on his relief now, I guess. You call Paul to relieve you when you're ready, ma.” He pushed through the wooden gate and squeezed himself along the narrow passageway between the mail racks and the cashier's wicket. Sally's eyes followed him until the angle of the registration desk hid him from sight.
The appearance of Ernest Faulkner's law office was not what he would have expected, Johnny decided. In contrast to the up-to-the-minute cut of the lawyer's two-hundred-dollar suits, the waiting room furniture in the musty office was so soundly and solidly old-fashioned that it looked as though it would still be there when the building itself was gone.
Johnny spoke up when he wearied of the gray-haired, quince-mouthed dragon in shirtwaist and skirt not deigning to notice him. He knew she'd heard him come in. “The name's Killain. I'd like to see Faulkner.”
She looked up from her desk and raised gold pince-nez glasses on a gold chain. From behind them gimlet eyes swept him from head to foot. “Your business?”
“Private,” he said shortly.
Down came the corners of the thin mouth. “I shall have to have some knowledge of the nature of your business, sir.”
Johnny stared at her. “Yeah? Who died an' left yon boss?” He pushed past her desk to the door behind her. She had risen at his first movement; for a second he thought she meant to step in front of him, but if that had been her intention she thought better of it. She was right on his heels when he knocked on the inner door and entered. Ernest Faulkner looked over his shoulder at them from where he stood beside a window, his hands jammed idly in his pockets. “Hi, Ernest,” Johnny greeted him. “You make all your customers run this barrage?”
“Oh, it's you.” The sensitive-featured lawyer nodded to the woman behind Johnny. “It's all right, Miss McPartland. I'm acquainted with Mr. Killain. He has an impetuous nature.”
“He's no gentleman!” Miss McPartland snapped, but backed reluctantly to the door. It banged shut behind her.
“You sure she hasn't got the room bugged?” Johnny asked. “What you got to do to get 'em to take that kind of an interest in their work?”
The corners of Ernest Faulkner's mouth moved nervously. “I inherited Miss McPartland from my father,” he explained, and with a wave of his hand indicated the massive iron safe and dull-backed, book-lined walls. “Along with these less trying legacies.” He seated himself behind his desk and waved Johnny to a chair alongside. He removed his heavy horn-rimmed glasses and began to polish them carefully. “Sit down. May I be of assistance?”
“It depends,” Johnny told him. He sat down. The sound of the lawyer's high-pitched voice lingered in his ears. Without the heavy glasses to strengthen it, the face was almost feminine in its delicacy. A soft bloom emanating from the skin added to the illusion. And there was something about the slightly stilted walk and the quick movements of the slim hands-this boy could have a little trouble, Johnny decided. Latent, if not overt. Still, the scorecards said he was getting to bat regularly against Gloria Philips. No indication of a hormone deficiency there. “You rate yourself near the top in the lawyerin' business, Ernest?”
A ghost of a smile hovered on the soft-looking mouth. “Am I being offered your business?”
“I thought maybe I should talk to you first before I went up against Palmer again.”
“Considerate of you.” Ernest Faulkner replaced his glasses, leaned back in his chair and studied Johnny. “You'd be surprised at the number of people who don't feel they should talk to me first.”
A sense of humor, Johnny thought. Likewise more bitterness than you'd expect. There was more to Faulkner than met the eye. “I've been takin' a few soundin's of the ice, Ernest, since someone in the crowd took on himself to scratch Arends from the entries.”
“If it's the thickness of the piece you're on that concerns you, I don't blame you.” The lawyer settled the glasses firmly on the bridge of his nose. “Although you didn't strike me as the nervous type.”
“It's bad for business, havin' potential customers bothered like that,” Johnny explained, dead-pan. “It's liable to hustle me along a little faster'n I like to go. What's my chances of gettin' paid if I go back to Palmer ready to do business?”
“Mr. Palmer is a reputable businessman,” the lawyer said smoothly. “For value received-”
“The worst kind of thief,” Johnny interrupted impatiently, “does it legally. I'll make you a proposition. You handle the money end of it for me, an' I'll make a deal with Palmer. I got to be sure I get paid.”
Ernest Faulkner stared at him. “Are you serious, Mr. Killain? Do you for one moment imagine that any lawyer can afford to represent you?”
“I thought I came to the right man,” Johnny said mildly. “You're Dechant's lawyer. You're Palmer's lawyer. You're the Winters woman's lawyer. You get to see the wheels go round. You know Dechant was a thief all his life. You know he an' the Winters woman killed her husband. You know Palmer's playin' footsie with the blonde just like Arends was. You know Tremaine's-”
“Just a minute!” Ernest Faulkner appeared to have trouble with his breathing. He looked horrified. “How can you expect me to sit here and listen to these-these gross insinuations! These monstrous-”
“Insinuations, hell! Act your age, Ernest.”
“Let's not be under any misapprehension,” the lawyer said hurriedly. “I was Claude's attorney, it's true. But I'm not Palmer's, and except in the most highly specialized context I'm not Madeleine's, either.”
“Palmer said he paid you a retainer,” Johnny pointed out. “An' when we found Arends in Madeleine's place the other night, who did she call? You.”
“It was the equivalent of calling a friend,” Faulkner protested. He worried his lower lip with his teeth. “She called me because of my knowledge of certain circumstances.”
“It's your knowledge of certain circumstances I'm tryin' to line up on my side,” Johnny told him. “What's the price?”
“You've heard of ethics, Mr. Killain? Legal ethics?”
“Nobody doin' business with these people has ethics,” Johnny said positively. “What're they payin' you?”
“I think that you had better leave now. Immediately.”
Johnny shook his head at the attempted dignity in the shaken voice. “You know I'm gonna do business with someone, Ernest. Why not with you?” He studied the moist-looking face across the desk. “Use your phone?” he asked abruptly, and without waiting for permission pulled it toward him. He picked up the metal tel-e-list from in front of Faulkner and thumbed the indicator down to the W's. A touch sprang it open.
“Here! What do you think you're doing?” The lawyer came halfway up out of his chair and then sank back into it.
“Callin' a mutual acquaintance,” Johnny said, dialing the number listed for Madeleine Winters. Across from him Faulkner removed a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the faint sheen visible on his white forehead. “I noticed the other night she had a phone in the living room and another in the bedroom. This the unlisted number?” He shook his head in mock regret at the lack of response from the man behind the desk.
“Harry, darling?” the phone cooed in Johnny's ear.
“You tryin' to make me jealous? This is Killain, from the Duarte.”
“How did you get this number, Killain?” Her tone had hardened up like wet leather in the desert sun, he thought admiringly. This woman really had a cutting edge.
“You know anything that's not for sale if the price is right?” he asked her. “Let's get to somethin' important. I want to see you. How about your place tonight? Around nine?” He could almost hear the gears going around beneath the ash-blonde hair.
“Tonight?” she began doubtfully, and then her voice firmed up. “All right. I'll arrange it.”
“Fine. I'll be there.” Johnny nodded casually to a whey-faced Ernest Faulkner as he replaced the phone.
“Are you trying to get me in trouble?” the lawyer croaked.
“Nothin' like that, Ernest,” Johnny soothed him. He moved the indicator on the tel-e-list again, opened it at the P's, and pointed out Palmer's number to the wide-eyed lawyer. “Don't forget to call Harry. You know how he likes to keep posted.”
On his way through the waiting room Johnny bowed gravely to a ramrod-straight Miss McPartland, who looked right through him.
