SW03 -The Underground Man Read online

  Praise for Parnell Hall’s The Underground Man

  “...startling surprises for the reader. It’s a few hours of twists, turns and laughs—expertly woven into an enjoyable thriller.”

  —The Washington Times

  “Highly entertaining courtroom drama.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “...explosive, suspenseful and filled with wonderfully witty legal repartee.”

  —L.A. Daily News

  “...fine detective work and brilliance in the courtroom—sort of remindful of Perry Mason at his best.”

  —Abilene Reporter News

  “...puts Hailey in a class with the very best writers of the mystery genre, including Agatha Christie herself.”

  —Macon Telegraph and News

  The Underground Man

  Parnell Hall

  Copyright © 1990, 2011 by Parnell Hall (writing as JP Hailey)

  Published by Parnell Hall, eBook edition, 2011.

  Published by Forge, TOR, 1994.

  ISBN:0-812-55011-0

  Originally published by Donald I. Fine, Inc., 1990.

  ISBN: 1-55611-215-7

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  ISBN (Kindle): 978-1-936441-23-5

  ISBN (ePub): 978-1-936441-24-2

  Cover design: Elizabeth DiPalma Design

  For Lynn, Justin and Toby

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Books by Parnell Hall

  1.

  TRACY GARVIN PUSHED THE LONG blonde hair out of her face and said, “There are two men in the outer office.”

  Steve Winslow looked up from his desk. “Two?”

  “Yes.”

  “Together?”

  “No.”

  “I have two potential clients?”

  “That’s right.”

  Steve grinned. “A new world record. Who are they?”

  “One is a Mr. Walsh. The other is a Mr. Thorngood.”

  “What do they want to see me about?”

  “They wouldn’t say.”

  Steve raised his eyebrows. “Neither of them?”

  “No.”

  “Better and better. Describe them. What are they like?”

  Tracy frowned. “Well, they’re quite different. Thorngood’s about fifty. Walsh is older, say about seventy-five. But that’s the least of it. Mr. Walsh is ... how shall I say it ... well, he looks like a street person.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. His clothes are dirty. His hair’s uncombed. And he’s unshaved. Not that he has a beard—he’s just unshaved, if you know what I mean.”

  Steve nodded. “Aha,” he said. “And he won’t tell you what he wants?”

  “No. And the impression he gives is not that he has anything to hide, but that it’s none of my damn business. He’ll discuss it with the lawyer. He’s a cantankerous old cuss. He doesn’t have an appointment, but he wants to see you, and he’s prepared to sit there until doomsday until he does.”

  “I see,” Steve said. “And Mr. Thorngood?”

  “Just the opposite in every way. Impeccably dressed. Tailor-made three-piece suit. Looks like he just stepped out of a barber chair, and probably did.”

  “And he won’t tell you his business either?”

  “No, but in his case it’s not just stubbornness. He says it’s a delicate matter, and he’ll discuss it only with the attorney. He’s nervous and impatient, which seems out of character for him. He strikes me as someone who’s used to getting his own way.”

  Steve frowned, considered a moment. “All right,” he said. “Show Mr. Thorngood in.”

  Tracy hesitated a moment. “Mr. Walsh was here first.”

  “That’s all right,” Steve said. “You said he’s prepared to wait. Show Mr. Thorngood in.”

  Tracy took off her glasses and folded them up.

  Steve recognized the gesture. It was a habit she had when she was annoyed about something.

  Steve held up his hand. “Tracy. Mr. Thorngood is a businessman. His time is valuable. Let’s not waste any of it for him. You wanna argue this with me, argue it later. Meanwhile, show the gentleman in.”

  Tracy gave him a look, opened the door, and flounced out. She returned a minute later, ushering in Mr. Thorngood.

  He was, Steve felt, exactly as she’d described. An aggressive executive type, confident and sure of himself. When he saw Steve, however, a look of doubt crossed his face. Steve wasn’t surprised. Though in his mid-thirties, Steve looked younger. He was dressed as usual in corduroy jacket, jeans and T-shirt. This attire, combined with his shoulder-length hair, wasn’t exactly a businessman’s image of a lawyer.

  Steve rose, extended his hand. “Mr. Thorngood.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, Thorngood shook it. “Mr. Winslow.”

  “Please be seated,” Steve said. “Tracy, stay and take notes.”

  Thorngood shot a look at Tracy Garvin. In sweater and blue jeans, she wasn’t his image of a legal secretary either. More like a college student.

  Thorngood frowned. “My business is strictly confidential.”

  Steve smiled. “Of course.” He sat and gestured to Tracy to do the same.

  Thorngood frowned again. “Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear. I prefer to speak to you alone.”

  “I understand perfectly,” Steve said. “Miss Garvin is my secretary. Anything you tell me, she’s gonna know. So if you don’t want her to know it, don’t tell me.”

  Thorngood hesitated a moment, then seated himself in the clients’ chair.

