A Handy Death

Chapter 2

Jeannot, maître d’ of the Sign of the Dove at sixty-fifth and Third Avenue, smiled happily at Ross and Sharon as he ushered them to a corner table. He flicked his hand majestically, waving aside the waiter who had appeared, making it quite evident that he considered it an honor to handle the requirements of these favored customers himself.

“It has been a long time, M’sieu Ross!” Jeannot’s heavy French accent did not obscure his meaning as he chided Ross for his extended absence. “And Miss McCloud! And we have had your favorite dish every day this week, too.” He raised his head dramatically, daring Ross to challenge his statement. “Trout!”

Ross laughed.

“Not today, Jeannot. I’ve eaten enough trout the past two weeks to last me a lifetime. Or, anyway, for at least several months. The next mistake I make in court, the District Attorney’s office will have to scale me instead of skinning me.”

He saw the hurt look that crossed Jeannot’s plump, handsome face and hurried to explain that he had not been unfaithful to his favorite restaurant.

“Not in New York, Jeannot. In Maine. Over a campfire.”

“Ah!” Jeannot understood and was satisfied. He raised a finger in the direction of the bar; the waiting bartender had been expecting it. He instantly began to prepare a very cold, extra-dry martini for Sharon; in the refrigerator beneath the bar he had, for Mr. Ross, a particularly chilled bottle of Cerveza Schneider, Argentinian beer, and the world’s best.

“But I haven’t,” Sharon said calmly. She laid aside her menu and smiled at Jeannot. “So I will.”

The maître d’ was puzzled. “Ma’am’selle?”

“I haven’t been eating trout over a campfire in Maine,” Sharon explained, “so I’ll have it here.”

“Much better,” Jeannot assured her, and smiled. “And for M’sieu Ross, in that case, a thick steak, très succulent, with pommes de terre hash brown and two salads of the house, n’est-ce pas?”

He beamed at the two of them, never doubting for a moment that his selection had been both accurate and gastronomically wise, motioned imperiously to a waiter to hustle the waiting drinks from the bar, and strode away, shoulders back and mustache alert, prepared to do battle in the kitchen for these special patrons, if need be.

Ross accepted his beer from the waiter and raised the chilled glass.

“Here’s luck. It’s good to be back in civilization — if you want to call it that — again.”

“It’s good to see you back,” Sharon said, and smiled at him over the rim of her martini. “You’ve spoiled me, taking me on so many business trips. Now I feel left out of things when I’m not invited along on a nonbusiness trip, like camping.”

“You could have done the cooking,” Ross admitted. “I might still like trout. Except that without you in the office, there wouldn’t be any business left to come back to. Steve’s a good boy and one day he’ll be a fine lawyer, but he couldn’t run the office. Any more than I could.” He smiled and raised his glass. “Here’s to the indispensable Miss Sharon McCloud—”

There was a slight tap on his shoulder. Ross looked up to find himself facing a rather excessively thin man, whose lined cheeks were clearly the result of excesses rather than age. At one time he might have been handsome, but he appeared as if he had aged faster than usual. He was wearing clothes more suitable for a person much younger than himself, and he could have used a shave. Ross looked at the man without expression, masking his irritation with the interruption.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Ross?” The question was clearly redundant, nor did the tall, thin man make the slightest effort to hide the fact.

“Yes, I’m Mr. Ross.”

“Press.”

The folder in the man’s hand appeared for an instant and then disappeared into an inner pocket of the flashy sports jacket before Ross had a chance to properly examine it or even to verify its authenticity. Sharon looked at the man curiously and then brought her eyes down to Ross’s face. Ross frowned up at the tall man.

“How did you know I was here?”

“I was at your office,” the man said easily. “Your telephone operator said you’d just left for lunch. I asked her where, but she denied knowing. That’s probably your idea of a good telephone-receptionist—”

Ross said evenly, “It is.”

“—but in any event, when I came down the elevator I saw you and your young lady crossing the street, and I simply followed.”

“I see. Well, I appreciate the Press, of course, but I’m sorry. At the moment I’m about to have my lunch.”

“I hate to disturb you,” the man said smoothly, “but your paragon of a telephone operator also said she didn’t know if you’d be returning after lunch, and it was important that I see you.”

