Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 18, No. 5, May 1973

The Graft Is Green by Harold Q. Masur

If it be true, indeed, that “every man is the architect of his own fortune,” one must then consider that not infrequently plans are warped in adaptation.

When a judge, a federal judge yet, calls on the phone, sounding urgent, and says please come to his home that evening, you go. You do not make excuses, especially if you are a lawyer practicing in the same district.

His Honor, Judge Edwin Marcus Bolt, U.S. District Judge, a lifetime appointment, fifteen years with a Wall Street firm, twenty years on the bench, was tall, spare, iron-haired, and physically fit. Twice married, his present spouse was a cool, slender beauty of thirty, exactly half his age.

Judge Bolt was currently presiding over a case that commanded daily headlines: The United States versus Ira Madden and Amalgamated Mechanics, for misappropriation of union funds to the tune of one million American dollars; misappropriation — a euphemism for stealing, embezzling, the larcenous juggling of books — with Ira Madden, union president, as chief malefactor and prime beneficiary. The authorities had not yet been able to locate the proceeds, although they had certain suspicions. In the past year Madden had made several trips to Switzerland, probably visiting his money.

So that evening, obeying the judge’s summons, I took a cab to his East Side town house. I saw that he had a number of visitors ahead of me, leaving their cars parked alongside the curb in direct violation of parking regulations. None of the vehicles, of course, would be ticketed. No meter maid in her right mind would tag a police car.

I should have forgotten the whole deal and walked away, but curiosity needled me. The man in blue guarding the front door put a hand against my chest. I told him why I was there and he convoyed me to an upstairs corridor.

Sergeant Louis Wienick, swarthy, heavyset, bald, lifted a spiky eyebrow and shook his head. “Well, well! Scott Jordan. Wherever there’s trouble. What cooks, Counselor?”

“I was invited.”

“By whom?”

“Judge Edwin Marcus Bolt.”

“When?”

“This afternoon.”

“What for?”

“I don’t know. He called and said he wanted to see me. Urgent. So here I am. Where is his Honor?”

“In his study.” Wienick gestured theatrically. “This door. Be my guest.”

I should have known — but it always comes as a surprise. Judge Bolt was sitting behind his desk, smiling. The smile was purely technical, lips pulled back in rigor over porcelain dentures. His face was tissue-gray, eyes blank and sightless, staring into the far distance of eternity. A single bullet had pierced his right temple, plowing through the jellied matter of his brain and emerging over his left ear. I should have known because Wienick, after all, was Homicide. Why else would he be here if someone’s exit had not been accelerated through violent means?

My stomach convulsed like a fist and I got the hell out of there. Wienick’s grin was more or less genuine.

“Well, what do you make of it?” he asked.

“Contact wound,” I said. “Somebody didn’t trust his marksmanship. He walked right up close and pulled the thing. I believe I saw powder burns at the point of entry.”

“You said, ‘He walked up close.’ How do you know it’s a he? Maybe it was a she.”

“Maybe. Manner of speaking, that’s all.”

“You know the judge’s wife?”

“Met her once.”

“The rumor is they were feuding. Seems she occasionally strayed from the fireside for a little extracurricular activity.”

“I don’t listen to rumors, Sergeant.”

“Yeah. Anyway, this one knocks the props out from under the U.S. against Ira Madden.”

“Not likely,” I said. “They’ll declare a mistrial, naturally, and then start all over again.”

“So the taxpayer gets clobbered again. All that time and money down the drain.”

“A drop in the bucket, Sergeant. Look how much we waste on wars, on hardware lobbed into space. Look how much we pay farmers not to grow things.”

“You a Communist or something?”

“Hardly. What cooks with this shooting? Are there any clues?”

“Not yet. We only caught the squeal about an hour ago. The M.E. hasn’t even arrived yet.”

“Who notified you?”

“The widow.”

“She contribute anything?”

“Only a couple of sentences. Said she’d been to a late movie and found him like this when she came home. Then she began to get hysterical, running around like a chicken, accusing union goons. A truly magnificent performance. Then her doctor rushed in. He got a hammerlock on her and used his needle. Must have been one hell of a blast. In two minutes she was horizontal. She’s in her bedroom now, sleeping it off.”

“Any servants?”

“One. Housekeeper. This is her day off.”

“So the judge was all alone when it happened.”

“Alone except for one other person — his executioner.”

“You’re really clicking today, Sergeant. Any sign of the weapon?”

“Who’d be stupid enough to leave a piece that can be traced?”

“Have you searched the house?”

It got me a long-suffering look. “Up, down and sideways. Nothing.” But his eyes seemed evasive.

“Come on, Sergeant,” I said. “Lift the lid.”

“You clairvoyant or something?”

“I can tell when you’re sitting on something.”

“Keep your nose clean, Counselor. This is police business. The lieutenant would skin me alive.”

“Where is the lieutenant?”

“Convention. Philadelphia.”

“We always pool our information. You know that. So, please, Sergeant, lay it out for me.”

