Black Mask Detective (Vol. 34, No. 3 — May 1950)

The High Cost of Lying by John Bender

The golden-tongued lawyer got Manny off in nothing flat — and found Manny’d rather kill again than pay.

Kyle Lewis, attorney at law, finished his hurried dinner in the restaurant near the courthouse, and touched his napkin to the smile he wore. He was not the slightest bit displeased that the newspapermen had converged about his table, but he was wise enough not to act too boastful, too certain of himself. The trial was still not over.

Flashbulbs splashed their brilliance on his carefully barbered, not unhandsome face, and on his scarlet tie — the only spot of outstanding color which he permitted his expensive clothes to boast.

“I hear the jury is filing back in, Mr. Lewis,” said one of the reporters. “Do you think they’ll let Manny off?”

Kyle smiled noncommittally.

Mason, the Mirror man, made a wry face. “Tell me, what do you think personally, Lewis? Is Manny Arno guilty?”

The lawyer frowned. “You should know better than to ask me that.”

“Let me put it this way, then,” Mason said. “How does a lawyer swindle himself into defending a pathological killer like Manny Arno?”

Kyle rose. He saw the bailiff at the restaurant door, beckoning. For himself, Kyle Lewis needed no avenues of philosophic escape for the fact that he had chosen to defend such men as Manny Arno. He knew his legal talent, and he set a price on it. If only men like Arno could pay that price, well, it wasn’t his fault. The goals of success remained unchanged.

But for the record, the lawyer said, “The laws of this sovereign state, Mr. Mason, are administered impartially, for the protection of all. To admit one man’s lack of right — guilty or innocent though he may be — is to deny faith in our system of government.”

“Quote, unquote,” Mason said. “The money helps, though, doesn’t it?”

“You are impertinent, Mr. Mason. Now, gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me...”

He threaded his way through them and went outside into the warm Spring night. Impertinent but accurate, he thought. He wondered how much Mason knew about the fee involved. Fifteen thousand dollars — it was virtually in his hands now.

He heard the footsteps at about the same time he realized that two men were at his side.

“How’s it goin’, shyster? Manny beat it?”

It was Patchy Quill, Arno’s chief lieutenant, a dark-faced hood who had been in on the lumber mill job with Arno. The other man, Link Travers, was also one of Arno’s boys — equally dark-skinned and vicious looking.

The attorney faced them. “I told Arno that I would not be seen with any of you in public. The trial is not yet finished — the order still applies.”

“Why, you little fink!”

“Get away from me!”

Travers snarled, “Who the hell you think you’re talking to?”

“I told Arno to keep you out of sight.”

“So we’re out of sight. Tell him we’re out of dough, too. It’s been two months since that push—”

“Good night!” Kyle walked away. He could feel their eyes burning into his back, but they did not follow him.

“Where the hell you been?” Arno demanded, when Kyle took his place in the seat next to his client. “The jury’s been back for five minutes.” His flat gray eyes shifted impatiently, bespeaking his eternal restlessness. He was a short man, blond and strangely pale, who looked much older than he should have.

“I told you to keep those hoods away from me, Arno,” Kyle said.

“What are you talking about?”

“Link and Patch. They were waiting outside the restaurant. They seem eager for their money.”

“Dough, dough!” Arno scowled. “That’s all I hear! And you’re as bad as they are. Nicking me fifteen G’s.”

“Only if I get you off,” Kyle reminded him. “Which seems fair enough, considering that you took in close to ninety thousand dollars on the job.”

“Okay, okay,” Arno said. “Money-hungry bums, all of you! You’ll get your dough — after the trial.”

Kyle Lewis wasn’t worried about the money. The case had gone without a hitch. That his client was guilty, he was certain. Arno was a killer, a West Side hoodlum who had risen to prominence through a barking gun and a thorough lack of conscience. A cold, hard little man who could pay cold, hard cash.

Kyle had handled the case carefully, turning it bit by bit to a simple point of identification, which had seemed infallible to the prosecution.