“I’ll be back in the office after lunch,” Ross said, his dislike for the thin man growing by the minute, “but I’m afraid I have a rather busy schedule today...”

It was clearly a rejection, but the thin man didn’t seem to notice.

“Too busy to find out why you’d be better off talking to me before taking on the Dupaul case?” The skeletal face broke into a smile that looked like a rictus. The teeth were huge blocks of white, out of proportion to the sunken cheeks and narrow jaw. He winked broadly at Ross and started to turn away. “I’ll be looking for you in your office in an hour or so. Don’t rush your lunch on my account.”

“Hold it! Could I see that press card again?”

The thin man almost sneered.

“Of course. Be my guest.”

He reached into his inner jacket pocket and brought out the folder, opening it and placing it face upward on the table before Ross. The lawyer picked it up and studied it carefully; his eyes came up, matching the photograph behind the shiny plastic with the gaunt face smiling down at him so sardonically. The blocks of teeth were bared in a grin.

“Satisfied?”

“Your name is Jerry Coughlin?”

“That’s what it says, doesn’t it?”

“A stringer in sports for the Daily Mirror?”

“Among other papers,” Coughlin said calmly. “We can’t all work for U.P.I. or be staffers on the Times, you know. Everybody can’t make like Hildy Johnson in The Front Page.”

He reached out. Pencil-like fingers removed the folder from Ross’s hand and tucked the press card away in a pocket again. Coughlin looked down at Ross with a faint smile on his face.

“See the story in the Mirror this morning?”

“I read the Times.”

“Tough on you,” Coughlin said. “I dug out the story on that prison break try at Attica yesterday. The Mirror carried it.” His eyes held those of Ross for a moment. “Good reading.”

Something cued Ross to his next line. “Under your own by-line?”

For a moment the composure of the thin man faltered. Coughlin frowned blackly.

“It should have been, but it wasn’t. But I’ve got a lovely by-lined story that’ll be in the next edition you might be interested in. It’ll be out on the streets pretty soon.” He turned away again. “I’ll be waiting in your office an hour from now.”

Ross stared thoughtfully after the narrow shoulders in the loud sports jacket as they edged their way past waiters and tables to reach the street and disappear beyond the visual limits afforded by the curtained, latticed windows. He turned back to Sharon, raising his glass slowly, staring into the golden contents as if to find some answer there.

“The trouble with practicing criminal law—” he began slowly.

“What about it?” Sharon asked.

“It’s some of the people you have to associate with,” Ross said, and finished his beer in one swallow.

The emaciated Jerry Coughlin shook his head decisively as Sharon seated herself at her desk in Ross’s office, opened a new stenographic notebook, and reached for a sharpened pencil.

“No dice,” Coughlin said firmly.

“What?”

“I mean, alone,” Coughlin said emphatically.

“There is no ‘alone’ in this law office,” Ross said quietly. “Miss McCloud is my confidential secretary, and in this office that word means just what it says. She sits in on all my conferences.”

“But not on mine.”

Ross shrugged. “Sorry.”

Coughlin didn’t argue. Instead he raised his narrow shoulders in lack of interest and stood up.

“I came here to do you a favor, Ross. Either we do it my way or we don’t do it at all.”

Ross studied the bean pole of a man towering across the desk from him, watching him almost indolently. Several seconds passed before Ross came to a decision. He nodded to Sharon; she understood, closed her book, rose and left the room. Coughlin crossed the room and closed the door firmly behind her. He came back and sat down. There was no trace of expression on his face, no hint of triumph. Ross shook his head.

“You realize, of course, that I could have a tape recorder turned on this minute—” And a pity he hadn’t, he thought, with at least ten casette recorders in the various offices. “—or the room itself could be bugged, and my secretary could be in another room taking down everything you say.”

“I know,” Coughlin said calmly. “I also know that tape-recorder evidence stands far less chance in a courtroom than do personal witnesses.” He leaned across the desk, getting right to the point. “Ross, let’s not fight. We’re on the same side of the fence. Like I told you, I’m here to do you a favor. I covered that riot at Attica Prison yesterday. I was at the baseball game when the trouble started.”

