Parnell Hall - The Anonymous Client

“I don’t like it, Steve.”

“I’m not asking you to like it. I’m asking you to do it.”

Taylor sighed. He took a big pull of bourbon. “O.K. You win. But you’re going to have to protect me on this.”

“Of course,” Steve said. “No problem. Now that we got that settled, what have you got on the murder?”

Taylor shook his head. “Not much. You pulled me out of the office before I could get a line into headquarters. All I know is the desk sergeant got a complaint from a woman in the building that there was a fight going on next door. A patrol car went out to investigate, and the officers were the second ones to discover the body.” Taylor frowned. “I wish to hell you hadn’t found that body.”

“You and me both. So what about your line into police headquarters?”

“I got a friendly reporter feeding me stuff. Most of it is just routine, but this guy is friendly with one of the sergeants, so he gets the inside track on the police report.”

“Think he’d have anything yet?”

“Hell, he’s overdue now.”

“Might be a good time for you to check in with your office.”

“It might for a fact,” Taylor said.

The food arrived while Mark Taylor was still on the phone. He returned to the table, sat down, cut off a huge slice of steak, and popped it in his mouth.

“O.K., Steve I got the dope.”

“From the reporter?”

“Yeah.”

“Any visitors in your office?”

“You mean cops?”

“Yeah.”

“No.”

“That’s strange. Well, what’s the dope?”

“The police place the time of the murder at 5:30 P.M.”

“5:30! How can they do that?”

“The desk sergeant got a call from Margaret Millburn, the woman across the hall, reporting an altercation in Bradshaw’s apartment. That call was logged at 5:28. Now the desk sergeant didn’t want to send a radio patrol car if it was just a family row or something like that. You know how it is with these 911 calls. Over half of them are just cranks. So the sergeant got the guy’s name and address from her. When he hung up, instead of dispatching a cruiser, he called information, got Bradshaw’s number, and called him up.”

“And got a busy signal?”

“Exactly. The desk sergeant called him at 5:31 by the police clock. That clock is accurate. Bradshaw’s phone was found on the floor with the receiver off the hook. The police theory is that the phone was knocked off the table during the struggle in which Bradshaw was killed. That fixes the time of death rather neatly. Bradshaw was alive at 5:28, because one obviously doesn’t have a fight with a dead man. He was dead at 5:31 because the phone was knocked off the hook. There’s no word from the medical examiner’s office, but it’s a good bet the autopsy surgeon will fix the time of death between 5:15 and 5:45.”

“I see,” Steve said, thoughtfully.

“Now then,” Taylor went on. “The police have picked up Marilyn Harding and are holding her for questioning. Her lawyer, a Mr. Fitzpatrick, is down there causing quite a stir, and has apparently advised her not to say anything. At any rate, she’s clammed up and won’t give the police the time of day.”

Taylor sawed off another bite of steak. “Now, here’s the strange thing. The police have uncovered something that’s making them absolutely ecstatic. I have no idea what it is. Even my reporter can’t get a line on it. But whatever it is, Sergeant Stams is prancing around like his wife just had a baby, and Harry Dirkson himself has been called in. That’s got the reporters puzzled. If Marilyn Harding isn’t going to sing, they don’t need the District Attorney to listen to her lawyer’s solo. So they must have something else they’re working on that clinches the case against the Harding girl, or is somehow of more importance.”

Steve’s eyes narrowed as he digested that information.

“So,” Mark Taylor said, “even though you can’t tell me certain things about the case, I can still make certain deductions.”

“Such as?”

“Such as,” Taylor said, watching Steve narrowly, “after you called me to tell me Bradshaw was dead, you raced out to the Harding mansion to talk to Marilyn. I don’t know whether she told you anything or not, but after you were there a little while, Sergeant Stams showed up to question Miss Harding. That was probably just before you called me the second time to send me out here, which would be around ten-thirty. The first report of Bradshaw’s murder was on the nine o’clock news. Someone gave Sergeant Stams the tip-off to pick up Marilyn Harding. Marilyn Harding was being followed by Miltner’s men. Now, if Miltner or one of his men saw the nine o’clock news broadcast, and if he knew that Marilyn had been to Bradshaw’s apartment sometime this afternoon, and if he felt he had to report that information to the police in order to keep from losing his license, it would place Sergeant Stams’s arrival at the Harding mansion somewhere around ten-thirty.”

Steve frowned. “You’re making a lot of deductions, Mark.”

“I’m not through yet. Let’s go a little further. If Stams got a tip from Miltner and went to see Marilyn Harding, and if you were there when he arrived, and if shortly after he arrived a Mr. Fitzpatrick showed up claiming to be Marilyn Harding’s attorney-and if Stams suspected you of having a client who had asked you to remove evidence from Bradshaw’s apartment and whose identity you were attempting to conceal-then Stams would probably assume that Marilyn was the client, that after you left Bradshaw’s apartment you dashed out to talk to her, that you advised her that under the circumstances the fact that you were her attorney would absolutely crucify her, and that therefore on your suggestion she immediately called in Fitzpatrick to act as a cat’s-paw so that you could fade into the woodwork.”

Steve Winslow said nothing.

“Well,” Taylor said, cutting off another piece of steak, “look who’s lost his appetite now.”

Steve picked up his knife and fork and began mechanically slicing off a piece of steak.

“I’ll tell you one thing,” Mark said. “If they can ever prove that you took anything out of that apartment, Dirkson will throw the book at you.”

“Don’t worry, Mark. They can’t prove it.”

“You mean you didn’t do it, or they can’t prove it?”

“I told you there were certain things I couldn’t tell you.”

Mark Taylor’s fork stopped halfway to his mouth, “Jesus Christ, Steve, don’t even suggest you did that. If you did, I don’t want to know it.”

“Then stop asking questions I have to refuse to answer on the grounds that an answer might tend to incriminate me. For a guy who doesn’t want to know the answers, you do ask the damnedest questions.”

“It’s the detective in me. I can’t help it.” Taylor wolfed down the last bite of steak. “All right. It’s been a fun dinner and all that, but being out of touch is getting me a little crazy. When can I get back to the office?”

“You could go back now if it weren’t for that new evidence. That’s got me worried. I’d like to know what it is before the cops talk to you.”

“Let me call in again. Maybe the reporter’s managed to turn up something.”

“Do that. And while you’re at it, call information and see if Tracy Garvin’s number is listed.”

“Her home number?”

“Yeah.”

“No problem. I got it.”

Steve grinned. “Oh? Like that, eh?”

Taylor chuckled, shook his head. “No. Not like that. When I got the news about the Harding autopsy, I called your office trying to catch you. You’d already left, but Tracy was still there. When I told her she got all excited. Said she’d stay there, keep the office open, wait for more reports.” Taylor stopped and looked at Steve. “I don’t know what your problem is with that girl, but in my book she’s quite something, you know?”