A Handy Death

“All right,” Ross said. “You are also willing, I gather — for a price to be determined — to go on the witness stand in court and, according to your statement here today, perjure yourself and state that William Dupaul pitched both honestly and well, but that Dupaul was the victim of poor umpiring. I assume as a sports reporter you could qualify as an expert. Therefore, Dupaul would be innocent of any part in the escape attempt, and therefore of any culpability in the death of the prison guard. Is that substantially it?”

“Mr. Ross!” Coughlin looked shocked, but the pose was transparent. He seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself. “If you should really have a tape recorder going—”

“I don’t.”

“—I would simply like to go on record as saying I suggested no such thing! I would never perjure myself on the witness stand. Or anywhere else, for that matter. I’m really not stupid.”

He paused with the significance he had exhibited earlier, and said, “In any event, the entire question will probably be academic. I probably won’t even be around at the time of the trial. And without my testimony, Mr. Ross, a good lawyer like you could make mincemeat of any evidence given by people who only saw the affair from the field itself. Or from other equally poor places to see things.”

“You flatter my ability,” Ross said modestly. “I’m sorry you might not be around to testify. Where will you be?”

“I’ve been thinking of traveling.”

“Oh?” Ross asked politely. “Do you know where?”

“I was thinking of Europe—”

Coughlin was openly grinning now. Ross thought that for a man who considered the possibility of tape recorders, Coughlin should also have considered a hidden motion-picture camera to catch that grimace. Unfortunately, he thought, neither one or the other was focused on the thin man.

“—or possibly South America,” Coughlin went on airily. “I hear Europe gets cold this time of the year.”

“And you prefer hot places, but not too hot.”

Coughlin laughed. “That’s right.”

“When are you thinking of going?”

“That’s sort of a problem.” Coughlin’s face fell. “That depends on finances, to a large degree. Things have been a bit tight, lately. I might have to borrow some money for the trip.”

“Oh?”

“Yes,” Coughlin said sadly, his eyes glinting with laughter. “Money is the very devil. Still, fifteen thousand dollars should be able to swing the trip. Fifteen thousand — my credit ought to be good for that amount at least, don’t you think, Mr. Ross?”

“Fifteen thousand? That’s a pretty expensive trip you’re planning, isn’t it?”

“First class,” Coughlin said. “I like to travel first class. All the way.” He came to his feet slowly and looked down at Ross. Ross looked back contemplatively. Coughlin smiled at him. “I’ll drop you a postcard from Venice, Ross; or maybe Rio...”

He walked to the door, opened it, and looked back over his shoulder.

“Addio.”

The door closed behind him softly. Ross looked after the man a moment and then leaned over, clicking on the intercom.

“Molly? Ask Sharon to come back in, and get me Mike Gunnerson in his office right away, will you?”

“Yes, sir.”

Michael Gunnerson was a private detective who handled all of Ross’s investigative work; in addition, long acquaintance and mutual respect had made the two men close friends. The private line that connected Hank Ross’s office with that of the investigator on the floor below in the same building rang almost instantly, three short rings, their usual signal that the call was personal. Ross picked up the receiver.

“Hello. Mike?”

“As ever. What can I do for you?”

“Who do you know over at the Daily Mirror?”

No question from Ross could completely faze Mike Gunnerson, nor did he usually answer a question from the attorney with another question. This time, however, there was no help for it.

“What department?”

“Sports,” Ross began, and then thought a moment. “Or somebody in their top management might even be better.”

“Well,” Gunnerson said, considering, “I know Mickey Sullivan in sports, and Sid Richards is the Old Man’s fifteenth assistant assistant in the front office, if that impresses you. Take your choice.”

“You take your choice,” Ross said. “I want to check on a character who claims to be a stringer in the sports department. He has a card, but it could be faked. I have a sneaking suspicion the only time he sees the paper is when he puts out his money at the newsstand. He also sounds as if he learned part of his English in a prison cell.”

“Oh.” Mike laughed. “I thought maybe you wanted to sue them for that article in their late edition today.”

“Article? What article?”