Free Flash and Filigree by Terry Southern Page A

Wednesday. Asphyxiation by carbon monoxide . . .”
    “Well, wasn’t public notice given?” asked the Doctor, impatient now that time was growing short.
    “It was in the papers, ” replied the old man, frowning fixedly at the Doctor; and then suddenly, as though on pure impulse, he reached in his pocket and drew out a flat, limp-worn billfold. His movement was abrupt, but, once the billfold was out, he opened it with slow effort and, even more laboriously, unfolded the newspaper clipping he took from inside, at last spreading it flat on the counter before them both. The banner read:
    “TRAGEDY IN WOODLAWN”
    and beneath:
    “Custom Cadillac Is
    His Death-Chamber”
    “I know this banner,” said Dr. Eichner, almost challengingly. “There’s no indication here that . . .” He broke off then with a show of impatience and read the item in its entirety. It began: “Thornton K. Fisher, prominent civic leader and judge, resident of the fashionable Woodlawn district, was found late last evening, dead of asphyxiation, in his automobile.” The item continued at some length, describing the circumstances of the tragedy, the discovery of the body, and so on, concluding: “Friends and relations knew of no reason why Judge Fisher would have wanted to take his own life.”
    Dr. Eichner did not ordinarily read the newspapers, preferring rather to get the news in weekly retrospect, from the periodicals—for these organs treated events of a preceding week as an understandable sequence, and gave them discernible pattern. On the previous evening, however, in preparing for the hearing, he had scanned the last week’s daily papers, so as to be up to date. Apparently, the ambiguous banner for the Fisher tragedy had misled him into overlooking the substance of the item. Even so, he finished reading it now with a snort of contempt and flung the clipping, as though it were actually worthless, to one side. “Still no indication,” he said emphatically, “of a change in 8th Sessions! Who’s presiding now?”
    The old man gathered up the clipping ruefully, even ignoring the Doctor, who looked on amazed that the other could still imagine the clipping to be of any use. Suddenly, however, he was evidently so touched by the old man’s false scorn that he reached out his hand and laid it gently on his shoulder. “I beg your pardon,” he said. “I didn’t mean to offend you. It was simply that the coverage in that item seemed so . . . so inadequate. I really . . .”
    “Judge Fisher was a good man,” said the other defiantly, as though he were wincing under the Doctor’s hand; and when he raised his eyes, there were actually tears there. “A good man,” he repeated, and it was evident that with the slightest encouragement he would cry wholeheartedly.
    “I’m sure of it,” said the Doctor, patting his shoulder. “I’m very sure of it. And I’m sorry.” Then, after a reasonable pause, he continued, “I must leave now. I have a Hearing in 8th Sessions.” He looked at his watch; it was 10:35. “I wonder if you could tell me who’s presiding now.”
    The old man had taken out his handkerchief and was blowing his nose. “Judge Lester,” he said indistinctly, and the Doctor, his head back slightly, eyes half closed in an attitude of concentration, recalled a dozen or so other names beginning with L. “Not Lessing ?” he ventured at last, with a frown to express the doubt of it.
    “Judge Lessing? Judge Tom Lessing is in 18th District Criminal Courts,” said the old man indignantly, and immediately appeared to be warming toward the Doctor. “Judge Howard Lester,” he said, putting his handkerchief away now to sit bright-eyed, white hands folded tight and small.
    “I don’t know him then,” said the Doctor seriously. “What are his leanings?”
    “How’s that?” cried the old man.
    “I mean, what is his background?”
    “Judge Lester? He’s from out of state,” replied the old man expansively, “Arizona.