This Game of Murder

by Deming, Richard

  The lawyer hiked his eyebrows. “As his law partner, I happen to know he took around seven thousand a year from the firm. That isn’t much as established lawyers’ incomes go, because he really didn’t work any harder than he had to. But it’s a considerable amount of pocket money. That’s beside the point, however. You retained everything you inherited in your own name? You hadn’t signed anything over to him or established joint bank accounts?”

  Betty shook her head. “Everything was in my own name.”

  “Hmm. New York has no community property law, and it wouldn’t apply here anyway, because only property increases subsequent to the marriage are involved in community property settlements. He couldn’t have had any legal claim against you if you had decided to divorce him. It could be a telling point if we show the jury that divorce would have caused you no financial disadvantage.”

  “I was going to divorce him,” she said.

  The lawyer gave her a sharp look.

  “You’re not supposed to conceal anything at all from your lawyer, are you?” she asked. “Bruce and I were through. We hadn’t been sleeping together for weeks. I don’t suppose the reasons are important now, but I had definitely made up my mind. To divorce him, not to kill him. As Kirk pointed out, there was no reason to kill him even if the thought had occurred to me.”

  Quillan said, “I suggest we keep your divorce plans between the three of us for the moment. They wouldn’t gain you any sympathy from the jury. I also suggest you refuse to make a statement of any sort to the police, except through me. Okay?”

  “I’ll do whatever you say, Henry.”

  The lawyer came to his feet. “Then let’s go out and get the ordeal over with. I’ll try to get you released on bail, but don’t count on it. If they plan to charge first-degree, you can’t be released on bail.”

  Chapter IX

  Outside, at the complaint desk, they discovered that District Attorney Arnold Ross had just arrived. The D.A. was a round, pleasant-looking man with a little button nose and the smooth, pink skin of a baby. He was talking to Chief Meister, but he looked up as the chief’s door opened and threw an affable smile to include all three of the people emerging from the office.

  “I’m sorry about all this, Betty,” he said with cordial regret. “But I have no choice but to take the proper action. How are you, Hank? Hello, Kirk.”

  The county had too little crime to require a full-time prosecutor, and district attorney was only a part-time job. Arnold Ross was also a practicing attorney and therefore made a point of being pleasant even to those charged with crimes. You could never tell when someone he had to prosecute might become a potential client.

  Quillan said, “What are your plans about this, Arn?”

  “What choice do I have in the face of the evidence?” Ross asked, giving Betty an apologetic look. “I have to charge premeditation.”

  “Oh, come on,” Qullan said. “Even if she was guilty — which she isn’t — you couldn’t expect to prove worse than manslaughter.”

  “You don’t really believe that, Hank. I think we have enough to prove first-degree.”

  The horse trading between opposing attorneys prior to trial had always fascinated Marshall. Quillan’s first maneuver obviously was to attempt to get as low a charge as possible for his client. If Betty’s liberty, and perhaps her life, hadn’t been at stake, he would have enjoyed the jockeying.

  Quillan said, “In that case I guess I’ll get a writ of habeas corpus and we’ll have a preliminary hearing in city court right now.”

  Marshall recognized this as an attempt to lever some kind of concession out of the district attorney. As a writ of habeas corpus required the police either to grant an immediate hearing or release the prisoner, its issuance would mean that Arnold Ross would have to go into court right away. And obviously he wasn’t ready.

  The district attorney looked pained. “You know the state crime lab hasn’t examined that rope yet.”

  “Tough,” Quillan said unfeelingly. “I guess you’ll have to go into court without all your evidence.” He turned to Betty. “Wait here. I’m going upstairs and have the city judge issue a writ.”

  “Now wait a minute, Hank,” the D.A. said. “Let’s not have a hassle about this. For cripe’s sake, you think I like prosecuting Betty? I’ve known her all her life. Let’s be reasonable.”

  “What do you suggest?” Quillan asked.

  “I don’t think she’ll run away. I’m willing to hold off placing any charge at all until we get the lab report on that rope. Providing, that is, if you’ll be responsible for her appearance at a preliminary hearing when and if one is set.”

  “I’ll go along with that,” Quillan agreed. “I accept the responsibility.”

  Ross looked relieved. “Then you’re free for the moment,” he said to Betty. “You won’t be able to leave the county without permission from my office, but otherwise you can go where you please.” He turned to the chief of police. “Just list the case as still under investigation, Barney, and you’ll be covered.”

  Marshall beagn to feel that Betty was in good hands. He knew Henry Quillan hadn’t had much criminal practice and that most of his business was in estates and contracts. But so far the man had performed as adroitly as any TV lawyer. It was something of a feat to get a murder suspect released from jail without even posting bond, even if it was only a temporary arrangement.

  He said to Betty, “I guess that’s that. I’ll drive you back home.”

  “I’d rather do that, if you don’t mind,” Quillan said. “I want to talk to her some more.”

  Marshall looked at Betty.

  “I guess I’d better do as my lawyer tells me,” she said. “Thanks for standing by, Kirk.”

  “Sure,” he said. “I’ll phone you later.”

  “I’ll be at the funeral parlor all afternoon and evening.”

