Might as Well Be Dead (4 page)

His lips tightened. He released them. “How strong an impression? Sit down. You know I don’t like to stretch my neck.”

I went to my chair and swiveled to face him. “I was breaking it gently. It’s not an impression, it’s a fact. Do you want details?”

“Relevant ones, yes.”

“Then the first one first. When I left here a tail picked me up. Also a fact, not an impression. I didn’t have time to tease him along and corner him, so I passed it. He didn’t follow me downtown—not that that matters.”

Wolfe grunted. “Next.”

“When I got to the courtroom the jury was still out, but they soon came in. I was up front, in the third row. When the defendant was brought in he passed within twenty feet of me and I had a good look, but it was brief and it was mostly three-quarters and profile. I wasn’t sure. I would have settled for tossing a coin. When he sat, his back was to me. But when the foreman announced the verdict he stood up and turned around to survey the audience, and what he was doing, or wanting to do, was to tell somebody to go to hell. I got his full face, and for that instant there was something in it, a kind of cocky something, that made it absolutely the face of that kid in the picture. Put a flattop and a kimono on him and take eleven years off, and he was Paul Herold. I got up and left. And by the way, another detail. That lawyer, Albert Freyer, I told him in effect that we weren’t interested in Peter Hays and he saw me in the courtroom and snarled at me and said we’d hear from him.”

Wolfe sat and regarded me. He heaved a sigh. “Confound it. But our only engagement was to find him. Can we inform Mr. Herold that we have done so?”

“No. I’m sure, but not that sure. We tell him his son has been convicted of murder, and he comes from Omaha to take a look at him through the bars, and says no. That would be nice. Lieutenant Murphy expected to get a grin out of this, but that wouldn’t be a grin, it would be a horse laugh. Not to mention what I would get from you. Nothing doing.”

“Are you suggesting that we’re stalemated?”

“Not at all. The best thing would be for you to see him and talk with him and decide it yourself, but since you refuse to run errands outside the house, and since he is in no condition to drop in for a chat, I suppose it’s up to me—I mean the errand. Getting me in to him is your part.”

He was frowning. “You have your gifts, Archie. I have always admired your resourcefulness when faced by barriers.”

“Yeah, so have I. But I have my limitations, and this is it. I was considering it in the taxi on the way home. Cramer or Stebbins or Mandelbaum, or anyone else on the public payroll, would have to know what for, and they would tell Murphy and he would take over, and if he
is
Paul Herold, who would have found him? Murphy. It calls for better gifts than mine. Yours.”

He grunted. He rang for beer. “Full report, please. All you saw and heard in the courtroom.”

I obliged. That didn’t take long. When I finished, with my emergency exit as the clerk was polling the jury, he asked for the
Times’s
report of the trial, and I went to the cupboard and got it—all issues from March 27 to date. He started at the beginning, and since I thought I might as well bone up on it myself, I started at the end and went backward. He had reached April 2, and I had worked back to April 4, and there would soon have been a collision but for an interruption. The doorbell rang. I went to the hall, and seeing, through the one-way glass panel of the front door, a sloppy charcoal topcoat and a black homburg that I had already seen twice that day, I recrossed the sill of the office and told Wolfe, “He kept his word. Albert Freyer.”

His brows went up. “Let him in,” he growled.

Chapter 3

T
HE COUNSELOR-AT-LAW hadn’t had a shave, but it must be admitted that the circumstances called for allowances. I suppose he thought he was flattening somebody when, convoyed to the office and introduced, he didn’t extend a hand, but if so he was wrong. Wolfe is not a hand-shaker.

When Freyer had got lowered into the red leather chair Wolfe swiveled to face him and said affably, “Mr. Goodwin has told me about you, and about the adverse verdict on your client. Regrettable.”

“Did he tell you you would hear from me?”

“Yes, he mentioned that.”

