Officially, he was on Faughan’s tail. The lawyer-detective’s corner-cutting tactics tended to rouse the ire of the Bar Association and police officialdom alike. If he were brought to book for his unorthodox methods it would have pleased not only Martin Nord, but many judges and higher-ups.
Off the record, however, the Inspector and Faughan were good friends. Carter respected the lawyer’s cleverness, and secretly admired his code. Put tersely, it was, “Be sure you’re right. Then the hell with how you prove it. Prove it!” Many times the cop wished he had the courage to make it his own.
He dropped Faughan a covert wink.
“Must you two wrangle? As long’s the hearing’s all set — let’s get on with it. Where’s Pendell now, Blackie? I was all night looking for him with the rest of my department. I want to go home and get some sleep.”
“You and me both,” Faughan grinned. He turned, caught Doyle’s eye, and nodded.
Doyle left the sedan, walked to the rear of the trailer, opened the door.
Gene Pendell came out. Worry-lines etched his forehead. Otherwise he looked as if his troubles hadn’t interfered with his sleep.
Carter flicked an oblique glance at Faughan. The crow’s-feet were in evidence around his eyes.
“Clever monkey,” he muttered. “If Pendell rode around in that thing all night — sure you wouldn’t know where he was. And — no wonder we couldn’t find him.”
Nord scowled: “Clever hell! One of these days his chicanery will catch up with him.”
Upon the Champ’s appearance, he was immediately surrounded by whooping reporters. Cameras clicked. He fought his way to the Courts Building entrance. His eyes questioned Faughan’s in silent inquiry.
The lawyer took his arm, pressed it, said to the District Attorney: “Here’s your prisoner, Nord.”
The D.A. cleared his throat importantly, put a fat hand on the Champ’s shoulder. With a glance at the reporters to make sure they had their cameras focused, he said: “Eugene Pendell, it is my painful duty to arrest you for the murder of Zena Zorn!”
Pendell wet his lips, said nothing. Carter murmured under his breath, “Pompous ass!” A reporter yelled, “Hold that pose, Mr. District Attorney!” Nord beamed, and held it.
Faughan masked a grin. Just then Mel Petraske skirted the edge of the crowd. He handed the lawyer a flat, paper-wrapped package, and slipped quietly away.
Carter growled impatiently: “Do we have to twiddle our thumbs here while you look at the birdies, Nord? For Pete’s sake, let’s go!”
Nord retorted: “Keep your shirt on. I’m coming.”
He led Pendell into the Criminal Courts Building. As they crossed a wide rotunda toward Judge Porter’s court, Mark Crowley fell in step beside Faughan. The Champ’s manager was immaculate in a gray suit, and a black, velvet-collared overcoat.
He studied the lawyer, his eyes expressionless, said, “Well?”
Faughan winked. “Everything’s set. After Pendell’s arraignment, it’ll be over in an hour.”
“Did you learn anything?”
“Nothing much. Except that Murray and Weiber’re in this up to their necks. They snatched me last night to keep me from appearing this morning. But I managed to get away.”
Crowley raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.
Judge Porter must have been waiting in his anteroom, for he took his place on the bench as soon as Nord appeared with Pendell. He was a plump little man, with a shock of white hair, and a cherubic, red-cheeked face. He wore half-moon glasses and had a habit of digging his chin in his chest to squint pale eyes over them.
He gaveled his court to order, quickly disposed of Pendell’s arraignment. Then he addressed himself to Faughan.
“I understand, counsellor,” he said, “that you’ve arranged with the District Attorney for an immediate hearing on this charge.”
“That’s true, Your Honor.” Faughan said.
The judge tried to look stern, sueceeded in looking a little annoyed.
“Mr. Faughan, you seem to make a practice of... er... playing hob with legal procedure. Couldn’t you have permitted the law to take its usual course?”
Faughan said, gently: “If Your Honor please, my client, Eugene Pendell, stands charged with a serious crime — the murder of Zena Zorn. He is innocent. Would it serve the ends of justice better if he were incarcerated in jail until indicted by the Grand Jury — and then until his trial?”
“If... er... your client were unjustly accused, you might have applied for a writ of Habeas Corpus instead of—”
“That, too, takes time, Your Honor,” Faughan interrupted. “It is imperative — as you will learn — that he be at liberty today.”
Judge Porter shrugged, glanced at Martin Nord. “While this form of procedure is unusual, it is not disbarred by the legal statutes of this state. On the contrary. It lies within the District Attorney’s discretion to require a court of competent jurisdiction to weigh evidence in matters involving felony before it is presented to the Grand Jury. It then becomes the Court’s duty to determine whether or not the state has a prima facie case against the person charged with said felony. Inasmuch as you have consented to this hearing, Mr. Nord, we shall proceed. Call your first witness.”
The bang of the judge’s gavel was superfluous. The court room was tensely silent. All eyes were focused expectantly on Jetson Faughan as he calmly seated himself beside Gene Pendell.
Nord let a fleeting glance rest on the defending attorney. A fugitive expression of anticipation flitted across his features. He faced the courtroom, singled out a Negro seated amongst the spectators. It was the elevator operator of the Rheingold Arms.
The D.A. said: “George White, take the stand.”
Through White, Nord established the corpus delicti. The Negro also testified that he had taken Gene Pendell to and from Zena Zorn’s apartment the night before around twelve o’clock.
Faughan permitted him to leave the stand without cross-examination.
The next witness was the Inspector. Carter testified that shortly after three that morning he had received an anonymous phone call at headquarters. The unknown person, he said, informed him of the murder of Zena Zorn. His informant, who claimed he was in the dancer’s apartment at the time of her murder and had witnessed it, also stated he had followed the killer to the street, and had seen him throw a gun into a sewer. Who was the killer? Eugene Pendell.
Inspector Carter went on to say that after visiting the scene of the crime he had notified the District Attorney. Then he had supervised the recovery of the gun. Subsequently, from license records, he had determined the weapon actually belonged to Pendell.
Here Nord introduced the gun in evidence. Then, fumbling a moment in his brief case, he produced a sheet of glazed paper, which he handed to Carter.
“I show you a photograph, Inspector,” he said. “Can you identify the scene it depicts? And the people in it?”
Carter stared at the photograph hard, as if he saw it for the first time. His eyes flicked toward Faughan, and back to Nord.
“Where did you get this?” he demanded.
“Mr. Faughan will undoubtedly ask that question,” Nord smiled. “So I’ll tell you. That photograph was left at my home early this morning. Now identify it for the court, please.”
“It shows Zena Zorn’s living-room. Her body lies in the foreground. Standing over her, with a gun in his hand, is Eugene Pendell.”