Wienick lapsed into a small private huddle. He worked his lips for a moment, but finally he sighed, shrugged, and said, “On the other side of the judge’s study is a bedroom. Adjoining door. Cigarette smoke in there, a lot of it. Not stale. And many butts in the ash tray. The assassin was sitting in there, waiting for him to come home.”

“Not the judge’s butts?”

“The judge smoked only cigars.” Wienick looked piously down his nose. “Genuine Havanas. I hear he bought them from a Swedish diplomat.”

“The wife’s butts maybe?”

“She quit smoking when the Surgeon General made his announcement, she says. The doctor verifies it. But hell, that’s not conclusive. Somebody gets uptight-back to the old habits.”

“You’re too eager, Sergeant, straining to tag the wife for this.”

“We don’t have anybody else.”

“What about Ira Madden and his union muscle? Or outside talent for hire? Would it be the first time those clowns tried to break up a trial?”

“It’s a possibility, sure, and we’ll check it out. We’ll have help, too. With a U.S. judge involved, maybe the FBI will stick its nose in.” Wienick showed me his teeth, like the yellowed keyboard of an old piano. “Those boys will not take kindly to the meddling of a local mouthpiece.”

“I am not a mouthpiece, Sergeant. I am a high-class attorney and counselor-at-law.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Granted. I am not meddling. The judge initiated this visit. He was worried about something and he wanted to see me.”

“He had reason to be worried. So what are your plans now?”

“Maybe I’ll just go home and forget about it.”

“That would be a very wise decision. Still, the lieutenant may want to see you when he gets back.”

“The lieutenant knows my number. I’m in town for the duration.” I paused at the door and waved. “Happy hunting, Sergeant.”

The sudden and violent demise of Judge Edwin Marcus Bolt was too late for the evening paper — not plural; singular. A city like New York — eight million people — and only one evening newspaper; all the others had folded. Bad management? Excessive union demands? Who knows? But the morning papers — and only two of those — bannered it big, with editorials. Nobody had the answers.

Then, early in the afternoon, I had another call — from the widow this time. Could I please come over for a family conference? The judge’s daughter from his first marriage and her husband would be there. But please come a little early. The widow would like a few moments alone with me.

Laura Bolt, nee Pederson, a tall blonde Scandinavian type, at nineteen a cover girl in great demand by leading fashion photographers, at twenty-eight the bride of a highly respected jurist, at thirty a widow, had large blue eyes set at a wide tilt, gaunted cheekbones, flawless fine-grained translucent skin, perfect teeth nervously working on her fingernails. Impatiently she brushed aside the amenities and expressions of condolence.

“I need your help, Mr. Jordan.”

“To do what?”

“The police have made it quite clear that they consider me a prime suspect. I don’t like it and I’m frightened. I need legal advice. I need a lawyer. I know that my husband thought very highly of you. In the twenty-four hours before he died he mentioned your name several times. I am asking you to represent me.”

“Did you kill your husband?”

“No,” she said emphatically.

“All right.” So I was back in the case whether the enforcement people liked it or not. I said, “They haven’t accused you openly yet, have they?”

“Mr. Jordan, they went through everything in this house, with special attention to my bedroom and my possessions. I know they were looking for a weapon. I reiterate, I am innocent. I admit that Edwin and I were not getting along, but we still had our good moments. I liked being married to him; I liked the distinction. A judge and his lady perch high up on the social scale. A judge’s position is — how shall I phrase it...?”

“Sacrosanct?”

“To outsiders, yes. There is something awesome in those black robes, sitting on the bench, sentencing people. However,” she made a fluttering gesture, “I hate to say this, but sometimes it’s all hypocrisy and sham.”

“How do you mean?”

“I have a suspicion that Edwin just may have tainted his honor.”

“In what way?”

“He was in trouble. Very deep trouble. I believe that is why he wanted to see you.”

“Please. What kind of trouble?”

“Bribery.” It soured her mouth. “They say he took money. He was being investigated.”

“By whom?”

“The Justice Department.”

“Whose money?”

“Ira Madden’s. The union man who is under prosecution in Edwin’s courtroom.”

“How do you know?”

“Edwin told me. He was upset, brooding, agitated. We were having one of our good moments together and he confided in me. He desperately needed to confide in someone. I was shocked. I do not know what evidence they have or where they got it, but if Edwin were innocent, if the charges had no substance, I cannot believe that he would have been so troubled. My husband, Mr. Jordan, was a terribly tortured man — and there was nothing I could do about it.”

I pondered the revelation. Could it possibly be true? A man of Judge Bolt’s position, his stature, accepting a bribe? What would be the quid pro quo? Well, a judge presiding over a trial carries considerable clout. The payoff could be a very handsome quid for the quo. In myriad ways he can influence the proceedings — by his attitude, facial expressions, biased rulings, and ultimately a prejudiced charge. But Judge Edwin Marcus Bolt involved in such paltry shenanigans? One never knows. Money is a powerful persuader. They say that every man has his price — just make it big enough. The union coffers were bulging, and Ira Madden certainly didn’t want to be shipped over. Maybe they had threatened the good judge, frightened him into compliance.

