The Fredric Brown Megapack by Fredric Brown Page B

there’s a prayer of a chance for him other than an insanity plea. The victim was a Queenie Quinn—a stage name and no doubt a more valid one will come to light—who was a stripper at the Majestic. Star of the show there. A number of people saw Kane in the audience during her last number and saw him leave right after it during the final number. The doorman identifies him and admits having—ah—admitted him. The doorman knew him by sight and that’s what led the police to him. He passed the doorman again on his way out a few minutes later. Meanwhile several people heard a shot. And a few minutes after the end of the show, Miss Quinn was found dead, shot to death, in her dressing room.”
    “Hmmm,” said Mearson. “Simple matter of his word against the doorman’s. Nothing to it. I’ll be able to prove that the doorman is not only a pathological liar but has a record longer than Wilt-the-Stilt’s arm.”
    “Indubitably, Morty. But. In view of his relative prominence, the police took a search warrant as well as a warrant for arrest on suspicion of murder when they went to get him. They found, in the pocket of the suit he had been wearing, a thirty-two caliber revolver with one cartridge fired. Miss Quinn was killed by one bullet fired from a thirty-two caliber revolver. The very same revolver, according to the ballistics experts of our police department, who fired a sample bullet and used a comparison microscope on it and the bullet which killed Miss Quinn.”
    “Hmmm and double hmmm,” Mearson said. “And you say that Kane has made no statement whatsoever except to the effect that he will make no statement until he has consulted with an attorney of his choice?”
    “True, except for one rather strange remark he made immediately after being awakened and accused. Both of the arresting officers heard it and agree on it, even to the exact wording. He said, ‘My God, she must have been real!’ What do you suppose he could possibly have meant by that?”
    “I haven’t the faintest, Your Judgeship. But if he accepts me as his attorney, I shall most certainly ask him. Meanwhile, I don’t know whether to thank you for giving me a chance at the case or to cuss at you for handing me a very damned hot potato.”
    “You like hot potatoes, Morty, and you know it. Especially since you’ll get your fee win or lose. I’ll save you from making wasted motions in one direction, though. No use trying for bail or for a habeas corpus writ. The D.A. jumped in with both feet the moment the ballistics report came up heads. The charge is formal, murder in the first. And the prosecution doesn’t need any more case than they have; they’re ready to go to trial as soon as they can pressure you into it. Well, what are you waiting for?”
    “Nothing,” Mearson said. He left.
    * * * *
    A guard brought Lorenz Kane to the consultation room and left him there with Mortimer Mearson. Mearson introduced himself and they shook hands. Kane, Mearson thought, looked quite calm, and definitely more puzzled than worried. He was a tall, moderately good-looking man in his late thirties, impeccably groomed despite a night in a cell. One got the idea that he was the type of man who would manage to appear impeccably groomed anywhere, any time, even a week after his bearers had deserted in mid-safari nine hundred miles up the Congo, taking all his possessions with them.
    “Yes, Mr. Mearson. I shall be more than glad to have you represent me. I’ve heard of you, read about cases you’ve handled. I don’t know why I didn’t think of you myself, instead of asking for a recommendation. Now, do you want to hear my story before you accept me as a client—or do you accept as of now, for better or for worse?”
    “For better or for worse,” Mearson said, “till—” And then stopped himself; “till death do us part,” is hardly a diplomatic phrase to use to a man who stands, quite possibly, in the shadow of the electric chair.
    But Kane smiled and