The Judge Is Reversed

by Frances Lockridge

  Bill said, “Hm-mm.” He said, “Tell me about the place, Pam.”

  She told him—a showroom; behind it, cut off by curtains what was—probably—well, call it a stock room. Where the cats are kept. Beyond that, she thought, another room—probably an office.

  They waited.

  “I was only in the showroom,” she said. “But she came back very quickly with the cats, so I thought the next was where they kept them. And she and Mr. Ackerman—I’m sure it was Ackerman—apparently had been in still another room, and I supposed the office. Where she keeps her checkbook. Does it make any difference?”

  Bill considered. He said it probably didn’t. As a matter of fact—

  “As a matter of fact,” he said, “it could clear up—or maybe fog up—one point. The suit Ackerman was wearing—a dark gray flannel—had recently been cleaned. Smelled of cleaning fluid. But—there were cat hairs on it. Fore and aft. No cats in his place. No cat hairs on the furniture, except one or two which might have come from his clothing, rather than the other way around. If he visited this shop—there would have been cat hairs to be picked up?”

  “Wherever there are cats,” Pam said. “They do it all the time. Summer and winter. What kind of cat’s hairs?”

  “Siamese, the lab boys think.”

  They had assumed that Ackerman had got cat hairs on his clothing in Blanchard’s apartment, where it was to be assumed cat hairs abounded. Now, obviously, the assumption needed modification. He could have picked up cat hairs at the cat shop. Most probably, by sitting on a chair where a cat had sat.

  “As,” Bill said, “I ought to know.”

  “Not any more,” Pam said. She looked around the room. “Not any more,” she said again. There was, for a moment, nothing said. “All right,” Pam said herself. “I won’t let myself. You said, ‘fore and aft’?”

  “Back of coat,” Bill said. “Seat of trousers. And—front of trousers.”

  “Of course,” Pam said. “He sat on a chair a Siamese had been on and then—then put the cat on his lap and—”

  She stopped. Bill had narrowed his eyes, apparently in doubt. He did not actually shake his head, but shaking of the head was somehow implied.

  “It’s possible,” he said, in a tone which suggested the absence of the word “barely.” “Or, he may have brushed against something, I suppose. The point is—he didn’t like cats. Tried to kick one of Blanchard’s.”

  “Why the—” Pam said, and stopped. “Missed, I hope?” Jerry said, “The cat take appropriate counter measures?”

  “Dodged,” Bill said. “Hissed. Probably would have swished if he’d had anything to swish.”

  “Oh,” Pam said, “a Manx. I do think cats ought to have tails, but I suppose it’s their own business. You mean, he wouldn’t have taken a cat on his lap. Some people are very strange. How, then? Because it’s very difficult to sit on your own lap. I mean—”

  She had, Jerry told her, put it very well.

  “Bill,” Jerry said, “what you really think was he was murdered. Strangled—strung up when he was unconscious. By the person who—who heard me coming, went up another flight out of sight until I’d gone into the apartment, went back down again after the coast was—damn.”

  There was no use going on worrying about that—about a thing which was no more than a possibility.

  “Which sure needs explaining,” Jerry said, still morose, self-blaming.

  “To do that,” Pam said, and spoke slowly—“to strangle him, and hold the body up and—hang it up—a person would have to be strong, wouldn’t he?”

  “Right,” Bill said. “At any rate, reasonably strong. But, actually, Ackerman weighed very little. And once the cord was over the pipe—well, it’s easier to pull down than to lift.”

  Pam nodded, to show her comprehension of the mechanics of the matter.

  “But still,” she said, “have to hold him up—move him around—come in contact with him?”

  “Right,” Bill said. “And if the murderer had cat hairs on his clothes, some of them would come off on the victim’s clothes—Ackerman’s clothes. His suit had texture, would pick up hairs.”

  “And,” Pam said, and spoke even more slowly, “all at once Miss Somers closes up shop and—Bill! She’s one of the heirs of this Somers this lawyer told you about and somehow—” She stopped. “Only,” she said, “how? And why, for that matter?”

  And Bill Weigand, this time, did shake his head.

