“Sheila doesn’t know,” he said. “Even Teddy never knew. Father did. That’s why he was such a stickler for morality. That’s why he put that asinine provision in the trust.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I know what you’re doing.” Max’s voice had fallen to a whisper. “My detectives have told me. You’re looking for Sheila’s father. You’re planning on springing the idea that he isn’t dead on the jury. That would make for a lot of sensational headlines, get you a lot of publicity, and maybe even get her off.” A pause for another spell of pain. “You don’t have to do that now. Stop looking for Sheila’s father. Go to the D.A. and explain what happened here. Except of course, what I just told you. But everything else. You handle it right, and he’ll drop the case.”
Steve frowned. “Yeah, maybe,” he said dubiously.
Max looked at him, and almost managed a grin. “I know what you’re thinking. That way you lose your… your brilliant courtroom finale. But that way Sheila never has to know. You save her a lot of unnecessary grief. A lot of grief.”
Max coughed and almost lost consciousness. He rallied, and locked eyes with Steve, taunting him, challenging him to do the right thing. “Can you do that, counselor? Whose interests come first? Your client’s or your own?”
Max’s eyes glazed over and his head fell back.
Steve touched his wrist, feeling for a pulse. He wasn’t sure how to do it, but he was sure that there would be none.
He slowly got to his feet. He stood there on the roof, not looking at either of the two bodies, just looking off into space.
So, it had come down to this. If he went back into court, he could clear the case up in spectacular fashion. He could make a name for himself. He’d be the hero, the winner, the courageous attorney who’d figured the whole thing out, who’d gotten his client off.
But at a price. It would take time. It would drag on. And meanwhile there was a chance those trails he’d started in California would be followed up, if not by the police then by zealous reporters sensing they hadn’t gotten the whole story. They’d follow the leads in California and find out what he had-that Sheila’s father was someone from the East Coast. A whole area of speculation would open up. And maybe-and Steve knew it was a slim chance- just maybe the real truth would come out.
If he did what Max said, if he took his story to the D.A., it would work. Steve was sure of it. The trial would be over. Sheila would be released, the case would be solved, and the cops would grab all the credit. And that would be the end of it. There would be no reason for anyone to ever find out about the California end of it at all. Sheila would be safe.
But for a price. Because the press and the public would be left with the image of Steve Winslow that he had adopted in his client’s behalf. The clown. The fool. He would remain a joke. The inexperienced young attorney whose client would have been convicted if the police hadn’t happened to break the case. It would be, to all intents and purposes, the end of his career.
Steve sighed. Yeah. That was the choice.
There came the clang of a metal door banging and a voice said, “All right! Hold it right there!”
Steve looked around to see the fat cop attempting to flatten himself against the stairwell as he leveled a gun on him.
Steve suddenly felt exhausted, too tired even to raise his hands. If the cop shot him, that was just tough.
He smiled, slightly. “It’s all right officer. They’re both dead.”
51
District Attorney Harry Dirkson leaned back in his chair and exchanged glances with Lieutenant Farron. Farron’s face was cautiously neutral, giving nothing away. Dirkson had known it would be-Farron was waiting to follow his lead. Dirkson gave it to him now-an ironic smile. Farron tried to match it, but to Dirkson it seemed a trifle forced, which suddenly made his smile seem forced too.
Dirkson didn’t let on, veteran campaigner that he was. Having chosen his course, he plunged ahead. He cocked his head at Steve Winslow and said, “That’s a fantastic story.”
“It happens to be true,” Steve said.
“Yeah, sure,” Dirkson said. “Now that Max and Teddy are dead you can make up any stories you want about them.”
Steve was sorely tempted to walk out. It was bad enough giving it to these guys, without having to force it on them.
“You don’t believe me?”
“Why should I?”
“Okay. You tell me why Uncle Max and Uncle Teddy decided to go up on the roof and blow each other’s brains out.”
“It doesn’t matter. Even if Teddy did kill Sheila’s mother, it doesn’t mean he killed Greely.”
“Sure it does. Look at the evidence.”
“What evidence?”
“The blackmail letter, for one thing.”
“What about it?”
“The letter was cut from the newspaper so it couldn’t be traced. But the envelope was typed on Greely’s machine. Greely’s a smart blackmailer. He had to be, to keep doing it and have no police record. Do you really think he’d make a dumb slip like that? Of course not. Uncle Teddy typed the envelope on that machine because he wanted the letter traced to Greely so it would prove Sheila’s motive for the murder.”
Dirkson frowned. “Yeah, but if this was all Teddy’s idea, how did Greely get involved in the first place?”
Steve shrugged. “Hey, I can’t do all your work for you. But if you were to dig into Greely’s background far enough, I bet eventually you’d find a connection.
“And besides, Greely wasn’t really involved. At least, he had no idea of what was really going on. I’m sure Teddy was the one who sent the letters. He may have had Greely make the phone call-he probably did-but what Teddy told him to get him to make it, I have no idea. But there’s no reason to think it was the truth.
“Greely was a patsy. Teddy’s fall guy. Teddy set him up. Teddy had killed his sister. He was scared to death that Sheila was going to blab to Uncle Max about Phillip being in Vermont on that day. He knew if that happened Max would figure it out. He had to stop her. So he framed her for murder.”
“That’s all very nice,” Dirkson said. “But if that’s true, then how does John Dutton fit into all this? He knew Greely. You want me to believe that was just an outrageous coincidence?”
Steve shook his head. “Not at all. The way I figure it, he triggered the whole thing.”
Dirkson frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Well,” Steve said. “Uncle Teddy and Greely are both dead, so we’ll probably never know, but we can make a pretty good guess. The way I see it is this-Let’s assume Uncle Teddy and Greely knew each other from way back. It would have to be from way back, because Teddy wouldn’t want to take a chance on his connection with Greely ever coming out. But say they knew each other. Not that unlikely a supposition, when you think about it. Greely was a blackmailer. Teddy, in his youth, was a confidence man. So assume the connection.
“All right. Uncle Teddy’s favorite line was that he’d been screwed out of his inheritance-that he would be a wealthy man if he hadn’t made one mistake and his father hadn’t cut him out of the will and put all the money into trusts. So Greely would have known about that, and would have known that Teddy’s son, Phillip Baxter, and his niece, Sheila Benton, had a lot of money tied up in trusts. Being a blackmailer, he would have filed that information away.
“So what happened? Say six months ago Greely is playing in a poker game, and some young stud named John Dutton, who is a pretty boy and an egotistical asshole, is shooting off his mouth about how he’s got a thing going with an heiress. And Greely, who’s always on the lookout for something like that, tunes right in and finds out the girl’s name is Sheila Benton.
“Which rings a very big bell. So Greely asks a few questions and pokes around some, and finds out this John
