“She was popular with her classmates?”
“With everyone, I think. She enjoyed people of her own age but never was serious about a boy, if you’re driving at that. She planned a career.”
“I’m not driving at anything especially, Mr. Stuart. Just asking questions. How long have you lived in the county?”
“Four years.”
“And what brought you here?”
“My wife’s health. She is far from well—and worse now.”
“And where did you live before?”
“What does it matter, Mr. Charleston? All this is not to the point.”
“Probably not. But sometimes background helps. Please bear with me.”
“Since you ask, we had a home in Cincinnati in Ohio river country. I was an accountant. The climate affected my wife adversely. We moved here.”
“Just the one child, the gifted child?”
“Aye.” The word “gifted” seemed to spark Stuart. “With the one we were blessed. We had such hopes, such ambitions for her.” Control failed him for an instant, and he shook his head to restore it. He put his handkerchief to his eyes and returned it to his pocket. “I am not a wealthy man, Mr. Charleston, and I dislike charity. But when the town started a collection for her musical career, how could I refuse? The money was not for charity. It was for a cause, for the sake of a rare gift, for art. I accepted.”
“Of course,” Charleston answered. “I would have done the same.”
“Is that all, Mr. Charleston?”
“I think so. Thank you.”
Now Stuart jerked forward, his face out-thrust. “Catch the goddomned mon!” His voice was rough with rage, and I thought I felt the once-held rage emanating from his clothes. “Aye. Catch him and I’ll kill him.”
“When we catch him, the law will take care of him,” Charleston said in even tones.
Stuart left the office, walking erect, his violence contained.
Once he was gone, Charleston said, “Well, Jase?” When I didn’t answer, he asked, “What do you think?”
“I’m not sure I’m thinking.”
He gave me a long appraisal, then went on quietly, “You remember that Doolittle once thought the law was too cruel and threatened to resign? I believe it was you who talked him out of it.” He wanted me to say yes, but I kept silent. “Well, sure enough, the law works cruelly sometimes. Sometimes it works against itself. But in spite of its cruelty, in spite of its miscues, the law is necessary. It is about all we have, more important than any religion, any isms, for a livable society. Think on that.”
I was saved an answer by the entrance of Doc Yak. He slammed into the office without waiting to be announced. “Simple job,” he burst out without seating himself. “Simple, goddamn, beastly job.” He threw an envelope on the desk. “There’s the report.”
“Sit down and ease the pressure.”
“There’s more sons of bitches in this world than all the wonders of heaven and hell,” he said, throwing himself into a chair. He glared at us in turn. “You’ve got a madman on your hands. Two girls dead, raped and strangled. What next?”
“Next we catch him—or them,” Charleston answered evenly.
“Yeah, spread your butterfly net.”
“Tell us what you found.”
“It’s in the report, but what do you think I’m here for, to play pinochle?”
“Proceed, Doc.”
“The subject was in excellent health. Female. Age fifteen or so. A virgin deflowered by violence. The bastard who did it had big hands.”
“Anything more?”
“What in hell do you mean, anything more? Want her drawn and quartered?”
“Calm down, Doc. Time of death?”
“Ten or eleven o’clock, more or less either way. That satisfy you?”
“She left the school at ten P.M. to run home. That shouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes at the outside. Your time fits. Thanks.”
But Doc wasn’t through. He pushed his beaked face farther out of the shell of shirt and coat and said, “So you go about this all methodical, using up time, interviewing everyone and his uncle, and the bastard runs free.”
“Doc,” Charleston said with an edge in his voice, “tell me a better way or shut up.”
Doc drew in his head. “Hell, Chick, I know it’s a hell’s scramble. Don’t take offense.”
Charleston drew a hand across his brow. “All right.”
After he had gone, Charleston told me, “Take off, Jase. Get the hell out. Try for some sleep. We’re all dead on our feet. I’ll send Doolittle and Amussen home when they report. Get Cole relief, too. Blanche Burton likes overtime. Go.”
I had time to say, “You’re as tired as anybody.”
“Never mind. Make tracks.”
I followed orders but didn’t go home. I drove out to Anita’s. Around the barnyard as I approached, chickens and turkeys were feeding, the hens with strings and circles of young ones close by, some shedding their down, others new-hatched. Omar Test stood in the middle of them, looking cheerful, moving slow. He waved a welcoming hand. At another time I would have found the scene pleasing.
“Why, Jase,” Anita said at the door. “Come on in. Happy to see you.”
I sat and she sat at the kitchen table. “Looks like you have poultry,” I said for lack of something better.
“Omar’s so good with them.”
For the moment I had nothing more to say. I just looked at her, at the fair hair, the blooming cheeks, the generous mouth now forming a question. “What’s wrong?”
“Haven’t you heard?”
“No. Not today, I’ve been busy.”
“Everything’s wrong.”
“Do I have to guess?”
“I’m losing my taste for law enforcement.”
“That’s news. Why?”
“Last night I found a young girl. She’d been raped and killed, choked to death first maybe.”
“Who was it?”
“Her name’s Virginia Stuart.”
“I know of her. She sings, doesn’t she?”
