“Anything in general pudding in particular. Bread pudding, prune pudding. Maybe even cordite pudding. You never know these days.”
Stettinus sniffed. “Cordite?” he said, and went to work.
There was no cordite, of course. Pine ash, hickory ash, paper ash. Traces of prune pudding. A twisted cartridge case, unmarked. But no cordite, Flannagan read the report and did nothing — yet.
The newspapers interviewed Lamport as soon as he came out of the hospital. He indicated that a high sense of ethics and his feeling of responsibility as a citizen would compel him to appear at the Seely trial next month. As for Seely, he got out on bail, jumped the jurisdiction and persuaded the local authorities to do nothing except hope he’d show up at the proper time. Unusual? Sure. But the answer was Tannick and unlimited money.
Flannagan waited until Lamport had recovered and was back at work. Then Flannagan made an appointment, marched into Lamport’s luxurious office and said, “I want to talk to you about the Seely case.”
Lamport appraised him with sharp, calculating eyes. “Nothing I know of to talk about.”
“Oh yes there is. I’ve uncovered an extraordinary piece of evidence. Lamport. About an automatic pistol you own.” Flannagan consulted a slip of paper and read off some serial numbers. “That’s yours isn’t it?”
“Yes, but I don’t see what bearing—”
Flannagan interrupted. “Of course you don’t. The strongest point against Seely is that his gun was the only one on the scene and that one bullet was missing. A ballistic expert could prove the bullet that wounded you didn’t come from Seely’s gun, but country jury would say. ‘If it didn’t come from Seely’s then where the devil did it come from?’ And they’d disregard the evidence.”
“I’m not a ballistics expert and I saw who shot me. That should settle the matter.”
“Exactly. Except that I found a cartridge shell near the fireplace and I wondered whether I couldn’t hook it up to another weapon. So the other night I took the liberty of entering your apartment and borrowing your gun. I fired a few test shots and compared the ejector marks on the cartridge case with the marks on the cartridge from the fireplace.”
“And they didn’t match,” said Lamport, leaning forward with a shrewd expression.
“And they didn’t match,” agreed Flannagan genially. “But that, of course, is only between the two of us.”
“I don’t get you.”
Flannagan shrugged. “A simple matter to exchange the cartridge case from the fireplace for one of my test samples. Now, you see, they do match.”
“It’s a frameup!” snapped Lamport.
“Sure it is.”
Flannagan studied the effect of his words. They produced not outraged morality nor even a sense of being duped, but admiration and a cool, calculating appraisal of how best to handle the situation.
Flannagan said quietly, “I think we understand each other.”
“I’ll have to think it over.” Lamport pressed a switch and spoke into the dictaphone connecting with the receptionist in his outer office. “Will you call Durcher? I’ll be wanting him later on.” Lamport left the switch connected so that the remainder of the conversation could be heard outside.
“What are you after?” demanded Lamport angrily. “Money?”
“Oh no. Something far more elemental. Justice.”
“What’s that!”
“I’ll try to explain, though you could best start with a dictionary. Then, if it’s still beyond you, I could submit a bibliography. Some very great minds have examined the subject.”
“As I understand it, Flannagan, you’re deliberately framing me with false testimony. You’re claiming that a gun which I left in New York was actually in Smyrna.”
“Oh no. I’m claiming that your gun was in Smyrna because I can prove it.”
“And just what do you want out of this?”
Flannagan did something rare with him. He repeated himself. “Justice,” he said. “When I was in Smyrna, I found a case against Seely that looked practically airtight, except for one little thing. But the alternative was too fantastic, assumed too fast and facile and fertile a brain behind it, so I kept the idea to myself. When I brought my evidence to the laboratory my hunch was confirmed, but confirmed with a delicate piece of scientific analysis that nobody would believe. Certainly not a Smyrna jury. I needed you to help me, and you did.” Flannagan heard a door slam in the outer office. The rumble of voices sounded vaguely. He stood up.
“And so,” he said, “I found that the marks on the cartridge case prove the gun is yours.”
“You lie!” thundered Lamport. “I never even took my gun with me.”
“Difficult to prove.”
Lamport cleared his throat and spoke in a loud voice. “So your proposition is that if I pay you enough you won’t frame me on the Seely case.”
Flannagan, in an equally loud tone, replied, “My proposition is this: I want you to do just one thing.” He moved casually toward the side door. “To go to hell!”
He yanked open the door and dived. Lamport yelled, “Get him — cover the back!”
Flannagan dashed to the left, saw a door marked, “Lewin Office Supply,” and opened it. A girl was sitting in front of a typewriter. She had dark hair and brown eyes and a long delicate face. Flanagan peeled off his coat, pulled a gun and barked. “Don’t get scared and you’ll be all right. I’m in a jam — cops’ll be here — take this letter down on your machine — and so help me, if you give me away—”
His mouth tightened and his eyes shot fire. Then he hopped on one corner of her desk, gun still drawn but concealed by his body so that he was half sitting on it.
Her face went chalk white and she stared with her large, appealing eyes. Flannagan — smiled. “Steady,” he said. “Now take this: ‘According to our records the goods were delivered on the 14th of the month and—’ ”
The typewriter was dirking steadily. Flannagan jerked his head around as two cops punched open the door and strode in.
“What do you want?” demanded Flannagan.
They hesitated. One said:
“A little guy, your build — seen him anywhere?”
“Not in the last fifteen minutes. I’ve been dictating. What happened?”
The cop glared. “How the hell do I know? Maybe nothing. But if he shows up, yell.”
“Yell my head off.” grinned Flannagan. “Hope you find him, officer.”
The door slammed shut. Flannagan drew a deep breath. The girl said. “It was too fast for me and I didn’t have time to think. I don’t believe you’d shoot me. I’m going to scream.”
“Of course I wouldn’t shoot you, and you won’t scream either. At least not until you know what it’s all about. Let’s go downstairs and have a soda. I’ll tell you how I was framed, and if you think the cops ought to have me, then you can scream your head off. Want my gun for a guarantee of good faith?”
He held her with his eves with their clear steady blueness, with their frank liking for her and with the vague dreamy humorous quality in them.
She said, “Yes, I’ll take your gun.” Flannagan held it by the barrel and waved it casually. “It’s a wild excitable crazy kind of world, isn’t it? You’re a stenographer in a — what kind of an office is this?”
“Office supply. Weren’t you going to give me the gun?”
“Yes. Fascinating work. Fascinating despite the drudgery, because any minute of any day somebody can walk through that door and change the entire course of your life. Two minutes ago you could have opened your mouth and ruined me. You can still do it. A half hour ago I kept a routine appointment and a man framed me. The police wouldn’t hold me a half hour, but my name would come out and a very worthy enterprise be damaged with the laughter heaped upon it.” He calmly pocketed his revolver. “I wish I could do something to thank you for using your head.”