The secretary giggled, plugged in the switchboard, and announced him with that voice. He passed into an inner office and sank into a leather chair beside the desk. Howard Garrett, with a lawyer’s caution, waited for him to speak first.
Flatly, without frills, Cellini explained who he was and what he wanted. When he was finished, Garrett said: “I’d like to help but I couldn’t give even the police any information of value.”
“I don’t get it,” insisted Cellini. “Don’t tell me you didn’t know that Jimmy Legg was probably guilty of cracking the Lansing Investment safe.”
“We’re both men of the world, Mr. Smith, and so I don’t mind admitting, off the record, that I knew Legg was guilty. But even the guilty have the right to counsel.”
“Sure — if they can pay for it. But if you knew Legg was guilty, weren’t you surprised when Reynolds let him off?”
“Naturally. Surprised, and pleased because my client had won.”
“Did you get Manny Simms to pull that trick of threatening the judge from under the desk?”
“No. I didn’t know of it. I don’t even know this Simms individual, and I don’t know who later killed James Legg.”
The lawyer was unruffled, even slightly amused. A smooth article, Cellini thought. He asked: “What happened after Legg and you went out of the courtroom?”
“Nothing. He simply left me in front of the Hall of Justice and we went our separate ways.”
Cellini lit a cigarette and thoughtfully watched the smoke curl up. “I just remembered,” he said abruptly, “I know a guy who was pinched for stealing a bottle of milk. He’s broke and I wonder if you could give him a break and try to spring him.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Smith, but attorneys eat like everyone else and I can’t afford charity cases.”
“That’s what I thought,” snapped Cellini. “Yet you take on a nickel-mooching gunsel like Jimmy Legg. How come?”
“I don’t understand, Mr. Smith.”
“Where did Legg get the retainer to hire you? It certainly wasn’t from any dough he stole from Lansing because you’re too smart to stick your neck out like that. Why did you defend him?”
Howard Garrett stood up. “I don’t understand your tricky antagonism toward me, Mr. Smith, and I certainly don’t have to stand for it. I’m sorry I can’t say I’m glad I met you.”
Cellini left little doubt that the feeling was mutual and walked out, closing the door. He leaned over the secretary-receptionist’s desk. “How about giving me Jimmy Legg’s home address?”
“Have you asked Mr. Garrett?”
“Why ask him when I can have the pleasure of asking you?”
She giggled and reached for a box of filing cards. The leer was paying off. She supplied an address in her sawmill voice and added philosophically: “Isn’t it just awful how the world is full of murder and sorrow, like this poor Mr. Legg?”
“Legg was no awful loss and he wasn’t very poor. He probably stole a batch of bills from the Lansing Investment — crisp bills as shiny as your hair — and they’re probably waiting to be found someplace right now.”
The giggle sounded again. “My hair’s shiny only because I haven’t washed it in a long time. Isn’t it funny? But it’s peculiar how Mr. Garrett defended Mr. Legg in this Lansing burglary charge even though he owns a lot of stock in the Lansing company.”
The strident-voiced secretary went on to say how she wasn’t doing anything that night, but Cellini wasn’t listening. He had hold of something good — a mouthpiece representing a burglar who had robbed a firm in which he was a heavy stockholder.
Cellini Smith fished among the tools under the seat of his car and selected a heavy screwdriver. It would be as good a jimmy for forcing a door as anything else.
The apartment building where the late Jimmy Legg had parked his hat was a dreary affair with dark halls that smelled of unappetizing cooking. Cellini walked up to the third floor, then down the hall, checking the name-plates, till he had the one he wanted.
He was glad to find the door a weak-looking affair. He inserted the screwdriver into the crack between lock and jamb, and the door suddenly sprang back inside. It had not been locked.
Puzzled, he stepped over the threshold. From the corner of one eye he thought he detected a movement and tried to duck but was too late. He felt himself yanked backward with one powerful jerk and a telegraph pole seemed to wind around his neck. It was unexpected and very efficient. The pole around Cellini’s neck was an arm and his assailant’s other arm circled his ribs with the same bone-crushing effect.
Cellini tried to twist around to get at his attacker but he was no match for those powerful arms. He kicked back and up at the groin with the heel of his shoe but connected with nothing. The other was an old hand at such tricks.
The arm around Cellini’s neck tightened and he was slowly forced down till his back was in a painful arch. His breath became short and constricted. His fists clenched from the pain and he slowly became aware of the screwdriver still in his hand. He reversed it so that the point faced his attacker and drove it back, with all his power, in a short, vicious arc. There was a muffled yell of pain and the encircling arms dropped away from Cellini. He whirled — to find himself facing Mack’s mammoth figure.
Astonishment mingled with the pain in Mack’s face when he saw Cellini. He mumbled something indistinguishable and pulled his shirt up to examine the wound made in his side by the screwdriver. Though deep, the cut was small and narrow and the blood came only in a reluctant trickle. He took his undershirt off and tied it tightly around his body, binding the wound. Then he dressed again and suddenly became voluble.
“I know it looks bad jumping you like that, Cellini, but I swear I thought it was someone else. I wouldn’t—”
“Who did you think I was?”
“Manny Simms. The guy that sprang Jimmy Legg out of court this morning.”
“That’s not good enough, Mack. Try again.” Cellini’s voice was not threatening but he kept one hand in his pocket over a small, 25 caliber automatic and the bookie suddenly broke into a sweat.
“I mean it,” he insisted. “I know Manny Simms and I tell you I saw him downstairs. I thought it was him coming after me. I’ll show you.”
They walked over to a window and Mack pointed down at a black sedan on the other side of the street. Two men stood by it and they seemed to be staring at the very window where they were. “That’s them. The one on the left is Simms. If you was close enough you’d spot the toothpick in his puss. Always has one.”
Cellini relaxed. “O.K. I didn’t think Simms would be out on bail this quick. Who’s the other guy with him?”
Mack shrugged. “Another torpedo. Birds of a feather. If you want to go after them to make up a bridge foursome I’ll help you.”
“Not right now. I’d first like to find out who killed Legg and it wasn’t Manny Simms because he was under the judge’s apron at the time. But let’s hear what you’re doing here.”
“Hell, man, you know Jimmy Legg stuck me for eight hundred dollars. And when you told me he was fogged I started figuring that maybe the dough he stole from the Lansing outfit was up here, and I could kind of collect the debt on my own.”
“How did you get in here without breaking the lock?”
Unexpectedly, Mack grinned. His voice was a conflict of modesty and bragging as he confessed: “You don’t know it, man, but I was the smoothest thing in the safe-cracking line in my youth and it takes a good lock to stop me.”
Cellini looked at him sharply but he seemed sincere. “How come you stayed out of college?”