by Lionel White
Sergeant MacNulty shrugged and hunched his shoulde
”5
zyo
Sergeant MacNulty shrugged and hunched his shoulders.
“I’m staying on,” he said.
We left a couple of minutes later. On the way back to the hotel, Ann was very quiet. The rain had suddenly stopped and the wind had died down. I pulled into the circular drive in front of the hotel and parked at the curb.
Ann turned toward me in the dark as I shut off the ignition.
“Howard,” she said in a low, soft voice. “Howard, I don’t know what I would do without you.”
A second later and I felt her arm around my neck as she pulled my head down. Her soft lips met mine.
A dizziness came over me and minutes seemed to go by.
Ann sobbed as she drew herself away. I started to reach for her, almost without reasoning. But she had opened the door at her side and gently pushed me away.
“I’m all right now, Howard,” sue said. “All right now. Just please see me inside.”
My mind was a jumble of confusion when I said good night to Ann in the lobby.
It’s a lucky thing I managed a few hours of sleep before the insistant ringing of the telephone pulled me from my bed shortly after six o’clock. The telephone was in the hallway off the bedroom and I threw on a bathrobe and moved toward it, aware that it was still dark outside and wondering who in the world could be calling at this hour. The voice at the other end identified itself as belonging to a reporter on a New York newspaper and I almost hung up in anger. It was well that I didn’t. The reporter ended up giving me a lot more information than he obtained.
He told me that my client, Merriweather, was being extradited from Connecticut to New York. I was furious to learn that Merriweather had taken this step without calling me. And why hadn’t I been informed by the police themselves? At that time I still had much to learn about criminal practice—not only the reluctance of officials to consult with defense attorneys, but also the constant conflict between the attorney and the client.
“I understand that he will be held for twenty-four hours on a short affidavit and then be charged with homicide,” the newspaperman said. “As his attorney, I wonder what comment—”
“There is no reason to believe that Mr. Merriweather will be charged with anything,” I quickly interrupted. “I should advise the press—”
He interrupted me, laughing in an unpleasant way.
“Your client has admitted owning the gun,” he said.
“What gun? What in the world are you talking about? ”
“Now, Mr. Yates, please. You wouldn’t try and kid—”
“Listen here, young man,” I said. “I am not kidding. I don’t know what you’re talking about, but it is before daylight and I am standing here in my bare feet and I am in no mood to—”
“O.K. O.K., Mr. Yates. The gun used to kill the man found in the trunk of Merriweather’s car. It has been found and identified as belonging to your client. He admits as much. Now don’t tell me—”
“I’m not telling you anything,” I said. “I haven’t the faintest idea of what you’re talking about. I know nothing of any gun. I have no idea—”
“Maybe you had better read the morning newspapers,” the reporter said. “It’s all there, so maybe you—”
I guess we hung up simultaneously.
I was still dressing when I heard the bang against the
front door made by the morning newspaper as it was flung on the front porch by the delivery boy. I opened the door and retrieved it and then went into the kitchen and put the coffeepot on the stove. I spread the newspaper on the table and sat down to read it while I waited for the water to come to a boil.
It was there on the front page.
I felt a curious sense of frustration and incompetency as I read the story, carried under scare headlines. I was supposed to be the Merriweather lawyer; I had talked with Charles Merriweather and spent the previous day with the police and the evening with Mrs. Merriweather, but the reporters knew far more about the case than I knew. They seemed to know everything and what they didn’t know, they had not hesitated to speculate about. I knew, as I continued to read, that I was in way over my head; knew that my background and experience were hopelessly inadequate to cope with this sort of matter.
My telephone caller had been telling the truth. Late last evening Charles Merriweather had signed a paper permitting New York police to take him into custody. But what interested me even more were the details concerning what was referred to as the murder weapon. A revolver had been found hidden in the trash can which was kept in the Merriweather garage. It had recently been fired and a ballistic test proved that it was the gun used to kill the Si
unknown man. The gun was identified, both by police and Merriweather himself, as having come from his own private collection of weapons. Merriweather was alleged to have told reporters that he had no idea how the gun happened to be in the trash basket and to have denied having fired it. The newspaper story failed to mention whether fingerprints were found on the weapon.
The story went on to say that the dead man was still unidentified but that his fingerprints had been sent to the FBI laboratories in Washington as well as to the metropolitan sources for possible identification.
I shuddered slightly when I turned to the inside pages for a continuation of the news story and suddenly found myself staring at a picture of the Merriweather home. There were several other pictures, including one of Charles Merriweather’s sedan, gruesomely showing the opened trunk. But what really shocked me was an intimate picture of Charles and Ann showing them at a beach, in bathing suits, with Charles’s arm around Ann’s waist. I could easily guess that the snapshot had been stolen from their home when the reporters had been allowed in the place.
The account ended by saying that Ann Merriweather had viewed the body and failed to identify it. Somehow or other the writer had subtly managed the nasty innuendo that Ann might have known the victim, might have been entertaining him when her husband unexpectedly returned to the house.
