Murder Up My Sleeve

14

C. Renmore Howland maintained an impressive suite of offices. Stenographers clattered away at busy typewriters. Clerks bustled importantly about. Howland, occupying an inner shrine, which could be reached only after passing two formidable secretaries, consented to see Terry Clane, after the manner of royalty conferring a favor upon a fortunate suppliant.

His voice was unctuously smooth.

“Miss Renton spoke of you to me. She said she knew you would stand by her and do everything in your power. You have, I believe, a legal education, Mr. Clane?”

Terry nodded, noticing the lawyer’s long neck and bony features. He thought of Cynthia’s remarks that the man should have been a racehorse.

Howland consulted his wrist-watch and said, “The other witnesses will be here within a quarter of an hour. I believe you wish to talk with me before their arrival?”

“Yes,” Terry said, “I have some news for you, and it isn’t very pleasant news. I’m afraid it’s going to affect Cynthia’s case.”

Howland raised inquiring eyebrows, while Terry went on, “You see, Cynthia’s alibi will hold water for a while, and then it will blow up with a bang. It was an alibi which looked genuine at first. That’s why the police turned her loose. Then they uncovered other evidence... Frankly, they discovered the widow of Jacob Mandra who swore that she was the one who had left Mandra’s apartment at two in the morning, carrying the portrait. She was the one the witness met on the stairs. So far, she hasn’t been able to produce the portrait she was carrying, but...”

The lawyer’s horse face broke into a big-toothed grin. “Now, don’t let that disturb you in the least, Mr. Clane. I knew it would be only a matter of time until the police would uncover that original portrait; and I’ve already discounted that fact. Cynthia has told me her entire story. Thanks to her interview with you, she realized the necessity for telling me the truth. I have all of the facts in my possession.”

“Well,” Terry said, “here’s one fact you didn’t have. That original portrait vanished from Juanita Mandra’s apartment between seven o’clock and midnight last night. So far, the police haven’t been able to find the portrait or figure out how it was taken. Owing to the fact that Inspector Malloy placed a dictograph in my apartment, he was able to overhear some conversation which gave him some very definite clues. I have every reason to believe he’ll not only find that original portrait, but will unearth evidence which will connect me with its theft.”

The big teeth vanished as the lawyer pursed his lips. “Well, now, that’s something new. That makes things look pretty black.”

“For Cynthia?” Terry asked.

“No, for you.”

“It won’t hurt Cynthia’s case?”

Howland said impressively, “Mr. Clane, Cynthia hasn’t talked too much. Whenever I can contact my clients early enough, it is almost impossible to convict them. Remember, the state has to prove its case beyond all reasonable doubt. That gives the defendant a wide margin.”

“Just what are you getting at?” Terry asked.

“If the situation develops along certain lines,” Howland said, watching him keenly, “I might intimate to the newspapers that you were the one who had killed Mandra. The fact that the murder was committed with your sleeve gun, the fact that you stole the portrait from Juanita... Oh, I could make up a very convincing argument. What would be your attitude on that?”

“It’s okay by me,” Terry said, “if it will save Cynthia.”

Howland scowled, then said slowly, “No. Now that I come to consider the facts more carefully, I can see that it won’t do. The reading public would realize you had stolen that portrait to protect Cynthia. For me, as her lawyer, to make a suggestion of that sort would be to alienate the sympathies of the newspaper readers — and the sympathies of the newspaper readers are very important. Perhaps you have noticed how infrequently an attractive young woman is convicted of crime, Mr. Clane?”

Clane said dryly, “Isn’t it better to become fully familiar with the facts before mapping out a defence?”

“Not necessarily. One only needs to secure a verdict of acquittal. The means don’t matter so much. You’d be surprised, Mr. Clane, to find out how much higher value is placed by jurors upon the honor of young women with attractive legs, than on the honor of women who cannot cross their knees in a witness chair to advantage.”

The lawyer’s smile became a leer.

