The Key

CHAPTER XVI CARDONA MAKES A CALL

IT was the following afternoon. The newspapers had made huge stories of the fray in which Kingsley Keith had died. Photos of the dead lawyer; pictures of the house; diagrams of the downstairs room — all had provided excitement for eager readers.

Seated at the big desk in his private office, Lester Dorrington was digesting the reports. The cadaverous lawyer was nodding as he rubbed his chin. The police had hinted at a feud between Whitey Calban and Ace Feldon. Dorrington knew that for once they were right.

A ring from the private telephone. Dorrington answered it. Tersely, he ordered the speaker at the other end to send the visitor down. Unlocking the closet, he opened the panel. A wiry, wise-faced fellow stepped from the stairway.

“Sit down, Squeezer.” Dorrington waved the visitor to a chair. “Let’s talk this whole business over.”

“It looks bad,” said the wiry man, in a whiny tone. “Trailing’s my business. You know how I tagged Berlett when he took the plane to South America. But snooping in — seeing what’s happening — well, that ain’t so easy. Last night, for instance—”

The speaker paused as a buzzer sounded. Dorrington frowned slightly. He pointed back to the closet.

“It must be something important,” declared the attorney. “Duck, Squeezer. I don’t know who’s out there; it wouldn’t be good policy to keep a visitor waiting to-day.”

Squeezer nodded as he sidled for the closet. Dorrington closed the panel and locked the door. He strolled across his office and opened the door as a secretary appeared. The girl was followed by a stocky, swarthy-faced man. Lester Dorrington recognized Detective Joe Cardona.

“Step in,” invited the attorney. “I’m glad to see you, sir. It is a privilege to receive a visit from one whose time must be quite fully occupied.”

Cardona sensed the sarcasm. Dorrington was closing the door. He went to his desk, waved Cardona to a chair and offered the acting inspector a cigar.

“What can I do for you?” questioned the lawyer.

“Two crooks were killed last night,” asserted Cardona, bluntly. “One of them, Whitey Calban, murdered a lawyer named Kingsley Keith.”

“So I have learned from the newspapers.”

“We think that Calban killed Hugo Verbeck and Clark Durton.”

“So I understand.”

“Well” — Cardona stared steadily as he spoke — “you’ve handled cases for both of those crooks. What can you tell me about them?”

“I represented them before the law,” stated Dorrington, in an even tone. “The facts are in the records. I can produce testimony from my files.”

“I’m talking about the present, not the past. Some one was in back of Whitey Calban. Somebody wanted those three lawyers to die.”

“Probably. Your theory sounds logical.”

“Can you suggest any one who might be a suspect?”

Lester Dorrington allowed a smile to flicker upon his face. He puffed at his cigar before he answered. When he spoke, his tone was calm.

“Certainly,” declared the lawyer. “I can name such a person.”

“Who?” queried Cardona.

“Myself,” responded Dorrington.

THE detective gaped. He had come here, in his capacity of acting inspector, to parry with Lester Dorrington. Using the attorney’s legal connection with the dead man, Cardona had seen a golden opportunity for a visit.

To Cardona, Kelwood Markin’s suspicions of Lester Dorrington had been justified. But Joe had never expected the criminal lawyer to fall in line with his thoughts.

“I have named myself as a suspect,” stated Dorrington with a smile, “purely because of certain circumstances. I note by the newspapers that all of Whitey Calban’s mobsmen battled the police in stubborn fashion. As a result, not one of the so-called gorillas survived.

“Therefore, you failed to obtain a blind clue which you might otherwise have obtained. There is still a chance that you may get it from some pal of one of the dead gorillas. Had you used the dragnet, inspector” — Dorrington emphasized the title with which he addressed Cardona — “I believe that you might have heard some mention of my name.”

“We got Calban,” said Cardona, gruffly, “even if he wasn’t dead, for his mob is done. We didn’t need the dragnet.”