“Doing what? The paper assigned you?”

“I don’t get assignments, or anyway, damned few. I work on my own. If I dig up something hot, I peddle it.”

“And what made you think something hot would happen at Attica Prison yesterday? Of all days?”

“I didn’t, particularly. But they’ve got a prison league and, believe it or not, there’s a certain amount of interest in prison sports. Ex-cons, maybe, figuring it’s their alma mater. Or family, maybe, of guys on the teams — lets them know that if Daddy’s hustling out in left field, at least he isn’t in the freezer. Anyway, I cover prison sports as a stringer, sometimes sell a couple of paragraphs to the local papers, sometimes sell a couple of lines in one of the big-time rags—”

“So?”

“So I saw what happened — exactly what happened.”

“And exactly what did happen?”

“Well,” Coughlin said, “I’ve seen Billy Dupaul pitch a lot of ball games over the years. He’s good. Big-league stuff, like he was when he first came up as a bonus baby. Maybe even better; stronger, more mature. But this time he throws four balls, one right on top of the other. And the cons in the stands don’t care greatly for the umpire’s calls, so they stage a slight riot.”

He shook his head with an indication of sadness at the vicissitudes of baseball, but his eyes were alert and bright, watching Ross sardonically.

Ross returned the look evenly. “So?”

“It was a setup,” Coughlin said flatly. “It was a plant.”

“Why?” Ross asked mildly. “I’ve seen the best pitchers in the business throw four balls in a row.”

“Sure — facing Willy Mays or Hank Aaron, maybe,” Coughlin said, nodding. “But Billy Dupaul was facing a clown named Ryan, doing a ten-to-twenty for safecracking. A safe’s about the only thing can’t run away from Ryan. He’s slower than glacier ice. Dupaul and Millard — he was back of the plate — those two can play catch a couple of times while Ryan is getting the bat off his shoulder. Dupaul can throw it past Ryan ten out of ten, but in this game — after a perfect warm-up — he throws four straight balls. I ask you!”

Coughlin paused for a moment for effect and then went on.

“And then what do you think just happened to happen?” The thin man opened his eyes wide for effect. “Surprise, surprise! A Donnybrook out on the field and the guards come from all over the joint — they’re still pretty much on edge at Attica, you know; a guy sneezes in the yard and he’s apt to get shot if he reaches for a handkerchief — and while everyone’s milling around on the athletic field, over on the far side of the joint two cons are making tracks for the open spaces!”

He leaned back triumphantly, his point made. Ross nodded politely.

“Well, it’s a fascinating story, and I appreciate your taking the time to tell me — but why?”

“Why what?”

“Why are you telling this to me?”

“Well,” Coughlin said, “seeing as how you’ll be taking on Dupaul’s defense on that murder charge—”

“I am? Where did you hear that? And when?”

“I heard it,” Coughlin said. “That’s all that counts. Are you trying to deny it?”

“Skip it,” Ross said. “Stick with the first question. Why are you telling me all about that ball game at Attica Prison?”

Coughlin stared at him a moment.

“Mr. Ross, you aren’t stupid.”

“Thank you. In general I would agree, but I’m afraid in this case—”

“I get it. You want me to spell it out for you. Do you think I’m afraid to? I’m not.”

“Good,” Ross said quietly. “Go ahead.”

“I will. Billy Dupaul’s going up for murder one within a very short time, and being involved in a prison break that cost a guard’s life isn’t going to help his chances. Not the way feelings still are over Attica. I know it, you know it, and we both know the other knows it.”

Ross remained silent, watching the man. Coughlin shook his head.

“And don’t try to tell me the DA can’t bring this prison break into the murder trial, because if he can’t he’s a lot more incompetent than I think he is. Sure, he’s not supposed to — and you’ll object like crazy, and the judge will bust his gavel pounding, and he’ll sustain all your objections, and strike tons of stuff from the record and all that noise — but what do you think will be going through the minds of the jurors? You know as well as I do.”

Ross smiled faintly. “You sound like a lawyer yourself.”

“I’m no lawyer but I’ve been around. I’ve seen the inside of courtrooms, and not as a prisoner, either. I know how they work. I know how the minds of juries work, too.”

