The Judge Is Reversed

by Frances Lockridge

  She nodded her head and looked at her father. And waited. Her greenish-blue eyes seemed to Mullins to narrow just perceptibly as she waited.

  “What the hell business—” Latham said and then, suddenly, his full lips parted in a smile and he said, “Sorry, sergeant. Silly thing to say. Particularly since I was going to tell you, as soon as we got around to it. I was in town night before last. Playing bridge.”

  He paused, evidently for a question. Mullins did not ask the question.

  “With poor old Johnny,” he said. “And a couple of other chaps, of course.”

  He waited—waited as a man might who expected what is called a double take.

  He got none. Mullins said, “Well,” in a voice of mild interest.

  “Until about midnight,” Latham said. “And—at Johnny’s apartment, sergeant.”

  “Hmm-mm,” Mullins said. “And then—I take it you didn’t drive back here that night, Mr. Latham? It’s quite a drive.”

  “No. Stayed at the club. The Princeton Club. Left early and drove back home before the traffic picked up. Got here about—oh, well before noon.”

  “Uh-huh,” Mullins said. “Left about when, Mr. Latham?”

  Somewhere around eight, Latham thought.

  His daughter had left to keep her luncheon engagement in Forest Hills before he arrived?

  “Yes,” Hilda said, answering for both of them. “I drove in in the bug.”

  “One of these days that bug of yours is going to fall apart,” Latham said. “All together and nothing first, like the old chaise, eh? Only, the way things are now, we’ll be able—” He caught himself becoming cheerful, apparently. He said, “Poor old Johnny. Hard to believe he’s gone.” He sighed.

  It was hard to believe a good many things, Mullins thought, half an hour later, beginning the long drive back. He’d turn a lot of things over to the loot and see how he made out.

  Jerry, seeing his wife waiting in the Algonquin lobby, debated briefly whether he would be the conventional husband of folklore. He decided to leave the comic-strip personality to those of comic-strip mind. Going up to her, smiling down at her, he said it was a very pretty new fall suit and that he assumed she had been able to walk right out in it.

  “I had a bet with myself,” Pam said. “I bet you would. I won. I’m glad you like it and I could and it wasn’t at all expensive, considering. After lunch, could you take time to look at a cat?”

  If they didn’t take too long over lunch, Jerry said, as they went into the Oak Room.

  “She’s really a bargain,” Pam said, as they sipped. “More than the suit, to be honest. Marked down from I don’t know what.”

  “To?”

  “Forty dollars,” Pam said. “Admittedly, she has what some people might call a stripe. But on the other hand, she’s not pointed. Not as they go. She puts them on a pedestal. One at a time, of course.”

  That took some explanation, over corned beef and cabbage. Jerry agreed that it was an odd way to sell cats and that he, too, would have expected a bin. He said he supposed it came under the head of merchandising.

  “Packaging, really,” Pam said, in the taxicab bound, slowly and tediously, north. “The poor little things. Probably it would have been quicker to walk. But I had to get new shoes, too, to go with the suit. You didn’t notice them, incidentally.”

  It is Jerry North’s opinion that women set far too high a store on shoes, and that one pair of shoes looks, on the whole, very like another. He said they were very pretty shoes and went beautifully with the suit.

  They walked down two steps to the door of the breeders’ nook. There was a shade pulled down on the door. The shade had one word lettered on it. The word was “Closed.”

  “Well,” Pam said. “She was certainly quick about it.”

  That, also, needed explanation. Pam explained on the way downtown. She said that Miss Somers looked rather young to retire—particularly between ten in the morning and—“What time is it now?” It was two thirty in the afternoon.

  “Between ten and two thirty,” Pam said. “But I suppose once a person decides—” She became silent. Jerry waited.

  “Nothing,” Pam said. “Except that Saturday she didn’t say anything about having a cat sale and if she wanted to sell cats you’d think that would be the first thing to mention, wouldn’t you? And this morning, even, she would be selling cats for a few weeks, and certainly tomorrow, when we were supposed to go in. Before I thought of our having lunch together, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “Which may,” Pam said, “be all she’s gone to, and there was nothing to indicate she had an assistant. Did I tell you your Mr. Ackerman was there this morning?”

