Parnell Hall: The Naked Typist

“I don’t want a settlement.”

“Right,” Steve said, somewhat impatiently. “You want your clothes. You’re gonna get ‘em, but in addition they’re gonna compensate you for the humiliation you went through. From your point of view, how much would be enough?”

“I don’t care.”

“Maybe not, but I do. I’m a lawyer, not an errand boy. If I do this for you, I have to be paid.”

“I have money.”

“I wouldn’t touch it. If anybody pays me, it’s gonna be them. I’ll take your case, but only on a contingency basis. If they give us a settlement, I get a third. The rest goes to you.”

“Fine. Whatever.”

“There’s one thing I want you to understand. To settle this, we have to release them from all damages. That’s why you should think about this. To accomplish anything, you’ll have to sign a release. That release will be legal and binding. Once you’ve signed it and they’ve accepted it, if you change your mind and want to sue them for damages, you can’t do it. You can’t go after them again. You understand that?”

“Of course. That’s fine. I don’t mind.”

Steve looked at her a few moments. “All right,” he said. “Tracy. I want you to type up a release for me. Have it release Milton Castleton and Phil Danby from all claims of damages resulting from the employment and termination of said employment of Miss Kelly Blaine.”

“Certainly,” Tracy said. She stood up.

“One minute. First get me Milton Castleton on the phone.” Steve looked at Kelly Blaine. “What’s his number?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“It’s not like I ever had to call there. I have his number. It’s in my purse.”

“Right,” Steve said. “All right. Call information. See if they have a Milton Castleton listed.”

Tracy called information, asked for the listing. She frowned and hung up the phone. “It’s unlisted,” she said.

“That figures,” Steve said. “Get me Mark Taylor.”

Tracy called the Taylor Detective Agency, said, “Steve Winslow for Mark Taylor.” She listened a moment, then handed Steve the phone.

“Mark, Steve.”

“Yeah, Steve. What’s up?”

“Milton Castleton.”

“What about him?”

“You know him?”

“I know who he is.”

“Fine. He’s got an unlisted phone number. I want it.”

“No sweat. Hang on.”

There was a pause and Steve could hear Taylor shouting at someone. A minute later he was back on the line with the number.

“Anything else?” Taylor asked.

“That’s it,” Steve said, and hung up the phone. He turned to Tracy Garvin. “Okay. Get going on that release. Take her with you. Check the details with her.”

Tracy nodded. There was no reason she needed Kelly Blaine to make up the release. She realized Steve just wanted her out of the room while he made the call.

Kelly Blaine got up to go. Steve picked up the phone. Kelly Blaine turned back in the doorway. “I have to warn you,” she said. “He’s going to give you a hard time.”

Steve smiled grimly. “That’s where you’re wrong.”

The man who opened the door was plump, bald, wore horn-rimmed glasses and a three-piece suit. “Yes?” he said.

“Phil Danby?” Steve asked.

“Yes. And who are you?”

Steve gave him a look. “I spoke to you on the phone. The doorman downstairs just called you to ask if he could send me up. Who the hell do you think I am?”

“You’re Steve Winslow?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t look like a lawyer.”

“You don’t look like a rapist, either.”

Danby frowned. “If that’s the tack you’re going to take-”

“No, it isn’t,” Steve said. “I don’t feel like sparring in the hallway. Where’s your boss?”

“Mr. Castleton is in his office.”

“Let’s see him.”

Phil Danby stood glaring at Steve for a moment. His problem was clear. Since Castleton had agreed to see Winslow, it was his job to bring Steve in. But with Steve ordering him to do so, he didn’t want to do it.

Danby took a breath. He stepped aside, let Steve in and closed the door. Without a word, he turned and walked down the hallway. Steve followed.

Danby stopped before a closed doorway, knocked twice, pushed it open. Steve followed him in.

It was a large office. At first glance it appeared to be a stage set, a period piece set somewhere in the thirties or forties. It was wood-paneled, with Persian rugs on the floor. There was a large marble fireplace. Solid oak furniture. It occurred to Steve that Bogart could have walked into such an office and found a body lying on the floor.

Or gotten sapped. In spite of himself, Steve glanced over his shoulder. But there were no unseen henchmen behind the door. Danby was it. Steve turned back to the room.

Dominating the office was a massive oak desk. Seated behind it in a high-backed desk chair was a frail wisp of a man. He was completely bald. His face was incredibly thin. His cheeks and eyes were sunken. His skin was stretched tight and was almost translucent, giving him the appearance of a skeleton.

That was Steve Winslow’s first thought. That the man was dead. That Milton Castleton had been dead for years, that his body had been propped up at this desk here and that Phil Danby, the loyal and trusted associate, was nothing more than a fat Tony Perkins, psychotically maintaining the fiction that his boss was still alive.

Then the eyes in the skeleton moved. The lips moved, and a reedy voice said, “Come in.”

Steve walked up to the desk.

The lips moved again. “Sit down.”

Steve sat. As he did, he noticed Phil Danby had moved in and was standing to the left of the desk.

Castleton’s eyes flicked to Danby, then back to Steve. “Talk.”

“I’m Steve Winslow. I’m representing Kelly Blaine.”

Castleton looked Steve up and down. “Are you with Legal Aid?”

“No.”

“No?”

“I have a private practice.”

Castleton frowned. “That’s bad.”

“Why?”

“If you have a private practice, you must be good. You look like a jerk. If you can dress like that and still get clients, you must be pretty sharp. Which means you’re going to give me a hard time.” Castleton smiled. “I don’t like sharp lawyers who give me a hard time.”

“My client’s the one who had the hard time.”

“So you say.” Castleton sighed. “All right. Let’s have it.”

“Miss Blaine worked for you.”

There was a pause. Castleton said nothing.

“Do you concede Kelly Blaine worked for you?”

Milton Castleton smiled. “Concede?” he said. He shook his head. “I was right. You lawyers. Always want to sound like you’re winning. Concede. I don’t concede anything. Kelly Blaine worked for me. If that’s a concession, I’ll eat it.”

“Miss Blaine left your employment today.”

“So I understand.”

“You weren’t here?”

“No, I was not.”

“The circumstances of her leaving were unfortunate.”

“They always are.”

“Some more than others. In this case, Miss Blaine was frightened into leaving. So much so that she left some of her possessions behind.”

“Is that right?”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

Milton Castleton nodded. “I will have to look into the matter. Thank you for bringing it to my attention.”

Steve Winslow stared at Castleton a moment. The emaciated face was bland, composed. There was an innocent serenity about him, like some elderly relative who had been propped up in the drawing room to have tea with the family but who had no idea what was really going on.

Which was disconcerting. Steve Winslow had come prepared to fight. But Milton Castleton’s indifference left him with nothing to push against. Steve knew it was a charade, an act, a business tactic on Castleton’s part. Still, it was hard to deal with.