Parnell Hall - The Anonymous Client

“Oh?”

Up close, Steve revised his initial impression of the Kempers. Phyllis Kemper was a catty woman, yes, but it was a curious mixture of cat and mouse. Underneath the eyebrows that were plucked a little too fine and the lips painted a little too thin, was a rather plain, mousey face. A mouse dressed up as a cat.

But it was a good act. There was an almost feline, predatory quality to her. Steve actually felt uncomfortable under her gaze.

Her husband was the opposite. Douglas Kemper was a broad-faced, open, friendly sort of man. He had a young, puppyish quality about him, which, though necessarily subdued, under the circumstances of the tragedy, was nonetheless there.

In his wife’s presence, though, he seemed to take on a secondary role. As if she were the master. As if she might have had a leash on him.

The cat walking the dog.

“Yes,” Steve said. “But I have no wish to intrude on you at this time, and I really must be going.”

“A lawyer?” Phyllis said. “But we have a lawyer. Did Marilyn consult you, Mr. Winslow?”

“No.”

“Don’t tell me you’re suing us?”

“No, he’s not,” Marilyn interrupted irritably. “And he really had to go. Mr. Fitzpatrick is on his way over, and I’m going to have to talk to him alone.”

“Mr. Fitzpatrick?” Phyllis said. “But he was just here this afternoon.”

“Phyllis,” Douglas Kemper said, “I don’t think Marilyn wants to talk about it.”

Marilyn Harding seemed on the verge of hysteria. “I don’t,” she said. “And I just heard a car in the driveway. That will be Fitzpatrick. I don’t want him to find Mr. Winslow here, so would you please-”

She was interrupted by the entrance of the butler. “Excuse me, Miss Harding,” he said, “but the police are here again and-Oh!”

The butler broke off as Sergeant Stams pushed by him into the room.

“All right,” Stams said. “Which one is Marilyn Harding?”

Steve Winslow, who had been watching Marilyn’s face, turned to face Stams.

Stams saw him. Blinked. “Winslow!” he said. His usually impassive face broke into a grin. “Well, well, well. Isn’t that interesting. You know, I was hoping to find you here, but I didn’t think you’d be that dumb.”

“Apparently I’m that dumb,” Steve said.

“Apparently you are. So,” Stams said sarcastically. “You didn’t have a client who tipped you off to the murder. Oh no. You didn’t go to the apartment to get any evidence. Not you. Why, you didn’t even know he was dead, did you? And yet, when we follow the clues out here, who do we find but poor, innocent Steve Winslow, closeted with his client. Now isn’t that an interesting coincidence?”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you,” Steve said, “but Miss Harding is not my client. Her attorney is a Mr. Harold Fitzpatrick, who is probably in the car I hear coming up the driveway now. It’s been a wonderful evening, but unless you’d like to have me searched again, I really must be going.”

With that, Steve nodded to the astonished Sergeant, and walked out.

Steve Winslow glanced over his shoulder to make sure Sergeant Stams wasn’t following him, and then hurried through the spacious front hallway, looking for a telephone. He spotted one on a desk near the window and was making for it when a corpulent gentleman in his mid-fifties came bustling through the front door. The man saw Steve and stopped dead. “Who are you?” he demanded.

Steve looked at him. Despite the lateness of the hour, the man had on a custom-tailored three-piece suit. Short-cropped curly white hair framed a chubby face that, when smiling, probably looked as benign as that of a vaudeville comedian. At the moment, however, the cheeks were flushed, the jaw was set, and the eyes were narrowed in a suspicious stare.

Steve smiled. “For that matter, who are you?”

“Is your name Winslow?”

“That’s right.”

For a moment the man stared at him as if he could hardly believe the answer. “Then I demand to know what you’re doing here,” he said. “I told Marilyn to ask you to leave. I consider your failure to do so highly unethical and indicative of sharp practice.”

“I take it you are Mr. Fitzpatrick?”

“That’s right. And I demand an explanation.”

“I see,” Steve said. “You want me to leave, and you want me to explain. I’m afraid the two are mutually exclusive. Would you care to pick one?”

Fitzpatrick’s cheeks grew redder. “I don’t need any smart remarks either. You’re tampering with a client. Do I have to file a complaint with the Grievance Committee or would you like to tell me why?”

“Don’t hand me that shit,” Steve said. “I have a perfect right to talk to anyone I want as long as I’m not soliciting employment. Now if Marilyn wants to tell you what we were talking about, she’s free to do so, but as far as I’m concerned, it’s none of your damn business.

“However, it might interest you to know that Sergeant Stams has just arrived, and he happens to be just as curious as you are about my conference with your client. The fact that he didn’t follow me when I walked out of there indicates that he considered his business with Miss Harding far more pressing. I believe it involves a murder. Now, I wouldn’t presume to advise you, but if I were Marilyn’s attorney, I would have no doubt where my primary duty lay. Now, what was your question again?”

Fitzpatrick glared at Steve Winslow, then hurried into the library.

Steve grabbed the phone and called Mark Taylor. After the second ring, the detective’s voice came on the line.

“Taylor here.”

“Mark, Steve. I got a rush job, and I mean rush.”

“Yeah? What?”

“I want you to get both of the Bradshaw letters and the list of bills and bring them to the corner of 59th Street and Third Avenue. The southeast corner. I’ll meet you there.”

“When?”

“Now.”

“Can’t I send someone? I got a lot of shit coming in.”

“No. I need you. Leave an operative on the phone, grab the stuff, and get out there. And I mean now.”

“I’ll have to-”

“Now, Mark.”

“Right.”

“You’ll probably get there ahead of me. Just wait.”

“O.K.”

“And don’t let anyone know where you’re going.”

“The operative will have to know, so he can relay information.”

“No way. It’s important. You can call and get reports, but no one is to know where you are. Got that?”

“Yeah.”

“O.K. Stop gabbing and get going.”

Steve slammed down the phone, raced out the door, and jumped into the cab. The cabbie made good time back to Manhattan, going through the Queens Midtown Tunnel and up Third Avenue. Steve paid off the cab a couple of blocks away and walked on up Third.

Mark Taylor was waiting on the corner. Steve hurried up to him.

“You got the letters?”

“And the list of bills,” Taylor said, tapping his pocket.

“Good. Give them to me.”

Taylor handed them over. “There you are. Now what?”

Steve looked around and spotted a restaurant down the block.

“See that restaurant? Go inside and get us a table. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

Mark Taylor went inside. Steve waited thirty seconds, then followed him into the lobby. Taylor had already been escorted into the dining room. Steve took out his wallet, walked over to the cashier, and smiled.

The cashier, a young blonde, smiled back. “Can I help you?”

“You certainly can,” Steve said. “I need an envelope and a stamp.”

“I’m terribly sorry. We don’t sell stamps or envelopes.”

“I know you don’t,” Steve said, producing a bill from his wallet. “That’s why I’ll pay you five bucks for them.”