Parnell Hall - The Anonymous Client

Steve snapped himself out of it. Time to think about it later. Right now, what do you do?

Steve stooped and checked for a pulse. As expected there was none. But the body was still warm, indicating that Bradshaw had been dead for a very short time.

Steve stood up and surveyed the apartment. Apparently there had been a terrific struggle. Chairs were overturned, a night table was smashed, and the phone was lying on the floor with the receiver off the hook.

On the desk in the corner that had not been touched was a small portable typewriter. Steve walked over and looked at it. It was a Smith Corona.

A police siren sounded outside in the street. Steve ran to the front window. A police car was pulling up in front of the building. Steve whirled, looking for a way out. Apartment 2A was the corner apartment, with windows on both East 3rd Street and the side alley. Steve raced to the side windows and looked out. There was no fire escape in the alley. Hell, it was too risky anyway. If they caught him trying to flee he’d be dead. Steve hurried back to the desk, grabbed a piece of paper, shoved it into the machine, and typed, “Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their party.” He tore the page from the typewriter, then whipped out his handkerchief and polished the typewriter keys. He thrust the handkerchief back in his pocket, crumpled the paper into a ball, ran to the side window, opened it, and hurled the paper into the alley. As he did so, Steve heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Steve closed the window quietly, tiptoed across the room, and settled back on the couch just as an imperative knock sounded on the door.

“Come in,” Steve called.

Two officers entered the room and stopped short as they saw the body on the floor.

A woman behind the officers said, “He may be quiet now, but when I called-” She broke off as she saw the body.

Then she screamed.

Then the officers spotted Steve Winslow. One officer drew his gun. The other officer followed suit.

“All right, buddy,” said the first officer. “Hold it right there.”

Steve Winslow smiled and put up his hands. “All right,” he said. “You got me.”

Frank Sullivan could have been at peace with the world. He had his collar-Steve Winslow; he had his paper-the Daily News; and he had a comfortable chair. The only thing intruding upon his tranquility was in the form of a 250-pound, fifty-five year old spinster named Miss Dobson, who happened to be the landlady of the building and who took exception to having her living room used as a holding cell.

“I don’t see why you can’t keep him in Bradshaw’s apartment,” she persisted.

“I told you, lady,” Frank said, without glancing up from his paper. “We’ve sealed the place off. Nobody goes in there until homicide gets here.”

“Why not?”

Frank grimaced as if he’d been stung by a bee. This time he looked up from the paper to give Miss Dobson the full effect of his sarcasm. “Homicide doesn’t like to have murder suspects hanging around the scene of the crime. Homicide’s funny that way. They have this theory that people who commit murder might also be so unscrupulous as to tamper with evidence if they were given an opportunity to do so. Of course, I don’t believe that for a moment, but homicide seems to think so, so I try to humor them.”

Frank returned to his paper.

Miss Dobson cast a sideways glance at Steve Winslow, who was seated on her couch. “I don’t want a murderer in my apartment.”

“I’m sorry to inconvenience you in this manner,” Steve said.

“I wasn’t talking to you,” she snapped. “I was talking to the officer.”

“He’s trying to read the paper. Why don’t you give him a break?”

“He’s trying to read my paper. I haven’t even seen it yet.”

Frank sighed. “Sorry, ma’am. You want your paper?”

“No. What I want is for you to put it down and pay a little attention to your prisoner. You’re supposed to be guarding him, aren’t you?”

Frank merely grunted.

“That’s right, read the paper. Leave me alone with a murderer to deal with.”

“Lady, he’s handcuffed. What could he possibly do to you?”

“I could kick her in the stomach, drop my shoulder, and slam her up against the wall,” Steve said promptly.

Miss Dobson gave a little gasp. Her lips moved soundlessly, and she sank into a chair.

Frank looked at her, grinned at Winslow, and said, “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” Steve said.

There was a knock on the door. Miss Dobson started to get to her feet, but Frank beat her to it. He opened the door and ushered Sergeant Stams into the room.

“All right, where is he?” Stams said. “Where is-” He spotted Steve Winslow and stopped short. “Son of a bitch.”

Sergeant Stams, a stolid, impassive, plodding and unimaginative homicide officer, knew Steve Winslow well. Stams had had the misfortune to arrest him once before. At the time, Stams had thought he’d cracked the Sheila Benton case. He’d taken a good deal of ribbing in the department when it had turned out he’d actually arrested Sheila’s attorney.

Stams’s eyes narrowed. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I was just about to ask you the same thing,” Steve said.

“I happen to be in charge of this investigation.”

“Oh? I thought Lieutenant Farron was in charge of homicide.”

“Farron’s on vacation. I’m in charge.”

“Congratulations,” Steve said.

Stams snorted. “Yeah.” He turned to Frank. “Why didn’t you tell me it was Winslow?”

“Who’s Winslow?”

Stams pointed. “Him.”

Frank shrugged. “Means nothing to me.”

“That’s ’cause you don’t know him. If he’s here, it means something all right. Where’d you find him?”

“In the room with the corpse, sitting on the couch with his legs crossed. We knocked on the door and he called ‘Come in.’“

“You’re kidding.”

“No.”

Stams frowned. Thought a moment. “Did you search him?”

“Sure did.”

“In my bedroom,” Miss Dobson said indignantly. Stams ignored her. “You make a good job of it?”

“Sure. Took his clothes off and searched him to the skin.”

“Find anything?”

“Nothing. He’s clean.”

“Did he make any objection to being searched?”

“Not at all. In fact, he insisted on it.”

“Insisted on it?”

“That’s right.”

Stams turned to Winslow. “You insisted on being searched?”

“You’re damn right I did.”

“Why?”

“Why do you think? So you couldn’t claim I took anything out of that apartment.”

Stams wheeled on Frank. “You sure he’s clean?”

“Absolutely.”

“Any chance he could have ditched something on his way down here?”

“Not a chance. We had him handcuffed.”

Stams frowned. “I don’t like it. I think he took something out of that apartment.”

Steve smiled. “Thank you.”

Stams eyed him suspiciously. “For what?”

“Not disappointing me.”

Stams took a breath, blew it out again. “All right, Winslow. Let’s have it straight. What were you doing in that apartment?”

“He told you. Sitting on the couch.”

“I don’t need any of your lip. This is a murder investigation. I want some answers. Why did you go there?”

“To see Bradshaw.”

“What about?”

“I had a matter I wanted to discuss with him.”

“What matter?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Why not?”

“It’s privileged information.”

“Involving a client?”

“Naturally.”

“Who’s the client?”