“So I have saved you trouble,” nodded Dorrington. “I would prefer to have you hear my name mentioned by myself than from some rat who knows nothing of the facts.”

Joe Cardona sat dumfounded. This interview was staggering him. He stared at Lester Dorrington. The lawyer’s face was solemn and inscrutable. Joe could not guess what might be in his mind.

“Yesterday,” declared Dorrington, “I received an unsolicited visit from Ace Feldon. The gangleader came to this office and spoke to me in confidence.”

“We didn’t see—”

“I know,” smiled Dorrington, as Cardona paused abruptly. “You mean the dicks who were covering this office didn’t see Ace Feldon. That merely proves the incompetence of the average detective. You should make a note of it, inspector. Pass it along to the police commissioner.

“But to resume. Ace Feldon came to warn me about Whitey Calban. Ace seemed to think that Whitey was a double-crosser. He told me that Whitey had killed Hugo Verbeck and Clark Durton. He was sure that Whitey intended to continue his career of murder.”

“Where did Ace get that dope?” questioned Cardona.

“From a man named Steve Quigg,” replied Dorrington. “He told me that Quigg was his man; that the fellow was one of Calban’s crew.”

“Say!” exclaimed Cardona, forgetting his antagonism toward Dorrington, “that explains how Ace Feldon horned in on the trouble.”

“Yes,” agreed Dorrington, “but let me proceed, inspector. Ace Feldon told me something else. He declared that Whitey Calban had told his outfit that I was the man in back of the murders. That was the real reason why Ace Feldon came to me.”

“What did you do about it?” demanded Cardona.

“Nothing,” assured Dorrington calmly. “Really, I regarded Feldon’s visit as a consultation. As his attorney, I could keep his statements to myself. I am speaking to-day only because Feldon is dead.

“But at the same time, I doubted the veracity of Feldon’s story. I knew that Feldon thought he was speaking true, but I was not at all sure about the unknown factor — Steve Quigg — nor could I see any reason for the actions and the statements attributed to Whitey Calban.

“I felt sure that Feldon was either totally wrong or totally right. Since I knew that Calban was not operating under my direction — the idea was preposterous — I assumed that he was not operating at all. I decided that Ace Feldon was merely filled with hatred toward Whitey Calban; that Steve Quigg, to play in with Feldon, had made damaging reports concerning Whitey Calban.”

JOE CARDONA was nodding unconsciously. He was feeling the persuasive force of Dorrington’s quiet tones. The lawyer was using the same easy manner of speech that had proven effective with doubtful juries. The effect was almost hypnotic.

“To-day, however,” stated Dorrington, dryly, “I learned that Whitey Calban had actually murdered. I read that the bullet from his gun matched the one that slew Hugo Verbeck. I read that you inferred Clark Durton to be the in-between victim. I knew that Steve Quigg had told Ace Feldon the truth regarding Whitey Calban’s actions.

“Therefore, I argued that he had told the truth in the matter of Calban’s statements. Absurd though it seemed, I was forced to believe that Calban had told his thick-headed gorillas that he was working for me. The whole crew was dead; but some of them might have let out the word. Therefore, your visit pleased me. It enabled me to anticipate rumors that you might have gained.”

“You haven’t explained the reason why Calban laid it on you,” announced Cardona suddenly.

Dorrington leaned his head back against the chair. He chuckled. Cardona’s statement seemed to strike his sense of humor.

“Why should I know about that? quizzed Dorrington. “I have already told you that I did not believe the statements. Nevertheless, I have formed a theory. Would you like to hear it?”

“I would.”

“For some reason — one that I cannot satisfactorily explain — Whitey Calban was out to murder a trio of lawyers. He did one job himself; he called in a crew for the second, which involved the machine gun. Obviously, he wanted the mob around when he pulled the third job.

