Barnard was breathing more easily. His outburst seemed to have eased the tension in him. “In all fairness,” he said, “I feel I must admit that even if I had found some irregularity in the carcass of the animal, it would not really have mattered as long as death in Mattson’s case was proved natural by the autopsy.”
Sorenson got to his feet. “Then what the hell is this all about?” he said in disgust. “Is this a political campaign? On whose time do you do it, Altman?”
“Thank you, Doctor,” the mayor said. “Please take it easy, Sam. I couldn’t foresee these outbursts. Alex, please step back until we call you again.”
“I’m beginning to wonder what you could foresee,” Sorenson said. But he sat down again. Meanwhile Barnard made his way back to where Mr. Whiting stood.
“I want to remind you,” the mayor said. “All I’m asking is a restraining order. That can be appealed in county court. Now I want to get at the real reason I’ve felt it necessary: the malicious gossip precipitated by Waterman’s investigation, and the defamation of character that has resulted. I’m going to be specific and use names. Mabel Turnsby is not a young woman any more. She has lived in Hillside all her life—participated in all our social doings, attended the church, and conducted herself generally as becomes a good citizen. It was her misfortune, it seems, to have lived next door to Mattson. Since the day of the old man’s death, she has not had a moment’s peace. She has been quizzed and harried on every subject from her grandparents to her patchwork quilts. She’s been pursued with questions on her family and even on her finances. When she was reluctant to yield this information to a newspaperman, the bank was approached. Mrs. Baldwin can back me up on that …”
Mrs. Baldwin nodded.
“For that matter,” he continued, “my own finances have been gone into, as have Mr. Hershel’s, whose sole connection with the old man was his charitable buying of toys Mattson made. I don’t suppose there’s ten people in the town who haven’t been quizzed about Mabel Turnsby, all the Turnsbys. I myself have heard rumors that have been most uncomplimentary to her, and unfair as I know her. All I’m asking, gentlemen and Mrs. Baldwin, is that Chief Waterman be ordered to restrain from an investigation that causes such discomfort, or else show us now, why the order should not be served.”
“That seems reasonable enough,” Sorenson said. “How about it, Mr. Waterman?”
“If I haven’t showed you why I’m investigating in what I told you up to now,” the chief said, “I don’t think I’m going to have anything to convince you.”
“Could I get in a few words?” Mr. Whiting called out.
“Of course, Charlie.”
“I don’t think Waterman’s done himself justice. He hasn’t had the time to put his facts together and I’m damned sure he’s got information that might influence your decision, but which he thinks is unwise to give out here where it might hurt more people than’s already been hurt. Another thing: what investigation officer gives out information that could help a murderer cover up …”
“There’s what I mean,” Altman shouted. “We have absolutely no evidence of murder, and yet you use that word. Sensationalism. Make a case where there is none. Make a story. That’s what I mean by newspaper technique.”
“The word was ill-advised,” Mr. Whiting said quietly. “Suspicion of murder. My point holds—for theft, arson, any crime on the books. It’s the prerogative of any officer to withhold information until the arrest is made. Then he knows what pertains and what doesn’t. Then make your charges if they’re justified. … Now I think it’s about time you brought your real issues into the open, Mr. Mayor. Everybody in town knows old Henry Addison came here regular to see Mattson. You’ve been courting Addison Industries for years like Barnard said. I’ve got no complaint against that. Maybe Hillside would make a nice industrial town. That’s beside the point. What is important is you’re so damned eager to make that coroner’s report stand. Nothing must embarrass the Addisons. You’re so incensed at having your bank transactions questioned. Why? Maybe the town’s forgot your doings with that tractor outfit. I’d like to remind ’em. Mind you, I’m not saying there’s anything in all this should embarrass either you or the Addisons. I don’t know that. But if that’s the issue the council’s voting on, for God’s sake let them know it. Don’t wrap it up in poor old Waterman’s pension application.”
