“I know… I must sound unsympathetic,” Knox explained, “but my work… my calling… can be more important to this world… than my own personal problems or emotions.” He ran his hand through his golden hair. “However… I’m willing… even anxious to help Ivy all I can. That’s why I’m here.”
Albert Taylor added his voice to the discussion. “Mr. Knox and Miss Lorents have reached an agreement. I mentioned it to you, Cyrus.”
“You mentioned it,” I replied, “but you didn’t explain it.”
“I thought Mr. Knox should do that,” Taylor said.
“All right,” I said to Knox, “explain.”
Knox uncrossed his legs and swung his weight to the other side of the chair. He cleared his voice. “We’ve agreed that we won’t mention anything about our… former plans… being engaged… planning to get married. She’ll protect me… my career… to that extent, and I’ll protect her… by paying her legal bills.”
“In other words, keep you out of the mess?”
“Yes.”
I didn’t like Knox. I not only didn’t like him, but I could feel my dislike multiplying like amoebas. I attempted to swallow my distaste. “I can’t promise anything,” I told him as quietly as I could. “If your relationship to Ivy Lorents in any way affects the facts of her case, then those facts must be brought out. It is up to the discretion of her defense to decide.” He started to interrupt, but I continued, “And no responsible attorney would undertake Miss Lorents’ defense on any other terms!”
“But I can assure you my relationship had nothing to do with… what happened,” Knox protested.
I waved it aside. “That’s also up to the prosecuting attorney,” I pointed out. “And while you may attempt to influence the efforts of Miss Lorents’ attorney, I can assure you that you’ll be unable to dictate terms to the District Attorney’s office.”
Knox was deep in a moody silence. He rose to his feet and walked toward the window. Then he returned to his chair again and dropped into it. “But you wouldn’t have to… drag me in… unnecessarily, would you?”
“I wouldn’t do anything that’s unnecessary.”
“All right…” Knox agreed slowly. “Now… what about Ivy? Can you get her out on bail?”
I’d had enough and wanted to get out of the meeting. Bert Taylor caught my glance and broke in. “We can go into my office, Mr. Knox,” he said, “to work out the details.”
Knox stood by his chair, but he turned to me. “One thing more,” he said, “you haven’t asked me if I thought Ivy was guilty.”
I also stood up. Behind my desk. “I didn’t have to ask.”
“You mean, you think she is?”
“I mean you think she is,” I told Knox.
Knox’s aesthetic face was suddenly drawn. “I’d like to believe she’s innocent,” he said. Then that elusive and unexpected note of authority slipped back into his voice. “But I always thought a defense attorney had to believe in the innocence of his client.”
“I’ll draw my own conclusions after I talk to her.”
Knox nodded his golden head and stuck out his hand. “Thank you, Counselor,” he said benignly. “I’m glad we understand each other…”
“Perfectly,” I assured him, shaking his hand. “You pay the bills and I’ll take care of the defense.” His hand flinched, in mine, and he withdrew it quickly. Opening the door, he departed with Taylor.
I sat down at my desk. I was shaking—partly from anger, partly from the need for a drink. Visions of a cool, long mahogany bar rose before my eyes. But this time, I had to push the vision away. At least for a while.
CHAPTER SIX
Albert Taylor accompanied Richard Knox down the hallway, past the desk of Lydia Gorham, the law library, and the two small alcoves inhabited by the firm’s law clerks. In his own office, Taylor faced the bemused Knox, who observed thoughtfully, “He’s rather… ah, eccentric isn’t he?”
“If you mean March, the answer is yes… but a qualified yes.”
“Those clothes… they’re quite… colorful, aren’t they?” Knox asked with understatement.
Taylor laughed. “Not if you’re Cyrus March. To him it’s quite simple. He likes color, and sees no reason for wearing something he doesn’t like.”
Knox glanced down at his own somber outfit. “Does March always do what he wants?”