  “Oh, yeah,” he said. “I forgot that. Maybe I’ll stop by there this evening to pay my respects.”

  That should be pleasant for her, he thought. By this evening it would be all over town that Betty was suspected of shooting her husband deliberately. Yet she would have to stand there, accepting the condolences of those who visited the funeral parlor, knowing that most of them were wondering if they were commiserating with a bereaved widow or a murderess.

  When Betty and Quillan had left, Marshall said to the district attorney, “Any statement for the press, Arn?”

  The plump attorney examined him contemplatively for a moment before saying, “I don’t know if I should discuss the case with a material witness, Kirk.”

  “Material witness?”

  “Uh-huh. You may be our motive for the shooting.”

  Marshall looked at him blankly. “What the devil are you talking about?”

  “The old love triangle. Haven’t you and Betty been getting kind of friendly again lately?”

  Marshall felt his face begin to redden. “If you’re trying to be obnoxious, you’re succeeding, Arn.”

  “Why’s everyone want to give me a hard time today?” Ross asked plaintively. “First Hank gets nasty, now you. You asked me a question and I answered it.”

  “I didn’t like the answer.”

  “Look, Kirk,” the D.A. said with an air of patience, “everybody in town knows of the run-in between you and Bruce Case at the country club only a few hours before he was shot. Did you think the town gossips would lose any time getting a thing like that on the telephone wires? He accused the two of you of carrying on behind his back; she flounced out and you threatened to knock Bruce off his stool. I get all the gossip.”

  “Then did you also hear that he apologized for making an ass of himself?” Marshall inquired heatedly. “He blew off because Betty and I played a few holes of golf together. Before Sunday afternoon I’d hardly spoken to her in ten years.”

  “Yeah, I know. At least in public. But all of a sudden you’re by her side like a knight defending a damsel in distress. I hear you stuck around her place half
the night after she shot Bruce, trying to cheer her up, and moved your mother in to stay with her the next day. Seems to show kind of a personal interest if she’s just a casual acquaintance.”

  Marshall was so angry he was speechless.

  “Look at it from my point of view,” Ross went on. “A man publicly accuses his wife of catting around, she takes off in a huff and that night she accidentally shoots him. Makes you wonder how accidental it was, even without all the evidence we have.”

  “You’re a blithering idiot,” Marshall said, and stalked out of headquarters.

  Without even discussing it with his father, Marshall decided to sit on the story of Betty’s arrest. Since there had as yet been no formal charge placed, he felt it wasn’t exactly suppressing news. Nevertheless his newspaper sense made him feel a little guilty, for he suspected he would have written the story if anyone but Betty had been involved.

  The hell with it, he decided. She was going to have a bad enough time getting through the funeral in the face of the rumors he was sure would begin to circulate. He wasn’t going to aggravate the situation by verifying the rumors in print. That hoary old adage about a newspaper’s responsibility to keep the public fully informed had as often been used as an excuse for sensationalism as it had in the public interest.

  The Runyon City News deadline was one thirty p.m. At three he was called into his father’s office.

  “I just talked to Barney Meister on the phone,” Jonas said. “He tells me that Betty was arrested at ten o’clock this morning. I didn’t see any story on it.”

  “No formal charges were placed. She was released pending further investigation.”

  “I know all the details from Barney. Including the fact that you observed the entire performance. You sat on the story.”

  “I suppose you could say that. Or that I decided it wasn’t newsworthy.”

  Up to now Jonas had spoken rather quietly. Now he inquired in a bellow which shook the room, “You’ve decided to take over the editorial duties of this newspaper, have you?”

  Marshall’s face reddened. “She’s over at the funeral parlor right now, accepting condolences. She’ll be there again tonight and at the funeral tomorrow. Did you want me to crucify her in front of the whole town?”

  Jonas slapped a palm on the desk. “That isn’t the point! I happen to be fond of the girl, too. The point is that I edit this paper and you’re just a reporter — a minor reporter at that. I decide which stories are printed and which aren’t. Not you.”

  Marshall leaned both hands on the desk. His face was now beet red. “Shall we put out a special edition, or will tomorrow’s run be soon enough? We can run the story of the funeral right next to it.”

  “Now you want to take over the duties of the make-up department, too,” Jonas growled.

  Marshall straightened up. “The story will be on your desk at nine in the morning.”

  “Never mind,” his father said in a suddenly calm voice. “We’ll hold it until there’s a formal charge.”

  Marshall stared at his father for a long time. Finally he asked coldly, “Is that all you wanted?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  As the reporter reached the door, Jonas said in an entirely pleasant tone, “By the way, your mother says we’re out of vermouth. Better pick up a bottle on the way home.”

  “Okay,” Marshall said with equal pleasantness.

  At five p.m. he went down the stairs just as Lydia came from behind her counter. She fell into step with him and they walked out together. They stood alongside his car.

  “Ride home?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “It’s only a block and I have to stop at the store. What was your father bawling you out about? One of the copy boys told me they could hear it clear in the city room.”

  He grinned sourly. “Betty Case was arrested this morning, then released. I sat on the story.”

  “I heard that. I thought perhaps it was just a rumor.”

