“Do you know where Dangerfield is? Wouldn’t that be dangerous?”
He grinned at her.
“I told them I didn’t know where he is, and I don’t. But I wouldn’t be such a fool as to let a client charged with murder get away without knowing how I could get in touch with him. I can’t go to him, but I can get him to come to me.
“I just put an ad in the personal column in the Clarion that’ll do the trick. Dangerfield’s watching that column. He’ll communicate with me as soon as he sees the ad.”
Helen Vail said: “Did you see the late papers about the witness the state has got?”
“No,” he said. “Who is It? What will he swear to?”
“Some fellow named Bob Durane. Claims he was driving a car along the boulevard, just after Copley was struck down. He says that a car went past him at terrific speed, running without lights, and that there was a lone man in the car, driving. He says that when the man went past him there was a street light where it shone on the man’s face, and that he’ll recognize him if he sees him again.”
Ken Corning blinked rapidly.
“Who is this bird, and where is he?” he asked.
“The District Attorney’s office has got him sewed up over in the Palace Hotel. The paper said ‘a downtown hotel,’ but the Palace was where they buried those other witnesses, and I suppose that’s where they’ve got this baby planted.”
Ken Corning paced the floor.
“A plant,” he said. “Pulling this stuff through the newspapers is going to make things rough for Dangerfield.”
She stared up at him and said: “Isn’t there anything you can do about it?”
He nodded grimly.
“Sure. They come busting in on my witnesses and browbeat them for even talking with the lawyer for the defense. They get their own witnesses and put them under guard. They’d probably arrest anyone that even tried to talk with them. When I try to get a statement about what happened it’s ‘tampering with a witness.’ When they want a statement, they bury their witness somewhere and put a guard around him.”
“That ain’t fair,” she said,
“Of course it ain’t fair, but the people don’t know it. They just can’t be bothered.”
“Maybe there’s some way we could make ‘em know it, Chief. We might be able to let ’em know...”
“Exactly what I’m going to do right now,” he told her. “I’m going to bust over there and demand to interview the witness. There’ll be some news-hungry reporters hanging around there. They’ll have a guard on the room, and I’ll let the guard throw me out. That’ll make news. Then the people will think maybe there’s something funny about it.”
She nodded.
The outer office door clicked. A shadow hulked into the room, then a man pushed his way into the office. It was the same man who had been in earlier in the morning with the officer.
He held out a copy of a newspaper, damp from the presses.
“What’s the meaning of this, Corning?” he demanded.
Ken Corning glanced significantly at the papers which Helen Vail held in her hand.
She abruptly thrust them down the front of her dress. The detective stared at her.
“Meaning of what?” asked Ken Corning,
“Meaning of this personal ad: ‘A.D. Have uncovered evidence desired. Any time now is all right. Telephone first. Ken.’ ”
“How should I know what it means?” said Corning.
The detective moved towards Helen Vail.
“Say,” he said, “you were hiding something. You don’t want to get mixed in this, baby! It’s going to be a fight. What was it you had in your hand when I came in?”
She pushed towards the door.
The detective reached out a hand and hooked two fingers down the V-shaped opening in the front of her dress.
“Now listen, sister...”
Ken Corning crossed to the detective in two swift strides.
“Take your hand away!” he snapped.
The detective caught the blazing fire of the eyes, whirled around, snarling.
“Say-y-y-y,” he said, “if you...”
Helen Vail ducked under his arm, scurried across the outer office and into the corridor. The detective turned awkwardly, made a clutch at the empty atmosphere, glowered at Corning.
“You don’t try to get along at all,” he said. “You’re just a smart Aleck that don’t know what he can do and what he can’t do. This is your first big case, youngster, and you’re going to wind up by being in awful bad.”
Ken Corning stood rigid, poised.
“This is my private office. I don’t want a bunch of roughneck detectives barging in here without invitation. You’ve had too damned many privileges as it is. Now, damn you, get out of here, or I’ll bust your face wide open.”
“Yeah?” asked the detective,
“Yeah. You’ve busted in here once too often. And when you presume to lay your dirty paws on my secretary, you’ve clean overstepped every vestige of authority you ever had.”
The detective fidgeted.
“I didn’t touch her. I just wanted to ask her a question.”
“The hell you didn’t touch her! You started pawing her over. I saw you and she felt you. Now are you going to get out, or shall I put you out?”
The detective turned.
“Oh, all right! If you’re figuring on framing me, go ahead. But remember that you’re bucking something that’s licked many another guy that thought he was going to make a big reputation for himself as a criminal lawyer. You can’t buck the system. If you’re going to get on in this game you gotta play ball.”
Ken Corning sneered.
The detective stalked through the outer door.
Ken Corning stood, feet planted widely apart, watching the automatic door check bring the door to a close. Then he got his hat. He waited for a minute or two, then left the office, locking it behind him. He took a cab to the Palace Hotel.
There were newspaper men in the lobby.
Reed Nixon, of the Star, recognized him.
“Hello, Corning. Hear you’re representing Dangerfield. How about an interview? How about telling us something?”
“Sure thing,” said Corning.
Nixon hurriedly piloted him over to a corner of the lobby, where he was screened from the other reporters.
“Listen, guy, how about this? Give me something nice, a defiant statement, something with a fight in it. Say it’s a dirty political frame-up.”
“It’s a dirty political frame-up,” said Corning.
“That’s fine. Where’s Dangerfield?”
“Dangerfield was called away hurriedly upon a business trip. As soon as he reads that he is wanted, however, he will surrender himself. You can say that I promise to have Dangerfield in the hands of the authorities within another twenty-four hours.”
“Attaboy!” said Nixon.
“Where have they got this witness parked, Nixon?”
“Up on the third floor, 324. You can’t see him. They got a couple of muscle men on guard. You’ve got to have a pass from the D. A. to get in.”
“That’s not right,” said Corning. “A man should be given some opportunity to know what he’s charged with. The lawyer of one side should be entitled to no advantage that the lawyer of the other side isn’t given.”
Nixon laughed.
“Gee,” he said, “that’s a fine lot of hooey, but I’d like to hear you tell the D. A. that.”
“I’m going to,” said Corning.
Nixon nodded.
“That’s the old spirit. Let me in on the ground floor. Give me something else that’s got a wallop in it.”
“You got a photographer here?” asked Corning.
“I can get one pretty quick. Why?”
“Nothing, but if I should try to interview that witness, and should get treated rather roughly, and if you should have a photographer get a flashlight of me being thrown out on my ear, it would make a good action story, wouldn’t it?”