Twenty-Eight

I couldn’t get an appointment with Stuart Lockwood. I couldn’t get one under my own name. I couldn’t get one by mentioning Dee Willis’s name. I couldn’t get one under an alias. Either business had improved dramatically or Lockwood was allergic to the sound of my voice.

I called Taylor Baines, of the gorgeous office and influential practice. The man who wanted to do his all for any artist employed by MGA/America.

Mr. Baines was cooperative. He had his efficient secretary telephone Stuart Lockwood’s inefficient one. A suddenly liberated Lockwood assured Baines he could attend a three o’clock meeting with no difficulty.

Baines and I met in his lush office at two thirty. After politely offering coffee, which I accepted, he said to me, “I don’t know about this. It’s tough to throw a scare into a lawyer.”

“There are lawyers, and then there are lawyers,” I responded once the coffee lady had come and gone, silently leaving her tray of steaming china cups. “You already scared him. He’s coming. And if he can be impressed, your office is the place to do it.”

“It is rather nice, isn’t it?” he agreed, taking time to stir his coffee and spin his leather chair to admire the view. The ocean was more blue than green today. The water closest to shore had a brownish cast. I wondered where they were digging the third harbor-tunnel.

“If I were trying to make it as a lawyer in this town, I’d want to do you a favor,” I said.

“We do steer a lot of overflow business to smaller firms,” he observed.

The secretary ushered Lockwood in at a quarter past three although I was sure he’d arrived earlier. Baines had given instructions not to bring him in until he’d cooled his heels in the outer office and had sufficient time to admire the floral arrangements, the original oil paintings, the rosewood furniture.

I’d briefed Baines, and he started off. I stayed in the room, but he didn’t introduce me. Lockwood obviously thought I worked for the law firm, and his estimation of me skyrocketed. He smiled at me.

“I assume you’re handling the Dunrobie case on a contingency basis,” Baines began. He didn’t offer Lockwood coffee even though our cups were still half full.

“I can’t discuss that,” Lockwood answered predictably.

“Then let’s discuss blackmail,” Baines said, with a perfectly charming smile.

“Blackmail,” Lockwood repeated. He scratched his nose with his index finger, hurriedly stuck his hand in his lap when he realized what he’d done.

“The use of letters, containing threats and producing fear, to obtain money. Would you agree on the definition?” Baines said smoothly.

“Well, yes. On the definition.”

“Blackmail is a criminal matter. When a blackmailing letter is sent through the mails, the charge of federal mail fraud can be appended.” Baines took his time rereading the letter, then offered it to the lawyer. “I assume this is your letterhead and your signature.”

Lockwood reread it carefully and nodded.

Baines said, “Then I can’t really think of a good reason not to call the police. Maybe you can tell me one.”

Lockwood wasn’t worried yet. He said, “I believe it is customary, in any attempt to prove that a crime was committed, for the prosecution to show that there was both criminal intent and a wrongful overt act.”

Baines held out his hand until Lockwood, somewhat reluctantly, handed back the sheet of stationery. “This paper would, I think, constitute a wrongful overt act. The only question is criminal intent.”

“Whoa,” Lockwood said, losing the casual air he was struggling to maintain, “you’re talking crazy.”

“Tell me about this client of yours and we’ll see who’s crazy,” Baines said. “It won’t look good when you’re named as an accessory,” he continued severely. “But perhaps this is your own idea, and there is no Mr. Dunrobie.”

“What do you mean? Of course there’s a Dunrobie.”

“A man, I understand, with no telephone?”

“He calls me.”

“And that doesn’t seem odd to you?”

“I’ve only recently established my practice in this state. I can’t pick and choose my clientele the way a more established lawyer might.”

“And if you need to reach Mr. Dunrobie?”

“I can get in touch with him.”

“At 825 Winter Street, Suite 505D?”

“How did you?—Did she?—That’s a privileged communication—”

“Through what is known as a ‘mail drop’?”

