Parnell Hall - The Anonymous Client

“Yes, it is.”

“Where did you get it?”

“Once again, you are inquiring into matters that are privileged and confidential.”

“But you admit that you had that list in your possession?”

“Yes, I do.”

“And do you admit that you employed Mark Taylor of the Taylor Detective Agency to trace the numbers on that list and find out who withdrew those bills from the bank?”

“Yes, I did.”

“And do you know who did withdraw those bills from the bank?”

“Only by hearsay.”

“I understand. But the list speaks for itself, and it has been checked. Is it not true that, to the best of your knowledge, those bills were withdrawn from the First National Bank by David C. Bradshaw?”

“That is correct.”

“And where did that list come from?”

“There again you are inquiring into things that are privileged and confidential.”

“Did you ever have in your possession the ten one thousand dollar bills whose serial numbers are on that list?”

“That is also privileged and confidential.”

“I’m not asking you what anyone told you. I’m asking you if you had the bills.”

Steve shook his head. “You’re asking, in effect, if a client gave me those bills. That’s privileged information, as you well know.”

“You realize that by invoking your professional privilege you’re forcing us to draw our own conclusions.”

“Go ahead and draw them. I have nothing to say.”

“All right, I’ll draw them,” Dirkson said. “Is it or is it not a fact that when you went to Bradshaw’s apartment, you had ten thousand dollars on you in one thousand dollar bills? Is it not a fact that you searched the body, found another ten thousand dollars in thousand dollar bills on it? And is it not a fact that you then switched bills, placing the ten thousand dollars that you had on the body, and removing the ten thousand dollars that was there?”

“No, that is not a fact.”

“And,” Dirkson went on, as if Steve had not answered, “is it not a fact that before you could leave the apartment you were trapped by the arrival of the police, and, not wanting to be found with the bills in your possession, you hid them in the upstairs hallway of the apartment building?”

“That is not a fact.”

“You deny that you hid any bills in the hallway of Bradshaw’s apartment house?”

“Yes, I do.”

“And you deny that you removed any bills from Bradshaw’s apartment?”

“That’s right.”

Dirkson abruptly changed his tack. “Is Marilyn Harding your client?”

“No.”

“Has Marilyn Harding ever been your client?”

“To the best of my knowledge, no.”

“What do you mean, to the best of your knowledge?”

“Exactly what I said. As far as I know, Marilyn Harding has never consulted me. Does that answer your question?”

Dirkson frowned. He wasn’t sure that it had. But he wasn’t sure that it hadn’t, either.

“Is it not true that you went to Glen Cove and called on Marilyn Harding last night?”

“Yes, I did.”

“And that was after you found the body of David C. Bradshaw?”

“That’s right.”

“And why did you call on Marilyn Harding?”

“There again, I can’t tell you.”

“Was the reason connected with the death of David C. Bradshaw?”

“I’m sorry. I can’t tell you.”

“Did you go to consult with her as your client?”

“I told you. Miss Harding is not my client.”

“And never has been?”

“And, to the best of my knowledge, never has been.”

Dirkson changed his tack again. “When you called on David C. Bradshaw, did you know that he was dead?”

“No, I did not.”

“Had you been told that he was dead?”

“No, I had not.”

“Or that he might be dead.”

“No, I had not.”

“Did you suspect he was dead?”

“You’re grasping at straws, Dirkson.”

“Answer the question.”

“No, I did not suspect he was dead. There. Now you have my thoughts, knowledge, and even my suspicions in the record. Now, do you have anything else?”

“Do you deny that before you went to Bradshaw’s apartment, a client told you that Bradshaw was or might be dead. Or,” Dirkson said, sarcastically, “does that answer betray a confidential communication?”

“No, it doesn’t,” Steve said. “The answer is no.”

“You deny it?”

“Yes, I do.” Steve leaned back in the witness chair. “Now, you’ve asked your questions and I’ve answered them. I’ve told you everything I can without betraying a professional confidence. Now then, do you have anything else?”

Dirkson didn’t. He suspected Winslow of lying, evading, holding out, and covering up. But he didn’t have a damn thing to back it up. And he didn’t know, specifically, what Winslow was trying to keep from him. And he was a smart enough campaigner to realize that his efforts to find out were not only futile, but were making him look bad.

“No,” Dirkson said. “That’s all.”

The atmosphere in Steve Winslow’s outer office was two degrees below zero. Steve noticed it the moment he came in the door. Tracy Garvin was seated at her desk, as usual, but for once her head wasn’t buried in a book. In fact, her book was nowhere to be seen. Tracy’s desk was clean. Tracy was sitting up straight in her chair. Her hands were folded in front of her on the desk. Her manner was crisp, efficient, businesslike.

And cold.

Steve didn’t understand it. All right, so it was almost ten o’clock. He was late. Surely the boss had a right to be late every now and then.

“Good morning,” Steve said.

“Good morning.”

“Any calls?”

“No.”

“Any mail?”

“On your desk.”

Steve Winslow gave her a look, wondering what he’d done wrong. He couldn’t figure it out. He shrugged and went into his inner office.

Steve walked around behind his desk, started to sit down, stopped, and grinned. There on the desk blotter lay a pink, perfumed envelope.

Steve chuckled. Women. You could have a sexual revolution, women’s liberation, and the whole bit, but some things never changed. Tracy Garvin was having a jealous snit.

Steve picked up the envelope. It really reeked of perfume. No wonder it set her off.

Well, there was an easy way to fix that. All Steve had to do was call Tracy into the room and let her open the envelope and pull out the two Bradshaw letters.

Except Steve didn’t want Tracy to know he had them. No, explanations were out. Tracy was just going to have to sulk. Well, she’d get over it.

The intercom buzzed. There. She was over it already. Steve picked up the phone.

“Yes.”

“A Miss Judy Meyers to see you,” Tracy said. Her voice could have cut glass.

Steve sighed. No, this just wasn’t his day.

Being an actress, Judy Meyers made an entrance. She swept into the room wearing a rather daring evening gown, closed the door behind her, and made an elaborate pantomime of looking around furtively before saying in a stage whisper, “Is the coast clear?”

Steve Winslow cracked up. “I should have known better than to ask an actress. My god, you even dressed for the part,”

Judy looked at him. “What do you mean, dressed for the part? I have an audition in a half hour.”

“Oh?”

“And not as a gun moll, either. A woman doctor.”

“Oh.”

Judy frowned. “You think I look cheap? Too flashy? Overdressed?”

“No, no,” Steve said. “I’m just not used to seeing you dressed up in the morning. I didn’t know you had an audition.”

“I look too slinky, is that it?”