A Handy Death

by Robert L. Fish

“She was Grace Coughlin …”

  “But you loved her, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, damn it, I loved her!”

  “She’s dead now, you know.”

  “I know.” Coughlin’s eyes begged for understanding. “That’s why I was trying to get some money from you, to get away, maybe to start over again some place.” He shook his head. “I wouldn’t really have testified against the kid …”

  “You started out to,” Ross said coldly. “Let’s move on. When did you get the idea of the swindle scheme?”

  “I never had anything to do with any swindle scheme!”

  “You mean it was just your wife’s idea?” Ross leaned toward him. “By the way, where did your wife meet Raymond Neeley?”

  Coughlin’s jaw hardened. “In a bar. She was always meeting people in bars.”

  “And you claim the swindle scheme was Neeley’s?”

  “That’s right,” Coughlin said, his dark eyes reliving the past. “Grace said Neeley came up with this scheme, that it was just a business arrangement she had with Neeley, but I knew better. She said it was a chance to stick the kid and pick up some loot. She said the kid could spare the dough after signing with the Mets for all that loot. And she knew I never liked the kid, but she never knew why—” He stopped suddenly.

  “And why didn’t you like the kid, as you call him?” Ross asked quietly.

  Coughlin stared at him, not really seeing him, his face gathering itself into a mask of hate. He was no longer in the courtroom; his mind was back in the past completely.

  “He should have been my kid, that’s why!” he said harshly.

  “So you set him up—”

  “The kid was nothing,” Coughlin said with a sneer. “Christ, can’t you see that?”

  “You mean it was Neeley you set up?”

  A crafty look came into Coughlin’s eyes. “Like I was dumb, or something! Grace and Neeley cook up this scheme, but Grace tells me they need a gun. Neeley could have gotten hold of a dozen guns if he wanted, but they wanted to stick me if anything went wrong. I knew that. But I knew where the kid’s twenty-two was; he talked about it around the Mets enough, so when I got a chance to grab it during the signing, I did. Everyone was so looped I could have walked out with the bed …” He grinned. “Smart, huh?”

  “Smart,” Ross agreed. Everyone in the courtroom was holding his breath, not wishing to break the spell Coughlin was in. Coughlin looked at Ross, as if recognizing him for the first time.

  “I pulled a dummy in your office that second time, didn’t I? I knew it as soon as I said it. I heard that tape your secretary was transcribing, and I said, ‘That’s Billy, isn’t it?’ or something dumb like that. Just because I heard the name ‘Marshall,’ I goofed.” He stared at Ross almost anxiously. “You caught that, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” Ross said softly.

  “I figured you would.” There was an unaccountable touch of satisfaction in the thin man’s voice, as if to demonstrate that losing wasn’t so bad when one lost to a good opponent. “But I’ll bet you never figured out how I got Billy to go over to the Mountain Top Bar, did you?” Coughlin laughed, enjoying himself. “Simple! I knew he wasn’t Dupaul’s kid any more than he was mine. I gave Jim Marshall fifty bucks to needle Billy with that bit of news, to get him started, and then I just followed the kid. When he hit this place on Lexington, I figured he was juiced up enough, so I simply handed some barfly five bucks to give Billy a message he was wanted at the Mountain Top right away. I figured as bombed as he was, he’d never remember. And he never did.”

  “And that’s how you got Neeley, eh?”

  “Well, hell—he was stealing my wife, wasn’t he?” Coughlin made it sound as if he considered it an ample excuse. “And he got shot in the commission of a crime, didn’t he? If he hadn’t been trying to steal money from the kid, he’d never have gotten scratched. And that’s the truth.” He looked at Ross earnestly. “You could defend me on that basis, couldn’t you, Counselor?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Ross said. “What about Jim Marshall?”

  “Oh, him?”

  “Yes, him,” Ross said.

  “Well,” Coughlin said reasonably, “after I heard that part of the tape in your office, I could imagine what the kid was talking about. And I knew you’d get up to Glens Falls and put Marshall through the wringer, so I had to get there first to kill him, didn’t I? I knew if you leaned on him hard enough he’d break and tell you all about the fifty bucks I gave him.…”

  He looked up, suddenly, startled by his own words.

  “But, then, I just told you, didn’t I …?”

  And he started to giggle.

  And, Ross thought, even Al Hogan could probably get this one off on a charge of complete insanity.…

  CHAPTER

  17

  The long table in Hank Ross’s conference room was well laden with the varied bottles and glasses necessary for a victory celebration, but the atmosphere was anything but cheerful. The only one drinking seriously was Mike Gunner-son; Charley Quirt held a glass in his hands but he was not touching it. Sharon and Steve were sipping soft drinks, Ross had foregone his usual beer, and Billy Dupaul had also refused anything. “I never had the habit, and you sure don’t pick it up at Attica,” he had said. He sat, his face a mask, his feelings under tight control, staring at Charley Quirt as if seeing the man for the first time. His face was pale; his hands were tightly clasped in his lap.

  Ross attempted to cheer things up.

  “We ought to call this case The Handy Death,” he said conversationally. “If Raymond Neeley had lived, Billy, you would have remained in prison. The fact that he died as a result of your having shot him was what led to your release. An odd case, helped immeasurably by Louis G. Gorman, long may he wave.” He glanced at Charley Quirt. “And not particularly helped by your mystery.”

  “I know what you mean. You’re wondering what changed my attitude in eight years.” Quirt was addressing Ross, his voice quiet, ashamed, but he kept his eyes fixed on the glass in his hands rather than risk raising them and facing his newly acknowledged son. Seen together, the resemblance between the two large blue-eyed men was not particularly striking; knowing the relationship, one would not be surprised, but Ross did not feel it exceptional. He waited patiently for the other man to continue; Quirt twisted his glass in his hands and went on.

