“She’d get protection,” I said.
“Protection? From that outfit out there?”
“You’re making it tough for me, Hal.”
He lifted his shoulders, still staring at the corner. “I’m sorry, Sol. I told you right at the start that it’s a dry run.”
I went over to the grill and rattled the bars. Behind me, Hal continued to look into the corner. Maybe, in his mind, it was a symbol of the tight one he was in. “Thanks for coming, anyhow, Sol.”
“Save it,” I said. “And don’t go contacting any other lawyer. It’s the first real case I’ve had in a century, and I’m damned if I’ll be cut out.”
I went down the long hall and out into the free air. For a minute I stood on the curb, breathing deeply. Then I crawled into my car and drove back to my office.
* * * *
The office was in a building where the rents were possible for a youngish lawyer with the soft dew of college hardly dry behind his ears. It was on the second floor. If you wanted to get up there, you walked because there was no elevator. Down the hall, you found a door with a pane of frosted glass. And on the glass, in imitation gold leaf, you read the words: Solomon Burr, Attorney-at-Law.
If you pushed the door open and walked in, you were met by the rapid-fire clatter of a second-hand typewriter bouncing under the agile digits of a gal who was by no means second-hand. Her name was Kitty Troop, and she was my secretary. She presented, among other things, the impression of bustling activity under the pressure of many cases pending in court. This was a ruse. Actually, she saw your shadow on the glass and had her novel dog-eared in the likely event that you were a false alarm. Being a clever gal, she kept a clean sheet in the machine at all times, ready for the act at the first sign of any stray character who might turn into a client. If you looked over her shoulder, you saw that she was typing: The sly, quick fox jumped over the lazy, brown dog.
But you didn’t look over her shoulder.
You were busy looking at other things. She showed you first some nice teeth in a smile between the merest hints of dimples. Then she stood up, and you saw a figure that made you forget all your troubles. When you got your breath back and asked if Mr. Burr was in, she replied in a voice that was as soft as a fog that Mr. Burr just happened to be free at the moment and would give you a few minutes. Then she walked over to Mr. Burr’s private door, giving you a reverse view from seams to ash-blond bun. By that time, you didn’t give a damn if Mr. Burr was the lousiest shyster in town, with the highest fees on record. You were ready to give him your case, just so you could come back for the scenery.
If Kitty was on her toes, she knocked on the door and counted slowly to five. Then, when she opened the door, you saw an alert, clean-cut guy busy as hell with a lot of legal papers and stuff. If she forgot and opened the door without knocking, chances are you got a brace of elevated shoes and a pretty good view of a fairly standard profile. It was profile because this guy was watching the spider who lived in a web up by the ceiling. The spider’s name was Oliver Wendell Holmes. The guy’s name was Solomon Burr.
This was all on a slow day, which most of them were. As yet, no one had mistaken me for a revised edition of Clarence Darrow. Though there were those exceptional months, I found myself unable to meet with any consistency the world’s constant demand for cash. Catch me toward the first, and I could be had for the rent. How Kitty paid her rent, I don’t know, since she was paid herself only now and then.
Today, when I walked in with the stale air of the municipal dungeons still in my nostrils, the small reception office was crowded. That is, there was one other person besides Kitty in it. A girl. She sat on the edge of a chair so straight and stiff that she managed to give the impression of being coiled like a spring. Dark red hair between a tiny hat and a face that retained its prettiness under strain; dark green suit, attractively filled.
“This is Miss Wanda Henderson,” Kitty said. “She wants to see you.”
“How do you do, Miss Henderson,” I said. “Come right in.”
I pushed open the door to my inner sanctum, and she did a tricky job of uncoiling while rising on the perpendicular, preceded me into the office, and sat down on the edge of my fancy chair for clients with a rigidly balanced bending. She sat with knees and ankles clapped tightly together, hands clutching a green leather purse in her lap. She seemed afraid to relax for an instant. Wanda Henderson was no scarecrow, far from it. As I said, not even the distortions of strain destroyed the basic lines of her face, not even the deep shadow of fear in her eyes.
I offered her a cigarette, thinking it might loosen her up a little. After a slight hesitation, she accepted it and a light gratefully.
“Apparently Hal’s never mentioned me,” she said.
I’d guessed her identity, of course, from the moment I’d walked in.
“Until this afternoon,” I said, “I hadn’t seen Hal for a long time. He probably has a lot of friends I’ve never heard of.”
She leaned forward stiffly, clutching the edge of the desk. “You’ve seen him?”
“I just came from the municipal prison.”
“How is he?”
I shrugged and lit a cigarette of my own, taking my time, answering her through smoke. “Licked,” I said. “Ready to quit. I’m supposed