Terry said shortly, “Look here, that leg defence is used by every trollop who’s guilty of emotional murder. It wins her a verdict, but she’s for ever after covered with slime. Now you don’t need to do that with Cynthia. Cynthia didn’t kill him. Here’s something for you to investigate: a Dr. Sedler, William Shield, and a Fred Stevens were all working with Mandra in a blackmail racket. I heard Dr. Sedler make some very incriminating statements about where that sleeve gun came from. Malloy’s working on that angle of the case, but he isn’t following it up. He’s trying to pin the crime on Cynthia. Naturally, he isn’t going to start digging up facts which will prove her innocent. But you can do it. I’ll give you Sedler’s address, and tell you where Shield and Stevens can be found. They’re all guilty of criminal conspiracy in a blackmail racket, so it won’t be hard for you to get detectives who can make them...”

Howland interrupted, “Never mind that angle, Mr. Clane. It won’t be necessary.”

“Why won’t it be necessary?”

“Because the state can never convict Cynthia Renton.”

“To hell with that,” Terry said. “I want Cynthia to prove that she’s innocent, by proving just who did kill Mandra. Getting an acquittal won’t be enough.”

Howland slowly shook his head and said, “I never try to prove who did commit a murder. I content myself with showing the state has failed to prove my client did it. It’s much easier to punch holes in the Prosecution’s theory of the case than it is to work out another theory of the case the Prosecution can’t punch holes in. Always keep the defendant in the position of being the injured party, always keep yourself in the position of being the one who is shooting holes into the other man’s case. That keeps the jurors from weighing one theory against the other. A defendant should never advance a theory. And, when the defendant is a young and attractive woman she should always give the jurors a chance to sympathize with her desperate struggles.”

“What desperate struggles?” Clane asked ominously.

“Struggles to save herself from a fate worse than death,” the lawyer said smugly.

Terry’s voice was toneless. “I see. Would you mind telling me just what kind of a defence you are going to make?”

The lawyer raised his eyebrows, gestured with the palms of his hands. “I,” he said, “am not going to make any defence. I will act as Miss Renton’s attorney, and interrogate the witnesses. The witnesses will, of course, testify to the facts upon which the defence will be predicated.”

“Never mind beating about the bush,” Terry said. “I want to know...”

Howland checked him with a gesture.

“Permit me to complete my thought, Mr. Clane,” he said, in a voice which seemed to slide smoothly from an oiled tongue. “When the witnesses are assembled this afternoon I shall first tell them Miss Renton’s story of what actually happened. I think the witnesses are all very friendly to her. I think they want to see her acquitted. I think they will do everything in their power — remembering, of course, to tell the truth, and only the truth.

“I think you’ll agree with me that the original story Miss Renton told was most unfortunate. I am very much afraid a jury would be inclined to convict her, as the evidence now stands, if she told that story to them. But the real facts of the case are these: Miss Renton was painting Mandra’s portrait. He brought some very considerable pressure to bear upon her in order to get her to paint that portrait, blackmailed her, in fact. Miss Cynthia Renton is a very talented painter. But she did not have the technique of her sister, Alma, who is internationally known as an artist. So, Cynthia took her sketches to Alma, asked Alma to create another portrait of Mr. Mandra. When the two portraits were finished, she wanted to place them side by side so that Mr. Mandra could take his choice.

“After all, you know, Cynthia is something of a child, and she is inclined to discount her own very marked skill with the brush.

“On the night of the murder, her picture was completed. Alma had also completed her portrait. Cynthia took both pictures with her to Mr. Mandra’s apartment. She showed him both. He selected one — the one, as it happened, which Cynthia herself had painted. The other portrait was to go back to Alma.

“Mr. Mandra had some other appointments. He kept Cynthia waiting. He gave her a drugged drink. Think of it! This monster drugged her! She fell asleep, dozing in a big easy chair.

“Now, bear this in mind, as this is important. Jacob Mandra wanted to secure a sleeve gun, was, in fact, very anxious to get one. He had secured one. We don’t know where it came from. The Prosecution will perhaps claim that it was your sleeve gun. As to that, I understand you can make no definite identification. You can only say that the gun they will show you is a gun which is similar to yours, and that yours is missing. You do not know how long yours had been gone, nor by whom it had been taken. A sleeve gun, however, was lying upon Mr. Mandra’s desk. And, when Cynthia awoke, she saw Mandra toying with the gun. He had even inserted a dart in the weapon.

“Cynthia, wakening with a start, looked for the portrait Mandra had chosen. It was gone. She asked him what had become of it. Mandra told her he had given it to a certain woman. He had wanted the portrait as a gift for this woman.

