Chapter 1
Cynthia was hot and angry.
It had been hot enough inside, but now out on the street the oven-blast turned her face a reddish glow, and dampened her tightly curled black hair.
A tall, sandy-haired young man in sports shirt and slacks who was advancing up the steps saw her, waved and peered at her with pretended alarm.
"How's the flower of our legal profession?" he demanded with a little grin, and then drew back. "Oho, storm clouds. "Who've you been battling now?"
"Oh, Judge Clinkscales is a-" she bit off the words, and the young man looked swiftly about him.
"Sh!" he warned her in a harsh whisper. "The very walls have ears. No up-and-coming young attorney, even if she is the prettiest gal in town, should ever speak of Hizzoner in that tone!"
Cynthia ran fingers through her close-cropped black hair and said wearily, "Oh, I know that, only-he makes me so darned mad!"
Clinton Kirby eyed her curiously.
"I take it you've been trying to get him to release Bud Conyers on bail," he said thoughtfully. "You should be enough of an attorney by now, Cynthia, after your five years of practice and the years of reading law with your father, to know that murder is not bailable."
"Bud is not a murderer!" Cynthia blazed hotly.
"Of course not," said Clint cheerfully, a twinkle in his blue eyes. "One's client is never guilty, no matter how the evidence stacks up against him."
"It's all circumstantial."
"Many a man has been hanged by such!"
Cynthia winced and rushed on. "The Judge will release him on bail, so he must not think the evidence is that good."
Clint looked startled. "Oh, come now, Cynthia, the charge is first-degree murder. He shot a man down in cold blood, from ambush," he protested.
"And that's why I know Bud didn't do it," Cynthia flashed. "I've known Bud Conyers all his life. He just isn't capable of a cold-blooded killing."
Clint said quietly, "I admire your faith in your client, Cynthia, but you may as well face facts. This is going to be a tough battle: Bud against the whole 'better element' of Reidsville, with everybody knowing there was bad blood between him and the murdered man. I hated hearing the court appoint you to his defense."
The court didn't appoint me," Cynthia answered curtly. "I offered my services to Bud."
"Well, you are sticking your neck out. Losing a client-"
"I'm not going to lose a client, and stop talking as though you believed Bud is guilty."
"I'm afraid I do, Cynthia. The whole town and most of the county thinks so, too. You may as well face that," Clinton said quietly.
She looked up at him, her brown-gold eyes anxious, her pretty mouth drooping a little. He met her eyes, and his own were troubled.
"But if the Judge is willing to allow him out on bail-" he began thoughtfully, and stopped as Cynthia gave a small, derisive snort.
"Oh, yes, he can be released on bail-twenty-five thousand dollars' worth of bail," she said wryly.
"Twenty-five thousand!" Clint whistled, his eyes wide.
"And of course the Judge knows that there isn't a man, woman or child in Reidsville who would contribute so much as five cents for Bud's defense. Nobody here has that kind of money to put up for bail, and even if they did, they'd never risk it on Bud, they're all so dead certain he's guilty."
Cynthia made a little weary gesture, tucked her battered briefcase beneath her arm and managed a faint smile.
"So Bud's locked up until the trial, which will be the first week in October. Bud has never before in all his twenty-two years been told he couldn't go anywhere he wanted to or do what he wanted to. It's like seeing some small, defenseless animal caught in a trap."
Clint nodded thoughtfully, his eyes warm on Cynthia's flushed face and troubled eyes.
Tough, honey," he said sympathetically. "But, after all, it's no good your getting emotionally involved. You're his attorney, and it's your job to keep yourself as remote-"
"Oh, don't start telling me that again, Clint," Cynthia flashed sharply. "If I didn't get emotionally involved with my clients and want desperately to see them get justice, I'd never have read law with my father in the first place. Bud is innocent, I tell you, and I've got to prove it."
Clint made a small gesture with an open hand that acknowledged the futility of arguing with her.