Lockwood hadn’t known that; you could tell by his face. But he made a quick recovery. “He calls me, like I said.”

“Have you ascertained—excuse me, did you try to ascertain whether your client is a man of good faith? By that I mean, do you have the sense that he in fact knew Miss Willis?”

“Look, I don’t take nuisance suits. I’m not an ambulance chaser.”

“Then you did believe that this man was unlawfully done out of monies due him?”

“I did. I mean, the first time he showed up with his story, I gave him the brush-off. He looked too young, like he’d have been a kid when those songs were written. But then he came back with evidence that seemed to prove his case.”

“What did he return with, exactly?”

Lockwood hesitated.

“Come, now. If you’re going to be difficult, I’ll simply file a discovery motion before we go to trial,” Baines prompted.

“He showed me her photograph, suitably inscribed.”

“I imagine she sends a great many photos to fans. What makes you think he’s not some crank?”

“Look, if this is supposed to impress the hell out of me and make me tell him to drop the suit, forget it. The man has a valid case.”

“So do we, against you, for federal mail fraud if nothing else.”

I could see Lockwood’s Adam’s apple work. “Well,” he said, “Mr. Dunrobie hasn’t exactly given me the go-ahead to do this, but I’d rather settle out of court. He has given me a figure to shoot for. What he’s got is the original sheet music to the songs. You know. His titles over her songs. The exact lyrics.”

I said, “You can get note-for-note transcriptions through mail-order houses. And if the guy has musical training, if he has an ear, he could have transcribed her material himself and called it whatever he liked. It’s not hard. All you have to do is buy a record.”

“He also showed me self-addressed, postmarked, sealed envelopes—intact—that, he assures me, contain the identical songs.”

“Have you had the postmarks authenticated?” I asked.

“A postmark is acceptable in a—”

“Sixteen-year-old kids know how to alter the birth dates on their driver’s licenses,” I interrupted. “It’s even easier to change a postmark; mail’s not laminated.”

“I didn’t see the need to involve experts until they were necessary,” Lockwood said, not meeting my eyes. “My client didn’t want expenses mounting up.”

“Can you read sheet music?” I asked him.

“No.”

“Have you had anyone who reads music take a look at this stuff?”

“Not yet.”

“May I see it? Just the copies. I won’t break into any sealed envelopes.”

His eyes shifted to his briefcase. He’d brought the file along.

“We would appreciate it,” Taylor Baines said into the growing silence.

Lockwood shuffled through his case, and finally handed over three Xeroxed pages, paper-clipped at the left-hand corner. I removed the clip, spread the sheets on the desk.

Baines raised his eyes questioningly to me.

“The Library of Congress accepts tapes for copyright purposes now, but they didn’t ten years ago,” I said. “Back then, a musician—even a musician who didn’t read music—would get somebody to write out a lead sheet—that’s the melody line. He might make it as simple as possible, or he might get fancy and stick in the tablature—that’s a six-line staff that shows the guitar fingerboard.” I tapped the pages on the desk in front of me. “But nobody who knew what he was doing would use this for copyright.”

“Why?” Lockwood demanded. “What’s wrong with it?”

“The sheet music for ‘For Tonight’ runs about six pages. I’ve seen it. I’ve played it. You’ve got three pages here.”

“So, maybe it’s a sample,” he said.

“It’s not the melody. It’s not the lead sheet,” I said. “All you’ve got here is the bass line.”

“Are you sure?” Baines asked me.

I nodded, then said to Lockwood, “Did you know that Dee Willis’s bass player is dead?”

Lockwood said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Can you describe the man who came to you, who called himself David Dunrobie?”

“I only saw him twice.”

“Short? Tall?”

“Short,” Lockwood said, swallowing.

Baines and I exchanged glances.

“Did he limp?” I asked.

“No,” Lockwood said. “He was short and I didn’t notice anything odd about the way he walked.”

“Then chances are,” I said coldly, “he wasn’t Davey Dunrobie.”