“It was at this time Mandra became amorously insulting. He showed himself in his true character as a sinister blackmailer, a despoiler of virtue. It then became apparent that the pressure he had brought to bear upon Cynthia was not so much for the purpose of getting her to paint his portrait as to get her in his power. She was young, fresh, and virtuous, an unplucked fruit, a budding flower! And Mandra was a roué who had sipped honey from so many flowers that his taste had become cloyed. This fresh young thing aroused not the manhood in him, but the beast in him. So depraved had he become, that, in place of wanting to protect the virtue of this young woman, he wanted to strip her of that most priceless possession. And he knew that he could do it only by the use of drugs and of force. So he conspired to get her in his apartment, alone with him, at the unconventional hour of three o’clock in the morning.”

The lawyer was working himself up to an emotional climax. His voice rose in volume. The vibrant timbre of it filled the room.

“Miss Renton had taken the sleeve gun in her hand to examine it. In picking it up from the table, she had no idea that it was a weapon. Mandra’s emotions got the better of him. He suddenly disclosed himself in his true colors. He made his leering proposal. Cynthia drew back. Mandra reached for her and grabbed her. They struggled. Mandra ripped the dress from Cynthia’s shoulder. She screamed and tried to pull back. Mandra’s hands were wet with perspiration from his struggles and from those unclean thoughts which had possessed his mind. Those wet hands slipped down the smooth skin of Cynthia’s bare arms, caught her wrists, then her fingers, and gripped them with crushing force.

“She screamed because he was cutting the fingers of her right hand on the brass catch which protruded downward from the sleeve gun.

“Poor innocent child, she didn’t know the deadly nature of that weapon, nor did she know that Mandra’s grip was pressing a catch which would release an instrument of death. She screamed with pain. Mandra’s grip tightened. Suddenly there was a whirring noise. She felt the jar of a recoil. Mandra sank back in his chair. She looked at him. He was dead.”

Howland paused dramatically.

“You’re not going to have her put on that defence!” Clane exclaimed.

“I’m afraid you misunderstand me,” Howland rejoined. “I am only acting as her attorney.”

“But that story won’t hang together.”

“On the contrary, it is the only story which will hang together. Miss Renton was very ill-advised in connexion with her original story — very ill-advised.

“After Juanita Mandra left her husband’s apartment carrying the painting, she took a cab to her apartment. That is the point Cynthia overlooked; yet it is the thing which occurred to me the moment I realized what must have happened. That is the trouble with the lay mind, Mr. Clane, it doesn’t reason far enough. It deals only with one thing at a time. As a lawyer, it instantly occurred to me that the person who had taken this portrait from Mandra’s apartment certainly wouldn’t go walking down the street like a sandwich man, carrying an oil painting pushed out in front. It was logical to suppose that this person must have called a cab. And the same line of reasoning occurred to the police. This man, Malloy, is deep and clever as the very devil. He too started searching for a cab driver who had picked up a fare near Mandra’s apartment. It wasn’t a difficult search. The cab driver was found. Late last night he identified Juanita as the one whom he had picked up. The time was six minutes past two o’clock in the morning. The address to which he drove her was the address of her apartment. She paid him by taking a twenty-dollar bill from her stocking. It was what she called her ‘mad money’. Naturally, the portrait, the woman, the stocking, and having to change twenty dollars, made an impression on the cab driver. In view of those facts, you can see how suicidal it would be for Miss Renton to try to stay with her original story. And she must change it in such a way it will attract widespread interest, arouse sympathies.

“Now this story which I have outlined will hang together. It cannot be disproved, and it has certain advantages. Miss Renton is a very attractive young woman. Sitting on the witness stand, her face covered with her hands, her legs covered only by the sheerest of hose, she can sob out her story — and she will win an acquittal.”

Howland beamed at Clane.

“And you’re having these witnesses come here so you can drill them to corroborate that story?” Clane asked.

Howland frowned. “I’m afraid,” he said, “that for all of your legal education, you don’t understand the position of an attorney, Mr. Clane. I am acting as Miss Renton’s representative. She has told me that this is what happened. I shall, of course, go over the facts with the witnesses, with a view to seeing that her story is corroborated. I shall not ask any witnesses to falsify. In fact, I would not permit a witness to do so, if I knew it. I will, however, tell the witnesses first what Miss Renton has told me. I will outline to them that we, all of us, wish to see her acquitted. I will explain to them that, in view of the general survey I have made of the evidence, I have reason to believe it is very fortunate Miss Renton has finally told me the truth, because I think this is the only story which will stand up.

