Slowly the lawyer crossed the room. The girl at the switchboard stopped chewing to watch, her mouth hanging open. Horstmann said:
“Well, what d’you want?” He was tall, black-haired, glowering.
Phineas Spear drawled, “I’d like to get your confirmation that there’ll be no appeal in the Southard case, Counselor. I’ve heard—”
“You’ve heard lots, haven’t you?” the lawyer blasted. “But so far you’ve not got anything straight in that sensational, yellow-dog sheet of yours! Get out, Spear! You’ll have no statement from me!”
Still smiling, Phineas Spear spoke musingly, as though he read from a sheet before his thoughtful eyes. “Obviously displeased by a verdict utterly unjustified by the pitiful evidence presented in the case of the People vs. Abel Parkes, Defense Attorney Horstmann refused today to confirm persistent rumors that no appeal will be taken. In view of the — somewhat strange — conduct of the defense, it is the opinion of this observer that Attorney Horstmann has been saving his case for an appeal. It is incredible that Mr. Horstmann would permit his client to go to the electric chair with no more effort on his behalf than was evidenced at his trial, and thus the only logical inference is that an appeal is planned.” He paused, then clipped, “That’s fine, Counselor! Makes good reading — front page stuff — publicity! Keep it up and you’ll be Governor some day... And you’d like to be Governor, wouldn’t you, Horstmann?”
“Spear—” he choked — “If you print that after what—” But he caught himself, stood breathing hard.
“After — what?” Phineas Spear grated softly. He spread out the Blade extra, held it so that Horstmann could see the whole of the front page. “After that, you mean?”
For an instant the lawyer stared, his eyes unguarded. Then he rasped, “You’d better heed that warning, Spear! You know as well as I that Parkes murdered Senator Southard. And you’d better learn — fast — that this town won’t tolerate the kind of journalism you’re trying to give it! Understand?”
“Perfectly!” he smiled. “There will be no appeal.”
“No!” he roared.
“Then I can print that!”
Phineas Spear went out and closed the door.
No appeal... But he’d expected none! It was merely the final, the complete confirmation of his own belief that Abel Parkes was being made the goat in a murder that would rock the country — when the truth was known! They didn’t have to appeal! Every formality, every small detail of the law’s requirements had been met. Appeal was not mandatory here, as it was in some states. No review by higher courts was called for — and so there’d be none!
Phineas Spear strode rapidly, his smile a bit more grim, his eyes a shade more steely. He passed his own office, crossed the street and took the stairs leading to Randall Pierson’s. Pierson would be drunk, more than likely, but if he could only sober him, keep him that way... Spear knocked and the voice that told him to come in was thinly fuddled, hoarse.
Randall Pierson said, “Ah-ha, my boy! You come, no doubt, from the Courts of Justice to tell me that once again Justice has been done. That—”
“Not exactly,” Spear grinned mirthlessly, slouched into the only remaining chair. “How drunk are you, Pierson?”
The man winced visibly. His eyes fell. He said, “Not like you, Phineas. Heretofore you have ignored — as a gentleman must — what is patently not your affair. I am drunk. I have always been drunk. Unquestionably I shall continue to be drunk. How drunk I am at any given time is...”
“I’m sorry, Pierson,” he cut in. “As you say, it’s not my affair — none of my business. But drunk or sober, you know what’s going on here in Liberty.”
“Of course!” he grated. “So does any man of intelligence! Southard knew — and they killed him for it! It’s going on all over the world. The people — the sovereign people — have at times a strange dislike to thinking. They are only too glad to turn the job over to any nickel-plated jackass who claims — provided he claims it loudly enough — the God-given ability to do it for them. But what about it? Why bother me with it? I am in the process of becoming drunk — which is the only escape for a man of intelligence.”
Phineas Spear said grimly: “Escape from what? Yourself, Counselor?”
“No...” He spoke slowly, distantly; his eyes were bleak. “You can’t do that. But does it matter?”
“It matters, Pierson,” Spear said, “only if you’d like to clear Abel Parkes! Only if you’d like to strike a body-blow at some nickel-plated jackasses among those present — here — in Liberty! And perhaps get the people down to some unwilling thought on where they’re headed.”
“Go on, Phineas. I’m not too drunk to hear you.”
“Then listen! I don’t know how closely you’ve followed this case but I’ve followed it until I know it backward. Old Parkes was odd-job man about Senator Southard’s home. Probably not worth his salt, but the Senator must have felt that he needed the money. He’d kept Parkes on for years — provided for him in his will — and that’s the motive they’ve set up for the murder. Twenty-five dollars a month, and a tumbled-down shack.”
Pierson nodded. Spear went on:
“Southard lived alone — you know that. You know he had a housekeeper. She testified that on the afternoon of the killing, Parkes was cutting the grass of the Southard place. She said she left the house at about 6:30, and he had almost finished the job. She said that when she came back later, it was dark, Parkes was gone, the Senator was dead. But have you wondered, Pierson, where that housekeeper is now? Has anybody?”
“No,” Randall Pierson said. “Where is she?”
“I tried to locate her yesterday,” Spear rapped, “and she’s not available — to me, anyway! But just keep that in mind. Listen some more: Southard was killed by a stabwound to the heart. A jagged, brutal wound! The print of a bloody hand on the door-knob leading from Southard’s study — more of them were on the wall of the staircase — lots of them! All the way downstairs as though the killer had steadied himself against the wall. And another was found on the knob of the side cellar door. That’s the door, according to testimony, that Parkes always used in coming and going from the house. And in all that mess there wasn’t a single fingerprint — but that may be all right. According to testimony — his own — Parkes wore an old pair of kid gloves to work in. He plays the violin and doesn’t want to coarsen his hands. But get this, Pierson.
“They found the death weapon in Parkes’ tool shed. A pair of grass-shears, obviously wiped clean, but still retaining traces of human blood that could be identified. And on the basis of that — the State proved that Abel Parkes, seventy if he’s a day old, a physical wreck who doesn’t weigh over a hundred and ten pounds, plunged these shears to the handle in Southard’s heart!”
He paused, and Pierson breathed cynically, “I think, Phineas, that the State was not so good at proving as the defense was negligent in disproving!”
“But listen, man! Don’t you see it? Aside from the fact that Parkes wasn’t strong enough to do it, there was definite proof right in that court-room — in the testimony offered — that he was framed! I saw it! You’d have seen it, if you had been there. I know Abel Parkes was framed, but until I find out who did kill Southard I can’t spring it on this cock-eyed, smug town! I’ve got to stall — and you must help!”