“Not always… no.” Taylor paused, as if considering his next words. “Possibly, I do owe you an explanation, but no apology, about March.” Knox waited, watching the lawyer with reserve. Taylor resumed. “Cyrus… Cy March is… in my own humble opinion, the finest trial lawyer I know. I’m not in the same class with him… and I don’t try to be. I write the briefs, research the cases, and dig up the law for him. Then he goes on stage—in the courtroom—and he wins. If my own life, or my own liberty, were in danger, I’d want March to defend me!”
“That’s a high recommendation.”
Taylor nodded. “It is. I’ve been March’s junior partner now for years… and I still don’t understand him. I can best describe him as a… solitary man with a soaring nature.” Taylor shook his head. “That may sound prosey, but I don’t know how else to describe him. He’s spent his professional life among all kinds of criminals—perverse and twisted. Daily, he’s met with violence, fraud and conceit, yet he has remained free of it himself… and maintained an idealism as well. While this is Cy’s strength, it’s also his weakness.”
“He drinks…” Knox murmured.
“Yes, he drinks!” Taylor stopped and stared back at Knox. “It’s his way out… of doing many things he doesn’t want to do… not having to live in the dingy kind of world he detests.” He decided to change the subject. “Do you want us to try to arrange bail for Ivy Lorents?”
“Can you?” Knox replied.
“Anyone can get out on bail—if he has enough money for the bond. Even for murder.”
“How much will that be?”
“The amount is set by the judge. It’ll be anything he decides,” Taylor told Knox. “Murder runs high. In Miss Lorents’ case, probably very high. Possibly between fifty and a hundred thousand dollars. March will try to get it set as low as possible.”
“Would that amount have to be in cash?”
“No. But it would require security—stocks, bonds, real estate. After the amount is set, then you can make arrangements with a bondsman or a bonding company. I can give you the name of several.”
“I’d prefer not to be personally connected with it,” Knox said apologetically. “Could you handle it for me?”
Taylor agreed. “You give us assignments for the securities and your power of attorney, and we can.”
“All right,” Knox nodded. “And what about your fee?”
“We want a check for twenty-five thousand dollars—tomorrow morning. Another check for the same amount one week in advance of going to trial. The court costs and expenses we will determine later.”
Knox lifted his shoulders in a shrug of resignation. The shy, diffident smile reappeared. “I’ll have a cashier’s check in your office first thing tomorrow.” He walked to the door, but paused before opening it. “After that… please… ah, ignore me… as much as possible.” He put on his black Homburg hat. “Good day, Mr. Taylor.”
“Goodbye,” Taylor replied.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The next morning, I sat in a private room of the women’s section of the Los Angeles County jail and with difficulty suppressed the rising sense of excitement which welled within me. I tried to play it casual. To prevent my hands from trembling, I managed to keep my fingers busy toying with the lock on my brief case. From the newspaper accounts of the killing and Ivy’s arrest, I had been prepared to meet an attractive woman.
But not the shade of Beatrice!
The years build an impassable wall behind a man. He can’t return through it; but on the wall is his shadow, and all the other shadows of his life, and he can turn to look back at them. And then he sees them, s
ilent silhouettes, as he remembers them.
It was the shadow of Beatrice that I saw as I stared at Ivy Lorents: the blackness of Beatrice’s hair, the green, marine, almond eyes, the flow of the throat, the tilt of the chin, the purple touch of containment at the edge of the gentle mouth. It was the portrait of Beatrice unmarked by the passage of ten years.
In those years, I had caught a glimpse of her face far ahead of me—down the street; I’d heard the sound of her voice in the next room—always the next room; I’d felt her breath on my face at night when I awakened. Sometimes, among the bars and bottles, she would join me and we’d talk, but she could never accompany me back to soberness. Sometimes I could keep her beside me, but ultimately there would always be one drink too many—and then she was gone.
Then I would search for her another time.
I stared silently at the illusion of Beatrice, but now an illusion of flesh and warm blood. Ivy sat, with hands in her lap, devoid of makeup with the exception of lipstick, and her great green eyes were lifeless.