“Question,” I said. “Did you personally ever see the judge in the company of anyone from Amalgamated Mechanics?”

“Edwin was not an idiot, Mr. Jordan. Whatever else, not an idiot. He would never have openly consorted with anyone even remotely connected with a defendant on trial in his courtroom.”

“You want me to help you, Mrs. Bolt?”

“Of course.”

“Then please lay it out for me, everything you know. Was the judge secretly in contact with those people?”

Strain lines deepened around her mouth. She put a thumb knuckle between her teeth. She walked away and peered out the window. She came back. Her voice was low. “Edwin is dead. I have to protect his reputation.”

“Be concerned about your own. Nothing will bother him now. To get you off the hook, we may have to elect another suspect.”

She thought about it and then nodded slowly. “Last Sunday, in the afternoon, Edwin was here in the house, working with Andy—”

“Just a moment. Andy who?”

“Andrew Stock, his law clerk.”

“All right. Continue.”

“They had brought some legal reports from the library and they did not want to be disturbed. So they disconnected the phone in the study. Any calls came in, I took them in my bedroom.”

“You and the judge had separate bedrooms?”

“Yes. Edwin was a long-standing insomniac; a nighttime reader, a floor pacer. As it happens, I’m a very light sleeper, awake and up at the slightest sound. Well, you know how it is, a lady needs her beauty sleep. Edwin knew that and was sympathetic, so separate bedrooms was his suggestion.”

“All right,” I said. “On the Sunday in question, you were available to answer the telephone.”

“Yes. Only one call. Male. He wanted to talk to the judge. I tried to fob him off, told him the judge was busy, but he was adamant. He kept insisting, finally gave me a name and demanded I pass it on.”

“What name?”

“Oster — Floyd Oster. Does it ring a bell?”

“It rings. Floyd Oster is one of Ira Madden’s lieutenants at Amalgamated Mechanics. Did you pass it along to your husband?”

“Yes.”

“In Andrew Stock’s hearing?”

“Well, Andy wears a hearing aid which he keeps turned off unless he’s directly involved in a conversation. I do not know whether or not he heard.”

“What did your husband do?”

“He went into the adjoining bedroom and took the call in private.”

Not good, I decided; stupid, in fact. The judge should have flatly refused any contact, avoiding even the faintest taint of impropriety — at best, an indiscretion; at worst, a serious breach. Folly or greed had adulterated his judgment.

The bell rang and she went to the door. She came back with her stepdaughter and husband.

One did not have to be an astute observer to read Carol Denby. She was a demanding, frivolous type, with thin lips, dissatisfied eyes and fussy, constantly moving hands. Dressed in black, her eyes were red-rimmed from a night of mourning. Her father had been a very handsome man. Some aberrant chromosome must have produced this highly unappetizing creature. She did nothing to conceal her attitude toward Laura Bolt, and one could sense that her dislike was monumentally reciprocated.

Her husband, Clive Denby, insurance agent, was a plump, smug, humorless man, scented and pomaded and nattily dressed in a shaped suit of knitted acrylic.

He was curt with Mrs. Bolt, but solicitous of his wife, and he immediately took the floor as spokesman for the team.

“I understand, Mr. Jordan, you came to see my father-in-law last night.”

“That’s right.”

“Would you tell me why?”

“Because he asked me.”

“Do you know what he wanted?”

“I didn’t then. I do now.”

He put his hands on his hips. “Well?”

This kind of imperious behavior always gets my back up and turns me stubborn. “Sorry, Denby. It was a confidential matter. If the judge had wanted you to know, he would have confided in you.”

“The judge is dead. That wipes the slate clean on privileged communications between lawyer-client, doctor-patient, everybody.”

“Dead wrong. You don’t know what you’re talking about. Besides, the rule doesn’t apply here, since the judge never retained me, formally or otherwise.”

He curled a lip. “Ha! You never spoke to the judge. How would you know what he wanted to see you about?”

“Mrs. Bolt told me.”

Carol Denby wheeled toward her stepmother and demanded in a shrill voice, “Why did Daddy want to see a lawyer?”

“Let me handle this, dear,” her husband said. “All right, Laura, we have every right to know. What’s this all about?”

“I can’t tell you without my lawyer’s permission.”

“Lawyer? Who’s your lawyer?”

“Scott Jordan.”

He threw his arms up. “Why do you need a lawyer?”

“Because I’m under suspicion and you damn well know it because you made it perfectly clear to the police last night that Edwin and I were having difficulties.”

“Well, it’s the truth, isn’t it?”

“The situation was not that bad. You put the worst possible face on it. As a matter of fact, Clive, the way you act I believe you think I’m guilty.”

“Does the shoe fit, Laura?”

“Drop dead!” She spit it out and stormed furiously out of the room.

Denby was pleased with himself. He looked at me and said, “Are you going to defend her if she’s charged?”

“It hasn’t come to that yet. Maybe enough evidence for an indictment won’t be found.”

“My father-in-law’s gun is missing. Who else but Laura would know where he kept it?”

A new wrinkle. “The judge owned a gun?”

“Yes. A Colt .32 automatic.”

“The police know about that?”

