“Who handles the publicity?” asked Corning, still watching her narrowly.
“You fix up the story,” she said. “Your client will spill it to a newspaper reporter or the District Attorney.”
“Suppose he makes a statement that constitutes an admission to the killing, and then you’re wrong about what the District Attorney is going to do?” Corning asked.
“I’m not wrong,”
“That’s what you say. I can’t risk my client’s life on the strength of your unsupported word.”
She bit her lip for a moment.
“I hadn’t thought of that,” she said, slowly.
She looked down at the tip of her brown shoe for a few moments, then straightened and pushed the money across the desk towards Ken Corning.
“I think I can figure out a way so it will be all right,” she said.
Ken Corning regarded the roll of bills.
“I can’t take money from you,” he said, “to do what you think is best for my client. I’ve got to do what I think is best.”
“I understand that. But I know you wouldn’t take the money from me, unless you were going to play fair.”
Ken Corning reached out and took the money.
“Just a moment,” he said, moving towards the outer office, “and I’ll get you a receipt.”
Ken Corning pushed his way through the door, closed it behind him, and nodded to his secretary;
“Helen,” he said, in low, swift tones, “put on your hat, go down on the elevator and stand in the lobby of the building. When this woman comes out, tail her. See where she goes. Let me know as soon as you find out.”
She slid back her chair from the desk, and was reaching for her hat as Corning turned back towards the private office. He had a blank receipt form in his hand.
“You’ll have to give me your full name, in order to get a receipt,” he said to the woman who called herself Mrs. Brown.
“I don’t want a receipt,” she said.
Ken Corning shrugged his shoulders.
The woman got to her feet, smoothed down her skirt, and smiled at him,
“I think we understand each other,” she said.
“I’m not certain that I understand you,” he told her.
“Oh, well,” she said brightly, “I think I understand you — perfectly.”
She was very trim and straight as she marched from the office, closing the door gently after her.
Several minutes passed, and Corning heard the door of the outer office open and close. He remembered that Helen Vail was out, and got to his feet, walked across his private office, and opened the door.
A tall, well-groomed man, with cold eyes and a smiling mouth, said: “You’re Ken Corning?”
Corning nodded.
“I’m Jerry Bigelow,” said the man, and shook hands.
As he saw there was no look of recognition on Corning’s face, he added: “The man who runs the column entitled ‘Inside Stuff’ in The Courier.”
Corning ushered him into the inner office, and the man sat down in a huge leather chair, crossed his knees, and tapped a cigarette on a polished thumbnail.
“I’ve got orders to mention your name in my column,” he said.
“All right,” said Corning with a grin. “Are you going to pan me, or give me a boost?”
“That’s up to you,” said the columnist.
Corning raised his eyebrows.
“You know,” said Bigelow, “I like to give the inside facts a little bit before the public gets them. I like to give it a touch of spice, and give the impression of being very much in the know.”
Corning nodded once more, silently, warily, his eyes half slitted as they watched the man who had called on him.
“Now,” Bigelow said, still smiling with his lips, but his cold eyes fastened on the smoke which curled upward from his cigarette, “there’s been some talk going around town about you. They say that you have busted a lot of precedents, fought the political ring that’s supposed to be running York City, and are making a lot of money.”
Ken Corning said nothing.
“I just thought,” remarked Bigelow, “that if I should write up a little sketch for my column that you had whipped the big boys into line, and they were going to give you a break from now on, it might do you some good.”
“What are you getting at?” Corning asked.
“Well,” Bigelow said, “you’re representing a bum and a panhandler who’s got a murder rap on him, Sam Driver. The prosecution has got a dead open-and-shut case on him, but there’s been a rumor going around that you’ve got the D. A.’s office a little jumpy because you’ve managed to get some acquittals in cases they thought were dead open-and-shut.”
“Well?” asked Corning.
“Well,” said Bigelow, “there’s talk that the District Attorney doesn’t know exactly what to do in this Driver case. He’s got some circumstantial evidence, but it doesn’t show very much. If Driver should come out and change his story, and admit that he did the killing, but claim that it was done in self-defense, because he found out that Green had been mixed up in some pretty shady stuff that Driver didn’t approve of, there’s a pretty good chance the District Attorney would figure he didn’t have enough evidence to go on with a murder case, and he might let Driver get a plea of manslaughter.”
“What makes you think the D. A. would let Driver make a manslaughter plea?” asked Corning.
“Just a little inside stuff,” Bigelow told him. “Of course I keep my ear pretty close to the ground.”
“Okey,” said Corning. “Then suppose I don’t have Denver put up a self-defense story, and take the rap for manslaughter. Then what’s going to happen?”
The smile left Bigelow’s lips, his cold eyes fastened directly on Ken Corning.
“I’ve got orders,” he said, “to mention your name. If you did something that was pretty clever, I could write it up and give out the dope that you had been taken in on the inside. If you passed up a chance to make a clever play, and did something dumb, I’d probably have to write that you weren’t such big-time stuff after all; that you’d let a fast one slip through your fingers because you couldn’t use the old bean.”
Corning got slowly to his feet.
“All right,” he said, “I guess you’ve said all you were supposed to say, haven’t you?”
Bigelow pinched out the end of his cigarette, dropped it into an ashtray, regarded Corning thoughtfully, and then said slowly: “Yes, I guess I have.”
He started to walk from the office, but turned at the door.
“Let me know, will you?” he said. “Because I’m anxious to get your name in my column.”
“Don’t worry,” Corning told him, “I’ll let you know.”
The telephone was ringing when Corning closed the door of his inner office, behind Bigelow’s departing figure. He scooped the receiver to his ear, and heard Helen Vail’s voice.
“Listen, chief,” she said. “I followed her to a private automobile — a coupé. I picked up a taxi and tailed her. She got away, but I got the license number of the automobile before she gave me the slip.”
“Did she know she was being followed?” asked Ken Corning.
“I don’t think so, chief, It was just a bum break in the traffic.”
“All right,” said Corning, “what about the license number?”
“I telephoned in to the police registration department,” Helen Vail said, “and got a friend of mine on the line. I didn’t tell him, of course, what I wanted to know for. He gave me the registration.”