I said as calmly as possible, “I have a hearing this afternoon on a motion to set bail. Mr. Knox has made the funds available and I believe you’ll be out of here before tonight.”
“That will be nice,” she told me without caring.
I wanted, more than anything, to rip aside her apathy—for her eyes to light with pleasure, her lips to smile. “I don’t think it’d be wise to return to your own apartment,” I told her. “Do you have any friends you could stay with?”
“No.”
“Then I’ll arrange for you to stay at the Claymore. It’s a hotel. I know the manager—and he’ll see that you get some privacy.”
“All right.”
Ivy’s voice was not quite the same as I remembered Beatrice’s. It was the circumstances, the worry, that made the difference, I told myself. It was with reluctance that I thought about the “circumstances” which lay between us, which were the reasons that I sat with her in this guarded room. All that I wanted was to look at her with the warm feeling of rediscovery, to reassure her, and to ignore the sordid and ugly topic of Arthea Simpson’s death!
Almost as if reading my thoughts, Ivy asked, “Are you going to ask me some questions?”
I had been avoiding this moment deliberately. It was impossible to ignore it indefinitely; I wished I could postpone it a little longer. However, each moment, even of living, demands some kind of a gesture. “Did you kill Arthea Simpson?” I asked.
“Yes.” She lifted a hand from her lap and touched a knotted handkerchief to the corner of her lips. “But I didn’t know who it was. I had no way of knowing it was… Arthea.”
I rose to my feet, and I grasped my brief case until my fingers hurt. With a great effort, I steadied my voice. “All right,” I told her, “that’s enough for now. Later, we’ll have to go over your whole story—in detail.”
Ivy pushed back her chair and walked slowly around the table. Slowly, almost as if it were a dream again. Her green eyes stared into my face—searching for something, or perhaps seeing me for the first time. Her face was white, emotionless, carved from marble and alabaster. The face was a mask from behind which her eyes moved only from necessity, from pain. “You will help me?” she asked.
My thoughts raced wildly—I wanted to tell her that I’d help her, protect her if it meant going through the seven circles of hell itself. I would help her because I had to help her—and save myself. For the first time in ten years, or centuries, I could feel the awareness and surge of life within me. For some reason, in the tapestry of my life, the Fates had woven a single thread of chance—a second chance! The thread led from Beatrice to Ivy, and to me. This thread I dared not break. But all I could tell her was, “I’ll help you.” I didn’t look at her again. I left her by the table.
The second day after coming off a drunk is always the hardest. Sometimes it hardly seems worthwhile to live until the third day. That’s the way I have to make it. The first day, waiting for the second; the second, promising yourself that you will just live… exist… until the third. And so on… Until there comes the day when the pain and the misery in each separate organ of your body and the black cloud of anxiety clouding your mind disappear. Then you can begin going through the motions of acting a man again.
As I left the jail, returning to my office, I thought of a drink—a drink of celebration, a toast to… well anything. But I knew that I was deceiving myself. I just wanted a drink because… I was full of self-pity. And then, I stopped to listen to what every tiny cell in my brain, each sense in my body, all my muscles were telling me: the only thing I needed was… Ivy!
I passed the drink.
Back at my office, I told Lydia Gorham, “First get me Dr. Hoffman on the phone. While I’m talking to him, see if Nordeen is in his office. If he is, have him get up here right away.” After a few moments, Hoffman was on the phone. “Hello, Pete,” I said.
“How’re you feeling?” Hoffman asked. Hoffman is a psychiatrist doing double duty. He’s a genius at pulling me through hangovers; in addition, I’ve often used him to give expert testimony in some of my cases.
“Fine,” I told him. He seemed surprised.
“Then you don’t need me,” Hoffman said.
“Something else. I want you to make an examination of a client… her name is Ivy Lorents.”
“I’ve been reading about her,” Hoffman replied.
“She was examined by the police surgeon, shortly after the shooting. He’ll no doubt appear for the prosecution. That night she was probably hysterical. I don’t know yet what she said, and it might’ve been damaging.”