It made me sick to realize that Ann would see this 88
newspaper, very likely see other papers that might show even less restraint and respect for her privacy.
I was inclined to telephone her at once, to warn her of what she might expect, but I hesitated. It was still too early to awaken her and I wanted her to have all the rest she could. She had had so many bad scares lately—including last night’s—and I knew that this coming day would be a trying one. I was thankful that she was at the hotel. At least the press didn’t know how to reach her.
I forced myself to eat a solid breakfast, frying eggs and bacon and making a couple of slices of buttered toast. And I tried to plan my day. There were four things I must do. First I must call Miss Taylor, my secretary, and make some attempt to keep up with my routine work, or at least postpone any immediate appointments. I must see Lieutenant Giddeon and find out as much as I could of what progress the police were making on the case. I must see Charles Merriweather and try and pin him down to details. Find out exactly who had been with him and just how secure his alibi was. And I must see Ann. I was thinking about this last thing which I must do when the telephone once more interrupted me. It was this call which determined my immediate actions.
Once more it was the press, this time a reporter for a Long Island newspaper. The reporter wanted to get in touch with Mrs. Merriweather, wanted an interview. I told him I had no idea of where she was and while he was protesting, I rang off. I decided that it was imperative that I call Ann immediately, that I must keep her away from the press, and yes, from the police. The Merriweathers had nothing to gain by having their private lives exposed in the public prints. And there were a lot of things I wanted to discuss with Ann before the police themselves were given the opportunity to talk with her.
I reached her almost at once at the hotel, and the moment she spoke to me I realized that she had already been up. I realize
d that she too had seen the morning newspapers.
“You must see Charles,” she said at once. “Howard, they have brought him back here and you must arrange to get him released—”
“Ann,” I interrupted, “Ann please listen to me. First, tell me how you are. Is your head all right? Have you any pain? Do you—”
“Aly head is all right, Howard. It was only a slight scratch. I am still tired, but otherwise I am fine.”
“Thank God for that,” I said. “Now Ann, you must listen to me for a moment.”
“Yes, Howard?”
“I want you to do exactly as I tell you,” I said. “It is very important. I want you to check out of the Garden City Hotel at once. Do you understand? Immediately.”
She hesitated a moment and then said, rather weakly, “Yes, Howard.”
“Do you remember the place where we had lunch a week ago. The little restaurant?”
“I remember.”
“And do you remember my wife’s first name?”
Again she said yes after a moment, her voice suddenly curious.
“There is a hotel next to that restaurant. Check into
that hotel. Use the first name and use Smith as your last name. Make no telephone calls and stay in your room. I will be in touch with you sometime this afternoon. As soon as I can.”
“But Howard,” she said, “But Howard—why? Why should I-”
“My dear,” I said, “Please have confidence in me. I want you to do just as I ask. Now, will you promise me?”
“I’ll do whatever you say,” she said. “But you must promise me that you’ll see Charles as soon as you can, that you will get him free on bail.”
“I’m going to see him now,” I told her. “But it’s very important that you—”
“I’ll wait for your call, Howard,” she said, and a moment later there was the click on the phone as she hung up.
I was able to reach Miss Taylor at her apartment in upper Manhattan before she left for the office and I told her that I would probably not be in until late in the day, if at all, but that I would keep in touch with the office by phone. She seemed upset, but I didn’t give her a chance to question me.
Reaching Lieutenant Giddeon was more difficult. He wasn’t in his office and the man who answered the phone refused to tell me where he was. When I explained that I was the attorney in the Merriweather case, he somewhat reluctantly took my telephone number and said he would see that the lieutenant got my message. I was cleaning up the kitchen, preparing to leave for police headquarters in Mineola, when Lieutenant Giddeon called me back.
I told him that I wanted to see my client at once.
“Well, right now, Counselor,” the lieutenant said, “your client is being questioned by the people up in the district attorney’s office. As soon as they’re through with him, I can’t see any reason why you shouldn’t be able to have a talk with him.”
“And when would that be, Lieutenant?”
“It’s hard to tell. Maybe an hour, maybe three.”
“I want to arrange bail immediately,” I said. “Also, I would like—”
His voice interrupted me.
“Have you had breakfast yet, Counselor?”
“Breakfast? Yes, but what’s that got to do with—”
“I was going to suggest that perhaps, while you are waiting, you might like to join me. I’ve been up most of the night and I was thinking of running out for a cup of coffee for a few minutes. I have several bits of information you might like to know about. Before the newspaper boys get it.”
“That’s very kind of you,” I said. “I’ll meet you anywhere you say.”
And so we arranged to meet in a small restaurant not far from the Mineola Police Headquarters and shortly after eight-fifteen I was in my car and on my way to keep my rendezvous with Lieutenant Clifford Giddeon.
