Vaguely Bill remembered the conversation in which he had discussed the house sale with his busy law partner. Obviously she hadn’t trusted him to remember her advice, which was just as well, because in fact the task had slipped his mind. Pocketing the square of paper, Bill strolled out into the reception area, where Edith was counting the paper clips.
“I have an important job for you,” he announced in the hearty tones of one who hopes to be convincing.
“Go get your own hot dog,” said Edith without looking up from her task.
“No, this is a legal assignment,” Bill insisted. “I need you to go to the courthouse and look up the deed to a house. It’s called a title search. It’s the sort of thing that legal secretaries do, while attorneys devote themselves to more technical matters.”
“Okay,” said Edith. “You count the paper clips.”
“This will be time-consuming, but not difficult,” said Bill, wisely choosing to ignore her comments. In fact, Bill had never done a real title search, although they had certainly studied the art in law school until he thought he would go mad from boredom. Carefully he explained the procedure to Edith: how to look in the deed books, how to follow the chain of ownership back from one property transaction to another. “This will probably be very simple,” he assured her. “The house has belonged to the Confederate widows and daughters since the turn of the century. Just photocopy all the relevant pages and bring them back here, and I’ll check over them.”
Edith held out her hand. “I’ll need dimes and quarters for the copy machine.”
Bill fished out a handful of change from his pants pocket. There went lunch, he thought. After jotting down the salient points of the assignment on a yellow legal pad, Bill sent Edith off to the courthouse. Then he phoned John Huff with the good news: he could fly down on Wednesday and view the house.
The office of John Huff was an elegant lair of oak paneling and green leather, but in his own mind, Nathan Kimball referred to it as the Roach Motel, and he secretly dreaded every visit he was forced to make to his client’s inner sanctum. Kimball did not, of course, share these misgivings with the senior partners of Fremont, Shields, & Banks, because he was a very junior member of the law firm, and especially because John Huff was a wealthy and valued client. Mr. Huff did not, as far as Nathan Kimball could tell, spend his time evicting widows and orphans and tying village maidens to railroad tracks, but he looked as though he might. There was something of the nineteenth-century robber baron about Mr. Huff, and every time Nathan Kimball was obliged to visit him on legal business, he always found himself wishing that he had devoted his law practice to more mundane villains like car thieves. At least you knew where you stood with the small fry.
Huff, unconcerned with the tender feelings of his legal adviser, handed him a classified ad taped to a note card. “What do you think of that?” he demanded, dispensing as usual with preliminary civilities.
Kimball scanned the notice, a house-for-sale ad, with polite interest. There was a grainy photo of a structure reminiscent of Tara and a fulsome description of its amenities, which seemed to consist mostly of historic value, rather than practical accouterments such as air conditioning or master-bath Jacuzzis. Privately the attorney was wondering what he was expected to say. When inspiration failed, he murmured, “It’s-er-quite large. And old. Old and large. Are you thinking of investing in real estate, Mr. Huff?”
Huff laughed. “I’m thinking of acquiring this place. The price isn’t bad, but I think we might get them to come down a bit anyhow. I particularly like the location of the property.”
Kimball consulted the ad again. The house was in Danville, Virginia. Where on earth was that? he wondered. On the beach? A suburb of Washington, perhaps? Next to an orphanage? “You know the area then, sir?” he ventured, suppressing a nervous giggle.
“Never been there in my life,” Huff declared. “I suppose I will, though. Only a damn fool buys a piece of property sight unseen, and I am nobody’s fool. I may want to close quickly though. Thought I’d better let you know. Make sure you keep Wednesday open.”
“Er-this Wednesday?”
“Right. I’m going to fly down and take a look at the place. If it’s suitable, we stay until we close. Shouldn’t take but a day or so. The fellow I talked to down there doesn’t sound any too shrewd, so there shouldn’t be any difficulties. Still, I’ll need you to go along. That’s why I have lawyers. I expect you to look everything over, make sure it’s all right. Mostly I want you there to look intimidating. Have you got a better suit, Kimball? And I hate that tie.”
Nathan Kimball felt his face grow red as he fingered his birthday tie from Mother. He still felt that he was a few hundred yards behind in this conversation. “You want me to go with you to Virginia, sir?”
“Surely you grasped that,” said Huff with a touch of acid in his voice. “Yes, Kimball, I want you to go to Virginia. Go home and pack your jammies, Kimball, and tell the firm that you’re accompanying me on a business trip. We are going to purchase a historic house. Got it now?”
“But, sir, I know nothing about Virginia real estate law. Perhaps Mr. Shields-”
“You went to Yale, didn’t you, Kimball? Surely you can contend with these rubes from Mayberry, whether you know their local customs or not. We’re just going to buy a house, for God’s sake. Think of it as a little vacation.” John Huff bared his teeth in something resembling a grin.
“Yes, sir. Wednesday,” said Nathan Kimball. But he certainly wouldn’t think of it as a little vacation, he told himself. More like a white-collar skyjacking. For which he would have to go out and purchase a necktie. As he hurried out of the room, it occurred to him to ask Mr. Huff why on earth he wanted a house in Danville, Virginia. Somehow, though, the question wouldn’t come out of his throat.
A. P. Hill still felt a little jittery when she entered the jail to confer with a client. As the steel door closed behind her, she always imagined walking into an escape in progress, and getting caught in the cross fire between guards and inmates. As usual, though, all was quiet within. Lonnie at the reception desk looked up from his paperwork long enough to wish her good morning; otherwise, the place seemed empty. She could hear the faint strains of the radio from beyond the door to the cells, and a stiff wave of disinfectant told her that it was cleaning time in the pens. She resolved to make her visit as brief as possible. Her client didn’t require much counseling, anyway. It was a nothing case, almost certainly a plea bargain. That’s why they had tossed it to her, the newest lawyer on the list.
“I’m here to see Tug Mosier again,” she called out. “I’m his attorney.” She was always careful to wear her most conservative blue suit, low-heeled pumps, and only the tiniest gold earrings for her trips to the county jail. Powell would never have admitted her nervousness to Bill or to any of her male colleagues; she hoped it didn’t show. The best course seemed to be to do her job despite her fears and assume that sooner or later the anxiety would go away. A person could become used to anything, she reasoned; even to being locked in with dangerous felons.
“Tug Mosier, huh?” Lonnie whistled. “That’s going to be some case.”
“What do you mean? It’s just worthless checks. Though I admit that he shouldn’t have tried to post bail with another bad check. I may be able to get him off with time served.”
“You mean you haven’t heard yet? The finance company repossessed Tug Mosier’s car yesterday because he made his car payment with one of his rubber checks.”
“That’s too bad, but it won’t make any real difference to the case-”