“She did. And you must be careful. That’s two girls strangled and violated. Extra careful. Who knows?”
She considered, watching my face. “So you’ve lost your enthusiasm?”
“You didn’t see her.”
“But you did, and it’s numbed you.”
“That’s hardly the word. It was too much for me. It’s still too much. I see that face all the time. I see the blood. I should have studied business or art or something.”
She put a hand out and held mine. “One time, to me, you spoke out for law enforcement as your choice of a career. You were pretty hot. You said it was as important as the raising of food.”
“But you didn’t believe me.”
“I’ve a lot to be forgiven for, Jase.”
“Forget it. I’m coming to believe you were right.”
“Jase.” She leaned forward, her small chin thrust out. “I wouldn’t give a nickel for the man who wasn’t hurt, shocked and repelled by what you saw. He would be cold, inhuman, capable of murder himself.”
“You can say that again.”
Now her words grew more intense. “But I would expect the strong man to shake off his paralysis and do what had to be done.”
“Nice phrase, paralysis of horror.”
She released my hand. “Have I been too blunt?”
“Blunt enough.”
“But you’re strong.”
“Thanks. Time will tell.” I got up, said goodbye and left her, not looking back. I had heard lectures enough for today.
11
Charleston and I arrived at the courthouse door together. It was eight A.M., too early for the other county workers to be stirring.
A man was waiting in the outer office. Amussen at the board said, “A gent here to see you.” The man rose and took off his hat, revealing a head of thick, white hair. He said to us, “I am B. A. Antonelli.” He was dressed in tailored gray,
a white shirt, and blue tie. His black shoes glistened. A white mustache contrasted with a complexion darker than that of most of us. I took him to be in his early seventies, though his eyes appeared young and eloquent.
“As soon as I heard,” he went on, “I came. You want to talk to me. Yes?”
“I do. You were Virginia’s voice teacher. Am I right?”
“Her coach. Yes.”
Charleston led us into the inner office and asked Antonelli to take a chair. Antonelli sat down easily, quickly, and, I thought, exactly. I made ready with pencil and notebook.
“You received our message, then?” Charleston said.
“Message? No. I heard by the radio, so I came. It is a great tragedy.”
Charleston nodded gravely.
“A tragedy to be taken so young, at the very promise of life. But greater still because of the voice.”
“It was unusual, I understand.”
“Unusual? That is too mild. I have heard the great ones. I heard Lily Pons at her greatest. Our little girl would have been better still.” His brown eyes, full of pain, looked us over. “My friends, how can words say?” His delicate hands spread in a little gesture that in itself spoke grief and loss.
I was taken back to my college days and a paragraph written by the philosopher Alfred North Whitehead. He had said something about style, citing it as the ultimate morality of man. Style, not stylishness. Style in the sense of skill and economy in action, in attaining ends.
Charleston was saying, “How did you happen to be teaching, coaching her?”
“That is left to me at the least, helping young singers. Once I had a good voice, not great but good, and I have had small parts in operas. Also I play the violin and have played it professionally, in house orchestras and at concerts given at this place and that. I bore you, sir?”
“Not at all. Please go on.”
“With age the voice falters. It loses range and timbre and vibrancy. And the hands themselves are not so skillful with the strings.”
“I see.”
“But I have retained the keen ear, the gift of true pitch. That, I thought, was not enough. So when my son, a doctor, moved with his family to Montana, I followed him, thinking to retire. But there were young voices to help, young singers to train. So not quite retirement for me. Last fall your school heard of me, and I came.”
“And were training Virginia?”
“Just a little help maybe. As much as I could. With breathing, with exercises, with postures, only a bit here and there, and always the encouragement. She needed to go to the finest of schools.” He took an instant’s pause. “You know, with the help of Mr. Mike Day, we were collecting a fund for her schooling?”
“I believe everyone with a loose dollar contributed to it.”
“Yes. Such a small thing, she was, and her voice big and true and distinctive. Hearing her, you thought how the wren was too small for its voice, the lark too small, but there was the music. Such a future she had! I could hear her in America, in Europe, with the best companies. And everywhere she sang to acclaim. And now all ashes. All silence.” Again he made that little gesture of nothingness.
“Tell me about that last practice,” Charleston asked, “who was there?”
“Not many. But I am not acquainted. The principal, yes, in and out. A boy of red hair called Pat. A few others. I do not know names.”
The buzzer on Charleston’s desk sounded. Charleston wasn’t pleased. “What is it?”
I could hear Amussen’s voice. “The Bar Star was broken into last night and a lot of booze taken.”
“So? We’ll get to that.”
“But Bob Studebaker’s here in the office, yelling for action.”
“Tell him I’ll see him at noon, not before then. Hear?”
That done, Charleston turned again to Antonelli. “When practice was over, what did you do?”
“So I am a suspect. Yes?” An instant’s smile showed under the mustache. “You are right. Suspect all until you know for a certainty. I drove back to the city at once.”
Charleston fiddled with a pencil, then raised his eyes. “I would put you last on my list of suspects, Mr. Antonelli. I doubt I would list you at all.”
“Thank you. It is not good to be suspected. It is a shock. It would be to me an offense in this case, but you have not offended.”
