He said to Mr. Friedland, “What’s up, Arch? I’ve got a dinner engagement and...”
“You may not want any dinner when you hear what I have to say,” Mr. Friedland said. “To save a lot of repetitions, we’ll wait until Bob Grenick arrives.”
Judge Corday didn’t press Mr. Friedland, knowing it would do no good. He sat down and lighted a dollar cigar and tried to read Mr. Friedland’s lean, tight face.
Mr. Grenick showed up almost before Judge Corday got his cigar going good. Bald, chubby, and middle-aged, Mr. Grenick had thick, heavy lips and thick, heavy eyes. Both his lips and eyes always looked slightly damp, like a lizard’s back that lives in a spring branch.
As soon as Mr. Grenick was in the study and the door safely closed, Mr. Friedland said, “Tell them, William, what you just told me.”
“Miss Marla Scanlon is dead,” I said.
The judge took it without blinking an eye. The state’s attorney, Mr. Grenick, choked, put a hand to his neck, fumbled for a chair, and sat down.
“How?” Judge Corday said, cool.
“Murdered, I reckon,” I said.
Mr. Grenick made noises like he was having a hard time getting air.
“By what means?” the judge asked.
“Choked to death, it looked like,” I said.
“When?”
“Sometime between two and five,” Mr. Friedland put in.
“What makes you think I have any interest until the murderer is caught and I act in official capacity?” Mr. Grenick said raggedly. “I hardly knew Marla Scanlon.”
“Oh, come off it, Bob,” Mr. Friedland said. “Marla Scanlon worked artfully and most skillfully. One by one she compromised the three of us. She didn’t stretch her luck. We three were enough. She had her gold mine. She was content. She didn’t intend to incur further risk by developing, in a manner of speaking, a source of silver.”
Mr. Grenick got half out of his chair, gripping its arms. “I deny any...”
“Please shut up,” Mr. Friedland said quietly. “None of us is on trial, not yet. But we’re the three who might have killed her. It’s reasonably certain that one of us did. She’s milked you the longest, Harrison. I was next. Bob, you’re her third and final golden goose. Between us, we’ve contributed, over a period of time, something like a total of sixty-thousand dollars.”
“Too bad we never reported all that stashed cash to the income tax people,” Judge Corday said. “They might have taken her off our backs.”
“And the hides from our backs right along with her,” Mr. Friedland said.
“How’d you find out all this?” Mr. Grenick asked. “About me, I mean?”
“That’s a rather silly question, Bob,” Mr. Friedland said. “I’m still a top reporter when it comes to digging out the facts. And I have the resources of a metropolitan newspaper at my disposal, don’t forget.”
“All right,” Judge Corday said, like he was on the bench considering a motion by a lawyer. “It’s laid out between us. We three were her patsies. Each had the same reason to dispose of her. We re cruising, in a word, in the same leaky boat. Now it remains to determine whether or not we have a paddle. Unfortunately, I have no alibi for the three hours between two and five this afternoon. Have you, Bob?”
“What?” Mr. Grenick was looking sort of gray, like a prospect for a dose of calomel.
“Where were you between two and five this afternoon?”
“I was...”
“Yes, Bob?” Mr. Friedland prompted.
Mr. Grenick lifted his eyes and looked at his friends. “I didn’t go in, understand. A block away, I turned the car. I didn’t go all the way to her apartment.”
“You were going to see Marla?” the judge asked.
“Yes. I was going to appeal to her, to prove to her that I couldn’t afford the blackmail tariff any longer. I was going to convince her that she’d have to be satisfied with less — or nothing more at all. I simply couldn’t rake up the money. I’m not as well heeled as you two.”
“But you got cold feet,” Mr. Friedland said. “You didn’t actually see her?”
“That’s right, Arch, and you’ve got to believe me.”
“Whether or not we believe you,” the judge said, “cuts little ice. The important thing is that you have no alibi. How about you, Arch?”
Mr. Friedland shook his head. “I got a call from her at two o’clock. She reminded me that William was due at five with a thousand dollars. I drove out for a quiet, private look at some acreage I may purchase. I came back in time to send William on his errand.”
“So any one of us might have killed her,” the judge said.
“Listen,” Mr. Grenick said in a tight voice, “I didn’t do it. But if a scandal of this sort brushes off on me, I’m ruined. The three of us,” his eyes looked wetter than usual, “are ruined. There are too many people in city hall and police headquarters who’d like to collect our scalps. We can’t hush up a thing as big as murder, not even if Arch does control the press and TV.”
“Precisely,” Mr. Friedland said. “Sometimes, Bob, you almost convince me you have a mind, in addition to the cunning you’ve shown in the political jungles. We cannot cover this thing.”
“So what do you propose?” Judge Corday asked.
“An unbreakable gentleman’s agreement,” Mr. Friedland said. “Whichever of the three of us is nailed, he must bear the entire thing alone. He must not turn to his friends for help or implicate them in the slightest. He must stand firm on the statement that he, and only he, was involved with Marla Scanlon. Whichever of us is doomed will at least have the satisfaction of knowing that he shielded his friends.”
“It might be rough,” the judge said. “When a man’s slapped in the face with murder, the natural reaction is to name others, to confuse the issue, to point suspicion elsewhere.”
“I know,” Mr. Friedland nodded, “and that’s my reason for calling you here. We must decide in advance. We must agree that the two who escape will, throughout the future, stand by the loser’s loved ones in any crisis, any trouble, as if the loser himself were still there.”
“Mr. Friedland,” I said.
He turned his head in my direction. “Yes, William?”
“All the time you been talking,” I said, “I been thinking. I got an idear.”
“William,” Mr. Grenick said in a sore tone, “we’ve far more important things to consider than any ideas you...”
Mr. Friedland shut him up with a motion of his hand. “I don’t think we have anything to lose by listening to you,” Mr. Friedland said. “Go ahead, William.”
“Thank you, sir. You see, Mr. Friedland, you’ve been real nice to me, giving me a chance to live like I never knowed people live, when I was a hillbilly back up beyond Comfort, North Carolina.”
Mr. Grenick groaned. “This is no time for asinine, emotional speeches.”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “Anyhow, I’m all through speechifying. I just wanted Mr. Friedland to know one of the reasons I’d be willing to do you-all the favor of standing trial for Miss Marla Scanlon’s murder.”
I had their attention now, believe me. Right then, you could have heard a mouse crossing the attic, only of course there wasn’t none in Mr. Friedland’s attic.
“William,” Mr. Friedland said finally, “I’m touched. But I suspect that you haven’t quite finished.”
“No sir, Mr. Friedland. Not quite. All three of you have society wives and fine kids and fancy homes and just everything to make life good. You stand to lose a real passel. But me, I got nobody but myself. And I never before had a chance to get me a stake together.”
“How much?” Judge Corday asked.