“And how do the minds of juries work?”

“They work like this: Here’s this guy Dupaul, a bad apple, a two-time loser — look what happened up at Attica the other day. Last time they had a riot up there forty-three guys got killed. Riots are bad things; any guy starting one ought to be shot. What’s the judge saying? Don’t pay any attention to the riot and him starting it? What’s the judge saying? The guy isn’t charged with the riot, just with another murder eight years ago? Well, hell, sure he’s guilty! Any guy who would start a riot at a place like Attica must be a mad dog; ought to hang. I vote guilty.”

Coughlin pointed his finger around the room, stabbing it toward imaginary jurors.

“Me, too! Me, too! Me, too!”

He stared across the desk, his hand falling beside him.

“That’s the way the minds of juries work, Mr. Ross, nine times out of ten. And we both know it.”

Ross’s face was expressionless. “Anything else?”

“I think you have the picture,” Coughlin said. “Your turn.” He leaned back.

“Then let me ask you a few questions. Any objections?”

“None.” It was apparent that Coughlin did not lack confidence.

“Good. First of all, then, where were you — physically — when you were watching this baseball game?”

“On the south wall.”

“With the guards there? In one of the towers?”

“No. Over the athletic field. The field is located between the south wall and the main cell block, with the shops and the power plant and the hospital and rec building around it like sort of half an H. Anyway, over the athletic field, maybe halfway along the wall between towers, they’ve built a little sort of press box mounted down from the top of the wall a bit. A spectator box would be a better word for it; I guess they don’t get many reporters at their sports events. It’s for visitors, or off-duty guards, or anyone else who wants to watch a game and has the clearance to sit there.”

“And you have clearance?”

Coughlin looked at Ross as if this was a question beneath the intelligence of the other. Ross returned the stare imperturably. Coughlin shrugged.

“Of course.”

“Were there any other visitors there at the time? Any off-duty guards watching? Or were you there alone?”

“I was alone. Oh, the warden came by and said hello, but that was before the game started. They were at batting practice when he was there. All little angels. But I was up there alone when the game started.”

“How about on the field itself during the game? Any non-convicts? Who umpires the games, by the way? Other convicts? Trustees?”

“Guards,” Coughlin said emphatically. “They used to have prisoners as umpires — trustees — but the story is that after one bum call, or anyway one unpopular call, that trustee wandered into the Yard after lunch and was ganged up on. Damn near killed. Now they use guards.” He smiled humorously, his huge teeth showing. “The men can’t hate umpires more than they already hate screws.”

“I see. And who coaches the ball club? Or ball clubs? Do they have more than one team?”

“Well, sure. You ever try to play ball with just one team? They have a regular league. Six thousand men at Attica, remember.”

“And who runs the league? Who schedules the games, handles the equipment, things like that? Other guards?”

“Father Swiaki handles the whole sports program. He’s the prison chaplain. Remember Swiaki? All-American from Holy Cross about ’65 or ’66? A fabulous tackle.”

Ross disregarded Father Swiaki’s credentials.

“Was Father Swiaki present at the time of the game? And the disturbance?”

“You mean the so-called disturbance. The Maypole dance. Sure,” Coughlin said. “But he was sitting on the bench. I could see him.” He paused, leaned forward significantly, and added, “You can’t see a thing from field level. You sure can’t judge a ball from a strike sitting on the bench. That’s why I get such a kick out of a manager charging from the dugout and screaming about a call. Hell, he’s lucky he can see the batter’s shoes from there!”

“But you can see clearly from the spectator’s box?”

“Clear as a bell,” Coughlin said smugly.

“And what did Father Swiaki do during the riot? According to you, the so-called riot?”

“What could he do? Oh, he was out there trying to separate guys, but it was a joke. Like I’m trying to tell you it was a plant, a fake. It wasn’t a real riot. Five will get you ten nobody got a scratch in that Maypole dance!”

“I’m not a betting man.” Ross picked up a pencil idly; he looked from the pencil to Coughlin’s face. “All right. I’ve got the scene. Now, tell me about the ball game itself.”

