“Aw, gee, you wouldn’t make trouble for me over a lousy seven hundred and fifty bucks, would you?”
“It isn’t the seven hundred and fifty dollars so much, as it is the principle of the thing,” Dillon declared. “I want that money back.”
Best hesitated, pulled out his wallet. “It will leave me cleaned,” he said.
Dillon laughed sarcastically. “Just as I thought,” he said. “You pocketed the whole money and haven’t even spent a cent of it on expenses.”
Best said nothing, counted out seven hundred and fifty dollars in cash from his wallet, then opened the wallet to show the lawyer the interior.
“Just three one-dollar bills left,” he said.
Dillon held out his clammy hand for the money.
“Wait a minute,” Best said. “If you’re going to deal that way, I’m going to have a receipt for this money, and a complete release of any claim for what I’ve done in that case.”
Dillon nodded, jammed his finger on the button which summoned his secretary. When Norma Pelton entered the office, Dillon said: “Make out a receipt right away to Gilbert Best, for seven hundred and fifty dollars, show that the receipt is by way of complete settlement of any claim I may have against him for an overcharge, or obtaining money under false representation.”
Norma Pelton looked surprised.
“Also put in there,” Best said, “that by accepting the money, Dillon waives any benefit that might accrue to him from my services, and I agree not to make any charge against him for anything I’ve done.”
Norma Pelton’s blue eyes regarded Gilbert Best with thoughtful speculation. The detective’s right eye drooped in a slow, significant wink.
Norma Pelton suddenly turned away. “Very well,” she said.
She left the door open to the outer office. The men glowered at each other in silence while her typewriter exploded into clack noise, then she jerked the paper from the typewriter, brought it to the inner office.
Dillon read it and nodded. He took out his fountain pen. “Seven hundred and fifty bucks, Best,” he said.
Best passed the money across, as Dillon signed the receipt; he pocketed the paper and got up to go.
“I’m sorry,” Best said, “that you feel I didn’t do anything. I thought I did a lot.”
“I don’t know what you could have done,” Dillon said, “the compromise was concluded along the original lines that I’d discussed with Wigmore.”
“Well,” Best said drawlingly, “you’d always claimed that Wigmore cut corners and pulled shyster tactics in his cases. You wanted to get some dope on him, but you’d never been able to do it. I’ve got some proof that he spirited away this witness, Manning. I’ve got a letter signed by Wigmore and a check for a hundred dollars made out by the Airline Stageways, and charged on the stub to legal expense, a check that is referred to in Wigmore’s letter, and show that it was sent to this witness, Manning, in order to keep him out of sight, and intimates that he’s to suborn perjury if he has to, in order to keep his job. Then I’ve found Walter Manning and had a subpoena served on him so that he’ll have to appear and testify, and managed to make Wigmore think Manning had double-crossed him so that he won’t have anything to do with Manning anymore and is shivering in his boots for fear the whole thing is going before the grand jury.”
Frank Dillon heaved his paunchy figure from the chair, his mouth was sagging open, his eyes were bugged out in startled surprise.
“You’ve got what?” he yelled.
“Sure,” Best said, pulling the papers from his pocket, holding them in his hand. “There’s Wigmore’s signature on the letter, there’s the original uncashed check payable to Walter Manning, here’s the questionnaire that they tricked Ellen Hanley into signing, with her signature on it.
“They may have reached a compromise, but a compromise isn’t binding until the releases have been signed, and the money paid over. They can back out of a compromise anytime they want to.”
“What do you mean?” Dillon demanded. “What are you intending to do?”
“Why,” Best said, “I’m going over to the Airline Stage of course, and see how much Wigmore will pay to get this questionnaire back. That’s the plaintiffs signature on it all right, and she says in there plain as day that she received only superficial injuries in the accident, and has had a complete recovery. And then, of course, Wigmore should pay something to get that letter back that he wrote to Walter Manning. He wrote that sort of hastily, and it might look kind of bad for him if it was taken up before the Bar Association.”
“Good God!” said Dillon. He tried to talk, but could only make pawing motions with his hands. He dropped back into his chair, and finally found words.
“Get Wigmore on the telephone, Norma,” he said. “Get him right away. Tell him that my client simply refuses to consider a twenty-thousand-dollar compromise. Tell him that we won’t settle for a cent less than a hundred thousand dollars... No, you get him on the line. I’ll talk to him myself. Put through the call right away. Good God, to think that I almost lost forty thousand dollars. Why, I’d have settled for twenty. As it is now, he’ll pay a hundred. He’ll have to pay in order to get that stuff back.”
Best stretched and yawned. “I wouldn’t turn down that twenty-thousand-dollar compromise, Dillon,” he said.
The lawyer snorted. “That shows,” he said, “what a dumb boob you are. You certainly are lucky, that’s all. Damned if I know how you do it. It’s just luck, it can’t be brains. Why you poor boob, Wigmore has got to give almost anything I ask to get that letter back.”
“Yeah,” said Best, “I understand that, but what I meant was that you ain’t got the letter, and when Wigmore gets that letter back, and the questionnaire signed by Ellen Hanley, he won’t even compromise for twenty thousand bucks. He won’t pay you a damn cent. That’s why I didn’t think it would be wise for you to turn down that twenty-thousand compromise.”
The detective pulled open the door of the law library, and at that moment the telephone on Dillon’s desk exploded into noise.
Dillon made clawing motions at the air, as though trying to pull the detective back with his right hand, his left reached for the telephone.
“Hello... For God’s sake, Best don’t go!... Hello, yes Wigmore... Hold the line. For God’s sake, Best listen!... No, no, Wigmore, I can’t tell you... Yes, I asked my secretary to get you, but... For God’s sake, Best!... Best!... Best!...”
The detective by that time had crossed the outer office. He tipped Norma Pelton a wink. “The big stuffed shirt,” he said.
There was the sound of running steps. The paunchy lawyer waddled into the room, his face the color of ashes.
“For God’s sake, Gil, old kid,” he said, “don’t treat me like this. Don’t turn me down. I’ll give you anything you want.”
“No,” Best said, “our business relations are at an end. The work I did on the case wasn’t done for you, it was freelance work. I can sell it to the highest bidder.”
“But I’ll bid for it,” Dillon said. “My God, I’ll give you five thousand dollars.”
“Wigmore,” said Best, “would probably give me fifty. It would get him out of a jam personally, and enable him to get rid of that Hanley case without paying out anything by way of compromise.”
“No, no, no, you don’t understand—”
Best turned to face Dillon.
“Listen,” he said, “you big stuffed shirt, I know you like a book. You four-flushing, loud-mouthed, grandstander, now here’s once you’re going to talk turkey. If you want that letter from Wigmore and that questionnaire, you’re going to agree that you won’t charge Ellen Manley more than twenty percent of whatever amount you receive, and you’re going to pay me twenty percent. The rest of the money is to go to her.”