  “I guess Dad wouldn’t have printed it anyway, but he resented the usurption of his editorial prerogative.”

  “Why’d they arrest her?” Lydia asked.

  “It turned out the rope on the roof was from her garage and the screen had been cut from inside.”

  Lydia’s eyes widened.

  “She’s only temporarily released,” Marshall said. “Henry Quillan guaranteed her appearance at a preliminary hearing. Arn Ross intends to charge her with first-degree murder.”

  She gazed at him for several moments. “She didn’t do it, did she?” she said finally.

  He looked surprised. “I don’t think so, but why did you jump to that conclusion? You hardly know her.”

  “If you think she’s innocent, I’m sure she is. I have faith in your judgment. You’re still rather fond of her, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” he admitted.

  She smiled with a touch of ruefulness. “Then I hope she beats the rap.”

  “You sound like a gun moll,” he said, suddenly grinning. “Where’d you pick up that expression?”

  “From television.”

  On sudden impulse he said, “I have to drop by the funeral parlor tonight, but I should get away by eight. Going to be home?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll drop by then. I feel the need to talk this thing over with somebody understanding.”

  “My shoulder is always available,” she said. “I’ll be expecting you.”

  Chapter X

  Marshall arrived at the funeral home at a quarter of eight. He was directed by a soft-voiced attendant to the room on the right.

  The casket was at one end of the room, banked by flowers, and there was a row of chairs along the wall opposite the archway by which Marshall had entered. Betty and Audrey Reed were seated in the two center chairs. There was no sign of George Reed. Marshall assumed he was at home supervising Bud.

  People were stopping to speak to Betty, then moving on to file past the casket. She sat with shoulders squared and her face expressionless, quietly thanking each person for coming as the line moved past her.

  She knew what they were thinking, he realized, and was infinitely proud of the brave manner in which she faced the ordeal.

  He waited until there was a momentary lull in visitors and the two women were alone. Then he went over.

  “How’s it going?” he asked.

  Betty gave him a wan smile. “Some are here honestly to pay their respects, I suppose. Others came for the same reason people visit side shows.”

  Audrey Reed said, “You can tell the ones who came out of morbid curiosity by the way they look at her. I stare right in their faces so they know they aren’t fooling me.”

  “It’s a small town,” he said. “Other people’s business is the main recreation. You’ll just have to bear it.”

  “Oh, I’ll get through it,” Betty said. “At least so far all they’ve heard is rumors. Henry says he thinks he can talk Arn Ross into holding off my arrest until after the funeral.”

  Mention of the district attorney brought a resurgence of the anger he had felt that morning. But there was no point in adding to Betty’s discomfort by relating what Arnold Ross had said.

  He told her to keep her head up, moved on past the casket and then back through the archway. He signed the visitors’ book on the way out.

  Lydia was fully dressed when she answered the door this time, if you could call a skirt and a sweater under which there was obviously no brassiere fully dressed. From previous experience he supposed she wore no panties either. When they had no plans for going out, she liked to be prepared for quick action just in case he happened to be in the mood.

  She was perceptive enough to sense the instant he walked in that he wasn’t in that sort of mood at this precise moment, however. She gave him a mere peck of greeting and remained standing when he seated himself on the sofa.

  “Drink?” she asked.

  “Maybe a beer. I don’t feel like any whisky.”

  Going into the kitchen
, she returned with two glasses and two opened bottles of beer. She set his on the cocktail table before him and seated herself in the chair directly opposite him. Both silently went through the ritual of pouring beer and sampling it.

  Then she asked, “How is she standing up?”

  “All right. She isn’t going to let it throw her.”

  “Was it pretty awful?”

  “Well, you know how the town is. It isn’t easy for her, but she’s facing them down. It’s going to get worse, but I didn’t tell her. I figured she had enough troubles.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Arn Ross is planning to use me as the motive for the shooting.”

  “You!”

  “I played golf with Betty last Sunday when you broke out date. Bruce was in the bar with Doc Derring when we got back. He made some snide remarks about her catting around with me; Betty walked out and I offered to knock Bruce off his stool. He ended up apologizing, but it was quite a scene and the bar was pretty well populated. It got back to Arn and he has it all figured out that Betty knocked off her husband to make herself free for me.”

  “Oh boy!” Lydia said. “The gossips will have a field day with that.”

  For a few moments they sipped their beer in silence. Presently he said, “Just what do you think of me, Lydia?”

  She cocked a quizzical eyebrow. “You ought to know by now, by the way I tumble into bed at your least hint.”

  He made a dismissing gesture. “Sex isn’t everything. We’ve never discussed what emotions, if any, we feel for each other, or where we’re going from here.”

  A waiting expression formed on her face. “You mean you want to talk about it?”

  “I want to clear the air. I don’t want to act like a heel and do things behind your back.”

  “Oh,” she said. “This sounds like the beginning of a gentle letdown.”

  “It isn’t anything of the sort. I’m just all mixed up. I thought we were close enough so that I could discuss it with you frankly.”

  “All right,” she said agreeably. “I’ll listen.”

  “You know I used to go with Betty years back, don’t you?”