The Fredric Brown Megapack by Fredric Brown Page A

which Queenie, as the star, was not required to appear, was just starting, now would be the best time to talk to her with a view toward obtaining a private viewing.
    He left the theater and strolled down the alley to the stage door entrance. A five-dollar bill got him past the doorman without difficulty and a minute later he had found and was knocking upon a dressing room door decorated with a gold star.
    A voice called out, “Yeah?”
    He knew better than to try to push a proposition through a closed door, and he knew his way around back-stage well enough to know the one question that would cause her to assume that he was someone connected with show business who had a legitimate reason for wanting to see her.
    “Are you decent?” he asked.
    “’Sta minute,” she called back, and then, in just a minute, “Okay.”
    He entered and found her standing facing him, in a bright red wrapper that beautifully set off her blue eyes and blond hair. He bowed and introduced himself, then began to explain the details of the proposition he wished to offer.
    He was prepared for initial reluctance or even refusal and ready to become persuasive even, if necessary, to the extent of four figures, which would certainly be more than her weekly take—possibly more than her monthly take—in a burlesque house as small as this one. But instead of listening reasonably, she was suddenly screaming at him like a virago, which was insulting enough, but then she made the very serious mistake of taking a step forward and slapping him across the face. Hard. It hurt.
    He lost his temper, retreated a step, took out his revolver and shot her in the heart.
    Then he left the theater and took a taxi home to his apartment. He had a few drinks to soothe his understandably ruffled nerves and went to bed. He was sleeping soundly when, at a little after midnight, the police came and arrested him for murder. He couldn’t understand it.
    * * * *
    Mortimer Mearson, who was possibly if not certainly the best criminal attorney in the city, returned to the clubhouse the next morning after an early round of golf and found waiting for him a message requesting him to call Judge Amanda Hayes at his earliest convenience. He called her at once.
    “Good morning, Your Honor,” he said. “Something gives?”
    “Something gives, Morty. But if you’re free the rest of the morning and can drop around to my chambers, you’ll save me going into it over the telephone.”
    “I’ll be with you within an hour,” he told her. And he was.
    “Good morning again, Your Judgeship,” he said. “Now please take a deep breath and tell me just what it is that gives.”
    “A case for you, if you want it. Succinctly, a man was arrested for murder last night. He refuses to make a statement, any statement, until he has consulted an attorney, and he doesn’t have one. Says he’s never been in any legal trouble before and doesn’t even know any attorneys. Asked the chief to recommend one, and the chief passes the buck to me on said recommendation.”
    Mearson sighed. “Another free case. Well, I suppose it’s about time I took one again. Are you appointing me?”
    “Down, boy,” said Judge Hayes. “Not a free case at all. The gentleman in question isn’t rich, but he’s reasonably well-heeled. A fairly well-known young man about town, bon vivant , what have you, well able to afford any fee you wish to charge him, within reason. Not that your fee will probably be within reason, but that’s between you and him, if he accepts you to represent him.”
    “And does this paragon of virtue—most obviously innocent and maligned—have a name?”
    “He does, and you will be familiar with it if you read the columnists. Lorenz Kane.”
    “The name registers. Most obviously innocent. Uh—I didn’t see the morning papers. Whom is he alleged to have killed? And do you know any of the details?”
    “It’s going to be a toughie, Morty boy,” the judge said. “I don’t think