The psychiatrist said slowly, “Are you planning to plead insanity?”
“No. Not a chance,” I told him. “She’s a very beautiful woman, and no jury would stand still for it. But I do think she might’ve been emotionally upset at the time of her questioning, and unable to recall all the details clearly.”
“She might have to change her story?”
“I don’t know, Pete. I’d like your opinion on it. She’ll be staying at the Claymore. How about making a call at the hotel, late this afternoon, to examine her?” There was a sharp knock at my door, and I glanced up from the phone to see Tim Nordeen enter the office. I motioned the investigator to a chair, and kept talking to Pete Hoffman. “See her as soon as possible. Our time lag, right now, is pretty bad.”
“All right,” Hoffman agreed and hung up.
I turned to Nordeen. “How busy are you, Tim?”
“Busy enough,” Nordeen gasped. He was short of breath. A large man going to fat. He knew his business, however, and his office was just down the corridor.
“I’m representing Ivy Lorents in this Arthea Simpson affair,” I told him. “I’ll need a lot of facts and they’ll probably take some digging.”
Nordeen stroked a heavy jowl. “Arthea Simpson had a lot of money.”
“Also Robert Knox,” I added. Nordeen stared at me thoughtfully. “I’ll want all the facts on… both of them.”
Nordeen’s eyes alerted. “What’re you looking for?” he asked.
“A motive. Seemingly, there’s no reason Ivy Lorents should’ve shot Arthea Simpson—except fear and mistaken identity. Without a motive, the state doesn’t have a case. However, they’ve charged her. Apparently they know something I don’t know.” I leaned back in my chair.
“What does your client say?”
I took a quick look at Nordeen. His face was serious. “I haven’t gotten into the subject… yet.”
“I’d think your client ought to be able to fill you in pretty good.…” Nordeen examined his thick fingers without looking at me.
Leaning forward on my desk, I rearranged some papers without seeing them, pushing them around while I sorted out my own thoughts. “It would appear that Ivy Lorents is a victim of coincidence and… circumstances.”
“But you’re not sure?”
I stacked the papers in a neat pile. I looked straight at Nordeen. “I have
to be sure,” I told him.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Peter Hoffman, psychiatrist and M. D., arose from his chair in the small suite occupied by Ivy Lorents at the Claymore Hotel. A short, gray man, unobtrusive and retiring in nature, Hoffman seemed to blend into the room, the city, and the world around him. Only his eyes, alert and speculative, indicated the intelligence behind the monochromatic facade. Now his round face wore an expression of a man who has discovered that the total does not equal the sum of the parts. In his quiet, almost colorless voice, he said to Ivy Lorents, “This has all been very interesting.”
“Are you leaving now?” the woman asked.
“I’ve been here nearly two hours,” Hoffman replied, carefully checking his watch.
“Will I see you again?”
“Not unless you wish it.” After a pause he asked, “Have you asked yourself why you should see me?”
Ivy, in a smooth, graceful movement stood beside the small sofa on which she had been seated. Turning, she reached out to touch a bunch of yellow jonquils standing in a vase on the table. The jonquils almost exactly matched the color of the dressing gown she was wearing. Against the yellow and gold, her black hair and green eyes were startling. “Would I have to gain something?” she asked. Hoffman regarded her without speaking, waiting for her to continue. Finally she added, “It’s nice to talk… like we’ve been doing. But that isn’t enough, is it?”
The doctor turned toward the door. “Isn’t it?”
Impatience flitted across Ivy’s face. She crossed the room behind Hoffman. “I know you’re here because Cyrus March asked you. He wanted you to make a report. What are you going to tell him?”
Hoffman shook his head. “There isn’t much to tell, is there? Stress… strain… fear… anxiety… under the circumstances, that wouldn’t be unusual.”
“Do you think I was having… hallucinations? That I… didn’t know what I was doing?”
Not I, Said the Vixen Page 3