A Handy Death

Sharon was sitting at her desk, typing answers to that large portion of the morning’s mail that did not require Hank Ross’s personal attention. She looked up with a smile as he sat down and rested his hand on the telephone. Something in his expression caused her to pause in her work.

“What is it, H.R.?”

Ross frowned at her across his desk.

“Sharon, have you ever met Molly’s friend, Jimmy?”

The telephone under his hand suddenly shrilled its usual signal. “Later,” Ross said shortly, and raised the instrument. Sharon automatically picked up her phone as well, drawing her pad close. There was the click of switches and the line was through. Ross put on a cheerful tone.

“Hello, Charley.”

“Hello, Hank. What’s new?”

Ross was tempted to tell him that what he had learned from Mike Gunnerson regarding the other’s opposition to Dupaul’s contract was certainly new, but he felt it was neither the time nor the place.

“Not much so far, Charley. I’ll be seeing Billy Dupaul later today sometime.” Sharon looked up and made two vertical strokes in the air with her pencil. Ross nodded to her, smiling. “My office has arranged a visiting permit for two o’clock—”

Sharon was shaking her head at his ignorance. She repeated the twin strokes emphatically, scoring the air.

“—I mean eleven o’clock,” Ross said, and shrugged for Sharon’s benefit.

“That’s fine.” Quirt hesitated a moment; when at last he spoke he seemed a bit embarrassed. “Look, Hank — anything that Billy says...” The deep voice trailed away to silence.

Ross frowned at the instrument.

“Yes? Go ahead, Charley.”

“Well,” Quirt said diffidently, “I just meant, maybe it would be better if — well, if he doesn’t know that I’m — I mean the club, that is — is paying your fee...”

Ross stared at the telephone in amazement.

“Do I understand you correctly, Charley? Do you mean that I’m going down to the Tombs in an hour or so to see this boy, and you haven’t seen to it that he knows I’m representing him?”

“What the hell, Hank! He’ll be damned glad you’re representing him,” Quirt said forcefully. “They have newspapers in prison, and radios and television, too. I’m damned sure he knows who you are — every prisoner in the state knows who you are. And a hell of a lot of them undoubtedly wish you’d been defending them instead of whoever did.”

“Well, thank you very much for the plug, Charley. If I ever need a PR man, I’ll be in touch. But it just strikes me as a bit odd. You didn’t seem to be so shy as far as telling the newspapermen goes; I naturally assumed you’d have let the client also know.”

“The newspapermen? Well, maybe a couple were standing around when I was talking to you, but what the hell, Hank! It won’t hurt our case any to have the public know you’re handling the defense. And I didn’t think it was any great secret, anyway.”

“I guess not,” Ross said, and sighed. “I just don’t want to spend half of my life trying to select a jury the prosecution objects to because they read papers. However...”

“You mean Gorman can do it but we can’t?”

“I mean I don’t think anyone should do it,” Ross said. “Let’s get back to business. What did you start to say before with that ‘Anything Billy says’? You let it drop.”

“I just meant—” Quirt sounded uncomfortable. “Well, Hank, the truth is I guess he doesn’t particularly like me. He was pretty vindictive because the club didn’t stand back of him more, eight years ago.”

Ross’s voice was completely innocent.

“But he shouldn’t take that personally, should he? After all, you were the one who signed his contract, weren’t you? There was a picture in the papers of the signing, as I recall.”

“That’s right. I was always on the kid’s side; I was the one who pushed for that high a bonus, but, well, like I told you — I was out of the country. There was nothing I could do...” The embarrassed tone strengthened. “All I’m trying to tell you is to take some of the things he might say — especially about me — with a grain of salt.”

Ross smiled faintly, an enigmatic smile, but his voice remained expressionless.

“I take everything anyone tells me with a grain of salt, Charley. But thanks for the tip.”

“And let me know what happens, eh?”

“You’re paying the bills,” Ross said noncommittally. “I’ll be in touch.”

“And Hank—”

“Yes?”

“Nothing,” Quirt said. He hesitated a moment more, his breath clearly audible in the telephone, and then abruptly hung up.

Ross placed the telephone back in its cradle and looked at Sharon thoughtfully. He said, “I wonder what Charley was about to say there at the end?”

“Probably nothing very important,” Sharon said, “or he would have said it.”

“I wonder,” Ross said. “The fact is I just learned that he fought against signing Billy Dupaul eight years ago, fought very hard. He only gave in under heavy pressure from above. So why would he suddenly want to help the boy?”

“That’s not what he said.”

“I know it’s not what he said.”

“But — are you sure of your information?”

“I got it from Mike Gunnerson.”

“Then you’re sure.” Sharon shrugged. “I can’t imagine why, then.”