“Of course. I told them.” He folded his arms across his chest. “You haven’t answered my question. Will you defend her?”

“Defending people accused of a crime is my business.”

“That’s a scrubby kind of business, wouldn’t you say?”

A less civilized man might have loosened a few of the man’s teeth but I just shook my head pityingly. It bothered him and he switched the baleful glance to his wife. “We’re wasting time on this character. Let’s get out of here, Carol.”

“Why should we leave?” she said, her tone surly. “I have as much right in this house as anyone.”

“That depends on the judge’s will,” I told her sweetly. “For all you know, he may have left the house to his wife.”

The very notion changed her expression to one of alarm and confusion. “Oh, no! I was brought up here. That can’t be possible. Clive, what is the man saying?”

He gave me a nasty look. “I suppose you expect to probate the will, too.”

“That’s up to the executor,” I said. “Whoever is named in the will.”

“We may have to contest it.”

“On what grounds? Undue influence? That he was non compos mentis?”

Carol Denby snapped, “He certainly could not have been in full possession of all his wits when he married that creature.”

“You’d be wasting your time and your money. Too many people knew the judge as a shrewd, levelheaded jurist.”

“He was obsessed by that woman. Mesmerized. She had a ring in his nose.”

There is a limit to my endurance, and I’d had enough. Without a word, I turned on my heel and headed for the door, knowing they would follow shortly after. Neither that house, nor any other, regardless of size, was large enough to hold Laura Bolt and the Denbys.

Outside, I glanced at my watch. The afternoon was still young. Much as I dislike the subway, it is the only means of rapid transit that Manhattan has to offer.

The U.S. Courthouse on Foley Square is a tall, antiseptic building, more functional than distinctive. I consulted the hall directory and then rode an elevator up to the chambers of Judge Edwin Marcus Bolt. His law clerk, Andrew Stock, was in the anteroom. Stocky, somewhere in his middle thirties, he had a Pekingese face, colorless hair, and bifocals that magnified his eyes.

He looked apathetic, forlorn and cheerless; and why not? Any new appointment to the bench would certainly insist upon a law assistant of his own choice. Mr. Andrew Stock’s job was in serious jeopardy.

He saw me coming through the door and turned up his hearing aid. I knew him as a fairly competent researcher who found it easier to concentrate on legal complexities with all auditory distractions eliminated, which gave him a chance to put his hearing defect to good advantage. Having tried a case before Judge Bolt only seven months ago, my identity was familiar to Stock.

I commiserated on the death of his sponsor and divulged my connection with the case. He nodded morosely.

“Yes, I knew the judge had called you. As a matter of fact, it was I who dialed your number. We had discussed various alternatives when the trouble arose.”

“The bribery investigation?”

He blinked through his bifocals. His tongue rimmed his lips. “You know about that? I thought he was already dead when you reached his home.”

“His wife informed me. Was there any substance to the charge?”

He started a denial, then swallowed it and shrugged. “I don’t know. I just don’t know. It’s hard to believe, but I’m afraid I have to admit it’s possible.”

“Ira Madden of Amalgamated Mechanics?”

“One of his men, yes. Acting on Madden’s behalf.”

“Floyd Oster?”

Stock nodded. “He’s the one.”

“So you think it’s possible the judge succumbed.”

He slowly nodded. “Yes, I do.”

“Why?”

“Because the investigation had him on edge. I never saw him so nervous. If they had the goods on him, you know what it meant. Disgrace. Drummed off the bench. Perhaps imprisoned. Loss of income. Everything gone. All the years wasted.”

“Was he delivering?”

“I don’t know. I do not attend court sessions.”

“And if he failed to deliver?”

“Would he take their money and then double-cross them? Do you play games with those boys?”

“Have you heard rumors about the trial?”

“Yes. He and the prosecutor were feuding.”

“Then the judge may have been fulfilling his contract. Nevertheless, the judge is dead. How do you like Mrs. Bolt as a candidate?”

“That was not a good marriage. You see, the judge used to work at home a lot. We did our research here, but most of the jury charges and decisions were written at the house. I was often there to help him. He had a small desk installed in the bedroom for me, so that he could have seclusion in the study. Sometimes Mrs. Bolt would join him there for an argument, and I could catch it if my hearing aid was on,” Stock said.

“What did they argue about?”

“Money, mostly. Or sometimes the late hours she kept. She was a compulsive spender, that woman. When the bills came in at the end of the month, he’d hit the ceiling. She spent the stuff like it was going out of style.”

So the judge needed money, I thought, and maybe Ira Madden’s offer looked attractive. “I understand he had a gun.”

“That’s right, permit and all.”

“Why a gun? After all, the man was a respected citizen. He didn’t travel around with jewelry samples. He didn’t use it for hunting, not a hand piece.”

“It was a hobby. Target practice; he had a range in the basement. He knew how to handle the thing, a first-rate marksman. It had a practical aspect, too. Several of the convicts he’d shipped over had made threats on his life, promised to ventilate him when they were released. That’s how he got the permit.”

I wondered if the police knew about that and were checking the federal penitentiaries. “What are your own plans now, Mr. Stock?”

