He was somewhere in the middle thirties, around five-foot-nine, slightly underweight; with an indolent motion, a sallow complexion, and eyes that were bright with impudence. “Don’t think for a minute,” he said, “that anybody’s going to slap a subpoena on me and say, ‘Now you’re a witness, and what are you going to do about it?’ There’s a lot of talk that has to take place before that happens.”
“What kind of talk?” Bertha asked, carefully fitting a cigarette into her long, carved ivory holder.
“The kind of talk that starts in with a discussion of what’s in it for me,” the man said.
Bertha smiled affably. “Well, now, perhaps I can fix things so there’ll be a good deal in it for you — if you saw what I am hoping you saw.”
“Make no mistake, sister. I saw it all. You know how it is; some people don’t want to be witnesses, and you can’t blame them. Somebody slaps them with a subpoena. They go up to court five times, and learn that the lawyers have continued the case. The sixth time there’s another trial going on, and they wait two days before their case comes up. Then a lot of lawyers throw questions at ’em and make monkeys of ’em. When the case is finished, the lawyer sticks his mitt out and tells ’em he’s much obliged, and coughs up a cheque for ten or fifteen bucks witness fees. The guy’s testimony gave him the break that resulted in a verdict of fifteen grand, but the lawyer soaks the client fifty per cent of it. It’s the witness that’s the sucker. My mother didn’t have any foolish children.”
“I can see she didn’t,” Bertha beamed at him. “You’re just exactly the type of man I like to deal with.”
“That’s swell. Go ahead and deal.”
Bertha said, “I’m particularly interested in finding out something about the identity of—”
“Wait a minute,” the man interrupted. “Don’t begin in the middle. Let’s go back to the beginning.”
“But I am beginning at the beginning.”