Trial by Fury

by Craig Rice

  “I think someone took a dislike to Pa,” she said.

  “If you’re sore at a guy, the time to blow up a bank is before he’s murdered,” Malone said. “Why wait until his feelings won’t be hurt?”

  “But somebody was sore at Pa,” she insisted.

  “Not necessarily,” the little lawyer murmured. “You don’t have to have any feeling about a man, like or dislike, to murder him.” He closed his eyes “There are three reasons for murder,” he said in a very low voice, “love, money, and fear, and the greatest of these is fear.”

  The red-haired girl stared at him for a minute. He didn’t move. At last she looked up at Jake. “He isn’t dead, or anything, is he?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised,” came a sleepy whisper from the bed. Then there was a low snore.

  Henry Peveley tiptoed to the door. “Come, Florence.”

  She followed him, momentarily awed. Jake opened the the door for her. Henry lingered behind for a moment, drawing Jake out of earshot of the hall, and took a flat, unlabeled bottle from his pocket.

  “I thought I’d bring this up to Mr. Malone. It’s hard to find a reliable bootlegger in this town if you’re a stranger.” He slipped out of the door and closed it behind him.

  Jake stared at the bottle, carried it across the room, and set it down on the bedside table. Malone opened one eye.

  “Have they gone?”

  “They’ve gone,” Jake said. “Is there anything I can get for you before I go completely nuts?”

  “Nothing,” Malone breathed, closing the eye again. “Just go away and try to keep out of trouble. Don’t get mixed up in anything else.”

  “No,” Jake said slowly. “I think I’ve got enough to hold me for awhile. A Senator gets shot from under me, a bank explodes in my face, and now I’m handed a bottle of bootleg whisky.”

  Malone chuckled. “That Henry Peveley. He’s living in the past.”

  Jake shrugged, “Well, anyway, he’s enjoying himself.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Florence Peveley and her uncle were waiting for him in the hall.

  “He’s all right, isn’t he?” Florence said in a forceful whisper. “Say, how’s your wife? She was blown up too, wasn’t she? is there anything I can do for her? Is there anything I can do for either of you? She’s a wonderful person and I like her. Wish I knew where she’d gotten that blue car, I’d like to have one like it. Say, I hope I didn’t do Mr. Malone any harm. I know he needed to go to sleep, but I was so all-fired mad.” She paused and drew a breath. “It was bad enough, somebody shooting Pa.”

  One of the nice things about a conversation with Florence Peveley, Jake reflected, was that you didn’t have to think of any answers.

  “Here comes the sheriff,” Henry Peveley said.

  Sheriff Kling was coming up the last few stairs, breathing hard. His thick neck was red.

  “You’re the guy I want to see,” he said to Jake.

  Jake took out a cigarette. “I suppose I should feel flattered,” he said pleasantly. He noticed the sheriff had brought a deputy along, the bigger one.

  Sheriff Kling’s eyes narrowed. “That’s enough, wise guy. We’re going down to the courthouse.”

  Jake thought it over. The last swing he’d taken at a Jackson County officer’s jaw had cost him two dollars and costs and six hours in the county jail. He wouldn’t get off as easily this time. Twenty-five bucks, Phil Smith had warned him. And maybe they charged more for smacking a sheriff than for a deputy. Anyway there was no point in further antagonizing Sheriff Kling.

  “O. K.,” Jake said with surprising amiability. “Wait a minute till I tell my wife.”

  Sheriff Kling turned to the deputy. “Go tell her where he’s going.”

  The hell with the twenty-five-buck fine, Jake decided fast. He grabbed the deputy by the arm. “Now wait a minute.”

  “At-a-boy, pal,” came Florence Peveley’s voice right behind him.

  Jake waved an indignant finger under Sheriff Kling’s nose. “I’ve had about enough trouble from you. Are you arresting me?” As the sheriff’s eyes popped, he went on, “If you are, where the hell’s your warrant? All right. You’re not arresting me. So you can go climb up a purple rope.”

  “Listen here,” the deputy began.

