The Baxter Trust

folded it, stuck it in his pocket and headed for Lexington Avenue.
    He found a phone on the corner, dropped in a quarter and punched in the number.
    “Hello,” came the voice of the dispatcher.
    “Charlie? It’s Steve.”
    “Yeah?”
    “You know yesterday I told you I was sick? Well, I got worse and died.”
    Steve hung up the phone, stepped out into the street and hailed a cab. He gave the cabbie Sheila Benton’s address, then settled back in the seat as the cab headed uptown and through the park. It felt good to be riding in a cab instead of driving one. Steve pulled the check out of his pocket, unfolded it and looked at it again.
    Yeah, it felt good.
    The cab pulled up in front of Sheila Benton’s apartment. Steve paid the fare and over-tipped, knowing how the cabbie felt.
    He went up the front steps and into the foyer, looked through the slot in the mailbox. Sure enough, there was something inside. He sighed and headed up the stairs.
    The key was over the door, right where Sheila had said. He took it down and fitted in into the lock, clicked the bolt back and opened the door.
    Hands grabbed him, pulled him into the darkness, wrenched him around. Jesus, not again. He braced himself for the blow.
    It never came. Instead, the lights clicked on, and Steve could see the two men who had pinned him against the wall. Cops. They jerked his arms down and twisted them behind him. He felt the cold metal and heard the click of the handcuffs.
    The cops spun him around and he saw the figure of a third man who was seated on the couch. A solid, beefy cop, obviously in charge.
    Sergeant Stams arose from the couch with a triumphant grin. His stolid, impassive look was just the face he wore for Lieutenant Farron. It was his second-in-command face, his good-soldier face. But Sergeant Stams wasn’t the second-in-command here. This was his operation. He’d thought it up, he’d put it into operation, it had worked and now it was his moment to shine, to be as suave, as ironic, and as sarcastic as the rest of them.
    “Well, well,” he said. “I figured maybe Greely had an accomplice.”
    Steve stared at him. “Are you crazy? I’m Sheila Benton’s attorney.”
    Stams looked at Steve’s rumpled clothes. “Sure you are.”
    One of the cops who had been frisking Steve for a weapon held up the check. “Hey Sarge, look at this.”
    Sergeant Stams took the check and looked it over. A broad grin twisted his face. “Well, well. A check from Maxwell Baxter for twenty-five grand. That ought to clinch it.”
    Steve couldn’t believe it. “I tell you, I’m Sheila’s attorney. That check is my retainer.”
    Stams looked at him ironically. “Yeah. Sure. You really look like an attorney. Can’t you come up with a better line than that?”
    “I tell you—”
    “Save it, buddy. You’re going downtown.”
    Steve blinked. He took a deep breath and let it out again. He controlled himself with a great effort.
    “All right,” he said. “But under the circumstances, I feel compelled to ask you one question.”
    “Oh yeah?” Stams said. “What’s that?”
    Steve looked him right in the eye. “How would you like to kiss my ass?”

26.
    L IEUTENANT F ARRON STOOD TO ONE side as the guard unlocked the door of the holding cell and let Steve Winslow out.
    “I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Winslow,” he said.
    “Yeah, sure,” Steve said. “Are you familiar with the laws regarding false arrest?”
    Lieutenant Farron guided Steve down the hall toward the main desk. “As a matter of fact, I am,” he said. “The charge of false arrest can be defended if the officer in charge acted in good faith and had reasonable grounds to make the arrest.”
    “You considered that check sufficient grounds?”
    “It did tend to tie you in with Greely.”
    “You ever hear of a blackmailer who took checks?” Steve said.
    “I admit the situation is unfortunate.”
    They reached the front desk. Farron led Steve over to the counter where he had surrendered his personal possessions before being locked up.
    “Winslow,” Farron told the cop at the desk, “Check him out.”
    The cops reached under the desk and brought out a manila envelope.
    “Sign here, Mr. Winslow.”
    Steve signed his name, opened the envelope and poured the stuff out on the table. His wallet, his keys, some loose change, his watch and Sheila Benton’s apartment key.
    “Where’s the check?”
    “I have it here,” Farron said, taking it out of his pocket.
    “Oh?”
    “It