Free The Anonymous Client by Parnell Hall Page B

impression of the Kempers. Phyllis Kemper was a catty woman, yes, but it was a curious mixture of cat and mouse. Underneath the eyebrows that were plucked a little too fine and the lips painted a little too thin, was a rather plain, mousey face. A mouse dressed up as a cat.
    But it was a good act. There was an almost feline, predatory quality to her. Steve actually felt uncomfortable under her gaze.
    Her husband was the opposite. Douglas Kemper was a broad-faced, open, friendly sort of man. He had a young, puppyish quality about him, which, though necessarily subdued, under the circumstances of the tragedy, was nonetheless there.
    In his wife’s presence, though, he seemed to take on a secondary role. As if she were the master. As if she might have had a leash on him.
    The cat walking the dog.
    “Yes,” Steve said. “But I have no wish to intrude on you at this time, and I really must be going.”
    “A lawyer?” Phyllis said. “But we have a lawyer. Did Marilyn consult you, Mr. Winslow?”
    “No.”
    “Don’t tell me you’re suing us?”
    “No, he’s not,” Marilyn interrupted irritably. “And he really had to go. Mr. Fitzpatrick is on his way over, and I’m going to have to talk to him alone.”
    “Mr. Fitzpatrick?” Phyllis said. “But he was just here this afternoon.”
    “Phyllis,” Douglas Kemper said, “I don’t think Marilyn wants to talk about it.”
    Marilyn Harding seemed on the verge of hysteria. “I don’t,” she said. “And I just heard a car in the driveway. That will be Fitzpatrick. I don’t want him to find Mr. Winslow here, so would you please—”
    She was interrupted by the entrance of the butler. “Excuse me, Miss Harding,” he said, “but the police are here again and—Oh!”
    The butler broke off as Sergeant Stams pushed by him into the room.
    “All right,” Stams said. “Which one is Marilyn Harding?”
    Steve Winslow, who had been watching Marilyn’s face, turned to face Stams.
    Stams saw him. Blinked. “Winslow!” he said. His usually impassive face broke into a grin. “Well, well, well. Isn’t that interesting. You know, I was hoping to find you here, but I didn’t think you’d be that dumb.”
    “Apparently I’m that dumb,” Steve said.
    “Apparently you are. So,” Stams said sarcastically. “You didn’t have a client who tipped you off to the murder. Oh no. You didn’t go to the apartment to get any evidence. Not you. Why, you didn’t even know he was dead, did you? And yet, when we follow the clues out here, who do we find but poor, innocent Steve Winslow, closeted with his client. Now isn’t that an interesting coincidence?”
    “I’m sorry to disappoint you,” Steve said, “but Miss Harding is not my client. Her attorney is a Mr. Harold Fitzpatrick, who is probably in the car I hear coming up the driveway now. It’s been a wonderful evening, but unless you’d like to have me searched again, I really must be going.”
    With that, Steve nodded to the astonished Sergeant, and walked out.

15.
    S TEVE W INSLOW GLANCED OVER HIS shoulder to make sure Sergeant Stams wasn’t following him, and then hurried through the spacious front hallway, looking for a telephone. He spotted one on a desk near the window and was making for it when a corpulent gentleman in his mid-fifties came bustling through the front door. The man saw Steve and stopped dead. “Who are you?” he demanded.
    Steve looked at him. Despite the lateness of the hour, the man had on a custom-tailored three-piece suit. Short-cropped curly white hair framed a chubby face that, when smiling, probably looked as benign as that of a vaudeville comedian. At the moment, however, the cheeks were flushed, the jaw was set, and the eyes were narrowed in a suspicious stare.
    Steve smiled. “For that matter, who are you?”
    “Is your name Winslow?”
    “That’s right.”
    For a moment the man stared at him as if he could hardly believe the answer. “Then I demand to know what you’re