“Gorillas are an odd lot. One-tracked minds; one-celled brains would be a better definition. Calban killed a lawyer. They knew it. He killed a second attorney. The gorillas wondered why. With a third member of the legal profession lined up for the spot, Calban evidently decided that an explanation was in order. He didn’t want his mob to think he had gone crazy.

“So he probably decided to tell them that he was working for some one. He wanted to name a person whose name they would recognize; he also wanted to make his false statement sound logical. So Calban — whom Feldon justifiably described as a louse — picked my name as the best one to use. His gorillas knew that I had represented him. Probably they thought that I was taking payment for legal work on a barter basis.”

Cardona had no answer. The story fitted. The longer that Dorrington talked, the less confident Cardona became. The acting inspector made one feeble effort at a challenge.

“What about Ace Feldon?” he demanded. “Why did he go to get Whitey Calban? Did you know he was going to mix into the mess? Did you send him?”

“Too many questions,” returned Dorrington, coldly, “and the last one is uncalled for. Had I sent Ace Feldon to get Whitey Calban, I would certainly not be telling you that I had talked to Feldon yesterday.

“Remember this, inspector. I am an attorney and a highly paid one. I represent criminals; I never employ them. To think that I would summon a crook to my office to give him orders is as preposterous as to suppose that you would issue instructions to gangsters while giving a third degree.

“Ace Feldon had it in for Whitey Calban. When such feuds exist, they usually result in death. It was not my business to worry about a crook’s plans. Ace was gunning for Whitey. Steve Quigg was with Ace. It was natural that Steve would tip Ace off to the coming job. That was the logical time for Feldon to have his battle out with Calban.”

“But he let Calban get away with murder!”

“Why not? What did Keith mean to Feldon?”

“Nothing, I guess,” admitted Cardona.

“You’re wrong,” snapped Dorrington, with a suddenness that jolted the acting inspector. “Feldon was fool enough to believe that Calban was actually working for me. Therefore, Feldon assumed that Keith was a man whom I wanted killed. That’s why he let Calban do the job before he stepped in to fight it out with the man he hated!”

AGAIN, Cardona was lost. Dorrington had come through with another unexpected statement. The attorney had switched his conversation in bewildering fashion. His theories fitted with a remarkable perfection.

“Cardona,” suggested Dorrington, in a serious tone, “you should spend more time in analyzing the criminal mind. As a detective — still persisting in your stupid third degree — you have committed the blunder of meeting single-tracked brains head on.

“I understand the real working of the thinking machines that crooks possess. Of course, I have a decided advantage. Such clients as Whitey Calban and Ace Feldon invariably confide in me. Perhaps, some time, I may be able to give you definite advice in the correct way to deal with such fellows. Frankly, I should be pleased to do so.”

Cardona arose from his chair. He felt that the interview was due for a prompt ending. He could not tell whether Dorrington was using sincerity or sarcasm. As Cardona turned toward the door, the lawyer joined him and conducted the sleuth to the outer office.

“Call me in advance next time you wish to see me,” suggested Dorrington, in a friendly tone. “I shall then be able to give you a definite appointment, with more time at our disposal.

“Of course, if you must see me on short notice, I can always spare you time. Either here or at my home on Long Island. You will always be welcome, inspector.”

Cardona received the lawyer’s extended hand. The shake completed, the acting inspector turned toward the hallway, while Dorrington went back into his office. Quietly, without a click, the lawyer turned the key in the well-oiled lock.

Lester Dorrington’s cadaverous face was placid. In matter-of-fact fashion, the brainy lawyer went to the cabinet, removed the private telephone and dialed Loven’s office on the floor above.

“My visitor has left,” announced Dorrington, in an even tone. “Tell Squeezer to come down. I can talk with him without further interruption.”

Dorrington hung up. He unlocked the door of the closet; he raised the secret panel. Returning to his desk, the solemn-faced lawyer helped himself to another cigar. He lighted the perfecto with nonchalant ease and drew long puffs while he awaited the arrival of Squeezer.