“Yes.”
He hesitated. “Is this a safe line?”
“Yes. What can I do for you?”
“It’s not for me. It’s for—for a friend of mine.”
“I see. What’s your friend’s problem?”
“This has to be in confidence, you understand.”
“I understand.”
Cynthia walked in and handed Jennifer the mail. “Wait,” Jennifer mouthed.
“My friend’s family locked her up in an insane asylum. She’s sane. It’s a conspiracy. The authorities are in on it.”
Jennifer was only half-listening now. She braced the telephone against her shoulder while she went through the morning’s mail.
The man was saying, “She’s rich and her family’s after her money.”
Jennifer said, “Go on,” and continued examining the mail.
“They’d probably have me put away, too, if they found I was trying to help her. It could be dangerous for me, Miss Parker.”
A nut case, Jennifer decided. She said, “I’m afraid I can’t do anything, but I’d suggest you get hold of a good psychiatrist to help your friend.”
“You don’t understand. They’re all in on it.”
“I do understand,” Jennifer said soothingly. “I—”
“Will you help her?”
“There’s nothing I can—I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you give me your friend’s name and address and if I get a chance, I’ll look into it.”
There was a long silence. Finally the man spoke. “This is confidential, remember.”
Jennifer wished he would get off the telephone. Her first appointment was waiting in the reception room. “I’ll remember.”
“Cooper. Helen Cooper. She had a big estate on Long Island, but they took it away from her.”
Obediently, Jennifer made a note on a pad in front of her. “Fine. What sanatorium did you say she was in?” There was a click and the line went dead. Jennifer threw the note into the waste basket.
Jennifer and Cynthia exchanged a look. “It’s a weird world out there,” Cynthia said. “Miss Marshall is waiting to see you.”
Jennifer had talked to Loretta Marshall on the telephone a week earlier. Miss Marshall had asked Jennifer to represent her in a paternity suit against Curtis Randall III, a wealthy socialite.
Jennifer had spoken to Ken Bailey. “We need information on Curtis Randall III. He lives in New York, but I understand he spends a lot of time in Palm Beach. I want to know what his background is, and if he’s been sleeping with a girl named Loretta Marshall.”
She had told Ken the names of the Palm Beach hotels that the woman had given her. Two days later, Ken Bailey had reported back.
“It checks out. They spent two weeks together at hotels in Palm Beach, Miami and Atlantic City. Loretta Marshall gave birth to a daughter eight months ago.”
Jennifer sat back in her chair and looked at him thoughtfully. “It sounds as though we might have a case.”
“I don’t think so.”
“What’s the problem?”
“The problem is our client. She’s slept with everybody including the Yankees.”
“You’re saying that the father of the baby could be any number of men.”
“I’m saying it could be half the world.”
“Are any of the others wealthy enough to give child support?”
“Well, the Yankees are pretty rich, but the big league moneyman is Curtis Randall III.”
He handed her a long list of names.
Loretta Marshall walked into the office. Jennifer had not been sure what to expect. A pretty, empty-headed prostitute, in all probability. But Loretta Marshall was a complete surprise. Not only was she not pretty, she was almost homely. Her figure was ordinary. From the number of Miss Marshall’s romantic conquests, Jennifer had expected nothing less than a sexy raving beauty. Loretta Marshall was the stereotype of an elementary grade schoolteacher. She was clad in a plaid wool skirt, a button-down-collar shirt, a dark blue cardigan and sensible shoes. At first, Jennifer had been sure that Loretta Marshall was planning to use her to force Curtis Randall to pay for the privilege of raising a baby that was not his. After an hour’s conversation with the girl, Jennifer found that her opinion had changed. Loretta Marshall was transparently honest.
“Of course, I have no proof that Curtis is Melanie’s father,” she smiled shyly. “Curtis isn’t the only man I’ve slept with.”