  She had not. She did. She said that, of course, Gebby had said that she, which was to say Madeline Somers, was also a member of the bunch of crackpots, which was to say The Committee Against Cruelty. And that Ackerman had probably gone around to get a contribution or something. And that—still? Did Jerry think?

  Jerry would, he told her, think that she was making bricks without straw. Or, for that matter, clay.

  “Nothing to tell Bill, then?”

  He doubted that Bill would be interested to hear that Miss Madeline Somers’s cat store was closed, possibly for lunch. Or that Floyd Ackerman had been at the store that morning. If Pam was sure it really was Ackerman. And—

  “Another thing,” Pam said. “About Gebby. Of course it doesn’t mean anything, but—”

  “Mac,” the cab driver said, “I can’t stand here. The cop’s looking at me already, and he’s one of the mean ones.”

  They were in front of the building in which North Books, Inc., has offices. Jerry said, “I’ll try not to be late,” and Pam, “Keep your flag down. I want to go to—”

  As the cab continued south, Pam told herself, again, that, of course, it didn’t mean anything. Only—Dr. Oscar Gebhardt, cat specialist, was, often had said he was, entirely opposed to hospitals for cats. He had not had a hospital for years; he operated on cats in his office on Park Avenue, he brought cats home, still unconscious, for convalescent care; he regarded hospitals as very bad for cats, who thrive best in familiar surroundings and known hands, who also are subject to infectious diseases which may sweep through a cat hospital.

  What did not mean a thing was that he had, apparently, sung another song to John Blanchard—a song in praise of a research center which was, nevertheless, to be at least partly a hospital for cats, among other small animals. And been left a considerable sum to—to orchestrate his song.

  “Not Gebby,” Pam told herself, firmly, as she paid the hack driver, remembering that the city tax was part of the fare, not part of the tip.

  “It’s perfectly ridiculous to think that Gebby—” Pam told herself in the elevator and checked her mind.

  It is not, of course, in matters of this kind, perfectly ridiculous to think of anything.

  12

  Gerald North dictated.

  “As you know,” he said, “the fifty-fifty division between author and publisher in the proceeds of book club sales is a long-established practice and one which—” He paused, and the hurrying pencil waited expectant in the hand of Miss Abigail Clark. “We’d better cut out ‘long,’ Miss Clark,” Jerry North said, overcome by honesty. Miss Clark’s pencil searched, found, eliminated. “Since book clubs are after all rather recent,” Jerry said, in needless explanation. This was in the not-dictating tone and the pencil continued to wait. “—is essential to the economic structure of the industry under present conditions,” Jerry said. The pencil moved. “In other words,” Jerry said, “we like money too.” Miss Clark smiled; did not make notes. “Therefore—” Jerry said, and the telephone rang.

  “Yes, Janey?” Miss Clark said. She listened. She said she’d see. She said, “It’s that Mr. Ackerman. The one with the—”

  “Good God,” Jerry said. “No!”

  “Mr. North is—” Miss Clark said, and stopped to listen. Jerry could hear the quick
rattle of Jane Lester’s voice. “Well,” Miss Clark said, “I’ll ask.”

  “Jane’s going nuts,” she said. “He’s called three times and she’s used the in-conference one, and the just-stepped-out one, and the can-you-call-him-back one. And hung up. And he’s called back in the next breath and—”

  “Good God,” Jerry said, and reached. He said, “Yes?” in something like a snarl and then, “Oh, sorry, Janey. Put him on.” Then he said, “Yes?” again, but could not quite recapture the snarl. A snarl wasted, he thought, and listened to a high-pitched, excited voice.

  “All right,” Jerry said. “I was in conference. Then I stepped out. Listen, Mr. Ackerman—”

  Floyd Ackerman did not listen.

  “It is essential,” Ackerman said, “that I see you at once. Essential.” His speech was redolent of capitalization.

  “I’m afraid—” Jerry said.

  “Or,” Ackerman said, “the Responsibility will be yours.” His voice trembled, approached falsetto.

