Erle Gardner - Beware the Curves

Bertha stood over Helen Manning, glaring down at her, and Bertha was hard. There was no mistake about that. When Bertha got hard, she got hard.

Helen Manning said, “I didn’t shoot him, Mrs. Cool. I honestly didn’t.”

“Who did?”

“Cooper Hale was the only one who could have done it.”

“Now you’re talking,” Bertha Cool said. “Let’s get some facts in the case. What happened?”

She said, “I told his wife. His wife told him about what I had said. He was furious. He sent for me to come down to see him. I was frightened. I had bought that gun—

“I don’t know what I intended to do, but... I had been very fond of Karl Endicott and... I had given him much more than he had given me. I had given him my heart. I had given him the best years of my life. I—”

“Can that stuff!” Bertha said. “Give me the facts. We haven’t got much time!”

She said, “When I arrived there at the house, he told me that Mr. Hale was coming at almost any minute. He took me to an upstairs room, a bedroom. He was nice to me. He said his wife had left him. He... he was awfully nice. He took me in his arms and... well, his hands... he found the gun.”

“And then what?”

“He laughed and took it away from me and put it on the dresser.

“And then the doorbell rang. That was Hale.

“He told me to wait. He said that he was coming back, that Hale wouldn’t he there very long.

“I was so confused and upset I just didn’t know what to do. And then the doorbell rang again. That was John Ansel. I had thought John Ansel was dead. It startled me to hear his voice. Karl took Ansel upstairs and excused himself for a minute. He came in to the bedroom and said, in a whisper, ‘You’ll have to beat it, darling, the situation has become too complicated. Get back to town and I’ll call you later on.’ Then he gave me a little pat and a kiss and said, ‘Go on downstairs quietly and fade out of the picture.’ ”

“All right, what did you do?”

“I went down the stairs. As I reached the sidewalk I heard a revolver shot from the upstairs bedroom.”

“What did you do?” Bertha Cool asked.

“I hesitated a moment, and then I ran. I ran to the corner and then walked and walked and walked until it seemed I couldn’t walk another step, and finally I caught a bus back to the city.

“I knew... deep down in my heart... I knew what had happened. I knew he was dead.”

Bertha looked at me.

“Write it down,” I said.

We moved her over to a table and gave her paper. She wrote it down.

“Sign it!” I said.

She signed it.

“Date it!” I said.

She dated it.

Bertha Cool and I signed as witnesses.

I said, “Did you realize you were sending an innocent man to the gas chamber?”

“I didn’t know what to do,” she said. “I tried to keep out of it. But you don’t understand what it means to me, Donald. My whole career... I have a good job. I’m a very competent secretary and in this job I’m working up. I’m getting a good salary. The faintest breath of scandal and I’d be out, and... and I’m not young any more. That is, I’m—”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Bertha said. “Don’t tell me you’re not young. Why you’re only about thirty-five. That’s just the right age for a woman to begin living. You know what it’s all about. You know how men think and you know how they work, and if you’re any good at all you know how to drive ’em nuts.

“You make me sick with that all-washed-up line. And don’t ever hand out any more of that best-years-of-your-life crap. That’s the thing that chases men away faster than a smallpox quarantine sign. Quit eating so goddam many sweets, and set your cap for some of these guys. You’re just entering on the best years of your life right now.”

“I know,” Helen said dolefully, “but the men I know are already married, nearly all of them.”

“Ain’t that too bad!” Bertha Cool said unsympathetically. “I don’t see any signs of frustration about you, dearie.” She walked over to a chair, picked up a girdle, looked at it a minute, threw it in a corner and said, “The way you’re built, it’s a goddam shame to strap yourself into one of those things. Cut out a few calories and get that fanny of yours back into circulation.

“Come on, Donald.”

We left Helen Manning sobbing.

“Well?” Bertha Cool said.

“Go to bed,” I told her. “I’m taking this thing down to Barney Quinn.”

“Well, let’s hope it cheers him up,” Bertha said.

“Having a client lie to you is a devastating experience, particularly when you prepare your entire defense on a false assumption,” I told her.

“I know,” Bertha said. “How did I do in there? Was I hard enough?”

“You were hard enough.”

“It serves her right,” Bertha said, “for not feathering her nest. She should have done some gold digging on the sonofabitch and then she’d have had enough money so she wouldn’t need to work when the bust-up came.”

“How did she know there was going to be a bust-up?” I asked.

“Phooey!” Bertha said. “With a guy like this Karl Endicott there’s always a bust-up. Can you imagine that goddam blonde thinking she’s all done at thirty-five. Hell! She’s just starting! Five pounds off her fanny and she’s ready for the races. Thirty-five is just the right age. She’s begun to find out what it’s all about by that time. All right, Donald, you get on down to see Barney Quinn. Bertha’s going out and have herself a great, big, juicy steak. Thank God, I don’t have to worry about my fat fanny. I’m finished with men.”

Barney Quinn was pacing the floor of his office.

“I’m beginning to think we can make it, Donald,” he said. “It’s a good jury, and I think we’ve aroused their sympathy.”

“All right,” I told him. “Here’s what you do. Tomorrow Irvine finishes with the ballistics expert. On the strength of finding Ansel’s gun in the hedge, he tries again to bring in the testimony of Helen Manning.”

Quinn laughed. “That won’t get him any place. Judge Lawton has kicked her testimony out of court, and he’s going to—”

“Hold everything!” I told him. “When Irvine moves to reinstate the evidence of Helen Manning on account of the corroboration furnished by finding the gun, you tell the Court that, under the circumstances, Irvine’s point appears to be well taken and you’re withdrawing your motion to strike Helen Manning’s testimony from the record.”

“What?” Barney exclaimed incredulously. “Are you crazy?”

“Then,” I said, “Irvine walks into the trap. He goes ahead and puts on the rest of his case consisting of Nickerson and Cooper Hale. Hale will tell a convincing story. Then the district attorney will rest and throw the case in your lap.

“At that time you call the attention of the Court to the fact that Helen Manning was withdrawn from the stand and you have never had a chance to cross-examine her.”

Barney Quinn said, “That would be sheer suicide.”

“And,” I went on, “you get Helen Manning back on the stand for cross-examination. Then you lower the boom on the district attorney.”

“What do you mean, lower the boom?”

I tossed the signed statement on his desk.

Barney Quinn sat down to read the statement. He read the first few lines, then suddenly snapped bolt upright in his chair. His eyes raced through the rest of the statement down to the signature and the date. He looked at me with awed admiration, got up and shook hands. Then he went to a bookcase, swung back the false bindings of half a dozen books, disclosed a liquor closet, took out a bottle and two glasses.