  “Shut your fat mouth,” Jake said. “I’m mad now. If you want to arrest me, go ahead and get a warrant, and I’ll tell my lawyer to start drawing up a suit for false arrest. If you don’t want to arrest me, then get the hell out and quit bothering me. If you just want a cozy little chat with me, write my secretary for an appointment.” He turned away.

  Sheriff Kling caught his breath on the third try. “Where’s your secretary?”

  “She’s on a vacation in Alaska,” Jake hurled back over his shoulder.

  “And another thing,” Florence Peveley said quickly. “A swell sheriff you turn out to be, letting some lug come in and blow up my bank. You’re supposed to give protection to the taxpayers.”

  “That’s right,” Henry Peveley got in. “Have you any idea how much taxes the Peveley estate pays?”

  “Why,” Florence Peveley finished, “you big, stupid drunken ape—I ought to have the law on you!”

  Sheriff Kling decided he was hopelessly outclassed and outnumbered. He retreated, followed by his deputy. On the third step he paused.

  “You’re not through with me yet,” he bellowed. “You’ll hear from me.”

  “Delighted,” Jake said. “I’m nuts about fan mail.”

  The sheriff had just passed the second landing when a door down the corridor opened and Helene stepped out. She was a trifle pale around the lips.

  “Is this a private riot, or can I buy a ticket to it?”

  “It’s all right,” Florence Peveley said. “It was just your old man and I, scaring the stuffing out of the sheriff.”

  “The big dope,” Jake muttered under his breath.

  “I always miss everything,” Helene complained. “Next time you’re going to lose your temper, I wish you’d call me first.”

  Little Henry Peveley was mopping a damp brow. “That was a close call.”

  They looked at him anxiously. His round face was almost white.

  “Suppose,” he said tremulously. “Suppose I’d had trouble with the sheriff. And me with a bottle of”—he whispered it—“whisky in my pocket.”

  No more than ten minutes after Florence Peveley and her uncle had gone, word came that Jake was wanted downstairs at the telephone.

  It was Jerry Luckstone. “Mr. Justus,” he said in a worried voice, “I’m sorry you had any misunderstanding, Marv is a little impulsive.”

  “That’s all right,” Jake said. “I’m impulsive myself.”

  “The fact is,” the district attorney went on, “I’d appreciate it very much if you’d come down to my office. I think we ought to talk over this business while the details are still fresh in everybody’s mind. Would you?”

  “I’d be delighted,” Jake told him. “Your fat-necked friend should have put it that way in the first place. I’ll be there in five minutes.”

  The crowd on Main Street, considerably increased since morning, was concentrated on two points, the General Andrew Jackson House, and the wreckage of the Farmers’ Bank a block down the street. The largest part of the crowd was in front of the bank building, now roped off from the sidewalk, a heap of wood and rubble piled up by its door.

  Jerry Luckstone’s office was crowded. Ed Skindingsrude was there, and the bald-headed Mr. Goudge, his grim face pale, and Ellen McGowan. Jake was glad to see she had her bridgework back. Even Phil Smith was there, very white and shaken, a huge bandage showing on his neck, and his arm in a sling.

  “I guess we’re all here,” Jerry Luckstone said.

  Sheriff Marvin Kling glared indignantly at Jake. “Now,” he said, “tell me about this explosion.”

  Jake sat down on the corner of the flat-topped desk and lit a cigarette. “I don’t know what I can add to what you mu
st already know. These people were there too.”

  “God damn it,” the sheriff said, “none of them saw the same thing.”

  Jerry Luckstone turned around and looked at him, his thin, handsome face wrinkled with anxiety. “Well, after all, nobody—none of us were looking in the same direction or paying attention to what was going on. Nobody there knew there was going to be an explosion.”

  “Somebody did,” Sheriff Kling said doggedly.

  “Oh, no,” Miss McGowan said suddenly. “That isn’t necessarily true. The bomb could have been planted there, or it could have been dropped in from outside. You said that yourself.”

  “I’m asking him,” the sheriff said, indicating Jake.

  Jake frowned. “I wasn’t paying much attention to what was going on. All I know is that suddenly I heard somebody scream and then everything seemed to go up at once. I shoved Mrs. Justus toward the door and the next thing I knew I was in the middle of a lot of dust and broken glass. Then I sort of caught my breath and began to help digging people out.”