A flurry of hand-clapping broke from the crowd. Altman banged his gavel.
“Thank you, Charlie. We’ve now washed another batch of linen at the town pump. But facts are still facts. There is a coroner’s verdict. Remember that—and I admit my overtures to Addison Industries on behalf of Hillside. In fact, I’m a little proud of them if I may say so. It was done with the consent of the council sitting in session here today, done at our June 15 meeting. I consider the reference to my banking transactions slanderous, and I invite an investigation to prove it. I can understand Mr. Whiting’s attitude however. He must feel compelled to justify his son’s behavior these past few days. His indiscretion with a young lady in his employ has caused her and her family extreme embarrassment. It’s too indelicate a subject to even consider here, but it throws some light on his father’s prejudices …”
“Mr. Altman,” Alex said steadily. “I consider that remark slanderous. My indiscretion amounted to kissing a girl, and it’s done rather frequently, even in Hillside. It was neither premeditated nor calculated for that moment nor that place, although I admit it was foolish of me not to have thought of it before. It’s been Joan Elliot’s and my misfortune that the observer of the incident chose to construe it as indecent behavior, and took great pains to elaborate. The motives you may conclude for yourselves. We’ve seen evidences of vindictiveness here before today.”
“Yes,” Altman said, “I agree with you. We are all becoming vindictive. Who wouldn’t in this atmosphere of distrust?” He turned to the council. “Unless you would like to hear from someone else, gentlemen and Mrs. Baldwin, I think we can proceed to our decision. The case as it now stands is that Chief Waterman has put his causes for pursuing the investigation before you. The results on our people are obvious. And he has failed to indicate one concrete result he expects to obtain. Doctor Barnard and the Whitings insisted we introduce the Addison element. The council members know very well the negotiations under way there. I admit any attempt to discredit them would not aid our negotiations, and that I have to some extent been influenced by that consideration. But, I insist, not at the expense of justice. And justice was done in the coroner’s verdict on Andrew Mattson’s death. I must ask you, too, to think carefully of the old man’s age. Ninety-two. I ask you to weigh the merits of further investigation by Waterman and the implication of innocent people that must follow in its wake. If you agree with my request for a restraining order, our police chief will have the recourse of county court where he will be compelled to divulge information he implies he must keep from us—to show cause for proceeding. I feel such a course is indicated. It serves justice. Not hate and contention.”
He took his watch from his pocket and laid it on the table. The very movement suggested the need for haste and decision.
“Do you wish to vote now?”
“One question, Altman,” Matt Sanders said. “I want to ask Waterman something. Fred, this restraining order the mayor has—if you prove your points before county court, it just means a few days’ peace around here. Would the delay hurt the case as you see it?”
“I don’t know if it would, Matt. But I don’t have much more I’d consider it right to lay before county court than I told you, and the way I see it, I won’t get very far with them either till I’m ready to talk facts. And I ain’t ever going to be able to talk facts if I can’t look for ’em.”
Vote that down, Alex thought.
“We have courts so that we can use them,” Altman said with a confident sort of impatience. “Beyond county court, there’s the district court, state court, Federal court. Surely there’s one of them Mr. Waterman
trusts. Or does he trust only God and himself?”
“Mr. Altman,” the chief said, his slow anger pulsing through to his voice, “I’m not even sure I’d trust God if you was to get to Him first.”
A squeak of shock escaped Mrs. Baldwin, and it echoed through the crowd in the Hillside Square. And then came the silence, the lowing of a cow in some distant pasture reaching through it.
“We’ll take the vote,” Altman said quietly. The color in his face had drained away until he looked like a chalk caricature of himself. “Vote ‘yes’ for serving the restraining order. ‘No’ against it. Mrs. Baldwin?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Hershel?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Withrow?”
“No.”
“Mr. Sorenson?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Fabry?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Sanders?”
“No.”
“The restraining order will be served. Will someone please make a motion for adjournment?”
Waterman turned his back on the council and started for the station. The people pressed away from him as he passed.