  “We’ve got a much better one,” he said. “Graham Latham. A man who needs money. And who now, through his daughter, gets money. And—I haven’t told you this—spent part of Saturday night at Blanchard’s apartment, playing bridge. And—Blanchard’s apartment is an ideal place to pick up cat hairs, including the Siamese. I did myself, and Mullins did and—”

  The telephone rang. “The North answering service,” Jerry said, and went to answer. He said, “O.K., sergeant,” and Weigand went to the telephone. He said, “Right, Mullins,” and for some seconds listened in silence. Then he said, “Right, morning will do,” and added that he’d be in his own apartment in half an hour or so, and that Mullins might, also, go and get some sleep. He hung up the receiver.

  His face was not tired any longer. His face was satisfied.

  “Latham called in,” he said. “We’d asked him to come to town to fill in a few gaps, give a few more details. Called to say he’d be glad to, but would tomorrow do? Because—because it seems Mr. Latham has sprained his back and driving is rather uncomfortable with a sprained back, and there aren’t any more trains tonight. Sprained it lifting something, he says.”

  “Lifting?” Which was Pam, getting it straight as straight.

  “Right,” Bill said. “Lifting. It’s the usual way.”

  “Back instead of knees,” Jerry said, in a voice of experience. “Lifting what?”

  “Mr. Latham,” Bill said, “thinks it must have been a chair. Says the pain came on slowly, and he did lift a chair this morning and—he can’t think of anything else he did lift.”

  He smiled, rather contentedly.

  “Perhaps,” he said, “we’ll be able to jog his memory.”

  14

  “Take nothing for granted—investigate and be convinced,” reads the Manual of Procedure of the Police Department of the City of New York. Bill Weigand reminded himself of that at his desk Tuesday morning. Get minor things cleared away, while waiting for the arrival from Southampton of the major “thing”—Mr. Graham Latham; while waiting to be told, in more detail, how Mr. Latham had sprained his back, if not by hanging up a man; while waiting to ask Mr. Latham whether he had not, while at Blanchard’s apartment Saturday night, got cat hairs on his clothes; to ask, further, if to Saturday night they could not add Sunday morning?

  It would be pleasant if Mr. Latham, confronted by what they had, would dissolve into confession. Mullins, who had seen him, thought this unlikely, and Bill Weigand places considerable reliance on Sergeant Mullins. Pleasant—but, then, improbable. Hence, the slow business of filling in was going on elsewhere; the slow, careful business of asking people who had no part in any of this whether they had seen any part of it. If they could find somebody who had seen a man answering Latham’s description going into the apartment house on Riverside Drive, or coming out of it, that would be fine. If somebody had noticed a man who looked like Latham in or near the converted dwelling in which Floyd Ackerman had died, that would be equally fine. Either one would be enough.

  It would be better, obviously, if Latham could be placed at the scene of Blanchard’s murder. Broken on that, Latham might be willing to tell them why he had killed Floyd Ackerman. Merely to supply the police with an alternative murderer, and one who could not talk, could not deny? Bill rather doubted it. It would imply, for one thing, that Latham knew enough about Ackerman to know his feeling toward Blanchard. There was no reason to think he had, no way to prove—

  Bill checked himself. Blanchard might himself, at some pause in the bridge game,
have mentioned Ackerman and his Committee Against Cruelty; might have given Latham enough to go on. Another thing to ask Latham, when he came.

  More likely, Bill thought, half his mind on the papers he was glancing through, Ackerman had been the somebody they now sought—the somebody who could place Graham Latham at the Blanchard apartment. It might be that Latham was the person Ackerman had seen getting out of the elevator. Bill thought he had seen somebody, and had lied about it for reasons of his own—the most likely being a chance of future profit. (To be spent, quite possibly, to further the campaign against animal research, the end justifying the means.)

  Implicit in that assumption—that suspicion—was the further assumption that Ackerman had known Latham by sight and had known, further, that there was a relationship between Latham and Blanchard. Otherwise, obviously, a man leaving an elevator in a large apartment house would have been anybody—nobody—to Floyd Ackerman, and not worth a second glance. Another thing to ask Latham—would Ackerman have known him by sight? (Not that, under the circumstances, a very revealing answer was to be expected.)