“Juries like to hear these stories of struggle — a strong man grappling with a woman. And, of course, the mechanical operation of the sleeve gun is such that Miss Renton’s story will carry conviction, particularly when one considers that this young and unsophisticated woman was in the clutches of a lecherous despoiler of virtue, a libertine of the most depraved character.”

Clane pushed back his chair.

“You’re just smooth enough,” he said, “so there’s no way of reaching you. Alma Renton will lie to protect her sister. George Levering will say anything you tell him to. But, by God, you’re not going to do it! I think something of Cynthia. I think a hell of a lot of her. I’m not going to let her be put in such a position. She’s a fine, clean kid. You spew the slime of your shyster tactics all over her and she’ll be something that stinks by the time you’ve dragged her through the salacious atmosphere of this trial. A jury may turn her loose, but no one will believe her. You’ll crush her character to win a verdict! Her legs will have been in every tabloid in the city! You make me sick!”

Howland got to his feet, and said sneeringly, “And so, Sir Galahad, you are going to charge to the rescue, I suppose! Your sweet innocence is sublime.”

“Sit down!” Clane interrupted, slamming his hand down on the lawyer’s shoulder and pushing him back into the big swivel chair. “If I could gain anything by smashing your dirty mouth, I’d do it. I presume you’ve completely hypnotized Cynthia... Oh, hell, what’s the use!”

He whirled on his heel, strode to the door which led to the corridor, and jerked it open.

He was just stepping into the corridor when a secretary, entering Howland’s private office, said, “Miss Alma Renton and Mr. George Levering.”

Howland controlled himself with an effort, to say, “I think you’d better stay just a moment, Mr. Clane, and...”

Terry banged the door shut.

As Terry reached the street a newsboy thrust a paper in front of his face.

“All about the Mandra murder! Read about it!”

Terry purchased the paper, stepped back from the stream of pedestrian traffic to scan the headlines.

Terry skimmed hastily through the newspaper account, which hinted at a sinister background of midnight meetings, of beautiful mistresses, of a vast, far-flung web which snared beautiful women, while in the centre of the web, like some huge spider hypnotizing his victims with the compelling power of his silver-green eyes, Jacob Mandra lured women to their doom.

The newspaper account went on to state:

Terry turned the page of the newspaper, but didn’t resume reading the article. He stood staring at the reproduction of the portrait, watching the cynical, leering eyes which, even in the newspaper reproduction of the portrait, seemed so coldly dominant.

Terry realized that, despite the obstacles he had thrown in the way of the police, it would be but a matter of hours before they had separated the wheat from the chaff. There remained Sou Ha’s confession to consider. Inspector Malloy had doubtless had that confession taken down in shorthand, yet he had not mentioned it in the interview he had given to a representative of the press.

Why?

Terry had heard many stories of police methods. He had heard of evidence being suppressed in order to secure convictions. If Sou Ha should be arrested and should repudiate her confession, there would be numerous legal obstacles in the way of her conviction. It would, for one thing, be difficult to secure any corroborating evidence, whereas, so far as Cynthia was concerned, her attempt to switch portraits, her contradictory statements, her futile effort to manufacture an alibi, all would tell against her heavily.

Was it possible, Terry wondered, that the police would deliberately ignore what they had heard Sou Ha confess in order to convict Cynthia? He had heard of such things being done. Standing there on the sidewalk, heedless of the roar of traffic, Terry brought his mind to a sharp focus upon the problem which confronted him.

Clane’s entire period of concentration didn’t occupy more than a few seconds, yet, in those few seconds, he reached a conclusion which would have startled Inspector Malloy, could that individual have but peeped into the recesses of Clane’s mind. There was one logical deduction to be made from the known facts, which had so far escaped everyone.

Terry abruptly snapped the newspaper together, folded it, thrust it under his arm, entered a nearby booth and telephoned C. Renmore Howland’s office.

