A Handy Death

“What the hell is this, anyway? A God-damned inquisition? Who’s hiring who around here? Look, Hank, do you want this case or not? There are other criminal lawyers in town, you know!”

Ross imitated the other’s tone of moments before.

“Whoa, Charley! Of course I want this case. Any time Louie Gorman makes big talk in the papers, I love to put pinholes in his balloons. And I have a feeling the money won’t be bad, either.”

“Well, I was beginning to wonder! All right, then, stop wasting your time and mine and get on the job. Billy will be brought down from Attica within the next few days for arraignment. If you’d like to interview him up at Attica Prison before then — over the weekend, say — I have some pull with the authorities—”

“I don’t need pull to interview a client, Charley. You know that.”

“Sure, only I thought if I could help—”

“I’ll handle it my way, Charley.”

“What? All right, you stiff-necked bastard, I was only trying to help,” Quirt said, slightly offended. “All right, get moving. Let me know how things are going, and if I can be of help in any way.”

“I will,” Ross promised. “Anything else?”

“That’s it. Goodbye, Hank. And good luck.”

“Right, Charley,” Ross said. He put the telephone back in its cradle with a thoughtful look.

Sharon said, “Do you want this transcribed right away?”

“No,” Ross said slowly. “Just put the notebook aside for the time being. Date it, initial it, and let me initial it as well, and then get another one to work from. Don’t tear out any sheets, even blank ones.”

He tented his fingers and swung his chair around, staring from the high window out over the island of Manhattan. A plane was taking off at a sharp angle from LaGuardia Field, leaving behind dissipating vapor trails. Hank Ross watched it disappear into a cloud bank. He spoke over his shoulder.

“What did you think?”

Sharon understood. She said, “Of Mr. Quirt’s reasons for wanting to help this man Dupaul?”

Ross swung his chair back to face the girl. “That’s right.”

“Well,” Sharon said, “it does seem strange, as you pointed out, that when Billy Dupaul represented a large investment on their part, they made no attempt to help him, but now that he doesn’t represent anything to them, they suddenly seem so anxious to get him out of trouble.”

“He doesn’t represent anything to them that we know of,” Ross said.

“Still,” Sharon said, “other than simple goodheartedness, what other reason could Mr. Quirt have? I’m sure it wasn’t for the baseball left in the man, because if he’s a second-offender, even getting out of the murder charge won’t affect his remaining in prison on his present sentence.”

“Though Charley said he kept track of the man in prison,” Ross said, and frowned. “What was even more puzzling, though, was when he said that eight years ago he couldn’t do anything to help Dupaul, and now he can. I wonder what happened to change the picture?”

“Just a change of heart?”

Ross shrugged.

“Maybe. Anway, we’ll worry about that later. Right now we’ve got a job to do. Let me know when Steve gets back from Court. I’ve got a real job for him. I want a complete abstract of the entire Dupaul court transcripts. Both trials — the one that sent him up for assault and battery — the Neeley case — as well as the one that made him a second-offender.”

Sharon nodded, her fingers relaying the information to her desk pad with lightning pothooks.

“I’ll also want as much background material on Billy Dupaul as possible, but Steve can have Mike Gunnerson’s office work on that.”

Sharon nodded and added the instruction to her pad.

Ross grinned and rose from his chair.

“And here’s the catch,” he said. “I want it by Monday, which gives him exactly two and a half days. On second thought, let Molly give him the good news; I hate to see a grown man cry. And besides, you and I are going out for lunch.” His smile broadened. “It’s been a long time since I’ve taken anybody to a meal except a trout.”

Chapter 2

Jeannot, maître d’ of the Sign of the Dove at sixty-fifth and Third Avenue, smiled happily at Ross and Sharon as he ushered them to a corner table. He flicked his hand majestically, waving aside the waiter who had appeared, making it quite evident that he considered it an honor to handle the requirements of these favored customers himself.

“It has been a long time, M’sieu Ross!” Jeannot’s heavy French accent did not obscure his meaning as he chided Ross for his extended absence. “And Miss McCloud! And we have had your favorite dish every day this week, too.” He raised his head dramatically, daring Ross to challenge his statement. “Trout!”

Ross laughed.

“Not today, Jeannot. I’ve eaten enough trout the past two weeks to last me a lifetime. Or, anyway, for at least several months. The next mistake I make in court, the District Attorney’s office will have to scale me instead of skinning me.”

He saw the hurt look that crossed Jeannot’s plump, handsome face and hurried to explain that he had not been unfaithful to his favorite restaurant.