized people have civilized jobs.”
“A fine crack from a cop.”
“Check,” said Jacoby, yawn dissolving to grin. “Date with the golden Edie?”
“Not quite,” said Gunn.
chapter 17
Mother’s at midnight was jammed. The combo on the dais threw the music to the tapping of feet, the snapping of fingers and the thrum of conversation. Waiters scurried about bearing drinks, blue smoke hung off the ceiling like cobwebs, and the fumes that clogged the air were the warm, delicious, delectable, intimate combination of alcohol, tobacco, deodorant, perfume and body odor. Mother, in a purple gown, chin up and back straight, impervious and imperious, wended her way through the maze of tables, nodding, smiling, greeting, arranging, soothing, comforting. The bar was packed three deep and Barney was as busy as a working busman on a legal holiday. Gunn nudged through and Barney said, “Hi.”
“Where’s my fella?” said Gunn.
“Ain’t showed yet,” said Barney, shaking a sidecar.
“I’ll be at a table,” said Gunn, nudging out.
“Gotcha,” said Barney.
A waiter said, “There’s a table in the corner for you, Mr. Gunn. Party’s just leaving.”
“Thanks,” said Gunn.
“This way,” said the waiter.
Seated, Gunn said, “Please tell Barney where I am. I’m expecting a date.”
“Date?” said the waiter, voice rising, aggrieved.
“A man,” said Gunn.
“Oh, a man,” said the waiter, voice descending, face growing ugly in a jagged-tooth smile. “Miss Hart is in the dressing room.”
“First tell Barney, also tell him a double Scotch with water, then tell Miss Hart, and please take this,” and he handed up a fairly large bill folded fairly small.
“Thank you, a gentleman always,” said the waiter.
“Always in there pitching,” said Gunn and, alone in the multitude, tapped his feet to the beat.
The drink arrived and Edie arrived in a fetching backless, frontless, strapless shimmering gown and, sliding down opposite him, complained. “Nice to see you on rare occasion, old lover.”
“Young lover—might stimulate scintillating reply.”
“Old lover, you scintillate without reply.”
“Honey, I love that gown, I mean, whatever there is of it.”
“Well, thank you, young lover. You see, one sweet remark and I’m putty in your experienced hands. It’s a brand-new number, special-made. You really like it?”
“Love it, though I’m baffled as to how it stays up.”
“Knowing you, I thought you’d be interested in the reverse.”
“All in good time, and this isn’t the time. Hello, and good-by. Go.”
“You drunk?”
“Sober as a Supreme Court Justice at his daughter’s wedding.”
“That could be pretty loaded, man.”
“I’m not that kind of a Supreme Court Justice. Go!”
“What’s biting you, brother?”
“Lover, remember? Old, haggard, wan, beat—but lover.”
“Keep it up and you’ll be giving people a wrong impression.”