A Handy Death (3 page)

The maître d' was puzzled. “Ma'am'selle?”

“I
haven't
been eating trout over a campfire in Maine,” Sharon explained, “so I'll have it here.”

“Much better,” Jeannot assured her, and smiled. “And for M'sieu Ross, in that case, a thick steak,
très succulent
, with
pommes de terre
hash brown and two salads of the house,
n'est-ce pas?
”

He beamed at the two of them, never doubting for a moment that his selection had been both accurate and gastronomically wise, motioned imperiously to a waiter to hustle the waiting drinks from the bar, and strode away, shoulders back and mustache alert, prepared to do battle in the kitchen for these special patrons, if need be.

Ross accepted his beer from the waiter and raised the chilled glass.

“Here's luck. It's good to be back in civilization—if you want to call it that—again.”

“It's good to see you back,” Sharon said, and smiled at him over the rim of her martini. “You've spoiled me, taking me on so many business trips. Now I feel left out of things when I'm not invited along on a nonbusiness trip, like camping.”

“You could have done the cooking,” Ross admitted. “I might still like trout. Except that without you in the office, there wouldn't be any business left to come back to. Steve's a good boy and one day he'll be a fine lawyer, but he couldn't run the office. Any more than I could.” He smiled and raised his glass. “Here's to the indispensable Miss Sharon McCloud—”

There was a slight tap on his shoulder. Ross looked up to find himself facing a rather excessively thin man, whose lined cheeks were clearly the result of excesses rather than age. At one time he might have been handsome, but he appeared as if he had aged faster than usual. He was wearing clothes more suitable for a person much younger than himself, and he could have used a shave. Ross looked at the man without expression, masking his irritation with the interruption.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Ross?” The question was clearly redundant, nor did the tall, thin man make the slightest effort to hide the fact.

“Yes, I'm Mr. Ross.”

“Press.”

The folder in the man's hand appeared for an instant and then disappeared into an inner pocket of the flashy sports jacket before Ross had a chance to properly examine it or even to verify its authenticity. Sharon looked at the man curiously and then brought her eyes down to Ross's face. Ross frowned up at the tall man.

“How did you know I was here?”

“I was at your office,” the man said easily. “Your telephone operator said you'd just left for lunch. I asked her where, but she denied knowing. That's probably your idea of a good telephone-receptionist—”

Ross said evenly, “It is.”

“—but in any event, when I came down the elevator I saw you and your young lady crossing the street, and I simply followed.”

“I see. Well, I appreciate the Press, of course, but I'm sorry. At the moment I'm about to have my lunch.”

“I hate to disturb you,” the man said smoothly, “but your paragon of a telephone operator also said she didn't know if you'd be returning after lunch, and it was important that I see you.”

“I'll be back in the office after lunch,” Ross said, his dislike for the thin man growing by the minute, “but I'm afraid I have a rather busy schedule today …”

It was clearly a rejection, but the thin man didn't seem to notice.

“Too busy to find out why you'd be better off talking to me before taking on the Dupaul case?” The skeletal face broke into a smile that looked like a rictus. The teeth were huge blocks of white, out of proportion to the sunken cheeks and narrow jaw. He winked broadly at Ross and started to turn away. “I'll be looking for you in your office in an hour or so. Don't rush your lunch on my account.”

“Hold it! Could I see that press card again?”

The thin man almost sneered.

“Of course. Be my guest.”

He reached into his inner jacket pocket and brought out the folder, opening it and placing it face upward on the table before Ross. The lawyer picked it up and studied it carefully; his eyes came up, matching the photograph behind the shiny plastic with the gaunt face smiling down at him so sardonically. The blocks of teeth were bared in a grin.

“Satisfied?”

“Your name is Jerry Coughlin?”

“That's what it says, doesn't it?”

“A stringer in sports for the
Daily Mirror?
”

“Among other papers,” Coughlin said calmly. “We can't all work for U.P.I. or be staffers on the
Times
, you know. Everybody can't make like Hildy Johnson in
The Front Page
.”

