“Poor innocent child, she didn’t know the deadly nature of that weapon, nor did she know that Mandra’s grip was pressing a catch which would release an instrument of death. She screamed with pain. Mandra’s grip tightened. Suddenly there was a whirring noise. She felt the jar of a recoil. Mandra sank back in his chair. She looked at him. He was dead.”
Howland paused dramatically.
“You’re not going to have her put on that defence!” Clane exclaimed.
“I’m afraid you misunderstand me,” Howland rejoined. “I am only acting as her attorney.”
“But that story won’t hang together.”
“On the contrary, it is the only story which will hang together. Miss Renton was very ill-advised in connexion with her original story — very ill-advised.
“After Juanita Mandra left her husband’s apartment carrying the painting, she took a cab to her apartment. That is the point Cynthia overlooked; yet it is the thing which occurred to me the moment I realized what must have happened. That is the trouble with the lay mind, Mr. Clane, it doesn’t reason far enough. It deals only with one thing at a time. As a lawyer, it instantly occurred to me that the person who had taken this portrait from Mandra’s apartment certainly wouldn’t go walking down the street like a sandwich man, carrying an oil painting pushed out in front. It was logical to suppose that this person must have called a cab. And the same line of reasoning occurred to the police. This man, Malloy, is deep and clever as the very devil. He too started searching for a cab driver who had picked up a fare near Mandra’s apartment. It wasn’t a difficult search. The cab driver was found. Late last night he identified Juanita as the one whom he had picked up. The time was six minutes past two o’clock in the morning. The address to which he drove her was the address of her apartment. She paid him by taking a twenty-dollar bill from her stocking. It was what she called her ‘mad money’. Naturally, the portrait, the woman, the stocking, and having to change twenty dollars, made an impression on the cab driver. In view of those facts, you can see how suicidal it would be for Miss Renton to try to stay with her original story. And she must change it in such a way it will attract widespread interest, arouse sympathies.
“Now this story which I have outlined will hang together. It cannot be disproved, and it has certain advantages. Miss Renton is a very attractive young woman. Sitting on the witness stand, her face covered with her hands, her legs covered only by the sheerest of hose, she can sob out her story — and she will win an acquittal.”
Howland beamed at Clane.
“And you’re having these witnesses come here so you can drill them to corroborate that story?” Clane asked.
Howland frowned. “I’m afraid,” he said, “that for all of your legal education, you don’t understand the position of an attorney, Mr. Clane. I am acting as Miss Renton’s representative. She has told me that this is what happened. I shall, of course, go over the facts with the witnesses, with a view to seeing that her story is corroborated. I shall not ask any witnesses to falsify. In fact, I would not permit a witness to do so, if I knew it. I will, however, tell the witnesses first what Miss Renton has told me. I will outline to them that we, all of us, wish to see her acquitted. I will explain to them that, in view of the general survey I have made of the evidence, I have reason to believe it is very fortunate Miss Renton has finally told me the truth, because I think this is the only story which will stand up.
“Juries like to hear these stories of struggle — a strong man grappling with a woman. And, of course, the mechanical operation of the sleeve gun is such that Miss Renton’s story will carry conviction, particularly when one considers that this young and unsophisticated woman was in the clutches of a lecherous despoiler of virtue, a libertine of the most depraved character.”
Clane pushed back his chair.
“You’re just smooth enough,” he said, “so there’s no way of reaching you. Alma Renton will lie to protect her sister. George Levering will say anything you tell him to. But, by God, you’re not going to do it! I think something of Cynthia. I think a hell of a lot of her. I’m not going to let her be put in such a position. She’s a fine, clean kid. You spew the slime of your shyster tactics all over her and she’ll be something that stinks by the time you’ve dragged her through the salacious atmosphere of this trial. A jury may turn her loose, but no one will believe her. You’ll crush her character to win a verdict! Her legs will have been in every tabloid in the city! You make me sick!”
Howland got to his feet, and said sneeringly, “And so, Sir Galahad, you are going to charge to the rescue, I suppose! Your sweet innocence is sublime.”
“Sit down!” Clane interrupted, slamming his hand down on the lawyer’s shoulder and pushing him back into the big swivel chair. “If I could gain anything by smashing your dirty mouth, I’d do it. I presume you’ve completely hypnotized Cynthia... Oh, hell, what’s the use!”
He whirled on his heel, strode to the door which led to the corridor, and jerked it open.
He was just stepping into the corridor when a secretary, entering Howland’s private office, said, “Miss Alma Renton and Mr. George Levering.”
Howland controlled himself with an effort, to say, “I think you’d better stay just a moment, Mr. Clane, and...”
Terry banged the door shut.
As Terry reached the street a newsboy thrust a paper in front of his face.
“All about the Mandra murder! Read about it!”
Terry purchased the paper, stepped back from the stream of pedestrian traffic to scan the headlines.
Terry skimmed hastily through the newspaper account, which hinted at a sinister background of midnight meetings, of beautiful mistresses, of a vast, far-flung web which snared beautiful women, while in the centre of the web, like some huge spider hypnotizing his victims with the compelling power of his silver-green eyes, Jacob Mandra lured women to their doom.
The newspaper account went on to state:
“The sleeve gun is now considered by police to have been taken from the apartment of Mr. Terrance Clane, a mysterious adventurer who spent years in a monastery in Southern China and who, according to the district attorney’s office, will have to do considerable explaining before he, himself, is free of suspicion.
“It was pointed out that Miss Renton, the beautiful artist who had been painting Mandra’s portrait and who tried juggling portraits to build up an alibi and confuse the police, undoubtedly had ample opportunity to take this death-dealing instrument from Clane’s collection, either with or without his consent.
“Police pointed out that finding Miss Renton in the apartment of Terry Clane at an early hour this morning was amply sufficient to raise an ‘inference’ that she might have taken the sleeve gun either with Clane’s consent or without his knowledge.
“Terry Clane, the mysterious and romantic figure who was entertaining Miss Renton while clad only in pajamas and slippers, furnishes a mysterious angle to the case.
“According to Inspector James Malloy of the homicide squad, Clane has thus far offered no satisfactory explanation of how the sleeve gun happened to have been discovered in a chair which he had occupied in the district attorney’s office when being questioned the morning after the murder.
“An outstanding feature of the case is that a young and attractive woman was seen by Jack Winton, a young artist, leaving Mandra’s apartment at two o’clock in the morning of the murder. The young woman was carrying a portrait of the dead man, done in oils. Apparently the paint on the canvas was still wet, and the woman was holding the portrait out in front of her in such a manner that it concealed her features from the young artist who was climbing the stairs, but the stairs were steep, and, looking up those stairs, Winton was able to see what he has described as ‘a damn good-looking pair of ankles’ beneath the lower edge of the portrait.