The D.A. Breaks an Egg

Selby crossed over to the light switch by the door, clicked off the lights and left the room in darkness.

They heard the elevator door slide open.

Brandon moved up to stand close to Selby in the darkness, then almost imperceptibly inched his way in front of the district attorney.

Steps sounded on the carpeted corridor outside the door, paused in front of the door of 602. Knuckles tapped gently on the panels of the door.

There was a pause during which the two men in the room could hear each other breathing while the person on the other side of the door waited, then tapped again.

Another pause, and then the knob of the door made noise as it was twisted slowly back.

The sheriff’s powerful shoulders pushed back, flattening Doug against the wall. He twisted the spring lock, jerked the door open, grabbed the figure which stood in the corridor and pulled it into the room.

Selby clicked the lights on.

It was A. B. Carr, the veteran criminal attorney, who first recovered his poise.

“Well, well, well,” he said, “good evening, gentlemen.”

Brandon said, “What are you doing here?”

Carr’s laugh held good-natured assurance. “I think, gentlemen,” he said, “that is a question that I should ask you.”

Selby moved around behind Carr to close the door.

“Go over there and sit down,” Brandon said.

Carr, smiling indulgently, as a parent who is humoring the whims of children in some game, moved over to a chair and seated himself.

He was a tall, graceful man with lines of character deeply etched on his face. His hair was gray at the temples and the Hollywood-style sideburns, the keen quizzical eyes, and above all, the man’s complete assurance, combined to make an impression which, as Selby had so frequently pointed out to the sheriff, was as carefully planned as the advertising campaigns in national magazines.

Carr settled himself comfortably in the chair, crossed his legs, selected a cigar from a leather cigar case, carefully placed it in his mouth, scraped a match into flame on the sole of his shoe and said nothing until he had the cigar going in just the way he wanted.

So naturally did the man act, so perfect was the timing of his motions, that he did not give the appearance of one who is trying to get time to think, but rather created the impression of a man who is relaxing among friends, who enjoys the good things of life, and who would therefore make something of a ceremony out of lighting a good cigar.

“I’m afraid, my dear Sheriff,” he said, “that you are given to impetuous and thoughtless action. You should have opened the door and invited me in. That business of jumping out at me and grabbing me is rather individualized and unconventional. And it might be dangerous.

“Now, Major Selby, who is learned in the law, will tell you that...”

“All right,” Selby interrupted, smiling, “suppose we discuss the legal aspects of the situation some other time, Carr. The question is what you’re doing here now.”

Carr smiled at Selby, puffed on the cigar, said, “Yes, Major, I see your point.”

His voice had the resonance of an actor who had made a life-long study of elocution and there was that about the man which compelled attention. As Selby had at one time remarked, “Carr can take five minutes to pick up a law book, find his place in it and start to read, and the jurors will hang onto his every motion with breathless attention. He has the knack of making everything he does seem utterly absorbing.”

“As a matter of fact,” Carr went on, “I don’t have to explain my actions to you gentlemen unless those actions are connected in some way with a crime.”

“What makes you think they aren’t?” Selby asked. Carr smiled. “Come, come, Major. You know there hasn’t been... and yet I wonder why you’re here.”

Carr’s face showed either a momentary flash of worry or else a perfectly simulated flicker of apprehension.

Brandon moved threateningly toward the lawyer. “That’s always the way,” he said. “We catch you red-handed in something and you try to put us on the defensive. Now you tell us what you’re doing here and start talking fast — and it had better be good.”

“Or else?” Carr asked, flicking ashes from the tip of his cigar with a little finger.

“Or else,” Brandon said, “you’ll finish that cigar with handcuffs on...”

“Tut tut, Sheriff. Would you want to lay yourself open to a suit for false imprisonment?”

“With you I would,” Brandon said. “Sue and be damned. And if you think any jury in this community would give you five cents’ worth of damage, you don’t know the type of people you’re dealing with.”

Carr stroked the angle of his jaw, then smiled. “You have something there, Sheriff,” he said. “You have, for a fact.” He made a little bow of surrender, as a sportsman might yield to a victorious antagonist.

But it was to Selby he made his explanation.

Turning his eyes to the district attorney, Carr said, “Frankly, Major, I was paying a social call.”

“I’d prefer that you forget the military title,” Selby said.