Die, Little Goose: A Bret Hardin Mystery. David Alexander

tree. Marty seemed to fancy dim and dolorous landscapes. He collected Blakelock and Innes, apparently. The crepuscular foliage of the paintings on the wall made this house in mid-Manhattan seem almost sylvan.

      Land entered in a few moments, wearing shantung pajamas and a raw-silk robe. Even in dishabille he managed to appear elegantly poised. His face was handsomely sun-tanned, there were flecks of gray at his temples and his mustache was impeccably waxed. He said, “What’s the matter, editor? One of your girl friends suing you for breach of promise at this time of night?”

      Bart told him the story. When he finished, he fished for the crumpled bills he had thrust in his pocket when he left the crap game. He tossed the misshapen wad on a table. “There’s about fifteen hundred there,” he said. “Will it do for a retainer?”

      “You’re mighty careless with your money, carrying it like that,” Marty commented. “Take it back. Bet it on a big horse when they open up at Saratoga. I don’t want it.”

      “You won’t take the case?”

      “I took it as soon as I heard Jim Lennox’s name,” Marty declared. “He’s one of the few men on Broadway I’ve ever admired. He’s got a kind of goodness it’s hard for guys like you and me to understand. So I’m going to pamper myself. I’m acting for him all the way, without fee. Oh, I’ll get it back. I’ll get it back the next time Selig sends one of his mobsters to me with a bum rap. I’ll double his retainer. I’m kind of sore at Selig, anyway. He thought my prices were too high and he hired himself another boy. One of the goons the other boy defended just got burned in the Sing Sing death house, so Selig is sending me his business again.”

      Bart said, “Thanks, Marty, but I’d rather pay. This much, anyway. I won it in the floater.”

      “You can’t pay,” Land said with finality. “When Marty wants to pamper himself and make like a little tin angel he can afford the gesture.”

      Bart said, “For God’s sake try to get the old man out of this as quickly as you can. He’s got a heart condition and in this heat a jail cell may kill him.”

      “A heart condition? That’s interesting. We’ll pull the covers off a doc I know right away and get old Lennox examined and we’ll have him sent to the city hospital instead of jail.”

      “A locked ward down at City will kill him just as fast as a cell in jail,” Bart said.

      “He won’t be in any ward,” Marty declared. “He’ll have a private room with a cop standing guard at the door. When you get yourself suspected of murder, you get special privileges.”