Корнелл Вулрич - A Treasury of Stories (Collection of novelettes and short stories)

“Since when are you a lawyer?” asked Al dejectedly. “A lawyer ain’t going to do you any good, Al. This is going to be three times and out for you. You’re on parole and it’s mandatory, it’s on the books.”

“But if they never found the money on me to this day, how can they make it stick?”

“That don’t help much, it’s still open and shut. The woman claims the money was taken. It’s her word against yours. You’ve got a record, she hasn’t. You were standing right there a minute before the money disappeared. You ran like hell. It’s all stacked against you, Al. The natural supposition is going to be that you threw it away, even if the copper admits he didn’t see you. They can’t prove that you took it, but that ain’t good enough for you. It’s got to be proved that you couldn’t have taken it.”

He thought for a while.

“How much was on you when they nabbed you?”

“About seven or eight quarters, and a few nickels and pennies.”

“How come no paper money?”

“I busted my last couple of bucks just before that at a shooting gallery. Then I remembered it wouldn’t look too good if I was spotted practicing at a place like that, even though I’ve never carried a live weapon in my life. So I drifted on my way with all this unused change still in my pocket.”

Joe cogitated. “Something could be made out of that. We can’t afford to throw anything away, no matter how little it is.

“So what can you make out of it?” said the realistic Al. “Only that I was low in cash. And they’ll say that’s all the more reason why I took the money.”

Joe sneezed stingingly at this point.

“Somebody been sending roses to somebody in here?” he demanded indignantly. He raised his handkerchief toward his nose. “You may go up for ten, twenty years but at least you ain’t got my allergy,” he remarked wistfully.

“Thanks,” said Al morosely.

Joe’s handkerchief was still upended, without having reached his nose. It stayed there.

“I’ve got it!” he said. “I’ve got your out!”

He never did blow his nose.

“Now we’ll make a deal, first of all. How much was it and where’d you put it?”

“Oh, no, you don’t!” said Al firmly. “That’s what they’ve been trying to get out of me the whole time. Wouldn’t that be great, if I turned around now and—”

“But Al, I’m family,” protested Joe, shocked. “I’m not a cop or a stoolie. Look, I’m sticking my neck out for you. You can’t expect a favor even from a relative without making it worth his while. That’s the way the world is. He waited a moment; while Al remained stubbornly silent. Then Joe said, “All right, then. Let’s put it this way. How much do they claim you took?”

“The jane tabbed it at two seventy-five. I had no time to count it myself,” said Al incautiously.

“Then here’s how it goes,” expounded Joe, “Two hundred to me, for getting you off, and you keep the seventy-five.”

Al gouged the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. “Splitting it right down the middle, is what I call it,” he intoned somberly.

Joe stood up, affronted, and made as if to leave. Then he turned his head and addressed Al over one shoulder. “Which is better,” he said, “to have seventy-five smackers you can call your own, free and clear, out in the fresh air and sunshine, or to know where there’s two hundred and seventy-five waiting — with a six-foot-thick concrete wall in between? You figure it out.”

Al did, and finally gave in, with a resigned, upward flip of the hand. “It’s the best I can do,” he admitted glumly. “I haven’t had any other offers today.”

Joe reseated himself and leaned forward confidentially. “All right, where is it?” he said. “And keep it low.”

Al dropped his voice. Now that the deal was made, he seemed relieved to get it off his chest. “It’s still right there on the counter—” he began.

In spite of his recent injunction, Joe’s own voice rose almost to a yelp of outrage. “Come on. who’re you trying to kid?”

“Will you listen to me, or don’t you want to hear?” Joe wanted to hear.

“She has three big glass tanks there. One’s a pale color — that’s the pineapple. One’s medium color — that’s the orange. One is almost black — that’s the grape. It’s in that — the grape. The lids are chromium, but they’re liftable. I tipped it up and shot it in there.” Joe squeezed his eyes tight. “And you expect it to still be in there?” he groaned.

“Sure, it’s still in there. Not only that, I bet it’ll be in there ail the rest of the week. I cased the stand for nearly an hour, from a boardwalk bench opposite. I kept score. For every five customers for orange, there’s only three for pineapple and only one for grape. It moves slow. I don’t know why she stocks the stuff. Those tanks last. The next two days were slow days — Tuesday and Wednesday after the holiday weekend. And it was raining, to top it off. You know what that does to business on a boardwalk.”

“It’s paper, it’ll be floating at the top.”

“So what.” She draws the stuff off from a spigot at the bottom. Something makes them bubble, I couldn’t figure what. That alone would keep it from settling to the bottom.”

Joe digested all this for a while. “I’ve got it,” he said at last, giving a fingersnap. “A fishhook. Or better still, a bent safety pin.”

“Sure,” said Al. “Make like you’re lighting a cigarette, set fire to the whole book of matches at once.

She can’t prove it wasn’t an accident. Throw it away from you, like anyone would — but so it lands on the floor inside the stand, over the other way to distract her attention. She’ll be busy bending over and stamping it out. Then just tip the lid like I did.”

“As soon as I have it, I’ll go to work on you,” Joe promised. He got up to leave. “I’ll let you know,” he said.

He came back to see Al only once more after that.

He didn’t stay long and he didn’t say much — just three words.

“I got it.”

Al saluted with two fingers from the edge of his eyebrow, and Joe gave him a knowing bat of the eyelashes as he turned and went out again.

Al’s hearing was held in the judge’s chambers. There was no jury trial since Al’s previous and uncompleted sentence still hung over him like an axe, ready to fall and hit him in the back of the neck if the judge so decided. If Al was found guilty, X number of years resumed right where they had left off, plus; if found not guilty, Al was out on parole again.

The judge was a benevolent-looking man, the clerk was unbiased, but the arresting officer was neither. Also present were the concessionaires, Al’s wife Rose, and a physician who had treated the accused and wished to give expert testimony bearing on the matter at hand.

The concessionaire having restated her complaint, the arresting officer having given an account of the accused’s flight from the scene before he even knew what he was charged with, the physician now stepped forward and asked the judge’s permission to submit certain medical facts which he felt to be of great importance to the case. The judge granted permission.

The expert witness identified himself as Dr. Joseph Randolph Timmons, and he presented a figure of such impeccable distinction, with his scholarly eyeglasses, dignified bearing, and air of professional erudition, that alongside him both the clerk of the court and the arresting officer appeared shoddy, rundown, and of little account.

Dr. Timmons asked only a single preliminary question of the arresting officer.

“When you caught up with the accused man, did he stand quietly, or did he fidget and wriggle around a good deal while you were holding him?”