He looked at her tenderly. “Gee, Mrs. Faffner, I just don’t know what to say. I never figured. I never thought. Alex.”
He comforted her as best he knew how, and soon they were able to speak of the desertion and the great injury done Vi.
“I thought he acted awful queer that night,” Kulze mused. “Thought he had something up his sleeve.”
Vi dabbed at her eyes with a corner of her apron and agreed that Alex had been acting peculiar for a long time.
“Sort of leaves you high and dry, Vi,” said Kulze. “What you aim to do now?”
“Oh, I guess I’ll stay on here for a while to make sure. To make sure he’s gone for good, that is.”
“Poor Vi,” said Kulze, “it’s going to be awful lonely for you.”
Vi rose and walked to the window. She stood before it, looking out over the rolling fields. With a hint of regret in her voice, she said, “There’s some that are lonelier than I.” Then she stared down at her hands and, with a shudder, wiped them in her apron.
Kulze fumbled with his hat, taking a step backward. “I guess I’ll be going.”
Vi turned, her face brightening. “No, Dick,” she said. “Don’t go. Stay. I’ll make a fresh pot of coffee.”
The High Cost of Lying
by John Bender
The golden-tongued lawyer got Manny off in nothing flat — and found Manny’d rather kill again than pay.
Kyle Lewis, attorney at law, finished his hurried dinner in the restaurant near the courthouse, and touched his napkin to the smile he wore. He was not the slightest bit displeased that the newspapermen had converged about his table, but he was wise enough not to act too boastful, too certain of himself. The trial was still not over.
Flashbulbs splashed their brilliance on his carefully barbered, not unhandsome face, and on his scarlet tie — the only spot of outstanding color which he permitted his expensive clothes to boast.
“I hear the jury is filing back in, Mr. Lewis,” said one of the reporters. “Do you think they’ll let Manny off?”
Kyle smiled noncommittally.
Mason, the Mirror man, made a wry face. “Tell me, what do you think personally, Lewis? Is Manny Arno guilty?”
The lawyer frowned. “You should know better than to ask me that.”
“Let me put it this way, then,” Mason said. “How does a lawyer swindle himself into defending a pathological killer like Manny Arno?”
Kyle rose. He saw the bailiff at the restaurant door, beckoning. For himself, Kyle Lewis needed no avenues of philosophic escape for the fact that he had chosen to defend such men as Manny Arno. He knew his legal talent, and he set a price on it. If only men like Arno could pay that price, well, it wasn’t his fault. The goals of success remained unchanged.
But for the record, the lawyer said, “The laws of this sovereign state, Mr. Mason, are administered impartially, for the protection of all. To admit one man’s lack of right — guilty or innocent though he may be — is to deny faith in our system of government.”
“Quote, unquote,” Mason said. “The money helps, though, doesn’t it?”
“You are impertinent, Mr. Mason. Now, gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me...”
He threaded his way through them and went outside into the warm Spring night. Impertinent but accurate, he thought. He wondered how much Mason knew about the fee involved. Fifteen thousand dollars — it was virtually in his hands now.
He heard the footsteps at about the same time he realized that two men were at his side.
“How’s it goin’, shyster? Manny beat it?”
It was Patchy Quill, Arno’s chief lieutenant, a dark-faced hood who had been in on the lumber mill job with Arno. The other man, Link Travers, was also one of Arno’s boys — equally dark-skinned and vicious looking.
The attorney faced them. “I told Arno that I would not be seen with any of you in public. The trial is not yet finished — the order still applies.”
“Why, you little fink!”
“Get away from me!”
Travers snarled, “Who the hell you think you’re talking to?”
“I told Arno to keep you out of sight.”
“So we’re out of sight. Tell him we’re out of dough, too. It’s been two months since that push—”
“Good night!” Kyle walked away. He could feel their eyes burning into his back, but they did not follow him.
“Where the hell you been?” Arno demanded, when Kyle took his place in the seat next to his client. “The jury’s been back for five minutes.” His flat gray eyes shifted impatiently, bespeaking his eternal restlessness. He was a short man, blond and strangely pale, who looked much older than he should have.
“I told you to keep those hoods away from me, Arno,” Kyle said.
“What are you talking about?”
“Link and Patch. They were waiting outside the restaurant. They seem eager for their money.”
“Dough, dough!” Arno scowled. “That’s all I hear! And you’re as bad as they are. Nicking me fifteen G’s.”
“Only if I get you off,” Kyle reminded him. “Which seems fair enough, considering that you took in close to ninety thousand dollars on the job.”
“Okay, okay,” Arno said. “Money-hungry bums, all of you! You’ll get your dough — after the trial.”
Kyle Lewis wasn’t worried about the money. The case had gone without a hitch. That his client was guilty, he was certain. Arno was a killer, a West Side hoodlum who had risen to prominence through a barking gun and a thorough lack of conscience. A cold, hard little man who could pay cold, hard cash.
Kyle had handled the case carefully, turning it bit by bit to a simple point of identification, which had seemed infallible to the prosecution.
The blonde cashier of the lumber mill which had been burglered had positively identified Manny Arno as the man who held her at gun point and rifled the payroll. He had, she testified, shot the aged clerk in the lumber mill office without the slightest provocation.
But under cross-examination, just before his defense summation, Kyle had forced her to admit that she had been visiting an eye doctor for several weeks prior to the crime. He had made her admit she should have worn glasses and didn’t, because she thought they detracted from her appearance. Then, holding aloft a deck of playing cards, he had shown the jury that she was unable to identify the eight, nine or ten spots of any suit, one from the other.
The State’s objection had been sustained, of course, in the face of such a trick, but the effect upon the jury was registered nonetheless.
They delivered a verdict of not guilty.
A short time later, after they had escaped the newspapermen, Kyle and Manny drove, in Manny’s large, luxurious convertible, through the swelling evening traffic. Kyle ran a carefully manicured finger along the fine, leather upholstery. Then they stopped for a red light and he became conscious of Manny Arno’s amused stare.
“Think you’ll get one like it, counsellor?”
Kyle folded his hands about his briefcase. “I might.”
Arno laughed. “With my money.”
“With the Crescent Lumber Mill’s money, more likely.”
“Ain’t it the truth! I got to hand it to you, counsellor — you wrapped the whole thing up nice and neat.” Arno reached across to the dash compartment. A blue-steeled automatic snuggled in among the road maps. “All except for that no-good fluff who tried to put the finger on me. She could stand a treatment. Maybe I could fix her eyesight up real good.” He transferred the gun to the special, leather-lined pocket in his suit.
Kyle did not like the gun; and it annoyed him to see Arno being so careless here on the brightly lighted street.