A new wrinkle. “The judge owned a gun?”
“Yes. A Colt .32 automatic.”
“The police know about that?”
“Of course. I told them.” He folded his arms across his chest. “You haven’t answered my question. Will you defend her?”
“Defending people accused of a crime is my business.”
“That’s a scrubby kind of business, wouldn’t you say?”
A less civilized man might have loosened a few of the man’s teeth but I just shook my head pityingly. It bothered him and he switched the baleful glance to his wife. “We’re wasting time on this character. Let’s get out of here, Carol.”
“Why should we leave?” she said, her tone surly. “I have as much right in this house as anyone.”
“That depends on the judge’s will,” I told her sweetly. “For all you know, he may have left the house to his wife.”
The very notion changed her expression to one of alarm and confusion. “Oh, no! I was brought up here. That can’t be possible. Clive, what is the man saying?”
He gave me a nasty look. “I suppose you expect to probate the will, too.”
“That’s up to the executor,” I said. “Whoever is named in the will.”
“We may have to contest it.”
“On what grounds? Undue influence? That he was non compos mentis?”
Carol Denby snapped, “He certainly could not have been in full possession of all his wits when he married that creature.”
“You’d be wasting your time and your money. Too many people knew the judge as a shrewd, levelheaded jurist.”
“He was obsessed by that woman. Mesmerized. She had a ring in his nose.”
There is a limit to my endurance, and I’d had enough. Without a word, I turned on my heel and headed for the door, knowing they would follow shortly after. Neither that house, nor any other, regardless of size, was large enough to hold Laura Bolt and the Denbys.
Outside, I glanced at my watch. The afternoon was still young. Much as I dislike the subway, it is the only means of rapid transit that Manhattan has to offer.
The U.S. Courthouse on Foley Square is a tall, antiseptic building, more functional than distinctive. I consulted the hall directory and then rode an elevator up to the chambers of Judge Edwin Marcus Bolt. His law clerk, Andrew Stock, was in the anteroom. Stocky, somewhere in his middle thirties, he had a Pekingese face, colorless hair, and bifocals that magnified his eyes.
He looked apathetic, forlorn and cheerless; and why not? Any new appointment to the bench would certainly insist upon a law assistant of his own choice. Mr. Andrew Stock’s job was in serious jeopardy.
He saw me coming through the door and turned up his hearing aid. I knew him as a fairly competent researcher who found it easier to concentrate on legal complexities with all auditory distractions eliminated, which gave him a chance to put his hearing defect to good advantage. Having tried a case before Judge Bolt only seven months ago, my identity was familiar to Stock.
I commiserated on the death of his sponsor and divulged my connection with the case. He nodded morosely.
“Yes, I knew the judge had called you. As a matter of fact, it was I who dialed your number. We had discussed various alternatives when the trouble arose.”
“The bribery investigation?”
He blinked through his bifocals. His tongue rimmed his lips. “You know about that? I thought he was already dead when you reached his home.”
“His wife informed me. Was there any substance to the charge?”
He started a denial, then swallowed it and shrugged. “I don’t know. I just don’t know. It’s hard to believe, but I’m afraid I have to admit it’s possible.”
“Ira Madden of Amalgamated Mechanics?”
“One of his men, yes. Acting on Madden’s behalf.”
“Floyd Oster?”
Stock nodded. “He’s the one.”
“So you think it’s possible the judge succumbed.”
He slowly nodded. “Yes, I do.”
“Why?”
“Because the investigation had him on edge. I never saw him so nervous. If they had the goods on him, you know what it meant. Disgrace. Drummed off the bench. Perhaps imprisoned. Loss of income. Everything gone. All the years wasted.”
“Was he delivering?”
“I don’t know. I do not attend court sessions.”
“And if he failed to deliver?”
“Would he take their money and then double-cross them? Do you play games with those boys?”
“Have you heard rumors about the trial?”
“Yes. He and the prosecutor were feuding.”
“Then the judge may have been fulfilling his contract. Nevertheless, the judge is dead. How do you like Mrs. Bolt as a candidate?”
“That was not a good marriage. You see, the judge used to work at home a lot. We did our research here, but most of the jury charges and decisions were written at the house. I was often there to help him. He had a small desk installed in the bedroom for me, so that he could have seclusion in the study. Sometimes Mrs. Bolt would join him there for an argument, and I could catch it if my hearing aid was on,” Stock said.
“What did they argue about?”
“Money, mostly. Or sometimes the late hours she kept. She was a compulsive spender, that woman. When the bills came in at the end of the month, he’d hit the ceiling. She spent the stuff like it was going out of style.”
So the judge needed money, I thought, and maybe Ira Madden’s offer looked attractive. “I understand he had a gun.”
“That’s right, permit and all.”
“Why a gun? After all, the man was a respected citizen. He didn’t travel around with jewelry samples. He didn’t use it for hunting, not a hand piece.”
“It was a hobby. Target practice; he had a range in the basement. He knew how to handle the thing, a first-rate marksman. It had a practical aspect, too. Several of the convicts he’d shipped over had made threats on his life, promised to ventilate him when they were released. That’s how he got the permit.”
I wondered if the police knew about that and were checking the federal penitentiaries. “What are your own plans now, Mr. Stock?”
He looked dejected. “I don’t know. It’s too late for me to start a private practice. Besides, I don’t have any clients, prospective or otherwise.” He eyed me hopefully. “Do you need a good research man?”
“I’ll keep you in mind. And I’ll ask around.”
It seemed to cheer him a little. He gave me a weak smile and raised his hand as I went through the door.
Outside, I patronized a telephone booth and got through to Sergeant Wienick at Homicide. He was not overjoyed to hear my voice. I asked about the autopsy.
“All finished, Counselor. Instantaneous death from a bullet wound in the head. Second shot not necessary. A little bonus for the corpse. You want the whole pathology?”
“No, sir. What’s all this about a second shot?”
“Through the heart. You just didn’t look closely enough. Or maybe the lack of blood threw you off.”
“Please,” I said, “elaborate.”
“Hardly any blood at all on the judge’s shirt. Figure it out yourself.”
“Did you find any bullets?”
“Yep. One on the judge’s desk and one lodged against his spine.”
“What caliber?”
“Thirty-two automatic.”
“Why an automatic?”
“Because an automatic ejects the shells and we found those too, Counselor.”
“I understand the judge owned a gun, also a .32 automatic.”
“Correct. And we found it.”
“Where?”
“Taped under the left rear fender of your client’s car. We put the arm on her half an hour ago and she’s been screaming for you ever since. Said she retained you this afternoon. Now why in hell would an innocent woman want a lawyer before she’s even charged? Tell me that, hey? So we’re doing a ballistics check and five will get you twenty the lady’s gun shelved her husband.”