"You're a swell girl, Cynthia, and I wish like blazes I could help you defend Bud. But considering the circumstances, my position, I can't quite see how I could afford to align myself-"
"Oh, I understand that, Clint. As a rising young politician who wants to be County Prosecutor next year, you can't afford to get mixed up in a case that's going to create such a rumpus, especially when you are obviously so convinced that Bud will be convicted."
Cynthia managed a faint and unconvincing smile and went on down the worn stone steps to the street and across to her office, without looking back. Clint watched her go, frowned and then turned and went on into the courthouse, still scowling.
Cynthia climbed the dusty steps between two department stores and turned toward a door on which the words "C. Reid, Attorney-at-Law," were lettered in black against the white frosted glass panel.
Maggie Mitchel, who had been her father's secretary and who was now her own, as well as her closest friend and most trusted confidante, slowed her flying fingers over the typewriter and lifted her graying head as Cynthia came in.
Maggie was fiftyish, stout, matter-of-fact, down to earth and adored Cynthia.
"Well?" demanded Maggie. Then, as she saw the girl's face, she added, "Oh, Judge Clinkscales wouldn't allow bail?"
"Oh, he was most gracious." Cynthia's mouth was a thin bitter line. "Bud can be released on bail. Twenty-five thousand dollars' worth!"
"My sainted aunt!" Maggie gasped. "Why, doesn't the Judge know there hasn't been that much money in Reidsville since the FBI caught those bank robbers holed up in a motel outside the city limits?"
"Of course he does," Cynthia agreed grimly. "He even smiled as he mentioned the amount."
Maggie nodded soberly, her eyes warm and anxious on Cynthia's strained face.
"Bud's frantic," Cynthia went on. "Oh, not for himself. He's wild at the thought of Glad-die-May and the baby out there alone. I promised him I'd go out and bring them in town to stay with us until he is free."
"Well, sure, what else could you do?" Maggie agreed firmly.
"Call Chewning's, Maggie, and see how soon I can have my car," Cynthia asked, as she picked up her briefcase and turned toward her small private office.
It was not until then that she became aware of the man who was sitting quietly in a chair facing the railing behind which Maggie's desk was placed. The man was tall, lean, sun-bronzed, and watching her with frank admiration in his gray eyes that contrasted with his thick rough black hair and his suntan.
"Oh," said Cynthia, startled. "I didn't see you. I'm sorry. Were you waiting to see me?"
The man unfolded his six-foot-plus of lean, rugged-looking body and smiled down at her.
"I was waiting for Miss Cynthia Reid. I take it you are she," he said pleasantly, his voice a deep baritone, "though I have to admit you're not exactly my idea of a lady lawyer."
"Oh," Maggie was on her feet now, apologetic. "I'm sorry, Mr. Dowler. I forgot all about you. Cynthia, this is Mr. Dowler, who's head of that auto racing outfit that's going to try to get itself killed twice a day to amuse the crowds at the county fair in October."
The man laughed ruefully.
"Well, the trick is to amuse the crowds without getting killed," he protested.
"Should be quite a trick," Maggie growled, and went back to her typewriter.
Hank Dowler turned back to Cynthia and saw the faint chill in her eyes. He spoke hastily, as though fearful that he had aroused her resentment.
"I asked downstairs at the bank for the name of a thoroughly reliable and trustworthy lawyer, and they gave me your name and said you were the very best," he assured her. "Your secretary said you'd be back soon, so I took the liberty of waiting."
Cynthia nodded and pushed open the door of her office, motioning him to follow her. She seated herself at the very old roll top desk that had been in the office when her father was a child, and motioned the man to a chair beside it.
"What can I do for you, Mr.-Dowler, was it?" she repeated the name slowly as though to accustom herself to it.
"I'm Hank Dowler," he answered, "of the Lucky Devils."
Cynthia still looked politely interested, no more, and the man's brown face was touched with the white flash of a smile.
