Scam

pointing it out to me?”
    “I’m not doing this for the client.”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “I’m not trying to protect the client. I’m trying to protect me. I think the client’s pulling a fast one on me and I’m not sure what to do.”
    “You’re telling me you need protection from your own client?”
    “That’s what I’m trying to find out.”
    Richard sighed, shook his head. “What a moron. All right, tell me about it.”
    I gave him the whole spiel, just the way Cranston Pritchert had given it to me. I must say, repeating it only pointed up how little sense it made.
    “So,” Richard said when I was finished, “this letter was apparently cut from this morning’s paper?”
    “To the best I can determine.”
    “But your client says it came in the morning mail?”
    “That’s right.”
    “Your contention is that to be in the morning mail a letter would have to have been mailed yesterday?”
    “Well, wouldn’t it?”
    “I’m not sure,” Richard said. “What time does the post office open?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Neither do I, but it’s something that could be checked.”
    “You’re saying his story could be true?”
    “No, but if you’re going to brand it false, you ought to be sure of your terms. Say the post office opens at eight o’clock—I don’t know that it does, but make that assumption—would it be possible to get the morning paper at seven, rig the extortion letter, go to the post office at eight, and drop it in the mail slot in time for it to be postmarked and go out with the morning delivery?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Of course you don’t. You haven’t looked into it. But say you did, and say you found out it was possible—would that corroborate your client’s story?”
    “I don’t know, Richard. Would it?”
    “I’m asking you.”
    I smiled. “Yes, but you’re doing it in the way lawyers do in order to make a point. Which means you already know the answer.”
    “If you know that, you must know the answer too.”
    “I don’t know,” I said. “I would assume it doesn’t corroborate a thing. The fact that it’s possible doesn’t make it likely. Unless you can come up with a reason why someone would do that, to assume it makes no sense.” I looked at Richard. “Am I close?”
    “You’re dead on. So, we should be able to dismiss that theory.
    “Which was yours to begin with.”
    Richard raised his eyebrows. “Excuse me. You think a lawyer shouldn’t raise points for fear they might turn out to be inconclusive?”
    I put up my hand. “Richard, let’s not go off on a tangent. The fact is, we’re in agreement. In all probability this letter did not arrive in the morning mail. Right?”
    “I think it’s a logical assumption.”
    “So, where did it come from?”
    Richard pursed his lips. “I would say there were two possibilities. One, someone prepared it and left it on your client’s desk. Most likely in an envelope—you’ll notice it’s folded to fit one. In that case, the envelope would not have gone through the mail. It might have had your client’s name on it, it might have been a plain envelope, and it might not have even been sealed.
    “The second possibility is that your client did it himself. In which case he folded it so he could claim it had come in the mail. In either case, that’s why he was so reluctant to produce the envelope, and eventually couldn’t do so.” Richard frowned. “This is all so simplistic, I can’t believe you haven’t already figured it out yourself.”
    “Actually, I have.”
    “Then what are you doing here?”
    “I told you. I want your advice.”
    “On what?”
    “What’s my legal responsibility here? This man has hired me to do a job. Now I find myself in a position where I can’t believe a single word he says.”
    “So?”
    “So, what’s my obligation here? What am I supposed to do?”
    “You’re supposed to carry out your client’s wishes.”
    “If my client’s lying to me, I don’t know what those wishes are.
    “True. In which case, there’s probably only one way to find out.
    “What’s that?”
    “Ask him.”

11.
    T HE RECEPTIONIST AT P HILIP G REENBERG Investments frowned. “I beg your pardon?”
    “I’m Harold Bainbridge,” I repeated. “I’m here to see Cranston Pritchert.”
    “Do you have an appointment, Mr. Bainbridge?”
    “No, I don’t. But I’m sure he’ll see me.”
    The receptionist, an efficient-looking young woman with curly red hair,