He reached out. Pencil-like fingers removed the folder from Ross's hand and tucked the press card away in a pocket again. Coughlin looked down at Ross with a faint smile on his face.

“See the story in the
Mirror
this morning?”

“I read the
Times
.”

“Tough on you,” Coughlin said. “I dug out the story on that prison break try at Attica yesterday. The
Mirror
carried it.” His eyes held those of Ross for a moment. “Good reading.”

Something cued Ross to his next line. “Under your own by-line?”

For a moment the composure of the thin man faltered. Coughlin frowned blackly.

“It should have been, but it wasn't. But I've got a lovely by-lined story that'll be in the next edition you might be interested in. It'll be out on the streets pretty soon.” He turned away again. “I'll be waiting in your office an hour from now.”

Ross stared thoughtfully after the narrow shoulders in the loud sports jacket as they edged their way past waiters and tables to reach the street and disappear beyond the visual limits afforded by the curtained, latticed windows. He turned back to Sharon, raising his glass slowly, staring into the golden contents as if to find some answer there.

“The trouble with practicing criminal law—” he began slowly.

“What about it?” Sharon asked.

“It's some of the people you have to associate with,” Ross said, and finished his beer in one swallow.

The emaciated Jerry Coughlin shook his head decisively as Sharon seated herself at her desk in Ross's office, opened a new stenographic notebook, and reached for a sharpened pencil.

“No dice,” Coughlin said firmly.

“What?”

“I mean, alone,” Coughlin said emphatically.

“There is no ‘alone' in this law office,” Ross said quietly. “Miss McCloud is my confidential secretary, and in this office that word means just what it says. She sits in on all my conferences.”

“But not on mine.”

Ross shrugged. “Sorry.”

Coughlin didn't argue. Instead he raised his narrow shoulders in lack of interest and stood up.

“I came here to do you a favor, Ross. Either we do it my way or we don't do it at all.”

Ross studied the bean pole of a man towering across the desk from him, watching him almost indolently. Several seconds passed before Ross came to a decision. He nodded to Sharon; she understood, closed her book, rose and left the room. Coughlin crossed the room and closed the door firmly behind her. He came back and sat down. There was no trace of expression on his face, no hint of triumph. Ross shook his head.

“You realize, of course, that I could have a tape recorder turned on this minute—” And a pity he hadn't, he thought, with at least ten casette recorders in the various offices. “—or the room itself could be bugged, and my secretary could be in another room taking down everything you say.”

“I know,” Coughlin said calmly. “I also know that tape-recorder evidence stands far less chance in a courtroom than do personal witnesses.” He leaned across the desk, getting right to the point. “Ross, let's not fight. We're on the same side of the fence. Like I told you, I'm here to do you a favor. I covered that riot at Attica Prison yesterday. I was at the baseball game when the trouble started.”

“Doing what? The paper assigned you?”

“I don't get assignments, or anyway, damned few. I work on my own. If I dig up something hot, I peddle it.”

“And what made you think something hot would happen at Attica Prison yesterday? Of all days?”

“I didn't, particularly. But they've got a prison league and, believe it or not, there's a certain amount of interest in prison sports. Ex-cons, maybe, figuring it's their alma mater. Or family, maybe, of guys on the teams—lets them know that if Daddy's hustling out in left field, at least he isn't in the freezer. Anyway, I cover prison sports as a stringer, sometimes sell a couple of paragraphs to the local papers, sometimes sell a couple of lines in one of the big-time rags—”

“So?”

“So I saw what happened—
exactly
what happened.”

“And exactly what did happen?”

“Well,” Coughlin said, “I've seen Billy Dupaul pitch a lot of ball games over the years. He's good. Big-league stuff, like he was when he first came up as a bonus baby. Maybe even better; stronger, more mature. But this time he throws four balls, one right on top of the other. And the cons in the stands don't care greatly for the umpire's calls, so they stage a slight riot.”

