“Thanks,” Gunnerson said sourly. His eyes came up to study Ross’s face. “How far can we go on this one?”
“Well,” Ross said, “you know who’s paying our client’s bill. I’d say you can go as far as you need to on this one.”
“Right,” Gunnerson said. “Mr. Quirt of the Mets. The only thing I don’t know is why he’s paying.”
“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.