Trial by Fury

by Craig Rice

  Malone was silent. It would be so easy, now. All he had to do was say now, “Yes, she did. Yes, that’s the way it was,” and the worry and terror would be over. The words formed on his lips.

  But there was that air of quiet pride in the little old parlor, there were those names he’d read only that evening, Ailanthus McGowan, b. Vermont, 1817, who was killed at Antietam; Watchful McGowan, and Lucius McGowan. Ellen McGowan had lived six years with her father’s body buried beneath the cellar floor and had embezzled thousands of dollars to save his name and her pride. His fingers tightened on the smooth walnut back of an old chair that must have been brought out from Vermont long before the Civil War.

  “No,” he said in a curiously flat voice. “No, she didn’t murder anybody.”

  “But,” the sheriff said stupidly. “Then who did?”

  “I don’t know,” Malone said. “I almost know, but I don’t quite.”

  There was a Bacchanalian howl from the street as a car screamed around the corner on two wheels. Malone lifted the window curtain and looked out.

  “Citizens’ Committee stuff,” Deputy Ryan said. “All the hard-drinking young punks in town have joined up and they’re searching houses, and burning down back fences, and raising hell generally.”

  He paused and looked anxiously at the sheriff. “Also they’re putting up posters demanding you resign.”

  “Well, damn it,” Marvin Kling said testily, “I’m doing all I can.”

  “They’re saying Cora Belle was raped,” the deputy said. “They say they’re going to—” He remembered a lady’s presence in the room and stopped with a sudden gulp.

  “She wasn’t raped,” the sheriff said. “Doc Spain would of said so. She was just murdered. And I’m doing everything I can to find the murderer.” His voice was wild. “You go put up posters telling ’em I’m doing everything I can. Election’s coming in three months.” He looked at Malone with desperate red-rimmed eyes. “For the love of God, mister, if you know who it is—”

  “I don’t,” Malone said. “But maybe if you’ll just stop heckling me for a while, I will.”

  Helene’s voice broke in suddenly. It had a strange, high-pitched note, though her face was rigidly calm.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “Who the hell cares who murdered all these people? Where’s Jake? Forget all this stuff and think about that for a while. Where’s Jake?”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  “I am not overwrought,” Helene said firmly, “and stop treating me like a mentally deficient child.”

  Malone sighed. “Helene, everything that can be done is being done. You’ve just got to be calm.”

  “I’m perfectly calm,” she said.

  That was the trouble, Malone thought, she was. A little hysteria would almost be a relief.

  She had been all right during the early evening, when there were things to distract her. “I’m on the verge of finding out who murdered Senator Peveley and—” he began.

  “I don’t give a damn who murdered Senator Peveley. He was probably a nasty old man who went around pinching girls in streetcars and elevators. Why the hell do you care who murdered him?”

  “Because the Citizens’ Committee offered a reward of a thousand bucks,” Malone said in a nasty voice.

  If he could find out who murdered Senator Peveley, he could find Jake, or find out what happened to him. That was the link. Or maybe it worked the other way.

  He looked around the desolate hotel room. It was hardly a place to spend a long night of waiting. But there was nothing else for her to do. There was nothing else for him to do but go back to his even more desolate room and try to find a cool place on the pillow, and try to remember the one thing that would tell him the name he wanted to know.

  But Helene—

  He looked at her thoughtfully. “If I promise to go out and find Jake, will you do something for me?”

  “Something? Anything!”

  “Then make yourself all comfortable and tuck yourself in bed, and I’ll go down to the bar and bring you up a nice nightcap, and you go to sleep like a good girl. And when you wake up in the morning—” He paused.

  “I suppose Santa Claus will be coming down the chimney,” she said bitterly.

  “Shut your mouth,” he said. “Jake will be here, and I’ll have lost another night’s sleep.”

  A wan smile formed on her face. “I don’t know why I should trust you like this, but I do. Go get my nightcap, and make it a good one.”

  “A good one,” Malone thought, as he pattered down the stairs, was going to be an inadequate name for this nightcap.

