He walked past six doors marked, each with the legend on the square of frosted glass which fronted the hallway, Frank C. Dillon — Attorney At Law — Private. The seventh door was lettered, Frank C. Dillon — Attorney At Law — Office Hours 10:00 to 12:00 — 2:00 to 4:30 — Entrance.
Best’s broad shoulders swung in a pivot from the waist. He used enough force in opening the office door to have moved the steel door of a vault, and came to a stop before a reception desk.
A pair of blue eyes that looked up with listless boredom from behind a telephone switchboard on which was a brass sign marked, Information, suddenly sparkled to life. “Hello, Gil.”
“Hello, Norma. What does Dillon want?”
“I don’t know, Gil. He’s in an awful sweat about something. He told me to rush that call through to you. I wanted to listen in, but the board got busy and I couldn’t. What did he want?”
“Wanted me to come over right now.”
“Did he sound apologetic?”
“As apologetic as he ever sounds,” Best said. “He wanted to bury the hatchet. That means he’s in a jam and he needs me. Is he alone in there?”
“No, there’s a woman with him.”
She ran her finger down the page of a day book and marked a name with the pointed tip of a crimson fingernail. “Ellen Hanley, her name is. She’s plaintiff in a case against the Airline Stageways.”
“Personal-injury suit?”
“Yeah.”
“How long’s he had it?”
“A couple of months, I think. The case is at issue and ready to be set for trial. Maybe it’s set for trial. I’ve forgotten. Gee whiz, Gil, after that last scene you had, I didn’t think he’d ever send for you again!”
“And I didn’t think I’d ever come,” Gilbert retorted. “But I guess he needs a real detective agency, and I need the dough — if there’s enough of it.”
“Stick him plenty,” said Norma Pelton with sudden vindictiveness. “He just gave me a ten-dollar cut.”
“What’s the idea?”
“I don’t know. He said business was rotten, and—”
A door of veneered mahogany, which bore in gilt letters the one word, Private, opened with explosive force. A big man whose paunch was buttoned tightly inside a cream-colored vest rumbled into irascible speech before the glittering, avaricious eyes had fully focused on the office.
“Where the devil’s that detective? Put through a call and—”
He broke off as his eyes rested on Best standing by the window.
“Hello, Dillon,” said Best.
The lawyer didn’t reply to the salutation directly, but there was a relieved note to his voice as he rasped out: “Why the devil didn’t you let me know you were here? I told you this was an emergency. If I hadn’t busted out here, you’d have been talking to Norma for another ten minutes yet. Come in.”
“What is it?” asked Best, crowding past the bulging vest as the lawyer held the door open for him.
“I’m in a jam.”
“Again?”
“Don’t be funny.”
“What sort of a jam?”
“I’m going to lose about ten thousand bucks.”
“That’s a lot of money,” Best said, “even if you haven’t got it to lose.”
Dillon snorted, grasped the detective’s elbow with fingers that were surprisingly strong, for all of their coating of fat, pushed him through a law library and into an office fitted with massive furniture that matched the huge bulk of the lawyer.
A woman, who seemed as pathetically small as a boy in a man’s overcoat, raised hopeless eyes to survey the broad-shouldered detective.
“This is Ellen Hanley,” said Dillon. And, turning to Ellen Hanley, said: “This is the detective I told you about — Gilbert Best.”
Best tossed his hat to the big desk, smiled reassuringly at Ellen Hanley. Her eyes were bleached with suffering. Her lips twisted into a smile, but there was no hope in her eyes.
Dillon squeezed himself past the corner of his desk. Springs in the swivel chair squeaked protest as he adjusted his weight.
“Ellen Hanley,” he said, “has a swell case against the Airline Stageways. That is,” he amended hastily, “she did have.”
“What happened to it?” Best asked.
“She didn’t follow instructions,” said Dillon, with an accusing glare at the woman.
She started to say something, but raised a handkerchief to her lips and coughed with hacking monotony.
Best looked at the lawyer inquiringly.
“Accident happened five months ago,” said Dillon. “It was night. The stage was coming around a corner too fast to get over on its side of the road. The driver was fighting the steering wheel. He couldn’t turn off the spotlight. It glared into Miss Hanley’s eyes. She was crowded off the road, smashed into a stump, wrecked her car, smashed some ribs. Gave her some serious lung injuries.”
“Was the stage injured?” asked Best. “No, she never touched the stage. The stage crowded her off the road and into a stump.”
“And kept right on going?” asked Best.
“It would have, but one of the passengers heard the crash, looked back and saw what happened. He made the driver stop. The driver pretended he didn’t know anything about it. The passenger was sore. Miss Hanley was unconscious. They stopped a passing motorist and had him take her to the hospital. The driver then admitted to the passenger that he was going pretty fast and didn’t have a chance to turn off the spotlight when he saw the car coming.”
“That,” said the detective, watching Dillon shrewdly, “should make a pretty good case.”
“It should have!” snorted the lawyer. “I sued the Airline Stageways, and Walter Manning. He was the driver. You know, his statement wouldn’t be admissible against the stage company because it wasn’t a part of what we call the res gestae. But, on the theory that both the stage company and the driver were responsible for the accident, I sued the driver, as well as the stage company. Then I could have introduced the admission as against the driver. The jury would have considered it as against the stage company, in spite of the judge’s instructions.”
“Well?” asked the detective.
Dillon snorted. “Sam Wigmore,” he, said, “is the most unscrupulous shyster that ever represented a corporation! Do you know what he did?”
“What did he do?”
“He got Manning to make a default. I’ve got judgment against Manning for fifty thousand dollars. That judgment isn’t worth fifty cents, but now that I’ve got judgment against Manning I can’t introduce the statement that he made, as a declaration against him. That means the only thing I can do is to put him on the stand as a witness and ask him questions. If he denies the statement he made, I can impeach him.”
“I still don’t see anything to worry about,” Best said.
“I can’t find Manning. They’ve spirited him out of the country.”
“Like that, eh?”
“Like that.”
“Why didn’t you have me get in touch with him five months ago?” Best inquired.
“The action was only put in my hands three months ago, and I thought it was a cinch case. I thought they would settle, until Wigmore pulled that fast one on me and spirited Manning out of the country.”
“You still could have reached me thirty days ago,” Best said.
“Yes, but, damn it, you had to go and get temperamental and wouldn’t work for me any more!”
Best laughed. “You were the one that got temperamental,” he said, “and swore you’d never call me again. What do you want me to do — find Manning?”