Chapter 41
ONLY A GREAT ACHING emptiness remained with Alex as the crowd dispersed. He watched from the shade of the building as the people went more quietly than from church on Good Friday morning. None of his friends stayed to speak with him, or even nodded as they went. He saw his father and Barnard walk dejectedly out of the Square toward the office, and Miss Woods going quickly up the steps to the library like a frightened bird. Even Joan and her brothers were gone. He stayed until the fire trucks were started, the noise of their motors like a bombardment on the hot stillness of the town. Then he went around the building and brushed the flies from the station door before he opened it. Gilbert was reading Detective again, and Waterman was at his desk. Over the old man’s shoulder Alex read the first lines of the paper he was holding in his shaking hand … “It is hereby ordered by the county court of Riverdale that the parties named hereafter shall desist and refrain …”
Alex sat down, and in a moment the chief handed him the restraining order.
“What’s the offense for violating it?” Alex asked.
“Contempt of court. One to three years if found guilty.”
Alex read the order. He was named, too. He gave it back to Waterman.
“Well, Chief?”
“I don’t know, Alex. I think you better forget about it. Maybe take your vacation now and get away for a while.”
“And you?”
“I’ve been thinking about it. I’m an old man. I ought to think about my wife. There’s a few thousand dollars in the bank and the house clear. But I guess I’m going to risk my pension and my reputation.”
“That’s what I figured on doing,” Alex said. “My reputation isn’t worth much now unless we win. And I don’t think the business would be worth much either. Dad will stand by us, and Barnard, if he’s able to stand by anybody.”
“Well, that makes four of us,” Waterman said. “How does it go—‘thank the Lord there is no more of us?’”
“I’m with you too,” Gilbert said, throwing away his book.
“Good.”
“Did you talk to Mrs. Liston yesterday?” Alex asked.
“I was out there. She gave me an act like this morning. Andy just looked at her animals that time Chuck drove him out. She says she could identify Andy’s cat. But I don’t think she could, myself, and if I don’t, no jury would, that’s a cinch.” After a moment he added: “Barnard sort of surprised me.”
“There’s something eating him,” Alex said. “I’d like to know what it is. He’s had it in for the Addisons away back. Do you suppose it could be on account of Mike Turnsby?”
“Maybe. Could you ask him now?”
“I can ask him,” Alex said. “How’s Mabel?”
“Like a bird a cat’s stalking, but she just won’t give in.”
“Well, I’m off to see Gautier, Chief. I’ll keep in touch with you.”
“I’ll appreciate that,” Waterman said, looking again at the restraining order as though he really could not believe it.
Outside the Sentinel building Alex noticed that Maude had washed the sidewalk. When he went in and saw that Joan had come to the office after all, his gratitude to Maude made him feel like weeping.
“I’m awfully sorry, Alex,” Joan said when he stopped at her desk. “They dragged everything out, didn’t they?”
“You and me. Everything. I never knew it was so easy to compromise a girl. What did Dad have to say?”
“Not much. That Waterman clinched it with his last remark.”
“I don’t blame him. It was coming anyway. Joan, we’re not quitting. We’re going right on from where we were before the meeting.”
She looked at him a few seconds, as though searching for what he expected to happen should they fail. “I think I’m glad,” she said. “There just isn’t any other way. Is there?”
“No, honey, there isn’t.” He laid his hand on hers.
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Maybe go up and stay with Mom this afternoon.”
In the private office Barnard and his father were talking. Barnard seemed more at ease. Perhaps he had feared what might have come out at the meeting. There was only the one question Alex had to ask him and he had already had several kinds of “no,” but he tried again. “Doc, isn’t there any way you know that we might trace Mike Turnsby’s son?”
“No. Norah hasn’t heard from him since we were married.”
“I know,” Alex said. He took a long drag from his cigarette. “Doc, Mrs. Barnard’s mother was a sister to Henry Addison. You knew that, didn’t you?”