“All right, here I am.” Freyer wasn’t appreciating the big, comfortable chair; he was using only the front half of it, his palms on his knees. “Goodwin told me your ad in today’s papers had no connection with my client, Peter Hays. He said you had never heard of him. I didn’t believe him. And less than an hour later he appears in the courtroom where my client was on trial. That certainly calls for an explanation, and I want it. I am convinced that my client is innocent. I am convinced that he is the victim of a diabolical frame-up. I don’t say that your ad was a part of the plot, I admit I don’t see how it could have been since it appeared on the day the case went to the jury, but I intend to—”

“Mr. Freyer.” Wolfe was showing him a palm. “If you please. I can simplify this for you.”

“You can’t simplify it until you explain it to my satisfaction.”

“I know that. That’s why I am prepared to do something I have rarely done, and should never do except under compulsion. It is now compelled by extraordinary circumstances. I’m going to tell you what a client of mine has told me. Of course you’re a member of the New York bar?”

“Certainly.”

“And you are attorney-of-record for Peter Hays?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’m going to tell you something in confidence.”

Freyer’s eyes narrowed. “I will not be bound in confidence in any matter affecting my client’s interests.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to. The only bond will be your respect for another man’s privacy. The interests of your client and my client may or may not intersect. If they do we’ll consider the matter; if they don’t, I shall rely on your discretion. This is the genesis of that advertisement.”

He told him. He didn’t report our long session with James R. Herold verbatim, but neither did he skimp it. When he was through, Freyer had a clear and complete picture of where we stood up to four o’clock that afternoon, when Freyer had rung our doorbell. The lawyer was a good listener and had interrupted only a couple of times, once to get a point straight and once to ask to see the picture of Paul Herold.

“Before I go on,” Wolfe said, “I invite verification. Of course Mr. Goodwin’s corroboration would have no validity for you, but you may inspect his transcription of the notes he made, five typewritten pages. Or you can phone Lieutenant Murphy, provided you don’t tell him who you are. On that, of course, I am at your mercy. At this juncture I don’t want him to start investigating a possible connection between your P.H. and my P.H.”

“Verification can wait,” Freyer conceded. “You would be a fool to invent such a tale, and I’m quite aware that you’re not a fool.” He had backed up in the chair and got more comfortable. “Finish it up.”

“There’s not much more. When you told Mr. Goodwin that your client’s background was unknown to you and that he had no family, he decided he had better have a look at Peter Hays, and he went to the courtroom for that purpose. His first glimpse of him, when he was brought into court, left him uncertain; but when, upon hearing the verdict, your client rose and turned to face the crowd, his face had a quite different expression. It had, or Mr. Goodwin thought it had, an almost conclusive resemblance to the picture of the youthful Paul Herold. When you asked to see the picture, I asked you to wait. Now I ask you to look at it. Archie?”

I got one from the drawer and went and handed it to Freyer. He studied it a while, shut his eyes, opened them again, and studied it some more. “It could be,” he conceded. “It could easily be.” He looked at it some more. “Or it couldn’t.” He looked at me. “What was it about his face when he turned to look at the crowd?”

“There was life in it. There was—uh—spirit. As I told Mr. Wolfe, he was telling someone to go to hell, or ready to.”

Freyer shook his head. “I’ve never seen him like that, with any life in him. The first time I saw him he said he might as well be dead. He had nothing but despair, and he never has had.”

“I take it,” Wolfe said, “that as far as you know he could be Paul Herold. You know nothing of his background or connections that precludes it?”

“No.” The lawyer considered it. “No, I don’t. He has refused to disclose his background, and he says he has no living relatives. That was one of the things against him with the District Attorney—not evidential, of course, but you know how that is.”

Wolfe nodded. “Now, do you wish to verify my account?”

“No. I accept it. As I said, you’re not a fool.”

“Then let’s consider the situation. I would like to ask two questions.”

“Go ahead.”

“Is your client in a position to pay adequately for your services?”

“No, he isn’t. Adequately, no. That is no secret. I took the case at the request of a friend—the head of the advertising agency he works for—or worked for. All his associates at the agency like him and speak well of him, and so do others—all his friends and acquaintances I have had contact with. I could have had dozens of character witnesses if that would have helped any. But in addition to the prison bars he has erected his own barrier to shut the world out—even his best friends.”

