A Fair: Cut Thin to Win

He turned to Fowler. “But you can go. You’re not doing any good here. You can’t do any good. You can’t practice law in California. You’re out of your territory. As you so aptly pointed out to me, the logical thing would have been to have stopped in, explained the circumstances to some resident Los Angeles attorney and had him accompany you.”

“Don’t tell me how to practice law.”

“I’m telling you how I’ll practice law,” Sellers said. “Get out!”

“What do you mean?”

“Just two words,” Sellers said, advancing belligerently, “get out!”

“My client sent for me.”

“I’ll make it one word,” Sellers said. “Out.”

Fowler backed toward the door, “Now look,” he said, “you can’t do this, you can’t—”

“The hell I can’t,” Sellers said. He turned to me, “You want him out, Pint Size? — It’s your apartment.”

I nodded.

Sellers opened the door with his left hand, bunched a fistful of Fowler’s shirt and necktie in his right hand and heaved.

Fowler went out of the door backwards so fast he slammed against the wall on the other side of the hall.

Sellers kicked the door shut and dusted his hands. “I’d like to look in your purse,” he said to Minerva.

“You can go straight to hell,” she said. “I’m going out.”

“Remember,” I told her, “Elsie has a tape recording of your conversation and—”

“You rat,” she said, and swung her hand with the purse as hard as she could swing it.

A rough spot in the catch scratched down the side of my cheek and drew blood.

I said to Sellers, “Arrest her.”

“What for?” Sellers asked.

“Assault and battery,” I said. “Actually I think that purse is a deadly weapon.”

“You going to prosecute?” he asked.

“It gives you a good excuse to take her to headquarters,” I said, “and once you’ve got her down there you have to remove all personal property from her purse and give her a receipt.”

A slow smile spread over Seller’s features.

She took one look at him, then whirled and said, “Don’t you dare put your hands on me, you big brute.”

“Deputize me, Frank,” Bertha said.

“You’re deputized,” Sellers said.

Bertha reached out one long, meaty arm as heavy as the average leg, clamped it around the back of Minerva Badger’s dress and slammed her across the room.

Bertha came waddling after her like a Japanese wrestler, head forward, arms out.

Minerva swung the purse again. Bertha blocked it. The catch came open. The contents were strewn all over the rug.

Bertha threw her arms around Minerva, pinioned her by expertly twisting her wrists around behind her back. “Got any handcuffs, Frank?” she asked.

Sellers hesitated a moment.

“I’m a deputy,” Bertha said. “She resisted arrest. Isn’t it a crime to resist an officer in the performance of his duties?”

Sellers gave her the handcuffs.

I was down on my hands and knees looking around on the rug.

“Here it is,” I said, pointing to a small vial. “Chloral hydrate, otherwise known as knockout drops.”

Bertha slammed Minerva down into a chair. “Wait there for the paddy wagon,” she said.

“You’re hurting!” Minerva screamed. “Those handcuffs are breaking the bones in my wrists.”

“Quit trying to jerk loose,” Bertha said. “That makes them bite all the deeper. Sit there and shut up.”

Sellers looked at me. “This man, Canby, was killed by a dose of chloral hydrate?”

“That’s what the autopsy surgeon says.”

A slow grin spread over Sellers’ countenance. “I guess it isn’t going to hurt anything if the California cops solve a Colorado killing.”

“Now listen,” Minerva said, “let’s talk sense. You’re talking about murder. I didn’t give him enough to hurt him. All I gave him was a dose that would knock him out for about an hour. You can’t pin a murder rap on that.”

“Perhaps not,” I said, “but we can sure pin a manslaughter rap. And that isn’t going to help your divorce case any.”

Sellers had been doing a lot of thinking. He nodded to Bertha. “You’re still a deputy,” he said. “Get her up out of there; let’s go before some smart lawyer gets a writ.”

Headlines in the paper said:

The article went on to state that in an investigation of the death of a blackmailer, well-meaning witnesses in Colorado had thrown the police off the track by giving them the license number of a car which had later proved to have been out of the state at the time; that a character known as Tessie the Tumbler had, by a stroke of luck, picked that car for one of her fraudulent tumbling acts by which she had in the past victimized insurance companies.

In this instance it seemed that the driver of the car had preferred to make an out-of-court settlement, but under the circumstances felt no desire to prosecute “Tumbling Tess,” as she was known to the police, for obtaining money by false pretences.

The newspaper even mentioned that Frank Sellers had modestly admitted that a local firm of private detectives, Cool and Lam, had been of considerable assistance to him in clearing up the case.

The Colorado police were investigating the death of the blackmailer but it was doubtful if they would prosecute the wealthy socialite as police felt the death had been due to a “combination of circumstances.”

The woman’s husband, one of Denver’s leading and influential businessmen, had interceded on her behalf. While the couple were in the process of getting a divorce, an amicable property settlement had been worked out and there was even talk of a reconciliation.

In any event the Denver police, glad to have a puzzling death straightened out, had uncovered evidence linking the dead man to a whole series of nefarious blackmail plots.

Elsie was looking over my shoulder as we read the paper, hot off the press.

Her arms came around my neck. “Donald,” she breathed, “you’re wonderful!”

The phone rang.

Elsie picked up the instrument, said, “Mr. Lam’s office... He’s busy now... Just a moment.”

She turned to me. “Colton C. Essex,” she said.

I reached for the instrument. “Hello, Essex,” I said.

“Seen the papers?” he asked.

“Just reading them.”

“Everything under control?”

“Perfectly safe. I see the Badgers may become reconciled.”

“That’s right.”

“Where will that leave the other woman in the case?”

“She’s okay. She got a nice chunk of money for co-operating. She knows she can’t win ’em all. Anyhow, I’m keeping my eye on her — you know what I mean, looking out for her interests.”

“Yes,” I said, “I know what you mean.”

There was a moment’s silence. “You had Badger well hidden?” I asked.

Essex said, “Hell, he was in Mexico City within five hours of the time they picked you up in Colorado. What kind of a lawyer do you think I am?”

“A pretty good one,” I said, “provided you remember your comment that we weren’t working for peanuts.”

He said, “That’s one of the things I wanted to talk to you about.

“I think Mrs. Badger may be able to beat the rap in Colorado, but she’s going to need her husband’s influence, and no more evidence against her than is, what you might say, readily available.

“Mr. Badger feels that you need a good, long vacation where you won’t be interrupted by telephone calls or people who want to talk to you about this case. I’ve been instructed to put a fifty thousand-dollar deposit into your account covering your services to date and giving you an opportunity to take a good, long vacation. You will, of course, want to have your secretary with you.”