The Diamond Bullet Murder Case Part 7

That elegant young man had the situation well in hand. When Gillian, stopped his car before Vollmer's Undertaking Parlors, Prosecutor Elton Dawbridge's sentinels were nowhere to be seen. Well-dressed young men lounged in the entrance.

Silky Davis was standing in the doorway, smoking a fresh cigar and softly brus.h.i.+ng his hands one against the other.

"It's all set, Mr. Hazeltine."

"What happened?"

"Nothing, Mr. Hazeltine. Nothing at all. We just drove up, unloaded, and showed 'em a little hardware. We corralled 'em in the back yard, and they're there nowa"just like lambs."

"Anybody hurt?"

"Only one of them, who has a little sick headache, because his chin fell against something made of bra.s.s."

Gillian helped the doctor unload the black boxes. But he did not accompany him into the back room. The very thought of that back room made him feel ill.

He paced up and down until Dr. Hoffman came out, carrying the black boxes. The doctor's face was slightly green. He looked at Gillian, narrowed his eyes and nodded.

"How about the diamond?" Gillian asked.

"It was stopped by that third rib."

"How about the heart?"

"It was untouched."

"I'll see you to-morrow," Gillian said. "Silky will take you home."

"Are you staying here?"

Gillian nodded.

"Will I have to go into court?"

"Certainly." Gillian turned to Silky. "A thousand thanks, Silky."

The gunman made a nonchalant gesture with his cigar.

"It was a pleasure, Mr. Hazeltine. I tossed it off with my left hand. Ask me to do something hard, some time!"

Gillian entered his car and drove to the jail. Five reporters were dozing in chairs. A photographer was holding his camera lovingly in his arms.

Tiptoeing through a hall and into the jail, Gillian found a turnkey. The turnkey said that Mr. Dawbridge had given him orders to admit Mr. Hazeltine at any hour.

"Do you want to see them both?" Gillian said that he did. The turnkey led him down a corridor to a cell where a young man sat on the edge of cot with his face in his hands. His sandy hair was rumpled. He looked up. His features were clean-cut. He had a good chin, firm lips and direct eyes.

He sprang up. "Are you Mr. Hazeltine?"

"Yes."

"This is Jim Truman," the turnkey said. "The girl has got the next cell. They're the only guests we've got right now. We thought the poor young things might be lonesome, so we put them as close together as the law allows."

The turnkey walked away. Gillian looked into the adjoining cell.

Nellie Hearthstone, standing at the door, resembled a ghost. Her large dark eyes stared at him without expression. He turned and read tragedy in the eyes of James Truman.

"You two kids," he said, "are going to have to snap out of this. Things are never as black as they are painted. Truman, did Seth Peters, deliver my message?"

"Yes, sir. Before they moved us."

"They gave you new cells, eh?"

"Yes, sir; about an hour ago."

"Nice clean, new cells," Gillian said dryly. "You can thank Mr. Dawbridge for that. He knew you would like being close together. Have you engaged in any conversation since this happened?"

"No, sir; we haven't said a word."

"You realize, of course," Gillian said pleasantly," that the able and distinguished county prosecutor has a Dictaphone hooked up so that he can hear every word you say, or so a stenographer can make a. record for him. You see, Mr. Dawbridge has had very little love in his life, and is very curious to know what a pair of devoted lovers might say to each other."

Jim Truman was smiling grimly, and Gillian realized that here was a young man with courage. And the thought of permitting Elton Dawbridge to send him to the electric chair became even more distasteful to Gillian.

He asked Jim Truman if the county prosecutor had questioned him.

"Yes, sir; he's been questioning me all day."

"How about you, Nellie?"

"They asked me questions when they arrested me. But they haven't bothered me since."

"You have just one answer to all their future questions: 'My lawyers will answer that.' When the grand jury meets, you will answer no questions. You will be indicted, anyway. Try not to worry. Things may not look so black in a few days."

Gillian said good night and left them. On the sidewalk outside the jail he encountered the county prosecutor, an ugly light in his eyes.

"What," he clipped out, "was the big idea of that?"

"Of what?" Gillian gently asked.

"Bringing in Silky Davis's mob to stick up Vollmer's."

"The answer to that," Gillian replied, "is, what was the big idea of stationing your gang there to prevent my seeing that corpse?"

Dawbridge ignored the question and said, "I could have you arrested for that."

"Well, why don't you?"

The county prosecutor was pale and nervous. "It may interest you to know that the coroner gave out a statement an hour ago to the press, that the earlier report of the diamond being found in Grundle's heart was erroneous."

"Why didn't he say that in the first place?"

"The sooner you learn," Dawbridge answered, "that I am running this show, and that I am going to keep on running this show, the better. Why did you want to see that corpse?"

"Because corpses never lie."

The county prosecutor glared at him. Gillian said: "Not upset, are you, Elton? Not worried about anything, are you?"

Dawbridge, with an effort, grinned.

