He snapped, “Are you spending money to tell me that? What of it? It’s also snowing here.”
“I’m not spending my money,” I informed him. “I’m spending yours. Didn’t the girl tell you I reversed the charges? Well, it’s snowing pretty hard here, but not enough to block vision. Not hard enough and fast enough to cover up the tire tracks before I saw them.”
“Are you crazy?” He was somewhat annoyed. “What tire tracks? What are you gibbering about?”
I pushed back in the chair and let him have it.
“I’m talking about the tracks of the tires of the car that killed Harry Evans a short while ago.”
That stopped his protestations like an abutment stops an automobile. I heard him suck in his breath and hold it, as a man does when he gets an unexpected blow around the belt.
When he spoke to me again it was in a vastly changed, curiously stark voice. He was frightened. Shocked, too, but frightened.
“Tell me about those tire tracks,” he said.
I did. “It’s snowing here,” I repeated for the effect and because he was paying the toll charges. “Evans left my office and started across the street in the middle of the block. It isn’t such a busy street, although it’s downtown. I think he was on his way back to the hotel.
“He didn’t get there. He had taken maybe five or six steps from the curb when this sedan smacked him down. A Studebaker sedan with a supercharger attachment on the hood. The sedan was traveling pretty fast for a snowy, downtown street. It didn’t try to stop before it hit him; it didn’t stop after it hit him.”
The attorney let out his breath. “Like that, eh?”
“Like that. After the car struck the body and had passed partly over it, the driver began to apply the brakes. Just began to apply them. A barest hesitation. And then the sedan picked up speed and disappeared. The tire marks told the story but the story isn’t there any more; it’s still snowing.”
“Do you think that... think that...?”
“Why not? It’s a reasonable guess. I’m sure.”
“You — are?”
“Yeah. Didn’t he tell you why he came to see me?”
“He did not. I didn’t know he had need of a detective. I knew only that he was there on business. I wondered how you knew to call me.”
“What is — I mean, what was his business?”
The attorney hesitated. Finally he said, “Stock and bonds, grains. He was an investment broker.”
“No doubt,” I shot back dryly. “And he gave me five hundred dollars to bail him out of jail because he was anticipating a market crash. What was his business?”
At first my only answer was a lengthy silence from the other end of the wire. I listened to see if the attorney was calling someone else, or had his hand over the mouthpiece, but he was still there, breathing into my ear. Finally I could hear him drumming on his desk, impatiently.
He said curtly, “I’m not at liberty to tell you.”
“All right. I’ll find out here.”
“Tell me,” he asked in an eager voice, “why did he hire you?”
I drummed on my desk and after a short pause said: “I’m not at liberty to tell you.” I wished I could have been watching his face, and at the same time I wondered if I had made a mistake in mentioning the bail and jail business.
He punctured the mutual silence with a, “Well?”
“Look, mister, I’ve got five hundred dollars I never had a chance to earn. It belongs to Evans. Do you want me to send it to you?”
“No.”
“I’m happy. Give me the word.”
“The word?”
“The go-ahead, certainly. You are his lawyer, aren’t you? You don’t want this glossed over and forgotten as just another hit-and-run case, do you? You do want me to look into it, don’t you?” High pressure salesmanship. I wanted to keep that five hundred.
“Oh... yes, yes. Certainly. By all means.” He ran the words together in a babbling effect. I wondered if he was hysterical. “Get right on it. Find out who did it. Find out—”
I cut in on him.
“Take it easy. I’ve already found out something. There was a little delay in getting through to you, so I checked with City Hall while I was waiting. The only thing they have so far is that it was a Studebaker sedan, driven by a girl.”
“A girl?”
“Girl. Female. Woman. The so-called weaker sex. You have one there in the office. It ties in, you see. Men often run away from accidents. Women, seldom if ever. They haven’t got the guts to run away from accidents. Ask your secretary what she would do if she ran a man down. She’d faint. This woman didn’t faint — she hit Evans and got the hell out of sight.”
He said slowly, “And that indicates—?”
“—that it was premeditated,” I finished for him. “It’s a murder, if the driver can be found and a confession obtained or satisfactory proof constructed. The inquest is tomorrow afternoon.”
Suddenly he was all businessman. “Attend that inquest. Notify me of further developments. I can advance more money should you need it.”
“I have enough to keep me,” I said aloud, and under my breath added, “for a while.”
“Call me back late tomorrow afternoon.”
“I can tell you now what the results will be, just in case you want to make a little bet. Death was caused by an automobile driven by a person or persons unknown—”
He cut me off, “Call me tomorrow.” And hung up.
I waited until the operator plugged into the line and gave her another Croyden number.
Pretty soon a voice said, “Hello, chum. It’s your nickel.”
“Hello, Liebscher. I was hoping to talk to Rothman. And it’s not my nickel, it’s my forty cents if I can complete this in three minutes. Where’s the boss?”
“Ah — it’s Charlie. How are you, chum?”
“Dammit, I’m wasting forty cents. I want Rothman. Look, Liebscher, give me a quick line on Harry W. Evans.”
“Evans? He was in here looking for a Daniel Boone. Get it? Boone. Good, huh? We gave him your name.”
“I know you did, and he dropped in on me. But give me a line on him.”
“Ain’t much to give, chum. He’s married but she’s fat, they tell me. You know how that is — guys don’t take fat wives out to have fun except to the opera and that ain’t fun and anyway Croyden ain’t got no opera. No children. You ain’t after the fat wife, are you chum?”
“To hell with you, Liebscher. Listen, Evans is dead. What? No, I said dead. Yeah — that’s right. Hit-and-run. Less than an hour ago. But meanwhile he hired me for a little job. I want everything you might have on him.”
“Seriously, Charlie, there isn’t a thing on him that I know of. He’s got an office here; stocks and bonds and that sort of stuff. I’ve never seen him actually work. And he never jilted a widow in his life, that I know of. He’s the slightly sentimental kind. If she’s pretty, he’ll give her her last five dollars back rather than keep it all.”
“How about a private love life?”
“Could be. Fat wife, you know. Want me to check into it?”
“Yes. If you find anything on him, wire it over. Now — what do you know about... about...” I had already forgotten the name of the attorney, and quickly searched my pockets for the card.
“About who, chum?” Liebscher prompted.
I found the card. “Ashley. An attorney named August Ashley.”
Liebscher didn’t answer but I heard him rapidly thumbing the pages of a book. Finally he offered, “He’s located in the same building as Evans.”