  For the first time since his arrival in Jackson, the bar of the General Andrew Jackson House was almost empty. All the newspapermen were out, trying to keep up with the Citizen’s Committee. The few lucky ones who had stayed behind were now over at the jail, getting Sheriff Kling’s statement about the discoveries of the evening.

  Malone stepped up to the bar and spoke confidentially to the bartender. “I want you to mix me a very special drink.” As the bartender reached for a glass, he began naming ingredients.

  Halfway through, the bartender stopped him “You’re not going to drink this yourself, are you?”

  “No,” Malone said crossly, “I’m taking it to a friend. Go on now, a jigger of Carioca Rum, and a—”

  The bartender was a visibly shaken man when Malone marched away from the bar, carrying a tall glass in his hand. He wished he’d written down the recipe. Not that he had any enemies in the world, but he’d have liked one sip, to find out how it tasted.

  The little lawyer paused at the door, his face knitted into a terrific scowl. This concoction, for all he knew, might lay Helene out for a couple of days. He hoped it wouldn’t take that long to find Jake, but it might.

  He knocked timidly on the door.

  “Just a minute,” Helene called. A moment later he heard the key turn. “One more minute.” A pause, with a very faint, indistinct rustling. “All right, come in.”

  He opened the door slowly, balancing the glass in his hand. Helene was already tucked in bed, her favorite paleblue personal coverlet—he’d seen her pack and unpack it half a dozen times—drawn up to her chin. There were two wisps of gray chiffon outside it; he looked at them again and saw that her slender, white arms were inside them. Her hair shone on the pillow like a reflected light.

  Malone stood there a moment, then walked across the room and handed the glass to her. He had never realized that her face was so childlike, so exquisite before. Angelic, that was the word.

  She tasted the drink, and gasped. “What the hell did you put in this, Malone?”

  “Don’t you like it?” he asked anxiously.

  “Like it? It’s wonderful.” She took a long, deep swallow.

  “I thought it up myself,” he said proudly.

  He lit a cigarette for her, and while she finished the drink he wandered restlessly around the room, deep in thought. For a few minutes he gazed out the window, over the town. Somewhere out there he would find Jake. He had to find Jake now. He couldn’t come to Helene in the morning, when she woke up, and say that Jake was still missing.

  “Drink’s all gone,” the clear voice behind him said.

  He turned around. Helene looked like a sleepy, wistful child, her head propped up on the pillows.

  “How do you feel now?”

  “Fine.” She smiled faintly.

  Her eyelids were drooping a little. He stood looking at her for a while, until he could see that she was half asleep.

  “Don’t worry about anything,” he whispered. “Just go to sleep and don’t worry. I’ll find him.”

  He tiptoed to the door, paused for one more look at her, turned out the light, and slipped quietly out into the hall. He paused there outside the door, leaning against the wall, breathing hard. Helene was going to sleep, expecting that Jake would be there when she woke up. He had to be, that was all.

  Did the Citizens’ Committee know yet about t
he evening’s discoveries? Not that it would make any difference to them now. They were out to find Jake, and to hang him to a tree for the murder of Cora Belle Fromm. Then the sheriff would save his face, and the election, by announcing that Jake had committed the other two crimes. That was the planned routine. Now all he had to do was find Jake before the inflamed members of the Citizens’ Committee did. That was all.

  Had Jake left the hotel of his own volition, was he hiding out somewhere, unable to send a message? Or had he been carried away, and if so, by whom, and why?

  The little lawyer decided that he could think better down in the bar. It was now entirely empty save for the bartender. He climbed up on one of the stools and buried his face in his hands.

  “Same thing for you?” the bartender asked hopefully, wiping a glass.

  “Lord, no.” Malone said.

  He ordered a double gin and was sipping it disconsolately when the street door opened and Buttonholes came in. The gnomelike janitor joined him at the bar and began speaking in confidential tones.

  “I’ve been looking all over for you.” He glanced around as though to make sure no one was listening. “Look. I’ve got a bloodhound.”

  “Who cares,” Malone said crossly. “I knew a fellow once who had a Saint Bernard. It was a lot more use when he needed a drink. What will you have?”