The blonde cashier of the lumber mill which had been burglered had positively identified Manny Arno as the man who held her at gun point and rifled the payroll. He had, she testified, shot the aged clerk in the lumber mill office without the slightest provocation.

But under cross-examination, just before his defense summation, Kyle had forced her to admit that she had been visiting an eye doctor for several weeks prior to the crime. He had made her admit she should have worn glasses and didn’t, because she thought they detracted from her appearance. Then, holding aloft a deck of playing cards, he had shown the jury that she was unable to identify the eight, nine or ten spots of any suit, one from the other.

The State’s objection had been sustained, of course, in the face of such a trick, but the effect upon the jury was registered nonetheless.

They delivered a verdict of not guilty.

A short time later, after they had escaped the newspapermen, Kyle and Manny drove, in Manny’s large, luxurious convertible, through the swelling evening traffic. Kyle ran a carefully manicured finger along the fine, leather upholstery. Then they stopped for a red light and he became conscious of Manny Arno’s amused stare.

“Think you’ll get one like it, counsellor?”

Kyle folded his hands about his briefcase. “I might.”

Arno laughed. “With my money.”

“With the Crescent Lumber Mill’s money, more likely.”

“Ain’t it the truth! I got to hand it to you, counsellor — you wrapped the whole thing up nice and neat.” Arno reached across to the dash compartment. A blue-steeled automatic snuggled in among the road maps. “All except for that no-good fluff who tried to put the finger on me. She could stand a treatment. Maybe I could fix her eyesight up real good.” He transferred the gun to the special, leather-lined pocket in his suit.

Kyle did not like the gun; and it annoyed him to see Arno being so careless here on the brightly lighted street.

“Don’t start acting foolish. Arno. You can’t afford any more trouble.”

The motor purred and they were moving. Kyle heard Arno’s laughter, like a cold blade pricking at his spine. “Trouble, counsellor? Trouble? Manny Arno don’t have trouble. That’s why he hires boys like you.”

Kyle wished suddenly that this business were done and over with. He was aware of a change in the man beside him, a slight but disconcerting alteration in Arno’s attitude toward him now that the threat of prison was gone. The man’s refound arrogance was both distasteful and — he admitted it to himself — frightening.

“How long is this going to take?” he asked.

“You gonna buy that car tonight?”

“I have a rather important engagement.”

“Don’t worry about it, counsellor.” Arno gunned the convertible to a faster pace. “You let me do all the worrying from here on in.” Again he snickered. “Yeah, now it’s my turn.”

He began to whistle tunelessly, his eyes fixed on the road, his pale face frozen in a faint smile...

The bridge loomed large and dark before them, its metal bulk a deeper purple than the starless sky. Arno took the car across to the far side of the river and turned into the first road at right angles to the bridge. He parked and killed the lights.

“Okay,” he said. “Here we are, counsellor.”

Kyle Lewis knew the section slightly. They were some twelve miles from the city, perhaps six or seven from the Crescent Lumber Mill whose loading yards fronted upriver to the north. This was part of the route Arno had taken in his flight from the police.

“Down there,” Arno said, pointing to one of the large cement bridge bases, “there’s a sort of shelf between the cement and the girders, around the edge, right out by the water. You’ll find a metal cash box taped to the inside edge of the girder.”

“I’ll find—!”

“Go down and get the box, counsellor. I’ll wait here for you. The sooner you get back, the sooner we get this over with.” He smiled. “That’s all you want, ain’t it?”

Kyle took flashlight Arno offered and went down the slight incline, careful of his expensive clothes, feeling his way among the tall weeds. He was breathing heavier than this small exertion warranted, but he was strangely grateful to get away from Arno. He had no doubt that this was Arno’s way of showing him who was boss.

Kyle smiled into the darkness. For fifteen thousand dollars, he didn’t really mind.

The attorney stopped. Was it a trap? Did Arno suspect that the police might have figured this, and were ready to grab him when he came to get the money? Were they waiting somewhere in the darkness even now?

