Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 29, No. 4, September 1971

Sitting hunched over his desk, his chin in his big hands, Gail stared at a newspaper clipping, about four inches square, which lay under the lamp before him. The clipping revealed the blurred photograph of a woman whose faded prettiness had survived even the newsman’s cruel camera. The caption with the picture read: Mrs. George Pendexter. Whose Husband Was Killed in Local Cigar-Store Holdup.

As he studied the picture, Gail’s long, lean body drooped. His massive bony face looked haggard in the light. It was a face stamped with a Lincolnesque ugliness. This suggestion of a resemblance to the Great Emancipator had helped Gail enormously in his legal career. He was known as an honest man and the most successful lawyer in the large sprawling industrial town of Wakingham, Massachusetts.

Suddenly he straightened up and pulled his watch from his pocket. It was five minutes to seven. He put the clipping into his top desk drawer. He got up and walked to a closet beyond the fireplace. From the closet he took his overcoat and his black fedora hat. He put them on. He drew on his yellow pigskin gloves and buttoned them methodically. Then, instead of leaving the office, he went back to his desk and sat down — to wait.

In a few minutes he heard footsteps in the outer office. Immediately the door of his private office opened and a man stepped quickly, with a catlike movement, into the room.

The man was short and squat; swarthy. His eyes were black and cold, yet curiously glittering; the eyes of a wary animal — or of a gangster.

“I’m Johnny Bracco,” he said in a taut, guttural voice.

Gail Morton nodded.

“Sit down, Bracco. I didn’t know whether to expect you or not.”

“You says seven o’clock, alone here in your office, and I—”

“Yes. But I wasn’t sure you’d show up.” Morton indicated his hat and coat. “As you see, I was ready to go home. But you’re right on time.”

“And you’re alone, Mr. Morton?” The man’s eyes were bright with suspicion. The lawyer met his gaze frankly, calmly.

“Certainly. You may search the place if you want to.”

Bracco sighed and sat down in a chair on the other side of the desk, facing Morton.

“No,” he said. “I gotta trust somebody, and you’re supposed to be a straight guy. That’ll help me a lot, see? That’s why I sent word to you I wanted you for my mouthpiece, see?” The dark man paused, and again the gleam of suspicion appeared in his eyes.

“But what I wanna know is why you was willin’ to talk turkey with me this time, when you wouldn’t never take no business off me before? You’re the smartest lawyer in this town. I and my mob could of used you all durin’ the prohibition racket, but you al’ays turned me down cold. What’s changed you, Mr. Morton?”

“I’ll answer your question in a moment,” said Morton. “First, let’s consider the facts. From what I’ve read in the papers, you have been arrested for complicity in the Pendexter case. You are now out on bail. Is that correct?”

“Yeah! But they ain’t got a thing on me. They didn’t have no right to pinch me. I could sue them damn dicks for false arrest. I—”

“You probably could,” interrupted Morton. “Legally, no man can be arrested on an officer’s suspicion. But practically it’s done every day. The chances are you’ll go to trial, Bracco. Public opinion will demand it. The whole town is worked up over that Pendexter murder.”

“It wasn’t no murder, Mr. Morton! Honest it wasn’t—”

“How do you know?” snapped Gail Morton suddenly.

“I... well, I read the papers too, see? And I seen where this guy Pendexter was found dead behind his counter with a gun in his hand. So nacherly we — I mean the other guy would of had to shoot in self-defense and—”

“Baloney, Bracco!” Gail Morton laughed briefly. “You certainly need a lawyer. You’ve practically admitted to me that you or your thugs killed that cigar-store clerk—”

“I never—”

“Don’t lie to me, you rat!”

Involuntarily the gangster’s right hand jerked toward his left shoulder, then fell limply to the desk.

“All right,” Bracco said. “All right. I’ll take that from you, on account I need you, see?”

“Then tell me the truth,” Morton said sternly. “Or get out of my office. Jump your bail bond, and run away. That’ll be as good as a confession. Then, when they catch you, you won’t need a lawyer. You’ll need a priest.”

“Now wait, Mr. Morton. Don’t get sore. I’ll tell you the truth, see? Only first I wanna know why you’re takin’ this case. Are you my mouthpiece or ain’t you — and why?”

Morton’s homely face was an imperturbable mask.

“This Pendexter case,” he said, “interests me. According to the newspapers, an innocent man was shot down in cold blood. There was no evidence of robbery, nor any other reason for the killing. From a legal standpoint the complete absence of motive interests me, Bracco. It fascinates me.”

“Oh, yeah, Mr. Morton?” Once more the glittering black eyes darted suspicion. “So you’re takin’ the case because you’re interested, huh? Just because you’re interested!”