The Judgment by William J. Coughlin

those jagged tones I remembered from my own past marriages. I was glad to be spared the details. At last he was there at the other end of the line. He answered with a curt “Yeah?”
    “You recognize my voice?”
    “Sure. Of course.”
    “Then call me from a pay phone.”
    “You really think that’s necessary?”
    “Just to be on the safe side.”
    “It’ll take a little while,” he said. “I just got up.”
    “I’ll be waiting.” I hung up the receiver.
    Deputy Chief Mark Conroy had a pretty good deal for a condemned man. Although he was on suspension, he was drawing full pay. I looked at my watch. It was after nine. Since I didn’t think he was taking his suspension as so much vacation time, it seemed pretty likely that if he was sleeping in, then he’d been out late the night before. Who with? Those friends of his who let him know where the Mouse was stashed? I wanted to know more about that. I wanted a lot more information from Conroy.
    And was this cloak-and-dagger drill with the telephone really necessary? Maybe not. But the Conroys lived in Detroit, and since the long arm of the mayor reached everywhere in the city, it was probably only practical to take such precautions.
    I’d finished my cup of coffee. I went out to refill my mug and got involved in a brief wrangle with Mrs. Fenton on the hours to be billed Ernie on the concealed weapon case we’d just won. I told her the retainer he paid would cover it. Mrs. Fenton, being Mrs. Fenton, wanted it exact.
    “I don’t keep good logs on stuff like that. You know that.”
    “Well, you should. It’s time you started.”
    The telephone rang. She answered it the way she always did. “The law offices of Charles Sloan.” She listened a moment. “One moment, please.” Then, pushing the hold button, she said, “It’s that
deputy
chief.” Put him in his place, didn’t she?
    “I’ll take it in there.”
    As I settled down into my chair, I managed to spill coffee on the desktop. Not the first time. “Yeah,” I said into the phone. “Sloan here.”
    “This is Conroy,” he said. “What was it you wanted?”
    “I was prepared for a wait. You’re not calling from home, are you?”
    “No. Two blocks away.”
    “All right, look, I’d like you to come out here so we can have a talk.”
    “Did you see the Mouse?”
    “Yes. That’s part of it, but we’ve got a lot to go over.”
    “When do you want me there?”
    “As soon as you can make it.”
    “An hour and a half?”
    “If you say so. But hold on. There’s something else.”
    “Okay,” he said, “what is it?” Was he sounding annoyed? He’d better not be.
    “This may be important. Those friends of yours who found the Mouse—do they know where Mary Margaret Tucker is?”
    There was a noticeable silence at his end: Finally, he said, “It’s possible. I doubt it.”
    “Ask them. Tell them to look. I want to talk to her.”
    Another silence. “All right,” he said, “I’ll see what I can do.”
    “Be here in an hour and a half, then.”
    He said he would and hung up.
    I was left holding the receiver, trying to figure the ups-and-downs, the ins-and-outs of this cop’s cop. Anybody who could inspire the turnout he did at his arrest and arraignment had lots of support on the force. But for the first time I considered the possibility that he was gettinghelp from some other source. There were too many unanswered questions, too many questions unasked. I was sure now that he was holding out on me in some way.
    As I was going through Conroy’s file once more, a man and woman came in without an appointment. They looked familiar. If I hadn’t had my mind so firmly fixed on other matters, I would have recognized them right away.
    It was that elderly couple who had come in a few days before to make out a will that excluded their son completely. Now they wanted to change everything. Had the will been prepared? I said it had. They said things were different now. Could I perhaps do another