He looked dejected. “I don’t know. It’s too late for me to start a private practice. Besides, I don’t have any clients, prospective or otherwise.” He eyed me hopefully. “Do you need a good research man?”

“I’ll keep you in mind. And I’ll ask around.”

It seemed to cheer him a little. He gave me a weak smile and raised his hand as I went through the door.

Outside, I patronized a telephone booth and got through to Sergeant Wienick at Homicide. He was not overjoyed to hear my voice. I asked about the autopsy.

“All finished, Counselor. Instantaneous death from a bullet wound in the head. Second shot not necessary. A little bonus for the corpse. You want the whole pathology?”

“No, sir. What’s all this about a second shot?”

“Through the heart. You just didn’t look closely enough. Or maybe the lack of blood threw you off.”

“Please,” I said, “elaborate.”

“Hardly any blood at all on the judge’s shirt. Figure it out yourself.”

“Did you find any bullets?”

“Yep. One on the judge’s desk and one lodged against his spine.”

“What caliber?”

“Thirty-two automatic.”

“Why an automatic?”

“Because an automatic ejects the shells and we found those too, Counselor.”

“I understand the judge owned a gun, also a .32 automatic.”

“Correct. And we found it.”

“Where?”

“Taped under the left rear fender of your client’s car. We put the arm on her half an hour ago and she’s been screaming for you ever since. Said she retained you this afternoon. Now why in hell would an innocent woman want a lawyer before she’s even charged? Tell me that, hey? So we’re doing a ballistics check and five will get you twenty the lady’s gun shelved her husband.”

“Motive,” I said, “where’s the motive?”

“Money, Counselor, money. I don’t know how the judge was fixed, but he took out an insurance policy only one month ago, five hundred thousand buckeroos, half a million. How does that grab you for motive?”

“Who’s the beneficiary?”

“I haven’t seen the policy, but who do you think?”

“It complicates matters,” I said.

“No, sir, it simplifies them. Okay, Counselor, I’m talking too much. The lieutenant says I suffer from a loose Up. So no more conversation. Fini. You’re on the other side now. You want more conversation, talk to the district attorney. It’s his baby now. So please get your educated carcass over here on the double. The judge’s widow is hollering bloody murder. She wants her lawyer.”

The receiver clicked and the line went dead.

Laura Bolt had not yet been processed and was still at the precinct house. She had been politely and judiciously handled, advised that she was entitled to counsel from the inception of custody, and she had refused all dialogue. She knew enough to keep her tongue disconnected, but in those surroundings she was out of her element, pale and strained. They allowed me a brief private session. My eyes encompassed the room in a broad sweep, searching for bugs, but of course nothing was obvious.

“Keep your voice low,” I said. “What do you know about the gun?”

“I don’t know anything about the gun.”

“You knew the judge had one.”

“Yes.”

“Where did he keep it?”

“In the drawer of his bedside table.” She shook her head, whispering fiercely. “But I didn’t take it, I didn’t use it, and I didn’t hide it.”

“Did your husband mention a new insurance policy?”

“Yes. He had borrowed heavily on his old one and there wasn’t much equity in it. He wanted a new policy and he wanted to give Clive Denby the business.”

“You know the amount?”

“Half a million dollars. He thought Clive could use the commission.”

“Who is the beneficiary?”

“My husband’s estate.”

“Does he have a will?”

“Of course. He drafted it himself and Andy Stock typed it.”

“Is it in his safe-deposit box?”

“I don’t think so. I remember he told me that he kept most of his important papers locked in a file in his chambers at the courthouse. Just as safe as a bank, he said, and more easily accessible.”

In a way, he was right. It was unlikely anyone would break into a federal courthouse to ransack a judge’s chambers. Too, if he needed an important document at night, it would be available.

“If your husband named you as executrix in his will, would you want me to handle the probate?”

“Yes.”

I took out a piece of paper and a pen, wrote out a brief retainer and had her sign it. She returned the pen and plucked at my sleeve.

“Are they going to lock me up for the night?”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to remain in custody until the preliminary hearing.”

“Then what happens to me?”

“You’ll be bound over for action by the grand jury.”

“Will they grant bail?”

“Not on a murder charge, I’m afraid.”

Her eyes swam in quick moisture. “Oh, what are they trying to do to me?”

“Whatever it is,” I said, “I’ll try to stop it. But I have to get out in the field to help you. Now, you know the script. No statements. Button up and stay buttoned. Am I clear?”

She nodded, gulped and smiled like a woman suffering from an attack of mumps.

A phone call to Judge Bolt’s chambers caught Andrew Stock just as he was leaving for the day. I asked him if he remembered who had been appointed executor in the judge’s will. He remembered. The judge’s wife. I told him that she had retained me to handle probate. He had not yet heard about the arrest.

“Can you open the judge’s confidential file?” I asked.

“Yes. I have a key.”

“Good. I’d like to see the will and perhaps file it with the surrogate tomorrow morning. Please bring the will home with you and I’ll pick it up later.”

He said he would and he gave me his address. He seemed pitifully eager to cooperate with me.