  “That ain’t what I mean,” the sheriff said crossly. “I mean, what happened before the explosion?”

  “I don’t know,” Jake said wearily, “except, obviously, that somebody planted a bomb somewhere.”

  “Where were you standing? Where was everybody else standing?”

  “I was somewhere near the door,” Jake said. “Mrs. Justus was right behind me, looking out the window. I think Malone was up by the teller’s window, but I haven’t the faintest idea where anybody else was. I wasn’t paying attention.”

  The sheriff sighed. “Damn it, nobody seems to know what went on. Ed, here, was on his way to the door “but he don’t remember where anybody else was.”

  “I was right by Mr. Malone,” Jerry Luckstone said. “I’d gone to the bank to identify him so he could cash his check.” He paused and added, “And Magnus was right behind the teller’s window.”

  “Hell, I know that already,” Sheriff Kling said.

  Ed Skindingsrude said, “It seems to me, Marv, that what we need to know is where the different people were inside the enclosure, not out of it. It would’ve been mighty hard to reach inside and lay down a bomb without somebody seeing you.”

  “Ed’s right,” Miss McGowan said. “And I can remember that pretty well. Margaret was sitting at the adding machine. I had just brought in that package of records and put them down.” She turned to the county treasurer. “Where’d you go after that?”

  “I’d just started into the president’s office,” Mr. Goudge said. “There was one book that wasn’t with those records, and I remembered Gerald had it in his office the day he was killed, so I figured that was where it was.”

  “That’s right,” Miss McGowan said. “I remember. And I was over by the safe, talking to Phil.” She frowned. “I still think the bomb must have come in through the window.”

  “Did anybody see it thrown in?” the sheriff asked coldly.

  Nobody answered. After a moment Jake said, “For that matter, did anybody see the bomb at all?”

  “Nobody saw anything,” Sheriff Kling complained. “All anybody knows is that it blew up all of a sudden. ’Cept that it must have been right around where Magnus was standing.”

  “It certainly pulverized that package of school-fund records,” Mr Goudge said bitterly.

  Jerry Luckstone looked up suddenly. “Aren’t there any duplicates of those records?”

  “Not of that set, there aren’t. Probably that one book Gerald had is all right, but it’s no use without the others.”

  “Isn’t that just dandy?” the district attorney said gloomily. “And if you’re through with all this,” Miss McGowan declared, “Mr. Goudge and I want to get back to the bank and find out what other records are ruined.”

  The sheriff nodded. “Harry, you go with ’em,” he said to the deputy.

  Ed Skindingsrude rose to his feet. “Marv, it seems to me you ain’t gettin’ very far. Maybe it’s none of my business, but that’s how it seems to me.”

  “I’m doing all I can,” the sheriff said in an ugly voice. His face had deepened in color.

  “Maybe so. Still, I was figuring if I ought to call a special meeting of the county board and sort of discuss the whole business. Maybe there’s some better way of handling it than for you and Jerry just to try and worry it out.”

  “County board can meet until hell freezes over, for all I care,” Sheriff Kling muttered, “but I’m the sheriff here, and what I say goes.”

  The little sandy-haired farmer shrugged his shoulders. “Do the best you can, Marv. Election’s coming up in three months now.” He put on his hat, said, “Won’t call a board meeting for a few days anyway. Good luck, Marv,” and left.

  The sheriff waited until the sound of footsteps had died away before he said, “Damned old fool.”

  “Just the same,” Jerry Luckstone said miserably, “election is coming up in three months.” He sat down behind his desk. “Marv, one of those people who was on the second floor of the courthouse yesterday shot Senator Peveley and blew up the bank today.”

  “I can’t arrest ’em all,” Sheriff Kling said. “And I couldn’t arrest anybody like Phil Smith or Ed Skindingsrude, or Miss McGowan.”

  “That’s a very neighborly spirit and I admire it,” Jake said, “but you may have to, if one of them murdered Senator Peveley.”

  The sheriff looked sourly at Jake. “I still can’t figure just where you fit into this, but by God I’m not going to rest till I find out!”