Barnard’s eyes met his evenly. “Yes.”
“Isn’t it kind of funny something like that wouldn’t be generally known?”
“No,” Barnard said. “There were many reasons, none of them pertaining to this case.”
“Maybe not, Doc, but it’s hard to tell when we don’t know them.”
Barnard said nothing. After a few seconds, Alex turned to his father.
“We’ve decided we don’t have any choice but to go right on in contempt of the order, Dad.”
“I figured that,” Whiting said. “I wish Waterman had held his tongue at the end there.”
“We’d have lost anyway.”
“Maybe. But at least we’d have had some of the people with us.”
“Well, it’s done now,” Alex said, “and it’s the devil take the hindmost. I’m going up and see Gautier. Will you stay close to Waterman, Dad? Just about anything can happen.”
Chapter 42
THERE WERE NO MORE or no less people on the street when Alex left the office than usually came to town on Saturday, but it was a strange thing to him to notice that somehow, no one seemed to be looking his way as he drove by. No one waved; no one called, “Hi, Whitie.” He might have been a stranger in the town. It gave him a sense of unreality, as though all these things were something he should awaken from, and laugh about at breakfast. Suddenly he wanted very much to see his mother, and that, he knew, was ridiculous. But he found himself touching things on the car dashboard, the ash tray, the lights which he turned off and on. He even touched the horn to give himself some physical contact with the familiar sounds. The wind in his face was hot, and the smell of it heavy with damp, rotting hay. Even the cemetery was brown where the grass had deadened beneath the summer sun. The few fresh flowers were limp. Why, he wondered, did some people make such a fetish of keeping graves alive, when beneath the ground the dead were more a part of earth than the flowers that grew above them. By now, the old gnarled body of Andy Mattson had begun to disintegrate. What clothes had he been buried in? Why had his clothes, if that’s what was in the other package, been taken from the car that night at Barnard’s? Had they contained some clue to his death? Or, for that matter, to his life? Was there really no one who cared if he lived, when
there was someone who cared very much that he died?
Anne. Anne Addison. There was a time when she must have cared, when the fierce black eyes of him must have held all she cared about. And what was Mike Turnsby in comparison to the giant Andy Mattson that she should have found him more desirable? Was she afraid of Mattson? For there was something frightening surely about a man who could separate himself from the world he knew, and never approach it again, or ever warm the new life with new friends. Their son was Walter Turnsby. It was strange, the vision Alex could imagine of him, and the mouse-like reality Norah Barnard was. But the Turnsbys kept their secrets. For one as talkative as Mabel, she kept many things away from the prying curiosity of the friends so like herself. What had Mike done to warrant such confinement? That Henry Addison was a ruthless man no one doubted. He had built Addison Industries and his fortune above many a heartache, seasonal work, migratory labor. Half Riverdale was a testimonial to it. But whatever had happened to Turnsby, Addison still came to visit Mattson, and Mattson accepted him. He remembered Maude’s account of trying to interview him, and Andy’s sardonic amusement at the famous man’s discomfiture. … The chauffeur. Alex glanced into the mirror. The long road behind him only mirrored the sun, and there was not a car on it. He stopped at the intersection in Masontown for the one traffic signal between Hillside and Riverdale. As he shifted gears he again looked into the mirror. A black sedan had turned out of a roadside stand behind him. From there to Riverdale the car stayed the same distance from him, increasing and diminishing its speed as he did.
With the increase in traffic toward the heart of Riverdale, he lost sight of the black sedan. He parked the car a couple of blocks from Gautier’s office, facing a driveway so that he could get away quickly if he wished. Why should he be wanting to get away in a hurry, he asked himself. Nevertheless he got out of the car and hid himself in the crowd of Saturday shoppers. Riverdale was the largest town in the county and the natural marketing center. Alex pushed his way into a drug store, and ordered a milk shake. While he waited he watched for the Addison chauffeur, but he was not in sight.
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