  Waiting, Bill Weigand continued to look at papers selected from the filing case of the late John Blanchard. “Anything that might conceivably have bearing,” had been the instructions. The two men working in the apartment had allowed a good deal of latitude. Most of the documents—letters, receipted bills, bank statements—Bill skimmed provided only general information about John Blanchard. The chief information provided was that Blanchard had had at least as much money as he had thought he had, and that a large part of it was in stocks. (And fifty thousand plus in a checking account, presumably available for incidentals.)

  No threatening letters; no demands for immediate payments or else; nothing to indicate, offhand, that John Blanchard had not led a most uneventful and circumspect life until somebody had hit him over the head with something. (Tennis racket? Cat-scratching post? Something else not yet guessed at?)

  A few papers which seemed to be connected with the Somers estate of which Blanchard had been administrator. Copies of a final audit, finished some two months before; the originals presumably in the surrogate’s files. Another healthy estate, apparently—almost as healthy as Blanchard’s own. Receipts for certain court-authorized expenditures. A carbon of a letter to Miss Madeline Somers, of—Madison Avenue, stating that distribution of the estate might be expected to commence early in the following year. A letter reading: “In response to your letter of the fifteenth, this will authorize you to expend the sum of twelve hundred dollars ($1,200) for a marker for the grave of Cousin Alex” and signed “Madeline Somers.”

  This was dated from—Madison Avenue on August 30 of that year. Indicating, Bill thought, that Miss Somers had then been accepted as, at the least, one of the heirs of the late Alex Somers—“Cousin” Alex Somers. The letter had been twice folded, to fit envelopes of differing sizes. So what? And—

  The telephone rang. “Right,” Bill said. “Bring him in, sergeant.”

  Bill pushed the few remaining papers to the back of his desk and put a weight on them. Mullins brought in Graham Latham, who wore a dark gray suit and a worried expression. He also walked stiffly and, when he accepted the invitation, sat down stiffly. He also said, “Ouch.”

  “Nasty things, back sprains,” Bill said. “How’d you do it, Mr. Latham?”

  Latham started to shrug his shoulders, winced, and gave that up. He said that the only thing he could think of was that he had moved a chair the previous morning—a not especially heavy chair. He hadn’t noticed anything for some hours, but that happened often enough. The chair was the only thing he could think of. Bill made a suitable tck-ing sound. He said, “Mr. Latham, did you know a man named Floyd Ackerman?”

  Latham repeated the name, as one repeats a name heard for the first time. Then he said, “No.” Then he said, “Captain. Can you tell me anything about my daughter? About Hilda?”

  “About her?” Bill said. “What do you mean, Mr. Latham?”

  The compact tanned man looked at Weigand for some seconds before he answered. Then he said, “She’s not here, then? Or—somewhere else? What I mean is—she’s not under arrest?”

  “No.”

  “Or—detained for questioning, eh? You know what I mean, captain. Any way you want to put it.”

  “I know what you mean, obviously,” Bill said. “No. You mean, you don’t know where she is?”

  “That’s it,” Latham said. “Went to these people for tennis. The Bensons. Had a drink or two afterward, and changed, and said she had a dinner date and drove off in that bug of hers. And—didn’t come home last night. Didn’t call up. Not like her, captain. Her mother’s no end worried.” He paused. “I am myself,” he said, and looked it. “Not like the girl. Not like her at all.”

  It seemed a side issue. But, at a guess, Latham’s anxiety was authentic. (At a guess. Without committing the mind to anything.) If so, a block for the moment in Latham’s mind. Clear away the side issues, so far as that was possible. At least, display a sympathetic interest. Bill displayed one.

  The Lathams had discovered their daughter’s absence when she failed to appear for breakfast. “Don’t keep her on a lead, y’know,” Latham said. “Comes and goes as she likes. Responsible sort of kid.” Mrs. Latham had gone to her daughter’s room; found that her daughter’s bed had not been slept in. She had called the Bensons, and discovered when Hilda had left and that she had left alone, mentioning the dinner engagement. Latham had telephoned the inn at Forest Hills, seeking Doug Mears—and had learned that Mears had checked out the night before.