  Before Jake could think of an appropriate answer, a deputy announced that the bomb expert from Milwaukee had arrived, and the sheriff left. Jerry Luckstone sat frowning at the little designs he was making on the desk blotter.

  “It’s a bad spot to be on,” Jake said sympathetically.

  “Who was in the bank,” the young district attorney began slowly, “who was also on the second floor of the courthouse when the Senator was shot?” He sat thinking for a minute. “Miss McGowan, Phil Smith, Ed Skindingsrude, and myself.”

  “The bomb might have been planted in the bank by some other person,” Jake pointed out. “Or dropped in through the window, though that doesn’t seem very feasible. Or the bombing of the bank may not have had anything to do with the Senator’s murder.”

  “Or,” Jerry Luckstone said bitterly, “we’ve all gone insane and none of this really happened. Come on, I’ll walk back to the hotel with you.” He rose and started for the stairs.

  “What’s the idea of the big knife the sheriff has out for me?” Jake asked suddenly.

  Jerry Luckstone said, “He’d like nothing better than to have you turn out to be the guilty party. Then he wouldn’t have the possible political embarrassment of having to arrest somebody like Phil Smith, or Ed Skindingsrude.”

  “I’m sorry I can’t oblige him,” Jake said dryly.

  “He knows he can’t do anything about you,” the young man went on, “so he was taking out his cussedness by being as nasty as he could this morning.” He pushed open the big door of the courthouse and sniffed the air. “Feels like rain.”

  “I hope he doesn’t do it again,” Jake said, “or I’m very likely to forget myself and take out some of my own cussedness on him.”

  Their progress up Main Street was almost a parade. The crowd still lingered on the sidewalks, and everyone turned to stare after the two men as they walked by.

  “I bet I could rent advertising space on my back for a thousand bucks right now,” Jake said.

  “It’s the most excitement Jackson, Wisconsin, has had in a long time,” Jerry Luckstone reminded him almost apologetically. “I wish I could understand about Cora Belle. Do you mind my talking to you? It helps me think.”

  “Go ahead,” Jake told him, “what about Cora Belle?”

  “Her turning up this morning and claiming she was talking with me when the shot was fired, when she knew damn well she wasn’t, and she knew I knew it. She knows something about that murder. I
don’t think she did it herself, but I do think she knows something.”

  “The simple thing would be to ask her,” Jake said.

  “She’d lie about it,” the district attorney said gloomily. “If I could only take her out and get her full of gin, now, she’d tell me everything she knows. She’s talkative as all hell when she’s drinking.”

  “Well,” Jake said as helpfully as he could, “that one sounds great. Business and pleasure, two birds with one stone, means to an end, and so forth.”

  “I don’t dare, not right now. Everybody knows I’m engaged to Florence, and here her father has just been murdered. If anybody saw me out roadhousing with Cora Belle, it would be just too bad. Especially with the election coming on.”

  Jake sighed. “You and your damned election.” He felt a sudden pang of sympathy for the young man, who looked as completely miserable as it was possible for a man to look.

  Helene was waiting on the porch of the General Andrew Jackson House. “Thank God,” she called. “I thought you were probably stuck away in jail for the duration.” Her face was serene, but very pale.

  “Just a few questions,” Jake called back. Suddenly all his troubles seemed very small. True, he was detained in the town of Jackson, Wisconsin, but that was unimportant compared to the fix the district attorney was in. To him it wasn’t just a matter of a few days inconvenience, it was possibly a whole future. He looked sympathetically at Jerry Luckstone.

  “Listen,” he said on a sudden impulse, “that little problem we were just talking about. How about leaving it to me? I have a wonderful way with women.”

  Jerry Luckstone looked quickly at Helene and back at Jake again.

  “She won’t mind,” Jake said.

  Helene said, “Just what are you two whispering about.”

  “I’ll tell you later,” Jake told her. “How about it? Do you think she’d go out with me?”

  “Oh, sure,” Jerry Luckstone said.

  “O. K. then,” Jake declared. “I’ll do it tonight.”

  Almost immediately a feeling of great gloom settled on his mind. As well as he knew anything, he knew he was going to regret it.