He could not know. But he realized that he was letting his nerves run away with him. He heard Arno’s voice from above calling him, asking how he was making out.

He grunted a reply and continued toward the bridge, feeling better. Full confidence returned when he stepped out on the platform and found the heavy, oblong box. He freed it from its tape and turned from the river bank, consoling himself with the thought that fifteen thousand of these unmarked bills were his.

“All right, counsellor, hold it there!” The voice was Arno’s, just behind him. “No, don’t turn around. This’ll do fine.”

It was impossible to mistake that tone of finality. He saw now why Arno had sent him for the box. To follow him down to the river — to kill him!

“No, Manny,” he said. “Manny, you can’t!”

“Oh, but I can, counsellor. Stand still! Now, just put the box down and take two steps forward.”

Kyle’s breath deserted him; his stomach experienced a convulsion that sucked his tongue dry. He fought for words.

“Manny, listen. About the fee. If you think it’s too high — I mean—” Even at that moment, he could not will himself to give it all up. “We’ll make it ten. Five, Manny!”

“Move,” Arno said.

“We’ll call it square, Manny.”

“Move!”

Kyle whimpered, his legs numbed into immobility.

“Your fee was fair enough,” Arno said flatly. “But I just don’t want to pay anything, see? It’s cheaper this way, counsellor. All neat and simple.”

The gun prodded Kyle in the small of the back. “Put the box down!” Then Arno shoved him, hard.

The movement broke the bonds of fear. Animal reaction — blind, unreasoning desire for survival — turned Kyle in full motion, desperately swinging the heavy metal box which he clutched by the slender handle.

The gun sounded — a tremendous blast in his ears — but he felt no pain and did not stop to marvel that his unexpected action had made the man miss. Kyle saw nothing but the other’s bulk, breathing death upon him. He kept swing wildly.

He felt the shudder of the blow in the bones of his shoulder. Arno gulped a strangled cry, falling away, his hand held up to his bloody face. A long gash lay across his forehead, filling the eyes beneath with the vacancy of shock. Automatically, the gun came up in his hand, searching for an opponent he could not see.

With a whimper of effort, Kyle swung at Arno again. Despite the gun, it was not self-defense. His mind was racing madly to the only conclusion left to him — kill him, kill him, kill him! Not just fifteen thousand, not just a part of it... all of the money now.

The box crashed across Arno’s skull, driving the man closer to the river’s edge. Again Kyle swept the box around in a vicious arc. It thudded against the bleeding face and Arno collapsed... He did not have to feel for a pulse to know that Arno was dead.

Gradually, his fear and rage deserted him as he sat there beside the body, drawing air into his tortured lungs. He felt no remorse. Somewhere on the river, a mournful whistle sounded. It was proof that life had stopped for one small man only.

He pushed himself erect, his legal mind telling him that he was safe. He could push the body into the water, and it was possible that it would not be discovered for days.

Chuckling, he clutched the money box. He had it all now — all of it. He ran his fingers over the slippery metal surface. And abruptly his laughter stilled.

The box was open! It was empty! Somehow, in the struggle, one of the blows had sprung the lock.

Desperately he began casting around in the trampled weeds, searching on his knees. It must be here somewhere.

And then, abruptly, his fingers touched the edge of a packet of bills lying on the river bank. Before he could clutch the packet, it slipped off into the river.

No! No! He cursed savagely. The money had fallen into the river as they fought along its edge! He watched the flow of water beneath him and hunched over, trying to find some trace of it in the darkness below.

He did not hear the car pull in above. He was stalking thus, a few feet from the body of Arno, when the first rays of the flashlights caught him.

“There! Somebody’s down there!”

He felt a wave of panic. Had the police followed them after all?

“Cripes! Look at that! He killed the boss for the dough!”

It was another voice, and looking up, Kyle recognized the men. Link and Patchy.

“Hold it!” Patchy cried at him. “You little fink!”

But Kyle was moving, scrambling desperately up the river bank toward the parked convertible. The first shot caught him in the back, literally blowing him to his knees. He was kneeling above the money box when the other shots found him...