A Handy Death (10 page)

“I don't either,” Ross admitted, and walked to the door. His hand found the knob and twisted it. “Does it make much difference?”

“It might,” Gunnerson said slowly, and frowned at the man in the doorway. “Hank, my people were the ones who dug up that glossy of Billy Dupaul signing the Met contract that Steve Sadler showed you. With Charley Quirt grinning like a hyena behind the boy.”

Ross frowned back. “So?”

“So they dug up a lot of things while they were digging,” Gunnerson said slowly. “Like Mr. Charles Quirt didn't make the slightest effort to help young Dupaul eight years ago.”

“I know,” Ross said. “He couldn't. He was out of the country.”

“I hear they'd invented the telephone by that time,” Gunnerson said sarcastically. “Don Ameche stayed up one whole night to do it.”

Ross stared at him.

“What are you driving at?”

“I'm driving at this,” Gunnerson said flatly. “Mr. Quirt wasn't out of the country when the scout's report on Billy Dupaul was put in. He wasn't out of the country when the bonus contract was discussed. What I'm trying to say, Hank, is this—Mr. Charley Quirt's sudden interest in Billy Dupaul's welfare is very interesting. When the contract came up, Charley Quirt fought like the devil
against
it. He didn't want Billy Dupaul
on
the Mets or
near
the Mets, good player or not!”

CHAPTER

6

Tuesday dawned clear and with a relative warmth for that late autumn day that was welcome, and on such days Hank Ross made it a practice to walk to work from his apartment on East Sixty-second Street. For a change the smog that so often covered New York had been washed away by the heavy rainstorm of the night before, and the towering skyline of lower Manhattan loomed beyond its nearer mid-town neighbors, seeming nearly as close. And down near City Hall, among that further stand of brick and glass, Ross knew, was the Tombs Prison with its latest guest, William Dupaul. To stand trial for a first-degree murder that took eight years to happen.

He turned from the street into his building, his eyes accustoming themselves to the gloom of the lobby after the glaring brightness outside. He emerged from the elevator at his floor with the jauntiness that had accompanied him on his brisk walk largely diminished. The Dupaul case was not an easy one; no case without precedent was ever an easy case, he reminded himself. And the only new factor since its inception eight years before was the death of Raymond Neeley and the subsequent autopsy. The Neeley post-mortem examination had been performed by the New York City Medical Examiner's office, a group of scientists with an international reputation, and Ross knew both the dangers and the difficulties of trying to impugn their findings.

If Dupaul shot Neeley eight years before with malice aforethought—and being drunk was certainly no extenuating circumstance—then it was not only possible but clearly probable that a jury could be persuaded by a capable prosecution to consider it first-degree murder even after eight years. And Gorman and his staff were quite capable, there was no doubt of that. They were also capable of bringing in all the other jury-influencing factors, such as a second offense and a suspicious riot at Attica Prison.

With a sigh at the prospects, Ross turned into his office and then was forced to smile at Molly's beaming face.

“Hello, Molly. You look happy this morning, at least.”

“Oh, I am, Mr. Ross! Jimmy wants me to meet his family.”

“Jimmy, I gather, is the nondancing Arthur's dancing replacement?”

“That's right. Jimmy Carter.”

Ross could see that Molly was mentally testing the sound of the name, Molly Carter. He couldn't help himself.

“And he wants you to meet his family? You mean, his wife and children?”

Molly made a face at him. “His mother and father.”

“Congratulations,” Ross said, and meant it. “When do you meet them?”

A slight creasing of Molly's broad freckled forehead marred her cheerful smile for an instant.

“I don't know. Jimmy says they live far away and he can't get time off for awhile, so it may be some time.”

“Well,” Ross said, smiling, “it has all the sounds of a commitment. From a legal standpoint, Molly, remember that a verbal contract is sometimes considered binding. You might mention that fact to your Jimmy, if it will help. By the way, how did he make out with his dentist?”

“That was funny! Did Sharon tell you?”

“She told me he walked in here thinking this was the office of Dr. Ross, a dentist. I never knew I had a namesake who pulled teeth. I ought to have him collect my bills for me.”

“Oh, Jimmy's teeth are fine,” Molly said airily. “He was just going in for a check up. He was looking for a Dr. Ross over on the West Side, same street but west instead of east, but the poor man gets so panicky at the very thought of a dentist that half the time he doesn't know what he's doing, or where he is. Still,” Molly added with her wide smile, “I guess I shouldn't complain. His mistake was my good luck.”

Ross was frowning at her.

“Your friend Jimmy was looking for a Dr. Ross who has an office on the West Side and he walked into this office by mistake?”

“That's right,” Molly said cheerfully. “Funny, isn't it?”

“Very,” Ross said evenly. “What does Jimmy do for a living?”

“He's a salesman,” Molly said. “I think.”

“You think?”

“What he ought to be is a professional dancer,” Molly said, her grin back. “Though I'm sure he must be a wonderful salesman, too. He could sell me anything, anywhere, any time.” She suddenly remembered something else, disassociated from her Jimmy. “Oh, yes. Mr. Kuwoit—I mean, Mr. Quirt—wants you to get in touch with him as soon as you come in.”

“I'll take it in my office,” Ross said, and pushed through the barrier.

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.”

“Nor can I,” Ross said, and dropped the subject, returning to an earlier one. “As I was saying when we were so pointlessly and unsatisfactorily interrupted, have you ever met Molly's new boyfriend, Jimmy Carter?”

“Just the first day he came wandering in here like a lost lamb. Or a lost sheep would be closer, I guess, at his age.” She looked at him closely. “Why?”

“I'd hate for Molly to make a mistake …”

Sharon studied him shrewdly. She said, “You never worried much about Molly's many loves before, H.R.”

“Maybe I'm just getting sentimental in my middle years,” Ross said with a smile. “Still, why don't you double date with Molly and Jimmy one evening? To get a better opinion of him; just to make sure he isn't leading our Molly—or anyone else, as far as that goes—down the garden path. What do you say? You can put it on the expense account.”

Sharon said, looking at him steadily, “Using who for an escort?”

“Steve,” Ross said easily. “He's been working extremely hard these days. A little relaxation at the firm's expense should be both enjoyable and beneficial for both of you.”

There was a moment's hesitation, then Sharon said, “Well, all right, Mr. Devious, but it's going to be a very good restaurant, followed by a very good show, followed by a very good night club. And no complaints about the size of the tab.”

“It's a promise.”

“And exactly what excuse do I give Molly for being—or rather, for Steve being—so generous?”

“You're celebrating your birthday.”

“Or Steve won the lottery. I like that one better,” Sharon said. “Someone might ask me ‘Which birthday' and the evening would be off to a poor start. Which account do I charge it to?”

“Make it an open account,” Ross said, and thought a moment. “You know, it just might end up on Charley Quirt's account before we're through.”

Sharon frowned at him in silence a moment.

“In that case, change that ‘very good restaurant, show, and night club' to the most expensive in town.” Her frown changed to a puckish smile. “Maybe spying isn't such bad work after all.”

“It's like everything else,” Ross said with a smile. “The object is not to get put up against a wall and shot.” He shuffled through the papers neatly arranged on his desk, put them back in their original order, and came to his feet. “Well, I'm off to meet Mr. Billy Dupaul. Do me a favor; type me up a standard retainer agreement, will you?”

“With pleasure.” Sharon reached for her copy of
The Complete Manual of Criminal Forms
, opened it to the proper page, and started typing. She finished quickly, zipped the paper from the machine, folded it and slipped it into an envelope, handing it over. “Well, good luck.”