Free Mignon by James M. Cain Page A

submission?” asked Dan.
    “That’s it—with the lawyer’s help.”
    “Then all right,” she said.
    I glanced around, and everyone looked worried, each for a different reason, except Olsen, who seemed bored and to whom no one was paying attention. It was just about how I wanted it. I started reading the letter, and to the preliminaries like “your attention is respectfully invited,” they hardly seemed to be listening. At my first real point, “intent is the heart of this case,” the major yawned openly. But then suddenly he leaned forward, as very quietly I read: “While we don’t deny that Mr. Landry shipped the shoes, or that some of them may have reached Taylor, we do insist that no proof has been brought that Mr. Landry foresaw this result, or in any way connived at it, and we emphatically take exception to the principle that a man can be held criminally responsible for acts the enemy commits. We would think it passing strange, esteemed Sir, if the President of our country placed you under arrest every time a Confederate guerrilla captured a few supplies.”
    “Hey, hey, hey!” said the major.
    “That’s getting kind of personal,” said Dan.
    “I want our lawyer,” Mignon exploded.
    “Then go get him,” I told her.
    She didn’t move, of course, and the major barked at me: “You know what’s good for you, you’ll take the General out.”
    “Who’s writing this letter?” I asked him.
    “Bill!” said Dan. “You want our help or not?”
    “On phraseology,” I said. “Technicalities.”
    A chill crept in, and I gave it a moment to settle, knowing that after what I’d read no one was walking out. I went on: “Once intent be fairly examined, it becomes inconceivable that Mr. Landry would have acted disloyally. His record of cooperation with the Army of the Gulf in its policy of humane reconstruction, through his purchases of cotton from those whom reconstruction tries to reach, his resale through a partner acceptable to the Army of the Gulf, his cheerful disbursements to Army personnel to expedite cotton shipment—”
    “I’ll take that letter!” snapped the major.
    “I haven’t submitted it yet.”
    “You’re practically alleging graft, and I warn you, once you registered as this man’s counsel, you became subject to martial law, and I’ll not hesitate to charge you.”
    “With what?” I asked.
    “Insubordination. Give me that letter.”
    “Well,” I said, seeming to think things over, “it may save time, at that. Olsen has his copy, and as submission takes care of him, by putting it on the record—”
    At last he saw the trap I was working him into, and when I extended the letter to him pulled back as from a red-hot poker. He jumped up, and kept retreating as I followed him around the room, holding the letter at him. I said, very coldly, as I went: “Tell me some more about martial law—and I’ll tell you more about graft.”
    I’d been wondering when Burke would break, and now, sure enough, he did, blurting out: “May I answer the scut, Major?” And then, to me: “If one dime has ever been paid, be Adolphe Landry or me, to anyone in this Army, I hope you’ll tell me when. Come on, me boy, speak up!”
    “Yesterday,” I said. “Glad you asked me.”
    “... Yesterday, is it? To whom?”
    “Our handsome friend here—the major.”
    After a long, bellowing pause: “ ’Tis a lie, Cresap! Your own filthy fabrication!” Then, after another bellowing pause: “How much?”
    “One hundred dollars, Mr. Burke.”
    “Why—that’s ridiculous,” said the major.
    But there was no steam in it, and I took my time getting out my torn bill and waving it around. To Burke I said: “You’ll observe it’s the same torn C-note you offered me yesterday morning, in my suite at the St. Charles Hotel, to act as Mr. Laundry’s counsel—the same C-note I declined until I’d done something to earn it.” Then suddenly I wheeled on the major and said: “And you ’ ll observe