Ken Corning sipped black coffee from a cup which he held in his left hand. His eyes moved steadily down the printed text of a volume of the Atlantic Reporter. From time to time he made notes with a pencil.
The outer door gave forth rasping noises as a key was inserted into the lock. Then the door swung inward, and Helen Vail, Ken Corning’s secretary, walked across the outer office, stood in the doorway of the inner office, and surveyed the man at the desk with anxious, sympathetic eyes.
After a moment Ken Corning felt her presence, and looked up, scowling impatiently. The scowl changed to a tired smile. His eyes went swiftly to the windows, then back to the face of the clock.
“Thought it must be morning,” he said, “and you were coming to work.”
“No, it’s two o’clock. I was out at a cabaret, and ditched the party.”
“Why did you do that?” he asked.
Something in her face showed him that her visit was not at all casual, and that her eyes were anxious.
“Go ahead,” he said. “What is it?”
Helen Vail crossed the room to the side of his desk, pushed back a stacked pile of leather-bound law books, and rested one hip against the side of the desk, swinging one foot, the other foot braced on the floor.
“I don’t know, chief,” she said, “what it is.”
He looked at her, frowning. She slowly opened her purse and took out two one-hundred-dollar bills, which she placed on the desk in front of him.
He looked at them curiously.
“Been robbing a bank?” he asked.
She shook her head, “They were in my purse,” she told him.
“So I saw.”
“But,” she said, “I don’t know how they got there.”
“Don’t know what?”
“Don’t know how they got there.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just what I say. I was down at the cabaret, and a purse snatcher tried to grab my purse. One of the men in the party hit him on the jaw and knocked him down. A special detective ran up and there was quite a commotion. An officer came in, and there was a plainclothesman there in the cabaret. They recognized the purse snatcher as an old hand at the game, and arrested him. They wanted me to look in my purse and see if he’d taken anything. I told them it was impossible because he hadn’t even had the purse in his hands. He’d simply made a grab at it, but I kept hold of the purse.”
Ken Corning’s eyes were level-lidded with intense thought. His pupils were contracted until they seemed mere black needle points in the midst of a cold background.
“Go on,” he said.
“They looked in the purse.”
“Then what?”
“Nothing, except these hundred-dollar-bills were in there.”
“Did you say anything?” he inquired.
“No. Naturally I didn’t speak up and tell them that I didn’t know where this money came from.”
“Why?”
“It was none of their business.”
“When did you look in your purse last?”
“You mean before the purse snatcher?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know. I got out my compact some time during the first part of the evening and put my mouth on straight. I don’t know just when it was.”
“Were the bills there then?” asked Ken Corning.
“I don’t think so, chief. They might have been there, and I didn’t notice them. But I don’t think so.”
Ken Corning picked up the bills again and studied them carefully. He pushed back his swivel-chair, got to his feet, and stood for a moment, staring down at the desk, Then he swung about and started to pace the floor restlessly.
Helen Vail looked at the money, then at him.
“Is it serious?” she asked. “Does it mean anything?”
“I think so,” he told her.
Suddenly he whirled, strode to the desk, picked up the bills, looked at them once more, and then threw them down on the blotter.
“All right, kid,” he said quietly, “we’re framed.”
“What do you mean, chief?”
There was a peremptory pounding on the outer door of the office. Helen Vail reached hastily for the two one-hundred-dollar bills.
“That’s all right,” said Corning. “Leave them there. Sit where you are.”
He strode across the office, to the outer door, and jerked it open. Three men stood on the threshold. The tallest of the three pushed his way forward, grinning.
“Hello, Corning,” he said.
“Hello, Malone,” Corning replied. “What do you want?”
“Is your secretary here?” asked Malone.
Corning nodded. “She just came in,” he said.
“We want to see her,” said Malone.
Corning nodded.
“Come in,” he said. “I want to see you. There’s something funny here.”
“What’s funny?”
“A purse snatcher made a grab at her purse down in a cabaret.”
“We know that,” Malone said.
“He didn’t take anything out,” said Ken Corning “He put something in.”
“What do you mean?”
“He put some money in — two one-hundred-dollar bills.”
Malone laughed mirthlessly.
“Show me,” he said.
Ken Corning led the way to the inner office. Malone nodded curtly to Helen Vail, then walked over to the desk and stood staring down at the two one-hundred-dollar bills.
“This the stuff?” he asked.
Ken Corning nodded.
Malone reached forward and picked up the bills, then looked shrewdly at Helen Vail.
“Where did you get these?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she said.
Once more Malone laughed, that mirthless laugh of his.
“Look around, boys,” he told them.
“What the hell do you mean, look around?” Ken Corning demanded.
“Just what I say,” said Frank Malone. “We’re going to search the office.”
“Got a warrant?” asked Corning ominously.
“Certainly not. Do we need one?”
“You need one,” said Ken Corning.
Malone turned to grin at the two men who stood back of him.
“Okey, boys,” he said, “we won’t search. We need a warrant.”
“Wait a minute,” Corning told him, “I think I’ll change my mind on that.”
“Too late now,” Malone told him.
“What kind of deal is this?” Corning demanded.
“Suppose you tell me,” Malone replied.
“What are you driving at?”
“You know what I’m driving at. Those two one-hundred-dollar bills were taken from Samuel Grosbeck.”
“You’re crazy!” Corning said.
“No, we’re not crazy. We’ve got the numbers of the bills. You should know that.”
“I tell you,” said Corning, “the bills were planted in the young lady’s purse.”
“Sure,” said Malone, soothingly, “you told me that before, Corning.”
Malone leaned forward, and copied the numbers on the bills into a leather-backed notebook. He took a fountain pen from his pocket and wrote his initials in small letters on the comers of the currency.
“All right,” he said, “that’s all we can do here. He won’t let us search the office without a warrant.”
“I said you could search,” Corning replied.
“We didn’t hear you except the first tune,” said Malone. “You’ve had a chance to ditch any of the stuff now anyway. Come on, boys, let’s go.”
Ken Corning strode rapidly across the room, and stood between Malone and the door.
“Malone,” he said, “you can’t get by with this.”
Malone pushed forward and past Corning.
“I’m not getting by with anything,” he said. “Because I’m not trying anything. Don’t lose those bills. They’re evidence.”