Free A Handy Death by Robert L. Fish Page B

forgive, so take this.’ And he slapped him a few times.”
    â€œIn front of his entire office?”
    â€œEveryone. He dragged him from his office to do it.”
    â€œWell, I can understand Gorman being irked, to say the least. Though I can see Billy Dupaul’s point, too. Luckily, I’ve been able to take my slaps at Louie in court, rather than physically.”
    Ross grinned.
    â€œThe one I really pity, though, is Mrs. Gorman. I can imagine what went on when Louie got home that day.” He became serious. “All right. We have a defense to handle. Steve, I want you to take over most of the other cases we have pending; dole them out to the boys in the office you think can handle them best. I worked over the weekend to bring them up to date, so as to be free for the Dupaul case. And I’ll be available for consultation, of course.”
    Sharon was noting the footage on the recorder meter, making notes.
    â€œAnd, Sharon, I’ll want Steve’s summary typed up from the tape by one of the girls, with the memoranda on the points I raised to be inserted as they came, noting the meter footage. You know what I want.”
    â€œRight, H. R.”
    Steve said, “Where do you plan to start, Hank?”
    â€œWell,” Ross said, “they’re transferring Dupaul from Attica down to the Tombs either this afternoon or tonight, and by the time they finish booking him in and getting him settled, it’ll be too late to do much with him today, so I’ll see him tomorrow. I think I’ll work with Mike Gunnerson in the meantime.”
    Sharon frowned. “In what direction, H. R.?”
    â€œIn a direction nobody bothered to turn before,” Ross said, and came to his feet. “I’m going to start with the assumption that that flimsy, ridiculous, and unprovable story that Dupaul gave the jury in his first trial was the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”
    Steve looked at him a moment and sighed.
    â€œGood luck, Hank,” he said. “You’ll need it!”

CHAPTER
    5
    Hank Ross pushed past the old-fashioned, large PX telephone switchboard that took up a good part of the space in the outer office of “Michael Gunnerson, Private Investigations,” one flight down from his own more commodious space, receiving an admiring glance from the shapely brunette seated there with much leg showing, and opened the door to Mike’s private office. The large detective was just finishing a cup of coffee; he crumbled the cardboard cup and tossed it in the general direction of the wastebasket. The collar around his thick, corded neck was open, his necktie askew. He looked up at his visitor and nodded somberly.
    â€œHello, Hank.”
    â€œHello, Mike. You’re losing your aim.” Ross bent down, retrieved the crumpled cup, and put it in the wastebasket. He straightened up. “You also look busy. And tired.”
    â€œI am. Both,” Gunnerson said, and stared morosely at the man facing him. “And it’s all your fault, you know.”
    â€œ My fault?” Ross raised his eyebrows and pulled a chair from its place against the wall. He dragged it beside the desk, seated himself on it by straddling it, and studied the man across from him. “How my fault?”
    â€œYou’re hooked into this Dupaul case, aren’t you?”
    â€œYou know I am.”
    â€œAnd you certainly don’t expect to get the man off without a good deal of help, do you?”
    â€œYou mean, without your help?”
    â€œThat’s what I mean.”
    â€œAnd you’re so right,” Ross said with a smile. “But what’s that got to do with your being so tired even before the case has started? So far, all you’ve done is put a man up in Queensbury checking on background.”
    â€œMaybe it hasn’t started for you,” Gunnerson said, and gestured wearily toward the stacks of papers that covered both his