Ira Madden, I knew, was out on bail. Naturally; only money was involved. Money can be replaced, but the big crime, murder, could never be undone. I realized that an attempt to see Madden, insulated by union retainers and isolated in a special apartment atop union headquarters, would be futile. The judge’s demise, I suspected, had probably initiated festivities. They would be celebrating the declaration of a mistrial. Union lawyers knew that the longer a trial can be delayed, the harder it gets to convict.

So I decided on an alternative. A telephone directory gave me the address of Floyd Oster, Madden’s hireling. I found it to be a renovated brownstone near Lincoln Center. By osmosis, perhaps, Floyd Oster might absorb a faint trace of culture. As I climbed to his apartment on the second floor, I realized that I had devised no approach, no campaign. I would have to play it by ear.

He answered the bell, a carp-faced, sulphurous and savage little man in a white T-shirt, holding an empty whiskey bottle like a club.

“Mr. Oster?” I said.

“Who wants to know?”

“You probably never heard of me. The name is Jordan, Scott Jordan. I’m a lawyer, you see.”

“I heard of you.” From the sound it seemed as if someone had permanently ruined his larynx.

“Could we talk in private?”

“About what?”

“Ira Madden and Judge Edwin Marcus Bolt.”

The carp face suddenly closed up completely; it went utterly blank. “The judge is dead.”

“True. But Ira is still alive.”

“And just where do you fit in?”

“The judge’s widow has retained me.”

“To do what?”

“Defend her in court. They think she killed her husband.”

He smiled, if the mechanical distortion of that blade-thin mouth could be called a smile. “How about that?”

“I thought you might help.”

“Yeah? How?”

“The judge’s widow will have to get up a decent fee. I’d like to know where the money is.”

“What money?”

“The money you paid Judge Bolt to throw Madden’s trial.”

He lowered his voice to a harsh whisper. “You lost your marbles, Counselor? You off your rocker, making an accusation like that? You know what the penalty is for bribing a federal judge?”

“Not as heavy as the penalty for killing one.”

“That’s no skin off my nose, buster. Go defend your client.”

“She’s innocent.”

“So prove it in court.”

“I intend to, by showing who really did it.”

It got through to him and a muscle started throbbing in his temple. “Get lost. If we bought the judge, why would we knock him off? You can’t have it both ways. You can’t—”

He clamped down on the rest of it because we suddenly had a pair of visitors mounting the stairs behind me. Two clean-cut, brush-cut, muscular all-American types joined us and politely inquired, “Floyd Oster?”

I pointed. “Him.”

“And you, sir, who are you?”

“Just a visitor trying to get some information.”

“Afraid you’ll have to get in line, sir. We have a warrant for Floyd Oster’s arrest.” He flashed his wallet. “Federal Bureau of Investigation. The charge is bribery and corruption of a government official.”

I edged sideways along the wall, anxious to avoid a crossfire if Oster were foolhardy enough to resist. But the boys were trained and highly efficient and in the single blink of an eye they had Floyd Oster by each arm and were hustling him toward the street so that his toes barely touched the stairs.

I followed them down and watched as they bundled him into a car and hauled him off. For all his bravado, I had a feeling that Oster would quickly melt under heat. Ira Madden’s celebration was probably premature.

Suddenly it hit me that I was hungry. I had been cruising around the city all day, working, talking, ignoring the inner man, so I blew myself to a steak, with a large stein of beer.

Renewed, I sallied forth to take possession of Judge Bolt’s last will and testament from his clerk, Andy Stock.

It was an old prewar building on Lex. A palsied self-service elevator took me to the fifth floor. The radio was playing some heavy classical music. I rang the bell and waited. I rang again and waited some more. I tried the knob and it turned and the door opened.

The music was appropriate — a volcano of sound from Richard Wagner. It fitted the scene. Somebody had taken a carving knife to Andrew Stock and opened his throat from ear to ear.

I almost lost my expensive steak.

No more problems for Mr. Stock, no worry about a new job; his life and his career and his dream were over. He had joined his late employer. I did not bother calling a doctor. There would be no point in wasting a doctor’s time. What Andrew Stock needed was a mortician.

I saw his briefcase resting on the dresser. I anchored it with my elbow and maneuvered the zipper, leaving no prints. I had no reservations about lifting the document. A quick look informed me that, following a few specific bequests, the judge had divided his residual estate equally between wife and daughter. I refolded the will and tucked it away in my inside breast pocket.

Then I used Andrew Stock’s telephone and called Sergeant Wienick. On hearing the latest bulletin, he had a few choice Anglo-Saxon words for me.

They had done what had to be done, all the technicians, the photographers, the fingerprint men, then the assistant medical examiner, and finally the basket boys for hauling the remains to the morgue.

Now Sergeant Wienick and I were on our way in a police car to see Carol and Clive Denby. I needed some information about the judge’s insurance policy. Neither of the Denbys, I knew, would give me the right time, but with the sergeant to back me up they would probably cooperate.