“Then I think that’s all.”
“One thing more, please. If I can assist, even a little, I will cancel everything and stay here.”
“I’ll let you know. Thanks for coming.”
As soon as he had gone, Charleston turned to me and said, “Best of the old world.”
I spoke without interest, “Going after Mefford?”
“I’m making sure he stays put. Flew over the camper with Al Watson while you were absent and saw him.”
“Well?”
“I’m keeping him in reserve.”
I said, “I see,” though I didn’t.
“He doesn’t fit, not to me, and grilling him would be useless without something to go on.”
“He killed one girl.”
“So we think, though without proof. But the second girl? I don’t believe it.”
I let out a tired sigh. “All right with me. Let him go.”
He answered with a sharp, “Pisswillie,” and might have said more but Amussen buzzed to announce, “There’s a kid waiting.”
“Send him in.”
A red-headed, freckled boy entered, seeming a trifle abashed but not overly so. He was maybe sixteen.
“Sit down, son,” Charleston told him mildly. “You may be able to help us. You attended Virginia Stuart’s last practice?”
“Yes, sir. Sure did.”
“And your name is Pat Lenihan?”
“That’s me all right. I liked to hear her sing.”
“And you liked her, too. Didn’t you have a date or two with her?”
“More’n that but not much. Why?”
“I’m just poking around.”
The boy smiled. “No need to poke at me. Holy cow, I wouldn’t have killed her, not for anything.”
“You were stuck on her, I take it.”
The kid wriggled, and a flush came to his freckled face. “Well, all right. Sure. I was gone on her. Anything wrong with that?”
“Not a thing.”
“To tell the truth, I wanted her to go steady with me, but she wasn’t about to go steady with anybody. No, sir. Her singing was what mattered.”
“What did you do when practice was over?”
“I went straight home. My old man’s strict.”
“Do you have any reason to suspect anyone you saw at that practice?”
“Why, no. Not a soul. Who would touch a hair of her head?”
“Somebody did.”
The boy bent his head and sat silent for a minute. When he lifted his eyes, I saw tears in them. “Why, Mr. Charleston?” he cried out. “Tell me why? It’s such a goddamn shame.”
“It is that, son.” Charleston let him go.
The principal, Alfred Parsons, was next. “I know you announced you would drop around to see me, but I had a free period and so am saving you the trouble.”
Charleston thanked him. Nothing that Parsons saw, heard or suspected helped us along.
It was almost noon when he closed the door behind him. I said what was first in my mind. “When are you tackling Mefford?”
“We’ll get to him. He’s still at the camper. Mr. Gates is watching and will report if Mefford tries to take off. Satisfied?”
“No, sir.”
“I’m playing a hunch with some reason behind it. Just let it be for the present.”
We called a halt then and set out for the Bar Star. Every doorway along the street held a questioner. Others tried to stop us as we walked. Some of them were sorry or horrified, some were vengeful, some merely curious. Charleston tried to be patient, brushing them off as easily as he could.
The Bar Star was full. There is nothi
ng like shocking news to send men to the bottle. We shook our heads to questions again. Bob Studebaker hustled from behind the bar, telling his helper to take over. Outrage had flushed his face. “’Bout time you showed up,” he told Charleston.
“Tell us about it.”
“Last night after closing some bastard broke in the back window and made off with almost a case of good whiskey. Not bar stuff. I. W. Harper, Old Forrester, and the like of that.”
“Cash?”
“Just whiskey. Nothing else.”
“Have you notified the town police?”
“Sure, but Christ Almighty! You know what they’re like. Fair at traffic, good at seeing business doors are locked at night, extra good at seeing the bars close on time. That’s it, though. Give ’em an honest-to-God crime, and they mess their pants.”
We had become the center of a little crowd, all silent, all listening.
“All right. I’ll put Amussen on it.”
Studebaker drew his stomach into his chest in order to blow harder. “Now lookee here. I’m asking for your best. Not that horse.”
Charleston answered with the even voice that showed irritation, “We have a murder on our hands. Not one. Two.”
“Goddamnit, this is my place. I pay taxes. It’s my whiskey stolen. I want results. And I don’t want Amussen.”
“Studebaker, you’ll take what we can give you. We’ll give you Amussen. It’s his kind of case. Just be grateful.”
Before we turned away, Studebaker said, “Aw, shit, Chick. Pardon me all to hell. I’m awful agitated.”
We had a beer and then lunch at the Jackson Hotel.
Once outside it, Charleston said, “Let’s drop in the bank. I want to talk to Mike Day, and you see if you can’t cut young Day out of the crowd and quiz him a little.”
Mike Day was announcing to customers who came and went or idled, “The bank is offering a ten-thousand-dollar reward. Yes, ten thousand dollars goes to the man who turns up the murderer. I want everyone to know that.”
Charleston managed to get Day aside. I motioned to young Day, who was bent over papers at his desk beyond an open counter. He got to his feet, and I thumbed in the direction of the back room where he kept his musical equipment. We stood as we talked. I started out by asking, “Have you any idea, any at all, about Virginia’s killer?”
“I can’t imagine. I just can’t imagine.”
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