  “Thanks,” Buttonholes said. “Dollar Gin,” he told the bartender. After a moment he tugged at Malone’s sleeve. “Listen. This is serious. You want to find your friend, don’t you?”

  Malone turned and glared at him silently.

  “So,” Buttonholes said, “I’ve been looking for you to tell you you could have my dog, for nothing. The Citizens’ Committee wanted to take him, but I said nothing doing. You can have him, though. He’s half great Dane, but he’s a damned good bloodhound, Hercules is.”

  “Hercules?” Malone repeated in a fascinated tone.

  “That’s his name,” Buttonholes said. “And he can find Mr. Justus if anyone can.”

  “I haven’t any doubt of it,” Malone said. He wished Buttonholes would go away and leave him to suffer in solitude. With a little effort he managed to adopt an expression of great interest and went on thinking his own thoughts. Buttonholes’ voice broke in at intervals.

  Jake must have had a terrible hangover. He could have wandered away without knowing what he was doing. Perhaps he’d only gone down the hall to the bathroom, opened the door leading to the back staircase by mistake, and just kept right on going.

  “Never forget the time Herb Flannery’s little girl was lost over in Duncan’s Woods,” Buttonholes was saying. “Hercules led us right to the—”

  Or perhaps someone had lured Jake away. But with what? Jake was a hard man to lure. Who could have done it, and who would have wanted to, and for what motive?

  “—got a feeling Hercules could lead you right to the place where he is—”

  Could the murderer of Cora Belle have believed Jake had been lurking about in the bushes, or possibly under the bed, or in any other imaginable place where the witness to a murder might lurk?

  “—can’t help remembering what my grandmother always used to say—”

  Or could there possibly be a homicidal maniac loose in Jackson, Wisconsin? It hadn’t seemed altogether unlikely on a few occasions.

  “—keep having this same funny feeling about what’s going to happen next—”

  Buttonholes’ premonitions had an uncanny accuracy about them. Could his belief that Hercules could find Jake be correct? How did one operate a bloodhound, anyway?

  A car went around the corner of Main and Third Streets on two wheels, its horn going full blast. The Citizens’ Committee again.

  Malone wheeled around on his bar stool. “Where is this Hercules?”

  Buttonholes grinned widely. “I got him tied up outside in my car.”

  “Bring him in,” Malone said. It was a forlorn hope, but it was the only hope he had.

  “Hercules is a good dog,” the bartender volunteered, pouring a drink; the first one anybody had seen him buy since the newspapers had invaded Jackson, Wisconsin.

  The door opened again to the accompaniment of heavy footfalls. Malone turned around.

  Hercules was not only a good dog, he was a large dog. In build and coloring he appeared to be all bloodhound, otherwise he might easily have been mistaken for a small pony. The lawyer stared at him.

  “He’s big, isn’t he?” he said at last.

  Buttonholes beamed. “That’s the great Dane in him.”

  Hercules padded across the floor gingerly, as though it was red hot, sat down near the bar, and pounded his tail on the floor with a noise like a bass drum.

  “His feet hurt,” Buttonholes said, half apologetically. “But that don’t keep him from being a good bloodhound.” His voice became suddenly affectionate. “Make friends with the gentleman, Hercules.”

  Hercules licked Malone’s hand with a rough, wet tongue and looked up at him with great eyes that appeared to be full of tears. Malone patted his head very hesitantly and murmured something that sounded like “Nice doggie.”

  “Now all you got to do,” Buttonholes went on, “is give him something to smell that smells like Mr. Justus, and start him out at the last place you know Mr. Justus was at. Just leave the rest to Hercules.”

  The big dog corroborated this with a high-pitched whine.

  “That—” Malone stopped suddenly. He’d started to say, “That ought to be easy.” But all Jake’s personal belongings were in that room upstairs, and Helene had just settled down to a badly needed night’s sleep. “I don’t know what I can give him to smell.” He explained the situation to Buttonholes.

  For a few anxious moments the lawyer, Buttonholes, and the bartender discussed what to do. At last it was Malone who had the idea.