CHAPTER SIX
It has always been difficult for me to consider Lieutenant Giddeon as a “cop.” He doesn’t even look like one. He has the build and strength and general physique a police officer is supposed to have, but in all other respects he could just as well be an accountant or a car salesman, a junior executive or perhaps a skilled craftsman. His appearance is so completely ordinary that despite the fact that I have seen him and talked with him dozens of times, to this day I couldn’t tell you the color of his eyes or his hair nor could I endow him with any unusual or distinctive physical characteristics.
He dresses Conservatively and he speaks in a well modulated voice with just the trace of a Brooklyn accent. He loves yachting, or, as he says, boating, and follows baseball avidly. Until I became involved in the Merriweather matter, I had never heard him mention police work or make any reference to his job.
I found him sitting alone in a booth, well toward the back of the restaurant, a cup of black coffee and a jelly roll in front of him. He was staring listlessly into space, apparently without a thought on his mind. He greeted me with a nod and a half smile and motioned me into the seat opposite.
The waiter brought me a cup of coffee. We were out of hearing range of the other customers, a couple of uniformed patrolmen seated at the counter and three men who very obviously were detectives from their appearance, also at the counter.
“Glad you could make it, Mr. Yates,” he said and at once I realized that our relationship was on a new and third sort of basis. Not Herbert this time and not Counselor. Mr. Yates.
“I asked you to come,” he said, “because we’re both interested in solving this case. After all, as an attorney, you are an officer of the court. We are, then, in a sense, both working toward the same ends.”
It was my turn to smile.
“Except,” I suggested, “I may very likely be defending a man whom the district attorney will attempt to convict. A man you’re already holding under arrest.”
“That’s just the point,” Giddeon said. “We’re holding him, pending investigation. We don’t say that he committed the murder, only that he was unlucky enough to be found with the body. We’re still trying to find out why. Also who the dead man was, why he was killed and who killed him. If Merriweather is innocent, the more he does to help us, the sooner we can prove his innocence. The best way to prove it is through finding the guilty party.”
I nodded in agreement.
“I am sure that Charles Merriweather will be only too glad to cooperate,” I said. “So far as I’m concerned, I’ve already advised him to tell the truth.”
“That’s fine,” Giddeon said. “The only trouble is, he isn’t telling the whole truth.”
I looked at him in surprise.
“No?”
“No. You see, he has accounted for his time until around three in the morning. And then he says he came home. We have reason to believe he is lying.”
“What reason?”
“Well, I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, but maybe if I do it will help you to convince your client that it would be best for him to cooperate. The fact is, we know that his car wasn’t in the driveway as late as four o’clock in the morning.”
“And how can you know that?”
“The people next door. They were in New York, attending a show and then went to a night club. They got home at four o’clock and happened to notice the Merriweather place as they drove into their own garage. No car in the drive. I can say this,” he added quickly as I was about to interrupt, “I can say that for myself, I really didn’t need this evidence. You see, I’ve questioned enough prisoners to know, almost automatically, when a man is either lying or evading the truth. And Merriweather is certainly concealing something.”
For a moment or so I looked at him speculatively and then spoke.
“You may or may not be right,” I said. “After all, I have only spoken with my client for a few brief moments, you know. That’s one reason I am very anxious to see him this morning. By the way, I read the morning papers. Something about a gun.”
Giddeon nodded.
“Yes, that’s another
thing. We found the gun. A thirty-two special. Recently fired. One shell exploded. Gun barrel riflings match up with the bullet taken from the dead man’s body. Whoever fired that gun was probably pressing the barrel against his stomach. That’s the reason there wasn’t much blood. It all spilled down inside the dead man’s clothes. But we got the bullet. It was deflected up into the rib cage after blowing through the intestines and stomach. Messy. Merriweather admits it was his gun and the gun was found in a trash can in his garage. The district attorney is quite interested in that. That’s another reason he should be more than willing, if he is innocent, to cooperate—”
He stopped talking and suddenly nodded toward the front of the room. I looked up to see the short-order chef beckoning him. He excused himself then and stood up.
“Be right back,” he said.
I watched him as he went to the front and stepped into a telephone booth.
He was gone for several minutes.
When he returned, he looked very thoughtful.
“Office,” he said. “I have to be getting back. By the way, you’ll be able to see Merriweather in about twenty-five minutes. Over at the county jail. In the meantime, I would like to ask Mrs. Merriweather a few questions.”
“Mrs. Merriweather? Why in the world do you want to—
“Well, you see,” he said, and this time his tone was just the slightest bit condescending, “you see she was in the house Sunday night. All night. And we have very good 96
reason to believe the crime took place in the Merriweather house. In fact, we are almost sure it did. And so you see—”
I saw. I saw all too clearly.
“The idea is preposterous,” I said. “Why, Ann Merriweather was sound asleep. All through the night. She had taken sleeping pills and was out cold. Merriweather him-that he had difficulty getting her up in the mom-
self says
•__n
Lieutenant Giddeon nodded.
“I know,” he said. “But we would still like to talk with her. Would you know where I might reach her?”
“As you know,” I said, “she checked into the Garden City Hotel last night. I suppose—”