  Tracy pulled up a chair, sat down, and opened her notebook.

  “All right,” Steve said. “What’s this all about?”

  Thorngood rubbed his hand across his brow. “My son was arrested last night.”

  “For what?”

  “Murder.”

  “Murder!” Steve said. “But with a man of your prominence—I mean, there was nothing in the paper.”

  “So far my lawyers have kept it out of the papers. They can’t for long. By tonight it will be public knowledge.”

  “Lawyers?”

  “Yes. Cunningham, Randolph, and Bloom.”

  “If you have your own lawyers—”

  “I know, I know,” Thorngood said. “They’re a conservative firm. Handle mostly corporation work. They themselves suggested outside counsel.”

  “Why me?”

  “Because you’re the one. The one they told me about. You de
fended in the Harding case.”

  “I was co-counsel.”

  “Right. With Fitzpatrick, Blackburn, and Weed, a conservative law firm, slightly out of its depth.”

  “Establishing the precedent,” Steve said. “I see. That doesn’t necessarily mean it would work again. What’s the case?”

  Thorngood took a breath. “My son is accused of killing his girlfriend.”

  “Did he?”

  Thorngood frowned. “That’s not the point.”

  “Maybe not, but it’s relevant.”

  Thorngood frowned again. “I prefer to tell it my way.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “The girl is Kathy Wade. David had been seeing her for a couple of months. David is my son. My only son. And he’d been seeing this girl. This Kathy Wade. Or so I’m told. David is not particularly communicative about his affairs. So I didn’t know about this Kathy Wade. I mean, the first I heard about her she was dead.”

  “Go on.”

  Thorngood took a breath. “This is hard. I’m piecing this together from what I learned after the fact. What David told me. And the police. But he’d been seeing her off and on for a couple of months. But nothing serious. And there wouldn’t be. Not the type of girl I’d have approved of, really. Part-time actress, full-time waitress. Nothing serious. Just a casual fling.”

  Steve took a breath. “Go on.”

  “Well, it was last night. They’d been on a date. David had her up to his apartment. He has his own Manhattan apartment. Upper East Side.”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, they’d been drinking. Among other things. Police found marijuana in her purse.”

  “Yeah. So?”

  Thorngood gulped. “This is very hard.”

  “I understand.”

  “Her neck was broken.”

  “How?”

  “How? What do you mean, how? Twisted. Broken.”

  “Yeah? What else?”

  “And ...”

  “Yes?”

  “She was naked and her clothes were torn.”

  “I see.”

  Thorngood looked up sharply. “What’s that mean?”

  “Nothing. Just the sort of thing people say. So, what’s David’s story?”

  “You’ll have to get that from David.”

  “You talked to him. What did he tell you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did he kill her?”

  Thorngood frowned. “That’s not the point.”

  “Oh?”

  “That’s not the issue here. That’s for a jury to decide.”

  “Of course. But a lawyer has to have the facts. What are the facts? Did he kill her?”

  Thorngood rubbed his head. “These are the facts. David didn’t say he killed her. He was with her when she died.”

  Thorngood pulled a checkbook out of his jacket pocket. “I’m prepared to offer a retainer of a hundred thousand dollars.”

  Steve held up his hand. “Hang on to that for a minute. We’re still talking here.”

  “I’ve told you all I know. The rest you’ll have to get from David.”

  “That remains to be seen. Tell me, what defense does your son have?”

  Thorngood looked at him in surprise. “Surely that’s your department.”

  “Yeah, but I’d like your input. Suppose I took this case. What possible defense would I have?”

  “Surely there are several. Accidental death is one. Self-defense is another. Also the body was nude. That brings up the possibility of rough sex.”

  “As the defense tried in the Chambers case.”

  “Exactly.”

  “That didn’t work.”

  “Yes and no. He pled guilty to a lesser charge.”

  “Is that what you’re looking for here?”

  “Of course not. I want my son freed. But if worst came to worst, you have to consider every possibility.”

  Steve looked at him for a moment. Then he shook his head. “No, I don’t.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’m sorry. I’m not taking the case.”

  Thorngood looked at him in disbelief. “Didn’t you hear me? I’m offering you a hundred-thousand-dollar cash retainer.”

  “I’m turning it down.”

  “You can’t turn it down. Not an attorney in your position. It’s too big a case. My attorneys controlled publicity this morning, but that’s all they can do. By tonight it will be all over the media. By tomorrow it will be front-page news. You mentioned the Chambers case. You remember what the publicity was like? Well, this is the same thing. I’m a prominent person. The press will eat it up. It’s a chance for you to make a name for yourself. A young attorney in your position, you can’t turn it down.”

  “I just did.”

  Thorngood drew himself up. “Why?”

  Steve looked him right in the eye. “Because I think your son’s guilty.”