  “Jake had been drinking some particular brand of gin last night,” he suggested. “He must have reeked of it when he left the hotel. Do you think that would appeal to Hercules?”

  “It’s the very thing,” Buttonholes declared, his face lighting up. “What brand was it?”

  “Dollar Gin,” Malone said.

  The bartender reached for the bottle, unscrewed the cap, and handed it to Malone, who held it under the big bloodhound’s nose.

  Hercules sniffed, accomplished a backward leap of about six feet, sat down again, and gave a reproachful howl.

  “Well,” the bartender said, looking at him, “even a bloodhound has to draw the line somewhere.”

  “That’s all right,” Buttonholes said cheerfully. “He may not like it, but he’ll remember it. Just the same,” he added to Malone, “you’d better carry a bottle of it with you, to let him sniff now and then.”

  Malone nodded unhappily. “Give me a bottle of it,” he told the bartender. After a moment’s reflection he added, “You’d better make it a quart. Hercules and I may have a long way to go.” He turned to Buttonholes. “You’re coming along, of course.”

  Buttonholes shook his head. “I can’t. I’m supposed to be up at the courthouse right now, cleaning it up. I don’t want to lose my job.”

  “You mean,” Malone said, “you mean I’m going to go out alone with that—” he started to say “monster,” finally said “dog.” He had an uncomfortable feeling that his voice had squeaked. He had an even more uncomfortable feeling when the bartender said, “Do you mean a big man like you is afraid of a little dog like that?”

  “Of course not,” Malone said in a voice approaching falsetto. He and Hercules looked at each other for a while. “No, of course not,” he repeated.

  He felt in his pocket for his wallet to pay for the gin, ran into a folded document, and suddenly remembered the appointment he’d had.

  “On your way back to the courthouse, could you run an errand for me?”

  “Sure,” Buttonholes said agreeably.

  “Wait a minute,” Malone said. He disappeared into the men’s room. Five minutes later he returned, an envelope in
his hand. “Will you give this to Henry Peveley, at the Hermitage Tavern, and tell him it’s from me?”

  Buttonholes grinned. “Knock three times on the door and say you’re a friend of Henry’s.”

  He reached for the envelope and put it in his pocket without discovering it contained nothing but ashes.

  “And now,” Malone said, looking hopefully at Hercules. Buttonholes said, “Just lead him to near where your friend disappeared at, and leave the rest to Hercules.” He added as though by way of encouragement, “Don’t worry. He knows what to do.”

  Malone hoped so. He tucked the quart of gin under his arm, bought another drink for Buttonholes, and promised to return Hercules unharmed (“Just turn him loose and he’ll come home,” Buttonholes had said. “He’s just like a pigeon that way.”), picked up the leash, and led his new companion around the corner to where the back stairs of the General Andrew Jackson House opened into the alley.

  Hercules sat down, looked up at him, and wagged his tail hopefully.

  “Well,” Malone said after a moment. “Well, commence.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  “It’s a lovely night,” Malone agreed, “it’s a beautiful moon.”

  Hercules moaned again. The little lawyer had found it was possible to carry on a highly intelligent conversation with the big bloodhound. Whatever he said, Hercules answered. After a moment or so of anxiety back in the alley, the expedition had gotten underway. At first Hercules had just sat there looking at him, with what Malone considered a silly grin on his face. Malone had finally decided to fortify himself with a taste—no more than a taste, mind you, he told himself—of Dollar Gin. He’d held the bottle out to Hercules in the same manner he’d have offered a drink to a compatriot. The big dog had coughed, uttered another protest, suddenly begun sniffing excitedly at the air and the ground, and at last trotted off down the alley, pulling Malone after him.

  They were now halfway across the Third Street bridge.

  “Good old bloodhound,” Malone said. “Good old Hercules.”

  He felt an upstirring of renewed hope, and a sudden charging of excitement through his nerves. Everybody knew that bloodhounds could track down missing persons in ways that were positively uncanny. Look at the stories about the Georgia chain gangs. And Eliza crossing the ice. “Good old Hercules,” he repeated.