"And we thought we were famous and that just about everybody had heard of us," he mourned.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Dowler," said Cynthia briefly, and waited.
"Well, we're a team of race-car drivers, stunt men. We appear at state and county fairs and do test-driving for some of the more experimental cars the manufacturers turn out, to help get the bugs out before the cars go on sale to the general public. We are booked pretty solid through Florida during the winter season, but we are opening here at your county fair; a sort of dress rehearsal, I suppose you could call it. I came on ahead of the gang, to try to spot a headquarters from which we could fan out to our dates throughout Florida. I'm convinced Reidsville will be a perfect spot. Forty miles from Jacksonville, and within easy driving distance of our other dates."
"That's very interesting, Mr. Dowler, and as a member of the Chamber of Commerce here, I'm delighted to know you will have your headquarters here," Cynthia told him politely. "But I'm a bit vague about what you want of me."
"Oh," said Hank, as he brought out a legal-looking document, between two blue papers, and laid it on the desk. "I thought I'd like to have you look over this contract the county fair officials drew up. I'm not quite satisfied with a couple of clauses."
Cynthia unfolded the papers, scanned them swiftly, nodded and then looked back at him.
"It's the standard contract such as is given to all concessionaires and performers who are to appear at the fair," she assured him. "What clauses didn't you like?"
"Those about the Lucky Devils paying for all the insurance that is taken out on the grandstand and its occupants," Hank said. And before she could answer, he went on quickly, "Oh, we expect to pay half of it. We always do. We're glad to. We can't get insurance on ourselves, of course, because of the risks we take. And liability for damages to fair visitors from any accident we may have is something we realize is a vital necessity. But we don't usually have to pay for all of it. The fee is pretty steep, as you will see. And frankly, we don't make enough money from a small town fair to be able to afford the whole thing."
Cynthia tapped her pencil on the desk, studying the contract carefully, and then she folded it briskly and nodded at him.
"You have a point there, Mr. Dowler. I'll take it up with the fair committee. I'm sure we can get you a more equable arrangement," she told him.
Hank hesitated for a moment, and then, a scowl drawing his dark brows together, asked hesitantly, "It won't make any trouble for you, Miss Reid?"
Puzzled, Cynthia asked, "Why should it?"
Hank grinned, an engagingly boyish grin, and said frankly, "Well, we're outsiders, and you live here. Won't the committee feel you're being unfair to them to make them ante up for half of the insurance?"
Cynthia laughed. "I'm a lawyer first, Mr. Dowler, and I like to protect the interests of my clients. After that, I'm a hometown girl!"
"Well, now that's a relief-" Hank began just as Maggie opened the door and thrust an anxious, worried face into the room.
"Chewning's says your car won't be ready before noon tomorrow, Cynthia!" she announced unhappily. "They had to send to Jax for a part."
Cynthia cried out, "Oh, Maggie! I promised Bud that Gladdie-May and the baby shouldn't stay out there another night alone!"
Hank looked from one to the other and said quietly, "Could I be of assistance? My car is right downstairs. I'd be happy to drive you anywhere you'd like to go, Miss Reid."
"Oh, would you?" Cynthia turned to him in eager gratitude.
"It would be a pleasure, Miss Reid."
Cynthia sprang to her feet, turned to Maggie and said eagerly, "I'll take Gladdie-May straight home and get her settled. Do I have to come back to the office, Maggie?"
"I'm afraid you'll have to, Cynthia. There's that appointment with old Mr. Wells, who wants to change his will-again. He'll be here at three, and you know what he's like if you aren't here," Maggie answered reluctantly.
"I'll be glad to drive you, Miss Reid, and wait for you and bring you back," Hank offered pleasantly.
"Oh, that is good of you, and I'm very grateful," said Cynthia. "Shall we get started?"
Hank rose and followed her out of the office and down the stairs, to the sidewalk.