“Whom do you wish?” she asked.
The man laughed, pushed past her, walked directly to Ken Corning’s desk. He flipped back a corner of his coat with a casual hand.
“Who,” he asked, “was the guy that just left here, and what’d he want?”
Ken Corning pushed back the swivel-chair as he got to his feet.
“This,” he said, “is my private office.”
The broad shouldered man laughed. His face was coarse skinned, but the gray eyes had little lights in them that might have meant humor, or might have meant a love of conflict.
“Keep your shirt on, keep your shirt on,” he said. “I’m Perkins from the booze detail. There was a speak knocked over last night. The woman who was running it tried to slip a bribe, and she’s booked on a felony. That big guy was sitting in there, eating chow. He claimed he was a customer. I happened to see him come in here. He looked phoney, so I tagged along. I want to know what he wanted.”
Ken Corning’s voice was hard.
“This,” he said, “is a law office, not an information bureau.”
The gray eyes became brittle hard. The jaw jutted forward. Perkins crowded to the desk.
“Listen, guy,” he said, “you’re new here. Whether you’re going to get along or not depends on whether you play ball or not. J asked you who that guy was. I asked because I wanted to know...”
Corning moved free of the swivel-chair.
“You getting out?” he asked.
The lips of the broad shouldered man twisted in a sneer.
“So that’s your line of chatter?”
“That’s my line of chatter.”
The man turned on his heel, strode towards the door. He turned with his hand on the knob.
“Try and get some favors out of the liquor detail!” he said.
Ken’s tone was rasping. He stood with his feet planted wide apart, eyes glinting.
“I don’t want favors,” he said, “from anybody!”
The broad shouldered man walked from the office, heels pounding the floor. Slowly the automatic door check swung the door shut.
Ken was ready to leave his office, seeking an interview with his client at the jail, when the door of his private office framed the white features of Helen Vail.
“It’s Mr. Dwight,” she said.
“What is?”
“The man who just came in. Carl Dwight. He’s outside. He wants to see you.”
Ken whistled. “Show him in,” he said.
She motioned towards the desk.
“Shall I get you some papers?”
“Not with him. He’s a wise bird. He knows. Shoot him in.”
Helen stood to one side of the door and beckoned. Carl Dwight came in. He walked with a slight limp. His lips were smiling. He had pale eyes that seemed covered with a thin white film, like boiled milk. Those eyes didn’t smile. His skin was swarthy and oily. There was a cut on his forehead, a slight bruise on his left cheek bone.
He wasn’t large, and yet he radiated a suggestion of ominous power. He said, crisply: “I’m busy. You’re busy. You know of me. I know of you. I’ve had my eye on you for the last week or two. You’re a likely looking young man. I want to give you a retainer. Here’s five hundred dollars. That’ll be for this month. There’ll be five hundred dollars more coming next month, and the month after that.”
His gloved hand laid an envelope on the desk.
Ken picked up the envelope. It was unsealed. There were five one hundred-dollar bills in it.
“What,” asked Ken cautiously, “am I supposed to do?”
The gloved hand waved in an airy gesture.
“Just use your head,” said Dwight. “I’ve got rather extensive interests here. You’ve probably heard of me, know who I am.”
Ken Corning chose his words carefully.
“You,” he said, “are reputed to be the head of the political machine in this county. You are reputed to be the man who tells the mayor what to do.”
The filmed eyes blinked. The swarthy skinned man made clucking noises in his throat.
“That, of course, is an exaggeration, Mr. Corning. But I have interests in the county, interests which are rather extensive. Now you can sort of look out for those interests. And, by the way, there’s a criminal case, the matter of a woman who was running rather a disreputable joint, gambling, hooch and all that. Parks was the name, I believe.
“Do you know, I think it might; be rather a good thing to have that case disposed of rather rapidly. A plea of guilty, let us say. I’m certain you’ll agree that it’s a dead open and shut case. She tried to bribe an officer. There were witnesses. She gave him fifty dollars. Having such things aired in front of a jury don’t do any good.”
He got to his feet. The swarthy skin crinkled in a smile, a sallow, bilious smile. The filmed eyes regarded Ken Corning with the wisdom of a serpent.
“So now,” he smirked, “we understand each other perfectly. I think you’ll like it in York City, Corning.”
Ken slowly got to his feet.
“Yes,” he said, “I understand you perfectly. But you don’t understand me, not by a long ways. Take back this damned money before I slap your face with it!”
Dwight teetered back and forth on his feet, made little clucking noises with his mouth.
“Like that, eh?” he said.
“Like that,” agreed Corning.
Dwight sneered.
“You won’t last long. You can’t...”
He didn’t finish. Ken Corning reached out with the envelope which he held by a corner, and slapped it across Dwight’s mouth. The filmed eyes blazed into light. The mouth twisted in a snarl. Dwight snatched at the envelope, crammed it in his pocket, whirled and started to the door. He paused on the threshold.
“Wait,” he said, significantly.
And Ken Corning, standing by his desk, feet braced wide apart, jaw thrust forward, said: “You’re damned tooting I’ll wait. I’ll be waiting long after you think you’re finished with me!”
The attorneys’ room in the county jail was a dull, cheerless place. There was a long desk which ran down the center of the room. Above this desk was a heavy wire screen. The prisoner could sit on one side of the desk, the attorney on the other.
Esther Parks came into the room through the doorway which led to the cell corridor. Ken Corning watched her with interest. Her face was heavy, her walk plodding. She was a big woman, broad-hipped and big-shouldered. Her eyes were like oysters on a white plate.
She plowed her way forward.
The attendant who had charge of the room stood at the doorway, beyond earshot, but where he could see everything that went on in the room.
The woman sat down on the stool opposite Ken Corning. Her face was within three feet of his. Her big hands were folded upon the scarred wood of the long desk. The heavy screen separated them.
“Hello,” she said.
Ken Corning kept his voice low pitched.
“Hello. I’m the attorney that your husband engaged to represent you. He thought you were just charged with unlawful possession of liquor. You’re not. They’ve got you on the charge of offering a bribe to an officer. That’s a felony.”
He paused expectantly.
The woman said: “Uh-huh.”
Ken stared into the oyster eyes.
“Well,” he said, “I’m to do the best I can for you. Can we go to trial and beat the charge?”
The eyes didn’t change expression. The heavy face rippled into dull speech.
“I was running a speak, me and Sam. We went in mostly for cheap food with drinks to sell to the right parties. I don’t see why they had to pick on us. Everybody’s doing it, that is, everybody anywhere round our neighborhood.”