The Danger Zone and Other Stories

“Carl,” she said. “He’s taking that way to let you know he’s standing by you. Can’t you see? He wants you to know that he’ll never repeat that conversation which took place last night.”

The telephone rang. She picked up the receiver, and said, “Yes? Why, yes, he is. Very well, hold the phone please.”

She looked up at me and said, “Were you expecting a call, Pete?”

I shook my head.

“It’s Mr. Boniface. He says that he wants to talk with you.”

Now, how the devil did old stuffed shirt Boniface know where I was? I took the telephone, said, “Hello,” and heard Boniface’s voice sounding as mournful as winter wind howling around the eaves of a deserted house — and just about as cold.

“Wennick,” he said. “I’m in my suite in the hotel. You will please come up here immediately.”

“I’m busy now,” I said.

“Not too busy to come here,” he said. “I don’t mind telling you that I am standing between you and a most serious charge. Only my personal influence has kept the situation in hand thus far. I feel certain that anyone who has had the privilege of working with such a strictly ethical attorney as E.B. Jonathan could never be guilty of the things of which you are accused. But, nevertheless, I must admit the evidence is—”

“Who’s doing the accusing?” I asked.

“The police,” he said.

“All right,” I told him, “I’m coming up.”

I hung up the telephone. Edith Forbes looked at me with eyes that were filled with gratitude. “Pete,” she breathed softly, “I can never thank you enough, and you can bet that Mr. Spred will never forget what you did as long as he lives. Very few men would have had the courage—”

I patted her shoulder, and said, “Better wait and see how it works out. We aren’t exactly out of the woods yet. Keep your ear to the ground and find out everything you can. I’ll be seeing you.”

I was doing lots of thinking on my way to the hotel, and I did a lot more when I opened the door of Boniface’s suite and found an officer in a captain’s uniform, a plain clothes man, and a guy who had young hoodlum stamped all over him standing on opposite sides of Cedric L. Boniface, who looked as though he was just about to give birth to kittens.

I didn’t say anything in greeting, just waited for Boniface to say something. But before he could the kid who looked like a juvenile trouble-maker turned watery eyes in my direction, stretched out a yellow-stained forefinger, and said, “That’s the guy.”

There was an instant of silence, one of those dramatic silences which seemed to call for the accused to do something dramatic, like taking poison or sobbing out a confession. But all I did was to sit down in one of the overstuffed chairs, take out a cigarette, light it, blow out the match, and nod.

“Unquestionably, I am the guy,” I said. “Now, what’s it all about?”

The police captain started to speak, but Boniface interrupted him. “Let me handle this, please.”

When the captain yielded the floor, Boniface turned to me in his most pompous manner, and said, “Wennick, do you know the nature of the charge against you?”

“I’ve waded through three books of Blackstone,” I said. “I think the reading has probably broadened my mental powers. But telepathy is a bit advanced, and I don’t know of a judge who would permit you to base a case on it.”

He said, “The occasion hardly calls for levity, still less for sarcasm. Were you aware, Wennick, that the police had discovered a gun out at Spred’s house?”

“I heard something about it,” I said.

“Where?”

“I was in a conference with some people, and the police telephoned.”

Boniface waved aside my explanation as if he didn’t think it was worth a moment’s consideration.

“Wennick,” he said, “this young man was picked up by the police this morning.” He pointed to the young punk. “Admittedly he is a vagrant. His purpose in the neighborhood is open to question, to say the least. But the fact remains that around one o’clock this morning he was in the vicinity of Spred’s residence.

“While he was there, he saw a car drive down the alley and stop. Because he thought it was a police prowl car, he hid in back of the hedge which borders Spred’s grounds. He was, therefore, a witness to what happened. Do you know what happened — or shall I tell you?”

I blew a smoke ring at the ceiling, and said, “By all means, tell me.”

“Very well,” Boniface said. “This young man saw you vault over the hedge, walk to a flower garden, take a gun from your pocket, wipe it carefully to make certain you were leaving no finger prints, plant it in the garden, and return to the car. He had the presence of mind to get the license number of the automobile. It was one which belonged to Edith Forbes, the secretary of Layton Spred.

“An investigation discloses that you were driving that car last night. His description, however, fits you so perfectly, that as soon as I talked with him, I knew that he must have seen you, and that you must have been the man who was on the grounds.

“Now, Wennick, I implore you, for the sake of our office, for the sake of our client, and your own career, please make some explanation that will hold water. If you were just there looking for evidence, and perhaps you picked something up and put it in a handkerchief instead of dropping it—”