“There’s a Mr. Levering in conference with Mr. Howland,” he told the girl who answered the telephone. “It’s imperative that I should speak to him at once.”

“What is your name?”

“Ben Marker, an attorney in the Cutler Building,” he told her. “Get Mr. Levering at once. It’s most important.”

He heard a click on the line, then the sound of low voices, as though rather a heated argument were progressing in a whispered undertone a few inches from the transmitter. Then Levering’s voice said cautiously, “Hello, what is it?”

Terry made his voice sound harshly belligerent.

“I’m Ben Marker, an attorney in the Cutler Building. I’m taking charge of the affairs of a certain William Shield. Shield has assigned all his property to me, and, looking over his papers, I find he has a claim against you on a hit-and-run charge. My client has an injured spine because you smashed into him when you were driving a car while intoxicated and I want some money and I want it fast, otherwise I’ll sue.”

Levering was surprised into betrayal.

“You can’t do that,” he explained. “That’s all settled. It’s completely fixed up.”

“Do you hold Shield’s written release?”

“Not exactly that, but it’s all cleaned up, it’s all taken care of.”

“The hell it is,” Terry said. “I want some money out of you and I’m going to get it.”

Levering suddenly became conscious of his surroundings.

“I can’t talk with you now,” he said, “but I can explain the entire situation to your satisfaction. If you’ll only talk with your client, he’ll explain exactly how it is. You don’t want to press this thing. It wouldn’t look good for him. I have your name. I’ll call you later. Good-bye.”

The telephone slammed in Terry’s ear.

Clane broke the connexion at his end, and turned from the telephone to encounter the genial smile of Inspector Malloy.

“Well now, Mr. Clane,” the Inspector said, “what have you been up to? Co-operating with us again?”

“What do you want?” Clane asked, but the impatience of his tone failed to ruffle the Inspector’s breezy good nature.

“It’s too bad to inconvenience you again,” Malloy said, “but the district attorney wants to see you. The first thing I said when he told me to bring you in was...”

“Ain’t that too bad!” Terry interrupted.

Malloy’s face showed hurt surprise.

“You see,” Terry grinned, “I had a dictograph into the district attorney’s office.”

Malloy frowned and said, “One of these days you and your accomplice, Cynthia Renton, will learn that a murder case isn’t an occasion for making wisecracks. How come you’re not attending the conference of witnesses in Howland’s office?”

“I walked out on Howland,” Terry said.

“Yes, we know you did. Why?”

Terry shrugged his shoulders.

“Oh well,” Malloy observed, “we’ll pick the others up as soon as Howland gets done with them, so you can meet all of your friends. We’ve got a tip that Howland’s getting ready to pull one of his fast ones.”

“So you’re going to interrogate all his witnesses and beat him to the punch?” Terry asked.

Inspector Malloy’s voice showed hurt reproach. “Why, Mr. Clane,” he said, “we wouldn’t do anything like that. We wouldn’t interfere with the witnesses for the defence. We don’t want to talk with them because they’re witnesses; we just want to go over the facts of the case with them in view of certain new developments which have been uncovered.”

“More facts?” Terry asked.

Malloy’s grin was triumphant. “Well,” he said, “we got to wondering just how that portrait of Mandra could have left Juanita’s apartment, so we started to check up on the apartment house where she lives, and bless my soul, if we didn’t discover that a young man had rented the adjoining apartment. That young man’s description agreed with yours, Clane.

“You could have knocked me over with a feather when the manager of the apartment house described this young man. But duty is duty, and I went up and searched that apartment. We couldn’t find any clothes or any evidence that the place had been occupied, except some bits of wood on a shelf in the closet. They were innocent-looking bits of wood, but when we fitted them together we found that they’d originally been the board backing of a painting, with drawing-pins stuck in the side. So then we got to prowling around, looking under the carpet and places like that, and we found the portrait of Mandra which had been stolen from Juanita’s apartment. Juanita identified it. The taxi driver identified it. The manager of the apartment house identified it.”

Inspector Malloy stared accusingly at Terry Clane.

Clane sighed. “And so we go to see the district attorney once more, is that it?”

“Those were my instructions.”

“Do we take a taxicab?”

“If you pay for it.”

“And if I don’t?”

“That,” Malloy announced, “would be too bad. It would be...”

Terry held up his hand. “Taxi!” he called.