Apparently the lid was off and Wienick had instructions. “Well, Counselor,” he said, “I spoke to the lieutenant, long-distance, and he told me to work with you in concord. So here it is. Ballistics finished their check. It locks it up for Mrs. Bolt. The bullets that killed her husband match the gun we took from her car, the grooves, the rate of pitch, the whole bit, micrometer accurate.”

“I had no doubt they would.”

“It doesn’t worry you?”

“A little.”

“And you know what else we found?”

“What?”

“A shoe box stuffed with money, large bills, fifty grand. The FBI thinks it’s union money, they think the judge got it from Ira Madden.”

“What clued them in?”

“They’ve had Madden under surveillance for over a year. They bugged his phone, heard incriminating talk. It led them to Floyd Oster and they picked him up.”

“I know.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Who told you?”

“I was there.”

He took it in stride. “Cash,” he said. “Crazy. They must have been spreading it all over the lot. Even that Andrew Stock. Thirty-five hundred in brand-new fifties stuffed into a shoe in his closet. What’s with the shoes these days? Don’t these people trust banks?”

I had nothing to say to him. But my mind was racing. All the little jigsaw pieces were falling into a discernible pattern.

The Denbys greeted us without enthusiasm. In her nasal voice, Carol Denby opened fire at once. “I heard on the radio that you arrested my stepmother. Is that true, Sergeant? Did you really?”

“It’s true,” he said.

“Good,” she snapped with grim satisfaction. “I’m not surprised. I never trusted that woman from the first moment I met her. A vain, greedy piece of baggage after my father’s money. I’m sorry only about one thing, that they’ve abolished capital punishment in this state. I hope you put her away for life at hard labor. A little sweat and humility would do her good.”

Clive Denby said, “If Laura’s guilty, we want to see her punished. Is there anything we can do to help, Sergeant?”

“Jordan, here, has a few questions.”

I got a look of poorly veiled disapproval. “Isn’t this a little irregular, Sergeant? Jordan represents the accused. He wants to exonerate her and you two most certainly would be working at cross-purposes.”

“We just want to nail down all the facts, Mr. Denby.”

He shrugged in a gesture of long-suffering forbearance. His eyes focused on me.

I said, “I understand you recently wrote a new life insurance policy for your father-in-law.”

“Eight, nine months ago.”

“For half a million dollars?”

“That is not an unusual amount for a man in his position.”

“And you knew, of course, that his estate was named as the beneficiary?”

“Of course I knew.”

“Were you also aware that under the terms of his will both his wife and his daughter would share equally in the proceeds of that policy?”

“He had so informed me.”

“I take it that the policy was in force at the time of the judge’s death?”

“Oh, yes. My father-in-law was meticulous about paying premiums. There were no arrears.”

“Does the policy also contain that lovely clause providing double indemnity in the case of death by accident or violence?”

“It does.”

Wienick’s pursed lips emitted an awed whistle. “You mean the five hundred grand becomes one million because somebody put a bullet through the judge’s skull?”

Accurate, but indelicate, especially in front of heirs, but par for the course with Wienick.

“That is true, Sergeant.” I turned back to Denby. “Is the policy nullified by suicide?”

“Yes. It is a standard provision in such contracts. Self-destruction cancels the policy.”

“So if the judge knocked himself off, your wife gets nothing. Zero. She’s out in the cold.”

Carol Denby gasped. “That’s a terrible thing to say. Only a deranged man would take his own life.”

“So.” I cocked an eye at her. “You yourself told me that your father must have been unbalanced when he married Laura.”

“Now, wait a minute,” Wienick broke in. “Hold on here, Counselor. Let me get this straight. Are you intimating that nobody killed Judge Bolt, that we’re whistling up a tree, that the man was a suicide?”

“I am not intimating,” I said. “I am proclaiming it outright. The judge was not a homicide victim. He took his own gun, pointed it, pulled the trigger, and blew out his own brains.”

Carol Denby gave a stricken cry, her hands a bowknot of distress at her throat.

Her husband said, his face simulating a look of lofty contempt, “This man is demented, Sergeant. He has rocks in his head. He is utterly irresponsible.”

Wienick’s narrowed eyes searched mine. “How do you figure it, Counselor?”

“Judge Bolt,” I said, “was frightened unto death, scared spitless. He knew that he was under investigation for accepting a bribe. He knew too that he was guilty and that—”

“My father?” Carol Denby shrilled. “A bribe? What are you saying?”

“We found fifty thousand dollars cash in a shoe box,” Wienick snapped. “Where the hell do you think he got it?”

Her hands were fluttering, her mouth spluttering. She subsided when her husband put a protective arm around her.

“When the boys began to move in oh the judge,” I said, “he knew the game was up. He was afraid the contact man, Floyd Oster, would make a deal and turn state’s evidence. He did not need a crystal ball. He could see the future, disgrace and a prison sentence, staring at him. The pressure was too great. He could not face it. He was terrified and distraught, half out of his mind with despair. There was no way out — except one — and he took it. A bullet in his head.”

“Come off it,” Denby said. “You can’t know that for a fact. If the judge killed himself, what happened to the gun?”

“You took it,” I said.

