Collins, Max Allan - Nathan Heller 09 Read Online Free Page B

said anything to me about the Massie case, either. I get the feeling everything he knows about our clients, and their situation, he whispered to me back at the Music Box theater.”
    “You probably hit that dead center.”
    “I mean, he clearly has his wits about him—look at the way he finesses these reporters—but he is an old man, and…”
    “You wish he were more concerned about preparation.”
    “Frankly, Nate—yes.”
    “George, get used to it.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “C.D. flies by the seat of his pants. You know him by his reputation. I’ve seen him in action, lots of times in debate situations, a few times in court.”
    “He’s brilliant in court—I’ve read his summations…”
    “His summations are brilliant—and mostly pitched right off the top of his head.”
    “That’s ridiculous…how could anyone…”
    “Search me. The words just come tumbling out of the old boy. But you might as well brace yourself: he won’t develop his defense strategy until he’s seen the prosecution in action. He waits for them to make mistakes, and goes from there.”
    “That’s goddamn dangerous.”
    “That’s goddamn Clarence Darrow.”
    I had never seen San Francisco before, and once I’d arrived, I still hadn’t: the city’s legendary fog was in full sway that afternoon, as the train pulled into the Ferry Building station where the foot of Market Street met the Embarcadero.
    Despite the fog, or perhaps aided by its mystery, the looming luxury liners docked at the pier were a breathtaking sight, even for a jaded Chicago boy. Against an aural backdrop of clanking massive chains, groaning pulleys, gruffly shouting stevedores, and a bellowing mournful foghorn came the towering apparitions of a steamship city. Emerging from the mist were the red-and-white regalia of a French liner, the billowing flags of an Italian ship, and most of all the pebbled white hull of the Malolo, only one of its twin funnels, bearing the Matson Line “M,” vaguely visible.
    Nearly six hundred feet long, eighty-some feet wide, the Malolo was a hungry whale welcoming wealthy Mr. and Mrs. Jonahs up into its innards. Trooping up its gangway they came, the best-dressed damn tourists you ever saw, tuxes and top hats, gowns and furs, often followed by entourages of servants and companions. Mostly older than a kid like me, but a few of them were in my age range if not my social circle; some were honeymooners, though not necessarily married. The Smart Set. Smart enough to still be rich, post-’29, anyway.
    At the dock, just before we boarded, a pasty-faced navy lieutenant in crisp dress blues came up to Darrow and saluted; it amused the old boy. In fact, it amused all of us, the Leisures, Ruby and Clarence, and me, clustered together in defense from the fog.
    “At ease, sailor,” Darrow said. “I’d imagine you’d be Lt. Johnson?”
    “Yes, sir. I arrived from Honolulu on the Malolo this morning, sir.” The young lieutenant handed Darrow a legal file, one of those cardboard expanding jobs, tied tight in front; the lieutenant’s manner was so grave the thing might have contained military secrets. “I trust these documents will satisfy your requirements.”
    “I’m sure they will, son. You don’t look old enough to be either a sailor or a lawyer.”
    “Well, I’m both, sir.”
    “Good for you.”
    “Admiral Stirling sends his regards.”
    Darrow nodded. “I’ll thank him for these, and give him my own regards, personally, in a few days.”
    “Very good, sir.” Lt. Johnson returned the nod and disappeared into the fog.
    “Something pertaining to the case?” Leisure ventured, hope dancing in his eyes.
    Darrow said, matter of factly, “Transcript of the rape trial, the Ala Moana trial, they call it. Also some affidavits from our clients.”
    Leisure grinned. “Splendid!”
    “You have more faith in documents than I do, George,” Darrow said. “We’ll have to size our clients up, face to face, to know whether