  “I’m afraid,” Jerry said, “that our decision is final, Mr. Ackerman. No doubt some other publisher—”

  “Not that,” Ackerman said. “Not about that. I realize your position. The Pressures. I am resigned. About this man Blanchard.”

  Jerry said, “Oh.”

  “Exactly,” Ackerman said, and his voice shook. “Exactly. There’s no time to waste. No Time. I have something to tell, something Vital. And—there’s danger. Do you hear me? Danger!”

  Jerry removed the receiver a half inch from his ear.

  “Listen,” he said. “Will you listen a moment? You have information about Mr. Blanchard’s—death?”

  “How many times—”

  “Give it to the police,” Jerry said. “They’re the ones—”

  “Corrupt,” Ackerman said, and his voice was even higher than before. “Inefficient. Ride rough-shod. The third degree. You think I don’t know?”

  “Yes,” Jerry said, “I certainly think you don’t know. What have you got to tell?”

  “Enough,” Ackerman said. “But—don’t talk about the police. They’re part of the whole thing. Don’t you understand?”

  Jerry didn’t.

  “They’ll crucify me,” Ackerman said, and there was increasing hysteria in his voice. “I wouldn’t have a chance. You think I don’t know that?”

  The man was, Jerry thought, irrational—now entirely irrational. And—frightened?

  “All I want is a chance,” Ackerman said. “Just a chance. But—you’re against me too! I can tell that. You and all the others. I’ll give you half an hour. I can’t wait any longer than that.”

  “I don’t—” Jerry said.

  “And if you bring the police,” Ackerman said—almost screamed. “If you bring the police, you’ll never find me. None of you. I’ll tell you and then—I’ll go then. Know a place. Until—until it’s safe. I’ve got a right to stay alive.”

  It made, obviously, no sense. There is little point in telling a man who is hysterical, who has gone over the final edge, that what he says—what he screams—makes no sense.

  “Of course you have,” Jerry said, and tried to make his voice a soothing voice; tried to get understanding sympathy into his voice. He made a decision. “All right,” he said. “Come here, then. We’ll—talk it over. I promise until we do I won’t—”

  “You must,” Ackerman said, “think I’m crazy.”

  There was no immediate answer possible to this. It was clear that merely saying “Yes,” would be of no help.

  “You’ve got my address,” Ackerman said. “Haven’t you got my address?”

  “I suppose so,” Jerry said, and covered the receiver and said, to Abigail Clark, softly, “Ackerman’s address?” She nodded.

  “Yes,” Jerry said, to Ackerman. “But—listen. What you’re asking is—”

  “Come—” Ackerman said. “Go there. I’ll leave it so you can get in. If you’re alone—alone, you hear? Nobody else. You hear me?—if you do what I say I’ll join you as soon as I’m sure and—we’ll see. If you—if we can work out some way I can have a start—then—”

  It seemed to Jerry that, although now the shrill trembling voice was lower, Ackerman was losing even the coherence of his irrational purpose. It was as if, even while he talked, the man—the thin, pale man with staring eyes behind thick lenses—were disintegrating. Suddenly, Jerry could see him, telephone in his hand, shaking through all his thin body in a kind of desperation—

  It was preposterous; it was, in a sense, enraging. “Hold this,” something was saying, something implacable, grotesquely unfair. And thrusting into Jerry North’s resisting hands—what? A thing that ticked, that might go off. It occurred to Jerry suddenly that what had been thus unfairly thrust into his hands might be a man’s life.

  “I’ll come,” Jerry said. “Wait.” He paused for a second. “Wait!” he said and made the word heavy, as if he set it as a block, an anchor, to hold a slipping mind.

  But then the shrillness in the voice, the something near desperation in the voice—in the voice itself, more than in the tumbling, unrevealing words—sounded again in Jerry’s ears. Whether it made sense or not, the man was frightened—the man was scared to death. And as that worn phrase came into his mind, Jerry stood up. It occurred to him that, in some manner entirely obscure, Floyd Ackerman might be just that.

