“Well, we were walking along the street with everyone quiet-like, until suddenly, just at that place, Shorty French let a remark drop that showed me Glover had been two-timing with my girl. I saw red, I’ll admit that, He could have had a regiment around him, and I’d have called him just the same.
“I tried to swing on him, and Shorty and Sam Gilman grabbed me. Glover sneered at me and asked me what I was going to do about it. I’d have done plenty if I’d had the chance. Then I managed to break away, and just as I did it, there was a bang. I swear I don’t know who fired the shot, but it sounded as though it had come from right around me somewhere.
“It seemed like a half second after the shot before anything happened, and then I saw that Glover was sagging down to the ground. I knew it was some sort of a frame-up, and I guess I lost my head. I started to sprint.
“Then a cop car came around the comer, and I knew I was framed for the rap. But I didn’t throw any rod behind any billboard, and I didn’t have any rod on me, and I didn’t do any shooting.”
Ken Corning stared steadily at his client.
“You heard the shot?”
“Sure.”
“It was right near you?”
“Yes.”
“And you figure it must have been either Sam Gilman or Shorty French that fired that shot?”
“Of course.”
“But you didn’t see any gun, and you couldn’t swear that either of them made even so much as a threatening motion?”
“No.”
Ken Corning’s stare was that of a doctor who must give unpleasant news to a patient. “Pyle,” he said, slowly, “do you think any jury on earth is going to believe that story?”
Beads of perspiration glinted from the prisoner’s forehead, but his eyes met those of the lawyer.
“No,” he said, in a voice that was filled with terror.
Corning stood, feet planted wide apart, eyes staring steadily at Harry Lampson.
“Get this,” he said, “and get it straight. I’m representing George Pyle. He comes first. You can’t drag me into your troubles, or pull a double-cross on Pyle. I’ll help you out of your jam, if I can help my client by doing it. Otherwise I won’t.”
The man who had been so meek and appealing was now cold and hard.
“Where the hell do you get that noise about me being in a jam? I ain’t in any jam. I came clean and told you the low-down that would help your client. If I don’t get a cut, I kick through with the real stuff.”
Ken Corning eyed the man with evident distaste.
“Meaning?” he asked.
“Meaning that I’ll switch over and tell the bulls about your man flinging the gun away as he ran, about seeing the rod in his hand just before the shot was fired.”
“Like that, eh?” Corning asked.
“Like that,” Lampson told him.
“Seems to me you’re independent as hell all of a sudden.”
“Does it?”
“It does.”
The man shrugged his shoulders.
“Well,” he said, “there’s the dope. Take it or leave it. I’m sitting pretty.”
Ken Corning walked to the window of the room. It was dingy and narrow. The lace curtain which covered it seemed indicative of the fact that the occupants of the room were usually more concerned with keeping the public from seeing in, rather than seeing out themselves.
Corning’s eyes, staring down at the shadows of the street, caught the swing of heavy shoulders as a big man pushed his way into the door of the rooming-house. Another man stood, loitering in a doorway across the street. He seemed strangely immobile.
Ken Corning whirled on the man who was watching him with ratty eyes.
“What kind of a double-crossing game—?”
He had no chance to finish the question. Feet sounded in the corridor outside of the room. Heavy knuckles pounded the panels of the door.
“Jeeze,” said Lampson in a strained, choking voice.
He got to his feet, scuttled across the room in an ecstasy of haste, twisted the key in the lock. A man on the other side of the door pushed it open, barged into the room.
“So,” he said.
Police detective was stamped all over him, from the broad-toed shoes to the heavy neck, the accusing eyes, the thick lips that held a cigar clamped at an aggressive angle.
“Hello, Maxwell,” said Corning, casually.
Maxwell held Corning with his eyes.
“You got a hell of a crust, tampering with a state’s witness.”
Ken Corning laughed.
“In the first place,” he said, “I wasn’t tampering with him. In the second place, he isn’t a state’s witness. He’s my witness. I found him on the street after the shooting, and I brought him here. I was with him when he registered, and I paid for the room.”
The detective twisted his heavy lips.
“Says you!” he grated.
He turned to Lampson. “What’s the low-down?” he asked.
Lampson’s voice was low, rapid and toneless, like the voice of a frightened child speaking a piece at a school entertainment.
“He came in here and told me I had to swear that Shorty French had a gun in his hand and that I seen it. He said I had to swear that the man that ran away couldn’t have done any shooting, that his arms were held until after the gunshot was fired, until after Glover hit the pavement. He said, if I didn’t swear that, he was going to plant a rod on me and frame me for the murder rap.”
“Subornation of perjury,” remarked Maxwell in a voice of rumbling accusation.
“Baloney!” snapped Corning.
“If you think it’s baloney,” Maxwell told him, tugging handcuffs from the back of his belt, “try and laugh this off.”
Corning looked at the handcuffs.
“What the hell do you think this is?” he asked.
“A pinch,” Maxwell said.
Abruptly, Corning laughed. “Gentlemen,” he said, “let’s not have any misunderstanding about this. Let’s agree upon the date and the time; also the persons present. This is Wednesday, the eighth of the month. The hour is exactly seven and one-half minutes past four o’clock in the afternoon. There are present in this room, Henry Lampson, myself, and Thomas Maxwell, a police detective, who has just recently entered the room. There are no other persons in this room. Is that right?”
Maxwell stared with suspicious eyes at Ken Corning. Lampson looked at the police detective with the look of helpless interrogation which a tenderfoot gives to a guide in the forest.
“What the hell you trying to pull?” asked Maxwell.
“Nothing,” Ken Corning told him, “except that I want to get the time and the place established beyond dispute. Have I said anything that wasn’t the truth?”
“Aw, go jump in the lake!” Maxwell growled. “You can’t run a bluff on us with all that line of hooey. You’re going to headquarters.”
“Got a warrant?” Corning asked.
“Got enough to take you in for questioning,” Maxwell remarked with emphasis. “After I get you in for questioning, Lampson here is going to swear to a charge. Ain’t you, Lampson?”
“Sure,” Lampson said.
“And there’s no mistake or misunderstanding about the time and the place and the persons present?” Corning asked.
“Hell, no!” the detective exploded. “Have that your own way; but you’re coming with me now.”
“Fine,” said Ken Corning with evident satisfaction. “Put those bracelets away. They don’t frighten me any. You aren’t going to use them, anyway, until you’ve got a warrant. I’ll pay the taxi fare to the jail.”