"Hazeltine," he exclaimed, "the keys of the city are yours. Welcome to Clinton! Pardon me if there aren't fireworks and a bra.s.s band. You'll just have to excuse our informality. I want to retract all my harsh words. I want you to know that nothing could suit me better than having you here!"

"I feel flattered," Gillian said dryly.

"Am I supposed to ask why you are so delighted?"

"That's right! Why am I so delighted? Because you are going to keep this case on the front page. Hazeltine, the courtroom wizard, is handling the defense. Hooray! Pardon my enthusiasm, but I need publicity. The more I get, the farther I go."

"I know what you mean," Gillian said. "The more dynamite you put under a rotten old stump, the higher it blows."

Dawbridge chuckled. "With you in the case, I realize I was a piker to want the State attorney generals.h.i.+p. I'm going to play leapfrog right over that job."

"I'm glad we're so harmonious," Gillian answered. "But don't forget our little bet."

"Forget it!" the other cried. "I've already spent it!"

"I hope," Gillian said, "on something worthy."

"A trip to Was.h.i.+ngton!"

"The White House?" Gillian asked in an awed voice.

"Not yet. Only the Senate this time. But wait!"

Gillian made a mocking bow.

"Good night, Senator!"

CHAPTER 12. POLITICAL WARFARE.

TWO of the Greenfield newspapers made some reference next morning to what they humorously hailed as "Hazeltine's Bogey Man." One tabloid printed a "synthetic photograph" on the front page, showing Gillian Hazeltine chasing a black bearded dwarf with a b.u.t.terfly net. In the synthetic photograph, the dwarf had the wings of a wasp.

Editorial comment was inclined generally to the opinion that Mr. Hazeltine was turning the Grundle murder case into a three-ring circus.

Gillian remained in his office all day long. He refused to see reporters. His switchboard operator refused to connect any calls to him except a long distance one from his wife in Chicago.

Vee had read, in the Chicago Tribune, that Gillian was defending James Truman, and she wanted to know what it was all about.

"A couple of nice kids in hot water," he told her, "and I have a hundred and fifty-thousand-dollar bet on with the black-hearted crook who will prosecute Truman that I can get him out of it."

"I'll charter a plane and be home in two hours," Vee said. "Love and kisses, darling."

"I need plenty," Gillian said. It was like Vee to come when needed.

He didn't like the way the newspapers were acting. They weren't giving Nellie Hearthstone the sympathy he had hoped for. The afternoon Bulletin carried a half page photograph of her, with great black type above it inquiring: GOOD OR CLEVER?.

And Elton Dawbridge was quoted in a lengthy interview as saying: "We do not want men of Gillian Hazeltine's caliber interfering in this tragedy which has plunged our county into sorrow and thrust it on the front pages of the press of the nation as the scene of a sensational and deplorable crime. We want to get at the bottom of this case by honest, honorable methods. We don't want golden-mouthed law-twisters clogging up the machinery of our courts. We don't want smart Alec city lawyers whose sole ability is to obscure the issue with vaudeville tricks. We don't want a courtroom Barnum, a legal clown, to mock at our grief. We don't want trickery in our courts. We want justice!"

Gillian softly announced to himself that Elton Dawbridge was the world's most mealy-mouthed hypocrite; and read on: "A pillar of our community, a decent, upright citizen has been murdered-foully murdered. I intend to send the blackguard who murdered him to the electric chair. I have no hope of rewards. In my humble way, I wish but to do my duty and to keep faith with my people, my State, and my G.o.d."

Gillian could read no more of that. His stomach was rebelling. He smoked twenty-two cigars that day, and devoted most of his time to gazing dreamily down the river.

Once, when Miss Walsh came in and looked at him anxiously, he said: "Tell me how you like working for a smart-Alec city lawyer, a courtroom clown?"

The girl went white. She banged on his desk with a small clenched fist.

"Mr. Hazeltine," she said venomously, "if you don't put that crook where he belongs, I'm going to quit! I'm going to start a farm and grow sour crabapples! I've been with you a good many years, but I've never known you to take a case which smelled so to high heaven. Those hypocrites! I've never met Jim Truman and I've only had a glimpse of the Hearthstone girl, but I'd bet a month's salary they're both fine young people. And I'd bet a year's salary that Amos Grundle was a brute and a beast."

"Did I say so?" Gillian murmured.

"Everybody knows it. They say he was a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hydea"a model citizen in public and a wife beater at home. Isn't it true?"

"Yes, it's true."

"I knew it!" Miss Walsh cried. "I'd kill a man like that myself!"

Gillian smiled. "A nice girl like you?"

"A nice girl like me!"

Miss Walsh was glaring at him. Gillian laughed.

"What's going to happen to those two kids?" she demanded. "As things stand, won't she have to testify against Truman?"

"Yes."

"If she doesn't talk, won't she be sent to prison for contempt of court?"

"Or worse," Gillian affirmed.

"Is it true that she's a psychological freaka"can't tell a lie?"

The lawyer nodded. His efficient secretary spread out her fingers in an imploring gesture.

"Well, what are you going to do? You don't dare let her take the stand. The minute she goes on the stand. Your case is lost. Isn't it?"