The Anonymous Client

“Did you go to consult with her as your client?”

“I told you. Miss Harding is not my client.”

“And never has been?”

“And, to the best of my knowledge, never has been.”

Dirkson changed his tack again. “When you called on David C. Bradshaw, did you know that he was dead?”

“No, I did not.”

“Had you been told that he was dead?”

“No, I had not.”

“Or that he might be dead.”

“No, I had not.”

“Did you suspect he was dead?”

“You’re grasping at straws, Dirkson.”

“Answer the question.”

“No, I did not suspect he was dead. There. Now you have my thoughts, knowledge, and even my suspicions in the record. Now, do you have anything else?”

“Do you deny that before you went to Bradshaw’s apartment, a client told you that Bradshaw was or might be dead. Or,” Dirkson said, sarcastically, “does that answer betray a confidential communication?”

“No, it doesn’t,” Steve said. “The answer is no.”

“You deny it?”

“Yes, I do.” Steve leaned back in the witness chair. “Now, you’ve asked your questions and I’ve answered them. I’ve told you everything I can without betraying a professional confidence. Now then, do you have anything else?”

Dirkson didn’t. He suspected Winslow of lying, evading, holding out, and covering up. But he didn’t have a damn thing to back it up. And he didn’t know, specifically, what Winslow was trying to keep from him. And he was a smart enough campaigner to realize that his efforts to find out were not only futile, but were making him look bad.

“No,” Dirkson said. “That’s all.”

20

The atmosphere in Steve Winslow’s outer office was two degrees below zero. Steve noticed it the moment he came in the door. Tracy Garvin was seated at her desk, as usual, but for once her head wasn’t buried in a book. In fact, her book was nowhere to be seen. Tracy’s desk was clean. Tracy was sitting up straight in her chair. Her hands were folded in front of her on the desk. Her manner was crisp, efficient, businesslike.

And cold.

Steve didn’t understand it. All right, so it was almost ten o’clock. He was late. Surely the boss had a right to be late every now and then.

“Good morning,” Steve said.

“Good morning.”

“Any calls?”

“No.”

“Any mail?”

“On your desk.”

Steve Winslow gave her a look, wondering what he’d done wrong. He couldn’t figure it out. He shrugged and went into his inner office.

Steve walked around behind his desk, started to sit down, stopped, and grinned. There on the desk blotter lay a pink, perfumed envelope.

Steve chuckled. Women. You could have a sexual revolution, women’s liberation, and the whole bit, but some things never changed. Tracy Garvin was having a jealous snit.

Steve picked up the envelope. It really reeked of perfume. No wonder it set her off.

Well, there was an easy way to fix that. All Steve had to do was call Tracy into the room and let her open the envelope and pull out the two Bradshaw letters.

Except Steve didn’t want Tracy to know he had them. No, explanations were out. Tracy was just going to have to sulk. Well, she’d get over it.

The intercom buzzed. There. She was over it already. Steve picked up the phone.

“Yes.”

“A Miss Judy Meyers to see you,” Tracy said. Her voice could have cut glass.

Steve sighed. No, this just wasn’t his day.

Being an actress, Judy Meyers made an entrance. She swept into the room wearing a rather daring evening gown, closed the door behind her, and made an elaborate pantomime of looking around furtively before saying in a stage whisper, “Is the coast clear?”

Steve Winslow cracked up. “I should have known better than to ask an actress. My god, you even dressed for the part,”

Judy looked at him. “What do you mean, dressed for the part? I have an audition in a half hour.”

“Oh?”

“And not as a gun moll, either. A woman doctor.”

“Oh.”

Judy frowned. “You think I look cheap? Too flashy? Overdressed?”

“No, no,” Steve said. “I’m just not used to seeing you dressed up in the morning. I didn’t know you had an audition.”

“I look too slinky, is that it?”

“No, no. Really.”

“’Cause I value your opinion,” Judy said. “I mean, you were an actor, you’ve always given me good advice about auditions and-Say! Nice mail.”

Steve looked down at the letter that was still lying on his desk. In spite of himself, he started giggling.

Judy stared at him. “What’s so funny?”

He shook his head, but he couldn’t stop giggling. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s just too funny. I have a secretary out there giving me the cold shoulder because of this envelope. This envelope happens to contain a bit of evidence that I mailed to myself because I don’t want the cops to get their hands on it. I can’t tell her because I don’t want her to know about it. The cops have grilled her once about my business, and they may grill her again. That’s for starters. What she thinks of you, I wouldn’t even want to imagine.”

Judy cocked an eyebrow at him. “Whatever have you done to make the poor girl so possessive?”

“Absolutely nothing.”

Judy nodded. “Ah, the old indifferent act. Good move. Gets them every time.”

“Yeah.”

Judy looked at him. “You’re really in trouble, aren’t you?”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because I’m bantering with you, and you’re not bantering back. In fact, you just told me about your secretary giving you a hard time, which is totally out of character for you, and not something you’d ordinarily tell me. Which means you’re so preoccupied with something you can’t think of anything to say other than the simple truth. So what’s wrong?”

Steve sighed. “Yesterday I testified before the grand jury. I’m holding out evidence in a murder case. The D.A. knows it, and if he can prove it he’s going to try to get me disbarred.”

Judy looked at him. “Oh. Good. I thought it was something serious.”

Steve shot her a look.