  “Clara was alive eight years ago, that’s the difference. Clara—my wife—watched a lot of Mets’ baseball when Billy was first scouted. I was against his coming with the Mets, dead against it, and it had nothing to do with ability. But I was overruled. I was sure one look at Billy and Clara would know. It must have been my imagination, because nobody at the club ever noticed, but I was sure Clara would. She was sharp, and well, she’d had suspicions of affairs before—but what the hell! I was in the Army, then, but Clara couldn’t see it that way. And she knew I’d been up near Glens Falls in 1944—I was in a VA hospital in Saratoga and I met Mary Emerich at a dance there—and as I say, Clara was not only suspicious, she was sharp.”

  He raised his eyes for one moment, looking at Ross, asking to be understood, but Ross’s face was expressionless. Mike had stopped drinking and was watching Quirt from beneath his beetled brows. Quirt dropped his eyes again to the glass he was twisting in his hands, and continued.

  “I guess maybe I felt I’d done my duty to Billy with the monthly checks, and I didn’t want any trouble at home. Clara could be—well, never mind. She wasn’t well, and I didn’t want to upset her.…” He stopped abruptly and shook his head. “It’s true she wasn’t well, but the other isn’t the whole truth. The whole truth is that I was a coward. I should have owned up, gotten Billy the best lawyer there was, and stayed there and fought it out at his side. But I didn’t. I knew he had Gorman for his lawyer, and I thought Louie was a fair lawyer, and then I ran out during the trial—ran away to Japan. And when I heard Billy got four to eight at Attica, it was too late. So I said to myself, that’s that, forg
et it.” He sighed, staring at his hands. “But your conscience doesn’t let you forget …”

  Quirt paused. The room was silent, the occupants all watching him. It was with an almost visible effort that he finally raised his eyes, looking at the tall young man sitting across from him.

  “Billy? I’m all alone in a big house. Would you consider coming home and living with me? And trying out for the team again …?”

  There was the sharp ring of the telephone; it jarred the tense moment, but also relieved it, the interruption giving everyone a moment to adjust. Sharon raised the receiver, listened a moment, and then hung up. She came to her feet, motioning Ross into the corridor. He closed the door behind them, looking down at her upturned face.

  Sharon said anxiously, “What do you think Billy will do?”

  “I have no idea,” Ross said, and frowned. “You didn’t call me out of the room for that. What was that telephone call?”

  “Oh, that,” Sharon said. “It’s Jimmy Carter. I told Molly you wanted to see him, and he just walked in.”

  “Good!” Ross said grimly. “I want a word with that man!”

  He walked down the corridor with determination, with Sharon hurrying to keep up. In the reception room a rather stocky, pleasant-faced man was leaning over the telephone switchboard, speaking with Molly. At sight of Ross he straightened up, smiling.

  “You wanted to see me, Mr. Ross?”

  “I did.” Ross motioned Carter toward the far side of the long room, out of earshot of the two girls. He paused a moment, sizing up the other without coming to any immediate conclusion. “All right, Mr. Carter, just what are you doing here?”

  “I just came in to see Molly, and she—”

  “Please!” Ross said sternly. He put on his best cross-examination manner, while managing to keep his voice low. “I want the truth, Mr. Carter, and I’m prepared to take whatever steps are necessary to get it. You come here with a flimsy story about looking for a dentist on the other side of town, a story nobody but a child—or Molly—would believe. First you’re looking for a Dr. Ross, and then it turns out it’s a Dr. Gross. You should have prepared your part better, Mr. Carter. Now, I’m going to ask you one more time. What are you really doing here?”

  Carter’s face was flaming red; he twisted his hat in his hands. He looked down at the floor, up at the walls, over at the magazines on the end table, and only with great effort finally managed to face Ross.

  “Mr. Ross,” he said in a low voice, “I—I—”

  “Yes, Mr. Carter?”

  “I—I—”

  “I suggest you face the simple fact, Mr. Carter, that your charade is over. Answer my question.”

  Carter’s embarrassment was painful to see. He bit his lip and finally spoke.

  “All right, Mr. Ross. I’ll tell you. I saw Molly at a dance one night and I wanted to meet her. But I—well, I was too shy. I wanted to cut in on her while she was dancing, but I didn’t have the nerve. I tried to work up to it, but before I could, she’d gone home. Someone told me she worked here, for you, so I finally managed to get up my courage and I came up here, but when I saw her …” He sighed. “I lost my nerve again, so I made up the first story that came into my head.” There was no doubt of the honesty of his story. He shrugged apologetically. “I—I don’t have too much imagination …”

  There were several moments of silence; then Ross grinned.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “I have enough for both of us.”

  He smiled at the embarrassed man and walked back toward the corridor, winking at Molly as he passed. Sharon joined him.

  “Well?” she asked curiously.

  “You remember that special account you opened to cover the expense of your fabulous night out on the town with Jimmy?” Ross asked. “Well, you can transfer it—”

  “And add it to Mr. Quirt’s?”

  “No,” Ross said sadly. “To mine. Nondeductible.”

  He smiled down at Sharon and put his arm around her shoulder. Then the two of them continued down the corridor toward the conference room to learn Billy Dupaul’s decision.

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion there of in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or here in after invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1973 by Robert L. Fish

  Cover design by Jason Gabbert

  ISBN: 9781784089900

  This 2015 edition published by MysteriousPress.com/Head of Zeus

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN 9781784089900

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