“What!”

“You took it, Denby. You arrived at the house shortly after it happened. You went up to the study and you saw him sitting there, dead, and you knew what it meant. You could see that half a million dollars go down the drain. A terrible loss. So you acted. He had dropped the gun on the floor and you picked it up. You had to get out of there, but first, for insurance, to bolster the murder angle, you pumped another shot at him. Death by violence. Double indemnity, and double the ante. One million bucks.”

A spasmodic twitch pulled at the juncture of Denby’s jaw. “Slander,” he said hoarsely. “In front of witnesses.”

I laughed. “You’ve got a lot more to worry about than slander. And if you’re talking about witnesses, hell yes, there was a witness.”

Wienick’s hand clamped over my arm. “A witness? Who?”

“Andrew Stock,” I said. “The judge’s law clerk. Stock saw it.”

“How do you know?”

“Remember the cigarette butts? And the smoke? They were his. He was there, as usual, in the next room, the bedroom, working. He did not hear the first shot because his hearing aid was disconnected. Routine for him. But then, probably because he had found some rule of law or precedent he wanted to show the judge, he turned it on and headed for the study. That’s when he heard the second shot. He peeked through the door and saw Denby, standing there with the gun. He never said a word. He was in shock. He backed away, thinking only of saving his own life. Maybe he even hid in a closet.”

Clive Denby smiled, a hideous grimace. “Guesswork,” he said. “All guesswork.”

“It’s a lot more than that, Denby. There was almost no blood from the second shot. Meaning the judge was already dead. That was thoughtless, Denby. Careless. You weren’t thinking clearly. You were nervous, under pressure.”

“You could never prove anything like that. Stock is dead.”

Sergeant Wienick gave a start.

“Exactly,” I said. “But how would you know? It hasn’t been broadcast yet. You know because you yourself put him on the shelf. Poor, ugly, ineffective Andrew Stock. When he thought it over, he realized he’d be out of a job. No work, no income. And then he had the glimmer of an idea. He had information. He knew something that was worth money. Why not make it pay off? So, Denby, he shook you down for a slice of the insurance money. You were on a spot and you had no choice. But all you could raise at the moment was thirty-five hundred dollars. We found it in Stock’s apartment. You searched for it, didn’t you? But couldn’t find it, because you were in a hurry and didn’t look in the right place. You could have found it in one of his shoes.”

“More guesswork,” he whispered.

“Is it? Suppose we check your bank account for recent withdrawals. What will it show? Have you pulled thirty-five hundred dollars in the last twenty-four hours?”

What it would show was etched on his face. He crouched back, his breathing ragged, watching me with a kind of reptilian venom. His wife edged away from him, staring in vacillating faith bordering on shocked incredulity.

“Andrew Stock,” I said, “that poor sad little clown, did not know what he was getting into. He did not know that there is only one solution for handling a blackmailer. Unless you want to keep on paying until he milks you dry, you have to stop his clock for good, once and for all. You have to end the demands by ending the blackmailer — and that’s what you did. You finished him off with a carving knife from his own kitchen.”

Wienick had moved closer, watchful and alert. He said to me, not taking his eyes from Denby, “And are you telling us this man framed the judge’s widow by planting the gun in her car?”

“I am telling you exactly that. Oh, he’s a shrewd one, all right. It threw up a smoke screen to mislead the police. If it worked, if she were implicated and convicted, Denby’s wife would rake in all the chips, the whole million, because under the law a murderer is not permitted to inherit from his victim through the commission of homicide. Cold-blooded? Letting an innocent woman take the rap? You bet your life! But he felt no compunctions at all because he hated the woman. So he began to spin his little web of duplicity to mask the truth and line his pockets.”

Clive Denby’s eyes were feverish, abnormally bright, and his breathing had a harsh catarrhal quality. He kept shaking his head.

“Whatever you may think of Laura Bolt,” I said, “she is no cretin, no imbecile. She would never hide a murder weapon in her own car. She’s at least smart enough to maybe drop it off the Staten Island ferry where it would be lost forever.”

Moisture bathed Denby’s face from hairline to chin. His whispered voice sounded hollow and forced. “No proof. You have no proof. Not one iota of proof.”

“Wrong,” I said. “Dead wrong. Haven’t you ever heard of the nitrate test? Whenever a man fires a gun, some of the unburned powder grains are blown back and buried in the skin of his hand. Powder tattooing, it’s called, and it can be picked out with a forceps to show whether or not you’ve handled a gun. It doesn’t come off with soap and water, Denby. They’re going to test you, sure as hell. You can’t stop them. Is there any nitrate residue on your hand now, Denby?”

He clenched his fists and held them near his chest for a moment. Then he opened his right hand and looked at it — and then he left the rails completely. In a sudden obliterating fog of mindless rage, bellowing obscenities, he lunged at me. I sidestepped and as he went past, Wienick rabbit-punched him at the base of the neck. Wienick’s hand is like a cleaver. Denby went down on his knees, gulping for air. His wife cut loose with a long despairing cry and then bent over, covering her face.

I didn’t feel particularly sorry for either of them.