  Thorngood’s face hardened. “That’s not your decision to make. You’re not a judge and jury. You’re an attorney. My son is innocent until proven guilty, that’s the law. He has the right to a trial by jury. He has the right to an attorney.”

  “Yes, he does,” Steve said. “He just doesn’t have the right to insist that that attorney be me.” Steve stood up. “I’m very sorry.”

  Thorngood sat there, not quite believing it. Then he stood, shot Steve a look of contempt, and walked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

  Steve turned to Tracy Garvin.

  She was staring at him. “Why did you do that?”

  “I told you. He’s an important businessman and I didn’t want to waste his time.”

  “No, I mean why did you turn him down?”

  “You have to ask me that? A guy kills his girlfriend. Rough sex. Can you see me defending that?” Steve clapped his hands together. “All right, Tracy. Now that that’s out of the way, let’s give Mr. Walsh our full attention.”

  2.

  STEVE HAD A CHANCE TO SIZE up Mr. Walsh while Tracy ushered him into the room and sat him in the clients’ chair. The description, he figured, had been accurate. Only it hadn’t gone far enough. Mr. Walsh was indeed unshaven and dressed in the clothes of a street person. But there are street people and street people. Some of them are sniveling and pitiful and helpless. Some of them are loud, truculent and obnoxious. Some of them are nauseatingly polite, thanking and god-blessing each and every person who ignores their entreaties.

  Mr. Walsh didn’t fall into any category except the one regarding his appearance. He had a fright wig of snow-white hair framing his unshaven face. The hairs of his stubbly beard were considerably darker, perhaps naturally, or, Steve reflected, perhaps colored by dirt. The latter was certainly possible, as there were dirt smudges on the cheeks and nose.

  He wore a flannel shirt, slightly askew and not tucked into his gabardine pants, a sweater-vest fastened by a single button, and a heavy tweed overcoat that had obviously seen better days. The coat looked as if someone had slept in it, which someone obviously had. The overall effect was to give Mr. Walsh the appearance of the most pitiful of street people—the lunatic, the mental incompetent.

  Except for the eyes. The eyes belied the whole image. They were sharp and focused and clear.

  They took in Steve Winslow at a glance. If Mr. Walsh was surprised by Steve’s appearance, he didn’t show it. If he was impressed, he didn’t show it either. His mouth was set in a straight line. His head was up and his jaw was out, quarrelsomely, as if expecting a fight.

  “So,” he said. “You’re Winslow.”

  Steve smiled. “That’s right. I’m Steve Winslow. This is my secretary, Tracy Garvin. And you’re Mr. Walsh?”

  “That’s right. Jack Walsh.”

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Walsh?”

  Walsh jerked his thumb. “You can tell her to leave.”

  Steve smiled again. “I’m afraid not, Mr. Walsh. Miss Garvin is my secretary, takes notes on everything I do. If you don’t want to talk to
her, you can’t talk to me. It’s as simple as that.”

  Walsh looked at Steve. Then at Tracy. Then back at Steve. With a snort, he flopped himself down in the clients’ chair. “All right. She stays.”

  “Fine,” Steve said. He shot Tracy a look, then settled himself behind his desk. “Go ahead, Mr. Walsh. What is it you want?”

  “I want to see you about a will.”

  Despite himself, Steve couldn’t keep the surprise off his face. He’d expected a personal injury, a grievance against the city, harassment by some police officer or other.

  But not this.

  “A will?” Steve said.

  “Yes, a will,” Walsh said irritably. “What’s the matter? You’re a lawyer, you never heard of a will before?”

  “I’ve heard of wills, Mr. Walsh. But I’ve never actually drawn one.”

  “Who asked you?”

  “No one asked me, but if that’s what you’re after, perhaps you’re in the wrong law office.”

  “No, I’m in the right law office, all right.”

  “How is that?”

  “Because I’m talking to the lawyer. The other office I went, I didn’t get past the damn receptionist.”

  “Is that so?” Steve said. “Tell me, how did you find me?”

  “Saw your picture in the paper once. Looked like someone might be willing to talk to me.”

  “Oh, really? And what paper was that?”

  Walsh frowned. “What the hell difference does that make?”

  “It doesn’t,” Steve said. “Just making conversation. All right. You want to see me about a will. Whose will?”

  “Mine.”

  “You want me to draw you a will?”

  “I already told you I didn’t.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Information. Legal advice.”

  “About a will?”

  “Yes.”

  Steve frowned. “That’s not my field of expertise. I do mostly criminal work.”

  “You passed the bar, didn’t you? You went to law school?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you know enough to answer my questions. At least you should. If you can’t, just say so.”

  “All right, Mr. Walsh, why don’t you tell me what this is about?”

  “Fine. Here’s the thing. A while back, I made a will. Quite a while back, actually.”

  “Leaving what to whom?”

  Walsh shook his head. “That’s not important.”

  “You may think it’s not,” Steve said. “But I’m a lawyer. If you want advice on a certain document—”