A. Fair - Cats Prowl at Night

“Why didn’t you tell your mother-in-law the stuff I told you to tell her? That you hoped your wife hadn’t left you, but that if she had, there were plenty of other women—”

“That may be good advice on general principles, Mrs. Cool, but it wouldn’t work in this particular instance. It sounded very logical in your office, but when I got home and faced my mother-in-law— Well, I thought this other way was better, that’s all.”

“I see. You got my advice but didn’t follow it, is that right?”

“In a way, yes.”

“All right. Let’s get back to this secretary of yours. She spilled that information to your mother-in-law. You found out about it. H ow did you find out about it?”

“Good heavens! How did I find out about it? I found out about it because my mother-in-law became hysterical; because she kept yapping at me that my entire interest in the matter was financial, and all I wanted my wife for was to get some money out of her.”

“This was before Sally Brentner’s body was discovered?”

“Yes, of course.”

“When?”

“To be exact, it was shortly before the office closed Wednesday afternoon. And after I’d had that dinned in my ears all night, I wasn’t in any mood to be charitable with Miss Dearborne.”

“Specifically then, you were all on edge when you came up to the office Thursday morning. That was yesterday. You were angry and worried and you hadn’t slept. You called Imogene into your office and proceeded to put her on the carpet. Is that right?”

“Yes, in a way.”

“Now, you knew that Sergeant Sellers was going to call on you that morning?”

“Yes.”

“And you had suggested that the interview should take place at the office rather than at the house?”

“That’s right. I wanted to keep my mother-in-law from nagging me about Mrs. Cornish.”

“And before we arrived, you called Imogene in and proceeded to tell her off?”

“Well — I’m afraid I rebuked her.”

“ What did you tell her?”

“I told her she’d volunteered information that she’d no right to give.”

“What did she do?”

“She said she was simply trying to appease Mrs. Goldring; that she thought that was the best way to handle the situation.”

“Then what did you say?”

“I told her that I was capable of doing the thinking for the office.”

“All right. Go on. Then what happened?”

“Then she made some remark that I thought was a little impertinent and then is when I lost my temper. I told her she’d put me in a bad position because of her indiscretion.”

“What were the exact words you used?”

“I’m afraid I was angry.”

“What were the words you used?”

“I said she’d been shooting off her big mouth.”

“Then what?”

“That started her crying.”

“Well, go on. I can’t stand here and pump it out of you a word at a time. What happened? She started crying — then you fired her, didn’t you?”

“No, I didn’t. She got up and left the office without a word and went back to her typewriter.”

“Still crying?”

“I guess so. She was when she left the office.”

“So you got up and followed her out and—”

“No. To tell the truth, I didn’t.”

“What did you do?”

“I just sat here waiting — then you came in.”

Bertha said angrily, “Damn it, why didn’t you go ahead and fire her then and there and get it over with?”

“Because I wasn’t certain I was going to discharge her at the time. I’d lost my temper and I wanted to think it over. I—”

“But you intended to fire her just as soon as she’d calmed down — just as soon as you could do it without making a scene?”

“I’m not certain that I did. To be frank with you, Mrs. Cool, I didn’t know exactly what to do.”

“You certainly didn’t intend to let her keep on working for you,” Bertha said.

“Well, I wasn’t certain but what I’d been at fault — at least partially.”

Bertha said with exasperation, “My God! How many times do I have to lead you up to the trough before you take a drink?”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand you, Mrs. Cool.”

“All you’ve got to say,” Bertha explained patiently, “is that you intended to fire her because of this indiscretion; that you had your mind made up; that the only reason you didn’t have it all over before Sellers and I got here was that you didn’t want to pick on her when she was crying and that you didn’t want to have a scene. So you decided to wait until after Sergeant Sellers and I had left and then tell her you didn’t need her any more. Once you testify to those facts, it’s absolutely clear that she wasn’t fired on account of anything I said. Do you get the point?”

“I believe I understand the legal point, yes.”

“Well, that’s all there is to it,” Bertha said. “But I keep bringing you up to it, and you keep pulling back on the lead rope like a frightened horse. For God’s sake, let’s not muff our signals on this thing.”

“But,” Belder said, “while I appreciate the legal point, Mrs. Cool, I’m afraid I can’t co-operate with you.”

“What do you mean now?”

“Simply that I hadn’t actually decided to discharge Miss Dearborne at that time. I made up my mind afterward.”

Bertha sighed. “All right, I can at least depend on you to testify that you’d had words with her over this—”

“Good heavens no, Mrs. Cool!”

“What?”

“Emphatically not. Then I’d be asked why I was rebuking her — and if it ever came out that I had taken her to task over something she had told my mother-in-law, then Mrs. Goldring would never forgive me. You know, claim I was trying to keep things from her. That, as Mabel’s mother— No, Mrs. Cool, I can’t help you at all. This is just between you and me. If you ever asked me in court, I’d even deny there had been any trouble at all. I’d have to.”

Bertha Cool lurched to her feet, glowered angrily at Everett Belder.

“Nuts!” she said, and stalked out of the office.

Roger P. Drumson, senior partner of Drumson, Holbret, and Drumson, finished reading the complaint, then looked up over his glasses at Bertha Cool. “As I understand it, Mrs. Cool, you were employed to find out who wrote these letters. You had reasonable grounds to believe the plaintiff wrote them?”

“Yes.”

“That’s good. V ery good! Now just what were these grounds?”

“I knew they had been written by a first-rate typist on a portable. I knew Imogene Dearborne had actually written a message to her employer on this same typewriter.”

“How did you know that?”

“By comparing the typewriting.”

“No, no. I mean, how did you know she had written it on that same typewriter?”

“She admitted she had.”

“In the presence of witnesses?”

“Yes.”

“Before you made this accusation?”

“Sure. I made certain of my grounds before I exploded my bombshell.”

Drumson beamed at Bertha. “Very, very clever, Mrs. Cool. Now, as I understand it, you were giving this information in the highest good faith to interested parties, is that right?”

“That’s right.”

“Splendid!”

Drumson returned to a perusal of the complaint, frowned, looked accusingly up at Bertha. “Did you call her a twerp, Mrs. Cool?”

“Yes.”

“That’s bad.”

“Why?”

“It implies malice.”

“What the hell’s that got to do with it?”

Drumson returned to a perusal of the complaint, frowned, “You see, Mrs. Cool, the law provides certain immunities to a person who acts in good faith and without malice, as a reasonable person might do. In other words, certain communications are known, in the eyes of the law, as privileged communications; but in order to take advantage of the privileged communication provisions of the law, a person must show that everything he said was said in good faith, and without malice.”