  It was not until he was in a cab, bound downtown, with certain things tidied up, certain instructions left for Abigail Clark, that a somewhat more likely possibility entered Gerald North’s mind. Those most likely to be in fear of the police, and to want to run—to “have a start,” are those who have specific reason to fear the police. Among such, of course, murderers are prominent.

  The thought was slightly chilling. It did not, however, add any rational note to the unreason of the whole business. If Ackerman had decided to confess to murder he was certainly going about it in, even for him, an odd fashion.

  Of course—and this thought occurred as the cab finally—traffic had been very heavy—turned east off Fifth, below Fourteenth, and went into an area which is a conglomerate of almost everything—of course Floyd Ackerman might be inviting one Gerald North into a trap. Gerald North could not think of any reason why he should be trapped. It seemed unlikely that, although Ackerman had certainly resented the rejection of his book, he had resented it quite—well, quite that much.

  Unless, Jerry thought, as the cab stopped in front of a four-story building, once a private house, now either tenement or apartment house, Floyd Ackerman merely liked to kill people who—call it criticized him.

  Anyway, Jerry thought as, having paid off the cab, he climbed the stoop—anyway, I’m bigger than he is. In the dim vestibule, he bent to examine name cards above mailboxes, push-buttons. It appeared that Floyd Ackerman lived in the third floor apartment; it appeared there was one apartment to each floor.

  Jerry pushed the appropriate button and waited for the inner vestibule door to buzz at him. It did not and he pushed the button again. Then, remembering, he tried the door. It was not locked. Ackerman had said he would leave things so that Jerry could get in—get in and wait for him.

  Jerry climbed the first flight of stairs. It occurred to him, as he neared the top, that John Blanchard, also, had been bigger than Floyd Ackerman—bigger and, certainly, stronger. The thought was not encouraging.

  Jerry climbed the second flight of stairs to the landing and on the landing faced a door. He knocked on the door and waited. Nothing happened. He tried the knob, and it turned and he went into a hallway which connected two large rooms—a hallway off which opened a bathroom and a small kitchen. The arrangement was familiar; the Norths have lived on floor-through apartments in converted houses; in apartments of two large rooms, connected by narrow halls. The living room, presumably, would be on the street side. Jerry called Ackerman’s name, at first softly, then more loudly, and was unanswered. He went through the hall to the living room.

  The big room was comfort
ably furnished. There was nobody in it. There was, apparently, nobody in the apartment. So—Floyd Ackerman was behaving as he had planned. Some place—outside the building? More simply, one flight up in the building?—Ackerman had hidden himself to watch, to wait until he was sure that the man he had summoned had come alone. Jerry looked at his watch. It was a quarter after four. Give the jittering little man ten minutes.

  Ten minutes was long enough to spend on this—this charade. It seemed, now, to be no more than that—the frightened voice had dimmed in Jerry’s memory. A rather silly charade for a grown man to be engaged in, particularly during working hours. It occurred to Jerry that there was one more possibility—it could be that he had been had. The purpose was obscure, but no more obscure than anything else. To get him here, out of the way, while somewhere else something else was done which required the absence of Gerald North? He could not think what was elsewhere to be done. After all, Ackerman had only got him out of his office. It was improbable that Ackerman—it was certainly Ackerman who had called—planned some action in the offices of North Books, Inc.

  The hell with it, Jerry thought, and sat down in one of the comfortable chairs. Give him the ten minutes—no, now the seven minutes. Leave a note saying he had been and gone. Go. And—

  Dimly, he heard footsteps outside—footsteps on, evidently, the flight leading down from the floor above, then on the linoleum surface of the outer corridor. So—Ackerman had waited above, peering down; now was coming—

  He was not. The footsteps did not stop at the door to Ackerman’s apartment. The door did not open. The footsteps diminished, now, on the flight below. Another tenant, going about his business—probably her business. Going out, probably, to get a pound of coffee, a loaf of bread. Apparently, Ackerman had lurked somewhere in the street, and so would come up the stairs when he came. If he came. Five minutes—four—the hell with it. Ackerman was taking too long, far too long, to assure himself that the police had not been brought. Do now what he should have done long ago—call Bill, tell him about this charade, take the raised eyebrows, the regretting sound made by teeth and tongue, that he had earned.