Parnell Hall - The Anonymous Client

“I can’t tell you.”

“Was Bradshaw the client?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“If Bradshaw was the client, privileged information isn’t going to help him now that he’s dead.”

“On the contrary,” Steve said. “Many clients wish to have their rights protected even after they are dead. I believe that’s the principle on which wills are drawn.”

Stams pounced on the false scent. “Did Bradshaw consult you about a will?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“I know you didn’t say that. I asked you if he did.”

“My business with Bradshaw is confidential. I can’t tell you about it.”

“Do you deny it was about a will?”

“I don’t deny it and I won’t confirm it.”

Stams changed his tack. “When you got there, where was Bradshaw?”

“Right where he is now.”

“Did you move the body?”

“I felt for a pulse.”

“So you did move the body.”

“No. I just touched the wrist.”

“Was there a pulse?”

“There was none.”

“What time was it when you got here?”

“I didn’t look at my watch.”

“Approximately what time was it when you got here?”

“Somewhere around six. I tell you I didn’t look at my watch.”

“How long were you in the apartment before the police arrived?”

“Not more than a minute.”

“And you claim he was dead when you got there?”

“Yes.”

“And you only touched the body to feel his pulse?”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t remove anything from the body?”

“No, I did not.”

“You didn’t take anything out of the apartment?”

“No, I did not.”

“And the police arrived a minute after you did?”

“Within approximately one minute.”

“And yet you have no idea what time it was when you got to Bradshaw’s apartment?”

“No.”

“Then you didn’t have a specific appointment with Bradshaw?”

“Congratulations, Sergeant.”

“What for?”

“That’s the first deduction you’ve made from my statements. I was beginning to think you were asking me questions just to keep in practice.”

“So you had no appointment with Bradshaw?”

“That’s right.”

“You just decided to call on him?”

“That’s right.”

“Ever call on him before?”

“No.”

“That right, lady?” Stams asked Miss Dobson.

“I think so. At least, I’ve never seen him. If you want my opinion-”

“I don’t,” Stams said. “So, Winslow, out of the clear blue sky you call on Bradshaw for the first time, and he just happens to be dead.”

“I am rather unlucky,” Steve said.

“It was just a coincidence?”

“Well, I would certainly hope that my calling on people had no effect on their longevity. Otherwise, I imagine my dinner invitations would be rather infrequent.”

“You know what I’m getting at. You knew Bradshaw was dead before you got here, didn’t you?”

“I did not.”

“Can you prove it?”

“Of course not.”

Stams blinked. “What?”

“Of course I can’t prove it,” Steve said. “I would have to prove a negative, which is next to impossible. If I knew he was dead, I could prove that I knew by divulging the source of information. To prove I didn’t know he was dead, I would have to prove that I had no access to all sources of information. Since I don’t know what the sources are, I obviously can’t prove I didn’t have access to them. It’s an impossibility.”

“Then you can’t prove it?”

“No, I can’t,” Steve said, sarcastically. “Well, Sergeant, you’ve done it. Your skillful cross-examination has tripped me up, trapped me, backed me into a corner, and forced me into an admission. Now, are you ready to arrest me?”

Stams’s face darkened. “I may at that. You’re talking a lot, but you’re not saying anything.”

“Did it ever occur to you I might not know anything? You’re wasting a lot of time down here, while there’s a corpse upstairs screaming for attention.”

“Bradshaw won’t mind waiting a few minutes. I’m not done with you yet. I think you’re hiding something.”

“Think what you like.”

“I will. You know what I think? I think a client called you and told you Bradshaw was dead. I think the client told you there was some incriminating bit of evidence in the apartment. I think you rushed up here and got the evidence.”

“I’m glad to hear you say that, Sergeant. I was afraid you were about to charge me with the murder.”

“Don’t think that isn’t a possibility. But for now, tell me about my theory.”

“It’s a fine theory, Sergeant. It’s got class. I like it.”

“Do you deny it?”

“I’ve already denied it several times. As I said, you’re free to think what you like.”

“Don’t think I won’t,” Stams said. “I only put these questions to you so you could deny them. Now, if I can prove any part of my theory true, I can get you for obstructing justice, compounding a felony, and being an accessory after the fact to murder.” Stams grinned. “And now, I think I’ll go take a look at the corpse.”

“I take it I’m free to go?” Steve said.

“Sure you are. Except before you do, you’re going back in the bedroom and be searched again. And this time I mean searched. Search him good, Frank, and I want a complete inventory of everything he’s got on him, no matter how trivial. I think he took something.”

Stams started for the door.

“The murderer must have been really smart,” Steve said. “I wonder how he knew.”

Stams stopped in the doorway. “Knew what?”

“That Farron was on vacation.”

Steve Winslow dropped a quarter in the pay phone on the corner and punched in the number.

A feminine voice at the end of the line said, “Taylor Detective Agency.”

“This is Steve Winslow. Get me Taylor.”

“He just left for dinner. If it’s important, I might be able to catch him.”

“Catch him.”

There was no answer, but the rattle of the receiver and the clack of high heels told Steve the receptionist was doing her best. A minute later Mark Taylor’s voice came on the line.

“Steve. Lucky you caught me. I was just going to dinner.”

“Forget it. It’s soggy hamburger time. I need information and I need it fast. Did you hear the evening news about Harding?”

“No, but my pipeline into police headquarters reported that they exhumed the body and found arsenic. I tried to call you but you’d left the office. But don’t worry. I got men working on it. It’s covered.”

“Fine. Now you can cover something else. Our friend Bradshaw just became a corpse.”

“What!”

“That’s right. Someone stuck a large carving knife between his shoulder blades somewhere between five and six this evening.”

“No shit!”

“None. So pull your men off Harding and get on it.”

“Jesus Christ. How the hell’d you find out?”

“I heard the news on the radio about Harding. I went to see Bradshaw, walked in and found the body.”

“You’re kidding. You mean you’re the one who called the cops?”

“It’s worse than that. Someone else called the cops. They found me in the apartment.”

“They what?”

“That’s right. And here’s the kicker. Lieutenant Farron’s on vacation and Sergeant Stams is in charge.”

“Oh shit.”

“Yeah. Stams is ready to throw the book at me. He’s so pissed off about the Sheila Benton case I think he’d frame me if he thought he could get away with it. Anyway, he’s convinced some client called me, told me Bradshaw was dead, told me about some incriminating evidence in the apartment, and had me rush up there and pinch it just before the cops got there.”