“Then if he is Paul Herold it seems desirable to establish that fact. My client is a man of substantial means. I am not trying to stir your cupidity, but the laborer is worthy of his hire. If you’re convinced of your client’s innocence you will want to appeal, and that’s expensive. My second question: will you undertake to resolve our doubt? Will you find out, the sooner the better, whether your P.H. is my P.H.?”

“Well.” Freyer put his elbows on the chair arms and flattened his palms together. “I don’t know. He’s a very difficult man. He wouldn’t take the stand. I wanted him to, but he wouldn’t. I don’t know how I’d go about this. He would resent it, I’m sure of that, after the attitude he has taken to my questions about his background, and it might become impossible for me to continue to represent him.” Abruptly he leaned forward and his eyes gleamed. “And I want to represent him! I’m convinced he was framed, and there’s still a chance of proving it!”

“Then if you will permit a suggestion”—Wolfe was practically purring—“do you agree that it’s desirable to learn if he is Paul Herold?”

“Certainly. You say your client is in Omaha?”

“Yes. He returned last night.”

“Wire him to come back. When he comes tell him how it stands, and I’ll arrange somehow for him to see my client.”

Wolfe shook his head. “That won’t do. If I find that it is his son who has been convicted of murder of course I’ll have to tell him, but I will not tell him that it
may
be his son who has been convicted of murder and ask him to resolve the matter. If it is not his son, what am I? A bungler. But for my suggestion: if you’ll arrange for Mr. Goodwin to see him and speak with him, that will do it.”

“How?” The lawyer frowned. “Goodwin has already seen him.”

“I said ‘and speak with him.’” Wolfe turned. “Archie. How long would you need with him to give us a firm conclusion?”

“Alone?”

“Yes. I suppose a guard would be present.”

“I don’t mind guards. Five minutes might do it. Make it ten.”

Wolfe went back to Freyer. “You don’t know Mr. Goodwin, but I do. And he will manage it so that no resentment will bounce to you. He is remarkably adroit at drawing resentment to himself to divert it from me or one of my clients. You can tell the District Attorney that he is investigating some aspect of the case for you; and as for your client, you can safely leave that to Mr. Goodwin.” He glanced up at the wall clock. “It could be done this evening. Now. I invite you to dine with me here. The sooner it’s settled the better, both for you and for me.”

But Freyer wouldn’t buy that. His main objection was that it would be difficult to get access to his convicted client at that time of day even for himself, but also he wanted to think it over. It would have to wait until morning. When Wolfe sees that a point has to be conceded he manages not to be grumpy about it, and the conference ended much more sociably than it had begun. I went to the hall with Freyer and got his coat from the rack and helped him on with it, and let him out.

Back in the office, Wolfe was trying not to look smug. As I took the picture of Paul Herold from his desk to return it to the drawer, he remarked, “I confess his coming was opportune, but after your encounter with him in the courtroom it was to be expected.”

“Uh-huh.” I closed the drawer. “You planned it that way. Your gifts. It might backfire on you if his thinking it over includes a phone call to Omaha or even one to the Missing Persons Bureau. However, I admit you did the best you could, even inviting him to dinner. As you know, I have a date this evening, and now I can keep it.”

So he dined alone, and I was only half an hour late joining the gathering at Lily Rowan’s table at the Flamingo Club. We followed the usual routine, deciding after a couple of hours that the dance floor was too crowded and moving to Lily’s penthouse, where we could do our own crowding. Getting home around three o’clock, I went to the office and switched a light on for a glance at my desk, where Wolfe leaves a note if there is something that needs early-morning attention, found it bare, and mounted the two flights to my room.

For me par in bed is eight full hours, but of course I have to make exceptions, and Wednesday morning I entered the kitchen at nine-thirty, only half awake but with my hair brushed and my clothes on, greeted Fritz with forced cheerfulness, got my orange juice, which I take at room temperature, from the table, and had just swallowed a gulp when the phone rang. I answered it there, and had Albert Freyer’s voice in my ear. He said he had arranged it and I was to meet him in the City Prison visitors’ room at ten-thirty. I said I wanted to be alone with his client, and he said he understood that but he had to be there to identify me and vouch for me.

I hung up and turned to Fritz. “I’m being pushed, damn it. Can I have two cakes in a hurry? Forget the sausage, just the cakes and honey and coffee.”