“I told you. Dupaul purposely threw four straight balls to a klutz like Ryan to give the men a chance to yammer, and they did. And that was the cover-up for the escape try. Clear?”

“Clear enough,” Ross said. “In your story — or rather, the story you passed on to a staffer on the Mirror and for which you got no credit — did you mention your suspicion that the riot had been staged?”

“It was no suspicion.”

“Whatever it was. Did you mention it?”

“Who, me?” Coughlin assumed an innocent air, but there was a faint smile on his face. “And open myself up to a possible libel suit? Or — even worse — find myself testifying to that effect in court? Not a chance. Oh, I may have said that an unidentified guard claimed it as a possibility, but that’s about all.” He paused significantly. “Otherwise I wouldn’t be here doing you this favor.”

Ross nodded. He put his pencil aside and leaned back in his swivel chair, his hands behind his head, studying the confident figure across from him. He seemed to come to a conclusion and brought his hands down, straightening up.

“All right, Mr. Coughlin. Let me see if I understand you correctly. According to you, you are the sole reliable witness as to what occurred yesterday on the athletic field at Attica Prison. The guards on the field were in no position to properly judge the pitching — other than the umpire, who agrees with you — and Father Swiaki was on the bench, which is also a poor place for proper observation. And the prisoners in the bleachers, of course, would have been in on the plan. Correct?”

“You’re doing fine, Counselor.”

“Now,” Ross continued, “if I also understand you correctly, what you saw at the ball game clearly indicated that Billy Dupaul threw four balls purposely for the purpose of giving an excuse for the riot that followed, and in which three men, including a guard, died. This testimony, in your opinion, would be very detrimental to Billy Dupaul’s chances in his pending murder trial. Am I still correct?”

“Right on,” Coughlin said, and nodded his head, as one would to encourage a bright child in a recitation.

“All right,” Ross said. “You are also willing, I gather — for a price to be determined — to go on the witness stand in court and, according to your statement here today, perjure yourself and state that William Dupaul pitched both honestly and well, but that Dupaul was the victim of poor umpiring. I assume as a sports reporter you could qualify as an expert. Therefore, Dupaul would be innocent of any part in the escape attempt, and therefore of any culpability in the death of the prison guard. Is that substantially it?”

“Mr. Ross!” Coughlin looked shocked, but the pose was transparent. He seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself. “If you should really have a tape recorder going—”

“I don’t.”

“—I would simply like to go on record as saying I suggested no such thing! I would never perjure myself on the witness stand. Or anywhere else, for that matter. I’m really not stupid.”

He paused with the significance he had exhibited earlier, and said, “In any event, the entire question will probably be academic. I probably won’t even be around at the time of the trial. And without my testimony, Mr. Ross, a good lawyer like you could make mincemeat of any evidence given by people who only saw the affair from the field itself. Or from other equally poor places to see things.”

“You flatter my ability,” Ross said modestly. “I’m sorry you might not be around to testify. Where will you be?”

“I’ve been thinking of traveling.”

“Oh?” Ross asked politely. “Do you know where?”

“I was thinking of Europe—”

Coughlin was openly grinning now. Ross thought that for a man who considered the possibility of tape recorders, Coughlin should also have considered a hidden motion-picture camera to catch that grimace. Unfortunately, he thought, neither one or the other was focused on the thin man.

“—or possibly South America,” Coughlin went on airily. “I hear Europe gets cold this time of the year.”

“And you prefer hot places, but not too hot.”

Coughlin laughed. “That’s right.”

“When are you thinking of going?”

“That’s sort of a problem.” Coughlin’s face fell. “That depends on finances, to a large degree. Things have been a bit tight, lately. I might have to borrow some money for the trip.”

“Oh?”

“Yes,” Coughlin said sadly, his eyes glinting with laughter. “Money is the very devil. Still, fifteen thousand dollars should be able to swing the trip. Fifteen thousand — my credit ought to be good for that amount at least, don’t you think, Mr. Ross?”

“Fifteen thousand? That’s a pretty expensive trip you’re planning, isn’t it?”

“First class,” Coughlin said. “I like to travel first class. All the way.” He came to his feet slowly and looked down at Ross. Ross looked back contemplatively. Coughlin smiled at him. “I’ll drop you a postcard from Venice, Ross; or maybe Rio...”

