“There was ten thousand in cash?” Barney Killigen asked.
“That’s what they tell me. A rich uncle gave one hundred hundred-dollar bills — that makes ten thousand dollars.”
Barney Killigen frowned and said musingly: “That’s the irony of fate. Had the burglar been affluent, he would have worn a coat which didn’t have a hole in the pocket; but, because of the very poverty which forced him to resort to burglary, he was deprived of the property he’d taken. What does Jimmy Grayson say about that hole in the pocket of his coat?”
“I don’t know what he says; I haven’t talked with him.”
“Do you know if he has a lawyer?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Well,” Killigen said, “I’ll do what I can for your daughter. Don’t worry about her.”
“I suppose,” she said, picking up the purse which lay on her lap, “you’ll want a retainer. I’ve been saving some money — not much, but putting away a little here and there.”
She started counting out one dollar bills. Giving her roll a hasty appraisal, I figured there couldn’t have been over thirty or forty dollars in it.
Barney Killigen brushed her offer aside with a gesture. “Don’t worry about fees,” he said; “not right now, anyway. How did you happen to consult me?”
“I heard you helped people out when they were in trouble and sort of fixed your fees according to what a body had. Now, I haven’t much except what I can take in from my washing, and I don’t know about Estelle’s job. I’m afraid even if you prove she didn’t do it, she won’t have any job left because—”
Barney Killigen swung out of the office chair, crossed over to pat her reassuringly on the shoulder.
“That’s all right, Mrs. Whiting,” he said. “Just quit worrying. I’ll take care of your daughter. Anything which can humanly be done, I’ll do.”
“Don’t forget the hearing comes up day after tomorrow,” she said, “and they’re going to put on a lot of testimony—”
“I won’t forget it,” he assured her, as he escorted her through the door. And his confidence was so contagious that he had her smiling before the door closed. He turned back to me and danced a little jig on the carpeted floor. “Tell Charlotte Ray the good news,” he said. “Tell her to wipe the grim, tight lipped expression off her face. Tell her to sweep the gloom bugs into the wastebasket. Tell her to ring up the bank and notify it—”
“That you’ve accepted a case from a woman who hasn’t to exceed thirty-five dollars in the world?” I asked dryly.
“Now, Wiggy,” he said reproachfully. “That’s not like you. You’re more of my type. That caustic, sarcastic, cynical crack would have been more becoming to Miss Ray than you. Good heavens, girl, it’s six days until the first of the month, and here we are plunged right into the middle of a case which is attracting all sorts of public attention! A burglary in the Four Hundred — people who are reeking with wealth have lost some of their dough — a girl is snatched from behind the counter of a department store and dragged down to jail, because her sweetheart gave her an engagement ring! Think of the human interest! Think of the sob sister stories! Think of the—”
“But just how do you expect to make any coin out of the case?” I interrupted.
He looked at me in surprise. “How should I know? I’m not a prophet. I’m just an opportunist. Don’t worry. A way will open up. How about you and me having a little drink in celebration?”
“O.K. by me,” I surrendered, “but don’t make it too heavy because it’s early in the morning, and I have to transcribe these notes.”
“Bless your soul,” he said. “You don’t have to transcribe those notes. I just dictated them for the moral effect. It helps to reassure a client if he feels you’re taking down all the facts for future reference and study. How about four fingers of Scotch?”
“Two,” I said firmly.
“We’ll compromise on three,” he said.
Charlotte Ray came in on us as we were just getting ready to drink. Barney Killigen raised his glass.
“What ho!” he said. “Success! Prosperity! Wealth is just around the corner! Quit worrying about your bank account. Quit bothering about your books. Within the next forty-eight hours — as the police love to express it — I shall pour wealth into our coffers. You can walk down to the bank and make a deposit so big—”
She looked at me in stem disapproval. Charlotte Ray knew her office conventions. The idea of a secretary drinking with the boss at eleven o’clock in the morning was more than a violation of the conventions. It was sheer sacrilege. “In the meantime,” she said dryly, “the cashier of the bank has telephoned and requests me to advise him just what we expect to do about this overdraft.”
“What we expect to do with it?” Barney Killigen echoed. “Why, we expect to pay it — of course.”
“I believe he’ll be quite relieved to hear that,” she said. “He’ll probably ask when.”
“Tell him,” Barney Killigen said, “that I have a five thousand dollar retainer fee I’m bringing down to deposit within a day or two, that I’m too busy to get down to the bank now.”
I saw her face flush with pleasure. “A five thousand dollar retainer?” she said.
Killigen nodded.
“Give it to me,” she said, “and I’ll deposit it right away and—”
“Not so fast,” he told her, “not so fast. I always like to carry a little pocket money with me; and then it’s good discipline for the banks to wait. Tell them we’ll make a deposit on Thursday, or Friday, but tell them in the meantime please not to bother us with trivial matters. Tell them I’ve had much larger overdrafts than this.”
She said: “The overdraft has been increased by two hundred dollars. Another check came through this morning. The cashier says unless we can give him satisfactory assurances, he won’t cash any more checks, and, furthermore, he says this is absolutely the last overdraft the bank will ever tolerate.”
“He’s said that before,” Barney Killigen said, tossing off the last of his whisky. “It does seem to me he’d find something new to say. He’s like the police — completely lacking in originality.
“And now, Miss Ray, you’ll pardon me for finishing this drink without offering you one? I’ve just had one with Wiggy. Do you feel I should have one with you?”
“A drink!” she exclaimed. “At this time in the morning!”
“Why, certainly,” Barney Killigen said, “or, if you think it’s too early, we can wait for five minutes — well, five minutes is perhaps too long. We could wait, say, two minutes, Miss Ray.”
She turned and started for the outer office, her chin up in the air.
“Don’t let a mere overdraft interfere with your carousal,” she said acidly.
When the door had slammed, Barney Killigen looked at me and sighed. “That,” he said, “is the way with conventional people. They have no sense of adaptability. All right. Wiggy, get your nose powdered and your lipstick distributed evenly and regularly because you and I are going out and look things over.”
“You need me with you?” I asked.
“Of course,” he said. “I simply can’t concentrate without having you along to talk to. I think out loud better than I just think — just thinking is so damned unsociable, you know, and I crave society and companionship for my cerebrations.”
“Shall I put a shorthand notebook in my purse?”
“Have you got room for that whisky?” he asked.
I looked at the flask and shook my head.
“Well, then,” he said resignedly, “make it a shorthand notebook.”