He shook his head with an indication of sadness at the vicissitudes of baseball, but his eyes were alert and bright, watching Ross sardonically.

Ross returned the look evenly. “So?”

“It was a setup,” Coughlin said flatly. “It was a plant.”

“Why?” Ross asked mildly. “I've seen the best pitchers in the business throw four balls in a row.”

“Sure—facing Willy Mays or Hank Aaron, maybe,” Coughlin said, nodding. “But Billy Dupaul was facing a clown named Ryan, doing a ten-to-twenty for safecracking. A safe's about the only thing can't run away from Ryan. He's slower than glacier ice. Dupaul and Millard—he was back of the plate—those two can play catch a couple of times while Ryan is getting the bat off his shoulder. Dupaul can throw it past Ryan ten out of ten, but in this game—after a perfect warm-up—he throws four straight balls. I ask you!”

Coughlin paused for a moment for effect and then went on.

“And then what do you think just
happened
to happen?” The thin man opened his eyes wide for effect. “Surprise, surprise! A Donnybrook out on the field and the guards come from all over the joint—they're still pretty much on edge at Attica, you know; a guy sneezes in the yard and he's apt to get shot if he reaches for a handkerchief—and while everyone's milling around on the athletic field, over on the far side of the joint two cons are making tracks for the open spaces!”

He leaned back triumphantly, his point made. Ross nodded politely.

“Well, it's a fascinating story, and I appreciate your taking the time to tell me—but why?”

“Why what?”

“Why are you telling this to me?”

“Well,” Coughlin said, “seeing as how you'll be taking on Dupaul's defense on that murder charge—”

“I am? Where did you hear that? And when?”

“I heard it,” Coughlin said. “That's all that counts. Are you trying to deny it?”

“Skip it,” Ross said. “Stick with the first question. Why are you telling me all about that ball game at Attica Prison?”

Coughlin stared at him a moment.

“Mr. Ross, you aren't stupid.”

“Thank you. In general I would agree, but I'm afraid in this case—”

“I get it. You want me to spell it out for you. Do you think I'm afraid to? I'm not.”

“Good,” Ross said quietly. “Go ahead.”

“I will. Billy Dupaul's going up for murder one within a very short time, and being involved in a prison break that cost a guard's life isn't going to help his chances. Not the way feelings still are over Attica. I know it, you know it, and we both know the other knows it.”

Ross remained silent, watching the man. Coughlin shook his head.

“And don't try to tell me the DA can't bring this prison break into the murder trial, because if he can't he's a lot more incompetent than I think he is. Sure, he's not supposed to—and you'll object like crazy, and the judge will bust his gavel pounding, and he'll sustain all your objections, and strike tons of stuff from the record and all that noise—but what do you think will be going through the minds of the jurors? You know as well as I do.”

Ross smiled faintly. “You sound like a lawyer yourself.”

“I'm no lawyer but I've been around. I've seen the inside of courtrooms, and not as a prisoner, either. I know how they work. I know how the minds of juries work, too.”

“And how do the minds of juries work?”

“They work like this: Here's this guy Dupaul, a bad apple, a two-time loser—look what happened up at Attica the other day. Last time they had a riot up there forty-three guys got killed. Riots are bad things; any guy starting one ought to be shot. What's the judge saying? Don't pay any attention to the riot and him starting it? What's the judge saying? The guy isn't charged with the riot, just with another murder eight years ago? Well, hell, sure he's guilty! Any guy who would start a riot at a place like Attica must be a mad dog; ought to hang. I vote guilty.”

Coughlin pointed his finger around the room, stabbing it toward imaginary jurors.

“Me, too! Me, too! Me, too!”

He stared across the desk, his hand falling beside him.

“That's the way the minds of juries work, Mr. Ross, nine times out of ten. And we both know it.”

Ross's face was expressionless. “Anything else?”

“I think you have the picture,” Coughlin said. “Your turn.” He leaned back.

“Then let me ask you a few questions. Any objections?”

“None.” It was apparent that Coughlin did not lack confidence.