“What do the officers say?”
“They didn’t find a gun. They didn’t find anything else.”
“How did they know he was there?”
“They just picked him up. But Parkett says that Dick Carr, the detective, cruised past him in a radio car but didn’t see him. After he had gone, Parkett kept on his prowl, looking for something easy. About twenty minutes afterwards the police closed up the district, and Carr picked him up.”
“You think it’s a frame-up?” she inquired.
“He’s either guilty,” he told her slowly, “or else it’s a deliberate frame-up.”
They were silent for a moment. Helen Vail knew the political background of York City well enough to realize that it was readily possible to frame a man for murder. Ken Corning had been there for less than a year. During that time he had fought the crooked politicians who controlled the municipal affairs. Gradually he had made a name for himself, and his reputation had brought him business. That reputation had been founded upon but one thing — his ability as a fighter. He asked for no quarter and gave none.
The door of the outer office opened, and a man of about fifty-five, with keen, wary eyes and tight lips, walked into the room. He looked at Ken Corning, then at Helen Vail, then back at Ken Corning.
“Mr. Corning,” he asked, “the lawyer?”
Ken Corning nodded, stood to one side, and indicated the door to his private office. The man walked with quick, purposeful strides across the room.
“What name?” asked Helen Vail.
The man flashed her a single swift glance and said: “B. W. Flint.”
Helen Vail made a note with her pencil in the day book in which she listed the people who called.
Ken Corning followed his visitor into the private office, and closed the door.
Flint turned on him.
“You’re the attorney representing Fred Parkett.”
The man’s restless eyes flashed swiftly over Ken Corning in shrewd appraisal.
“I came,” he said, “to help you and your client.”
Corning nodded, indicated a chair, walked to the swivel-chair back of his desk and sat down. Then Flint leaned forward and lowered his voice.
“When Parkett went through Grosbeck’s clothes,” he said, “he found some money, and lie found a brown manila envelope that was sealed.”
Ken Corning shook his head patiently. “The trouble with that is,” he said, “that Parkett wasn’t there at all.”
“It might make it better for him if he was there,” Flint said quietly.
“Now what does that mean?” Corning wanted to know.
“It means simply,” said Flint, “that if you could get your client to tell you just what he did with that manila envelope that was taken from Grosbeck’s pocket, and could produce that manila envelope and turn it over to me, your client might get immunity.”
“If Parkett shows up with that envelope, it would be pretty good evidence that he committed the murder.”
Flint made an impatient gesture. “Let’s put it this way,” he said. “If Parkett committed that murder, it’s a cinch he’s got the envelope.”
“All right,” Corning remarked. “It’s the same in either event. When he surrenders the envelope, it means that he’s convicted himself of murder. And yet you say he can get immunity. I’m just mentioning this thing so you can see how foolish your proposition is, and what a sucker I’d be even to listen to it.”
Flint got to his feet and stared intently at the lawyer.
“I think we understand each other all right, Mr. Corning,” he said,
“Where can I meet you, say, some lime tonight, about nine o’clock?”
“I could come to your office.”
“Not quite so hot,” said Ken Corning, “Pick out some place where I can meet you.”
“The Columbino is a good place,” Flint told him. “I’ll be there, dining. You can meet me there.”
“You’ll be alone?” asked Corning.
“Of course.”
“Do you know what was in the envelope?” asked Corning.
Flint hesitated a moment, then shook his head.
“No,” he said, “I don’t. The people who are working with me do.”
“And who are those people?” Corning asked in a tone of voice which showed he hardly expected a reply, but was asking the question mechanically.
Flint smiled. “Those people,” he said carefully, “are big enough to get immunity for Fred Parkett.”
“Well,” Corning said, “that sounds reasonable.”
Flint smiled. “You mean,” he said, “it sounds hopeful.”
“Nine o’clock tonight,” said Corning, pushing back his chair.
Flint nodded, hesitated for a moment, half extended his hand, then turned and walked out of the door.
“At The Columbino,” he called over his shoulder, and closed the door behind him.
Ken Corning heard his quick steps as he crossed the outer office, then the click of the outer door opening and closing.
Corning walked swiftly to his outer office.
“Whom do I charge that call to, and how much is the charge?” asked Helen Vail, indicating the name of B. W. Flint, which she had written in her day book.
“I think we’ll charge it to experience,” said Corning. “Could you write a good love letter?”
“How do you mean?”
“I mean a nice love letter. Spread it on pretty thick.”
“Whom do I write to?”
“To Samuel Grosbeck,” he said. “You can start it: ‘My dearest, dearest Sammy,’ and go on from there.”
“What do you want to do with it?”
“I want to put it in a brown manila envelope, seal it up, and hand it to the man who was just in here. I want to see if he knows enough about the stuff he wants, to know that the love letter isn’t it.”
“What will he do when he gets it?” she asked.
“That,” Corning told her, “is one of the things I want to find out. Make it fairly long. I want the envelope to be pretty bulky. You can sign it any name you want.”
Stepping purposefully from his car, Ken Corning strode up the cement walk, climbed the four steps to the porch and jabbed his finger against the doorbell.
Steps sounded on the inside of the house, and a sad-faced woman opened the door and looked at him lugubriously.
“Is Mr. Jason home?” asked Corning.
“What do you want?” she inquired, without answering his question.
“My name is Corning,” he told her, “and I want to see Mr. Jason on a matter of business.”
“He’s eating his dinner now.”
“I’ll wait until he finishes,”
She stood staring at him for a moment, then moved silently to one side.
“Come in,” she invited.
Corning walked into the hallway, and the woman marched flat-footedly into a room which opened on the left. She indicated a chair. “Sit down,” she said.
Ken Corning dropped into the chair and waited. The house was not large, and the odor of cooked food penetrated to the room where he sat. The dining-room was evidently next to it. Corning heard a chair scrape back. He got to his feet as a tall, slender man with a bald head came into the room.
“Jason?” he asked.
The man nodded.
“I’m Corning, attorney for Fred Parkett.”
The man’s face suddenly lit up with some swift flicker of expression which was instantly subdued. He nodded.
“I’ve read about the case in the papers,” he said.
“You were foreman of the Grand Jury which indicted Parkett, I believe,” said Corning.
“I’ve read about the case in the papers,” Jason repeated.
“I suppose that means you’re not going to talk about the Grand Jury business.”