He paused with the significance he had exhibited earlier, and said, “In any event, the entire question will probably be academic. I probably won’t even be around at the time of the trial. And without my testimony, Mr. Ross, a good lawyer like you could make mincemeat of any evidence given by people who only saw the affair from the field itself. Or from other equally poor places to see things.”
“You flatter my ability,” Ross said modestly. “I’m sorry you might not be around to testify. Where will you be?”
“I’ve been thinking of traveling.”
“Oh?” Ross asked politely. “Do you know where?”
“I was thinking of Europe—”
Coughlin was openly grinning now. Ross thought that for a man who considered the possibility of tape recorders, Coughlin should also have considered a hidden motion-picture camera to catch that grimace. Unfortunately, he thought, neither one or the other was focused on the thin man.
“—or possibly South America,” Coughlin went on airily. “I hear Europe gets cold this time of the year.”
“And you prefer hot places, but not too hot.”
Coughlin laughed. “That’s right.”
“When are you thinking of going?”
“That’s sort of a problem.” Coughlin’s face fell. “That depends on finances, to a large degree. Things have been a bit tight, lately. I might have to borrow some money for the trip.”
“Oh?”
“Yes,” Coughlin said sadly, his eyes glinting with laughter. “Money is the very devil. Still, fifteen thousand dollars should be able to swing the trip. Fifteen thousand — my credit ought to be good for that amount at least, don’t you think, Mr. Ross?”
“Fifteen thousand? That’s a pretty expensive trip you’re planning, isn’t it?”
“First class,” Coughlin said. “I like to travel first class. All the way.” He came to his feet slowly and looked down at Ross. Ross looked back contemplatively. Coughlin smiled at him. “I’ll drop you a postcard from Venice, Ross; or maybe Rio...”
He walked to the door, opened it, and looked back over his shoulder.
“Addio.”
The door closed behind him softly. Ross looked after the man a moment and then leaned over, clicking on the intercom.
“Molly? Ask Sharon to come back in, and get me Mike Gunnerson in his office right away, will you?”
“Yes, sir.”
Michael Gunnerson was a private detective who handled all of Ross’s investigative work; in addition, long acquaintance and mutual respect had made the two men close friends. The private line that connected Hank Ross’s office with that of the investigator on the floor below in the same building rang almost instantly, three short rings, their usual signal that the call was personal. Ross picked up the receiver.
“Hello. Mike?”
“As ever. What can I do for you?”
“Who do you know over at the Daily Mirror?”
No question from Ross could completely faze Mike Gunnerson, nor did he usually answer a question from the attorney with another question. This time, however, there was no help for it.
“What department?”
“Sports,” Ross began, and then thought a moment. “Or somebody in their top management might even be better.”
“Well,” Gunnerson said, considering, “I know Mickey Sullivan in sports, and Sid Richards is the Old Man’s fifteenth assistant assistant in the front office, if that impresses you. Take your choice.”
“You take your choice,” Ross said. “I want to check on a character who claims to be a stringer in the sports department. He has a card, but it could be faked. I have a sneaking suspicion the only time he sees the paper is when he puts out his money at the newsstand. He also sounds as if he learned part of his English in a prison cell.”
“Oh.” Mike laughed. “I thought maybe you wanted to sue them for that article in their late edition today.”
“Article? What article?”
“The one in the Mirror. It just hit the street and I picked it up on the way back from a job I was on. It says you are convinced that William Dupaul is completely innocent of all charges, accusations, allegations, insinuations — did I forget any? — oh, yes; criminations, a nice old English word — against him, and that you intend to take on his defense and prove it,” Mike said, and added, “Not a bad spread. The article was by-lined by some character named Jerry Coughlin.”
There were several moments of pregnant silence. Suddenly Mike Gunnerson brayed with laughter.
“Want to make a bet, Hank?”
“No, thank you.”
“Ten to one that was the stringer you wanted checked out. Right?”
“Too right,” Ross said and sighed. “Well, forget it.”
“Forget it? You wanted him checked out before you knew anything about that article, and certainly not merely because he said he worked for the paper. He must have done something to irk you. What?”
Ross said calmly, “He tried to blackmail me.”
There was a moment’s silence. Then Gunnerson said quietly, “Is he going to get away with it?”
“I don’t know,” Ross said. “It isn’t my money — which he obviously must have known — but I doubt it.”
“Let me do a complete rundown on the guy,” Mike said. “Blackmail’s a two-way street, you know.”
“Save your time and my money. I’ll let him hang himself.”
“How?”
“I haven’t a clue,” Ross said. “But I’ll manage.”
“If you say so.” Gunnerson didn’t sound too sure. “By the way, any truth in the article?”
“I’m defending Billy Dupaul against the first-degree murder charge, if that’s what you mean. Charley Quirt of the Mets called this morning and asked me to handle the case.” Ross’s voice was expressionless. “And apparently held a press conference as soon as I said I would.”
Knowing Charley, Ross thought he could well have held his press conference even before he called. Charley never lacked confidence. Of course he could be doing Quirt an injustice; maybe he had a secretary who — He became aware that Mike Gunnerson had been speaking to him.
“I’m sorry, Mike. What did you say?”
“I was just saying that tomorrow’s papers should be interesting, too,” Mike said, and laughed.
“Oh? Why?”
“Because it’s a certainty that Louis G. Gorman of the DA’s office will accuse you of attempting to try the case in the newspapers.”
“After that interview he gave to the papers that was in this morning’s Times? I wish he’d try.” Ross grinned at the telephone. “If he does, I have just the man to write the article. Our friendly neighborhood newspaper man — Jerry Coughlin.”
Gunnerson laughed. “It ought to be interesting to see the DA’s reaction to blackmail.”
“No more than my reaction,” Ross said, suddenly sober. He added his goodbys and hung up.
Chapter 3
“About this Billy Dupaul—”
Steve Sadler paused and decided to wait until he had all his ammunition at hand before continuing. He shoved his thick glasses back on his nose, opened his stuffed briefcase, and began to stack the contents in neat piles before him on the conference table.
Steve was a tall, thin, studious-looking young man in his early thirties, whose thick glasses failed to hide the sharp intelligence in his gray eyes. He had come to Ross’s law firm directly from Brooklyn Law School, had more than proven his ability and worth in the first year of his association with Ross, and had turned down many offers to change locations since. Nor had he ever mentioned these offers to Ross, who nonetheless heard of them from other colleagues in the profession. It was one more of the facts that bound them — along with the other members of Ross’s professional family — together in mutual respect.