He walked to the door, opened it, and looked back over his shoulder.

“Addio.”

The door closed behind him softly. Ross looked after the man a moment and then leaned over, clicking on the intercom.

“Molly? Ask Sharon to come back in, and get me Mike Gunnerson in his office right away, will you?”

“Yes, sir.”

Michael Gunnerson was a private detective who handled all of Ross’s investigative work; in addition, long acquaintance and mutual respect had made the two men close friends. The private line that connected Hank Ross’s office with that of the investigator on the floor below in the same building rang almost instantly, three short rings, their usual signal that the call was personal. Ross picked up the receiver.

“Hello. Mike?”

“As ever. What can I do for you?”

“Who do you know over at the Daily Mirror?”

No question from Ross could completely faze Mike Gunnerson, nor did he usually answer a question from the attorney with another question. This time, however, there was no help for it.

“What department?”

“Sports,” Ross began, and then thought a moment. “Or somebody in their top management might even be better.”

“Well,” Gunnerson said, considering, “I know Mickey Sullivan in sports, and Sid Richards is the Old Man’s fifteenth assistant assistant in the front office, if that impresses you. Take your choice.”

“You take your choice,” Ross said. “I want to check on a character who claims to be a stringer in the sports department. He has a card, but it could be faked. I have a sneaking suspicion the only time he sees the paper is when he puts out his money at the newsstand. He also sounds as if he learned part of his English in a prison cell.”

“Oh.” Mike laughed. “I thought maybe you wanted to sue them for that article in their late edition today.”

“Article? What article?”

“The one in the Mirror. It just hit the street and I picked it up on the way back from a job I was on. It says you are convinced that William Dupaul is completely innocent of all charges, accusations, allegations, insinuations — did I forget any? — oh, yes; criminations, a nice old English word — against him, and that you intend to take on his defense and prove it,” Mike said, and added, “Not a bad spread. The article was by-lined by some character named Jerry Coughlin.”

There were several moments of pregnant silence. Suddenly Mike Gunnerson brayed with laughter.

“Want to make a bet, Hank?”

“No, thank you.”

“Ten to one that was the stringer you wanted checked out. Right?”

“Too right,” Ross said and sighed. “Well, forget it.”

“Forget it? You wanted him checked out before you knew anything about that article, and certainly not merely because he said he worked for the paper. He must have done something to irk you. What?”

Ross said calmly, “He tried to blackmail me.”

There was a moment’s silence. Then Gunnerson said quietly, “Is he going to get away with it?”

“I don’t know,” Ross said. “It isn’t my money — which he obviously must have known — but I doubt it.”

“Let me do a complete rundown on the guy,” Mike said. “Blackmail’s a two-way street, you know.”

“Save your time and my money. I’ll let him hang himself.”

“How?”

“I haven’t a clue,” Ross said. “But I’ll manage.”

“If you say so.” Gunnerson didn’t sound too sure. “By the way, any truth in the article?”

“I’m defending Billy Dupaul against the first-degree murder charge, if that’s what you mean. Charley Quirt of the Mets called this morning and asked me to handle the case.” Ross’s voice was expressionless. “And apparently held a press conference as soon as I said I would.”

Knowing Charley, Ross thought he could well have held his press conference even before he called. Charley never lacked confidence. Of course he could be doing Quirt an injustice; maybe he had a secretary who — He became aware that Mike Gunnerson had been speaking to him.

“I’m sorry, Mike. What did you say?”

“I was just saying that tomorrow’s papers should be interesting, too,” Mike said, and laughed.

“Oh? Why?”

“Because it’s a certainty that Louis G. Gorman of the DA’s office will accuse you of attempting to try the case in the newspapers.”

“After that interview he gave to the papers that was in this morning’s Times? I wish he’d try.” Ross grinned at the telephone. “If he does, I have just the man to write the article. Our friendly neighborhood newspaper man — Jerry Coughlin.”

Gunnerson laughed. “It ought to be interesting to see the DA’s reaction to blackmail.”

“No more than my reaction,” Ross said, suddenly sober. He added his goodbys and hung up.