  “The hell he had,” Weigand said. “He was supposed—” He did not finish. Others had also been “supposed,” including the local police to make periodic checks. “Go ahead,” Bill said. “Then?”

  Then they had called the State police, and discovered that, while there had been the usual number of motor accidents the night before, there had been none which resulted in death or serious injury, and none involving Hilda Latham, by name or by description.

  “So I thought, ‘By God, they’ve picked her up,’” Latham said. “And caught the next train in. And—you say it wasn’t you?”

  “No,” Bill said. “You want to report her missing, Mr. Latham? Officially? To the Bureau? By the way, she’s of age?”

  “Yes. Just. I—she’d be sore as hell if she’d just—oh, decided to drive into town. Spend the night, eh? And we report her missing and the papers—” He stopped, seemed to consider. “Hold it up a bit, eh?” he said.

  “Right,” Bill said. “I would, I think. Now—”

  “What’s this about some chap named Ackerman?” Graham Latham said. “Eh?”

  “The late Ackerman,” Bill said. “Hanged himself yesterday afternoon. Or—You say you never knew him?”

  “Never.”

  “Or heard of him? Blanchard didn’t mention him?”

  “Blanchard? No.” He partly closed his eyes. “No,” he repeated. “I’m sure he didn’t. Blanchard knew him?”

  “At least by reputation,” Bill said. “Knew of him. Wrote a letter—you don’t read the Times, Mr. Latham?”

  “Sure I read the Times. What about the Times?”

  “A letter,” Bill said. “Printed Sunday. Written by Mr. Blanchard. Attacking an advertisement run by a group Ackerman headed—an antivivisection group. Annoyed Ackerman.”

  “No,” Latham said. “What’s this got to do with me, captain?”

  He was not belligerent in tone.

  “Mr. Latham,” Bill said, “when you were at Blanchard’s apartment Saturday night. Playing bridge. Did you get cat hair on your clothes?”

  Latham opened his eyes widely; his full lips parted. He said. “Now what the hell?” He blinked his eyes. He said, “I sure as hell did. Always did. Everybody did.”

  “Right,” Bill said. “You like cats, Mr. Latham?”

  “What the—” Latham said. And shrugged and winced. He’d sprained his back, all right, whatever else he had
done. “As a matter of fact,” he said. “I do. Did you bring me in here from Southampton to find out if I like cats? O.K., I like cats.”

  “Is that the suit you wore Saturday night? At Blanchard’s?”

  “Yes.” And Latham looked down at the suit. His right forefinger and thumb snapped at his trouser leg. “You never get them all,” he said. “And that Amantha cat, especially. Siamese cat. Friendly little tike. Sheds all the time. Thought I’d got them all.”

  “When? I mean, when did you brush your suit? Think you got all the hair off?”

  “Sunday morning. Listen—what is this all about?”

  “You’re sure you brushed your clothes Sunday morning?” Bill said. “Not, say—last night? Or the first thing this morning? Or—”

  “Listen,” Latham said. “What’s the use of asking me questions if you don’t believe the answers? Eh? I told you Sunday. How many times?”

  “All right,” Bill said. “This is what it’s about, Mr. Latham. Perhaps Ackerman hanged himself. Say, because he was the one who killed Blanchard. But perhaps somebody strung him up to make it look that way. Strung him up because he knew something—maybe had seen somebody in the wrong place.”

  “So,” Latham said. “That’s where I come in? My daughter inherits a lot of money. You know by now we can use some money. Where else do I come in? And, for God’s sake, where do cats come in?”

  “There was cat hair on Ackerman’s clothing,” Bill said. “Siamese cat hair. His body could not have been handled without considerable physical contact. His suit was rough textured. A rougher texture than, for example, the one you’re wearing. Cat hairs might rub off a suit like yours, Mr. Latham. Adhere to a suit like his. If you—”

  “So,” Latham said. “So that’s it.”

  “Right. That’s it.”

  “I didn’t know this Ackerman,” Latham said. “He wouldn’t have known me. Wherever he’d seen me. And, he couldn’t have seen me Sunday morning at Blanchard’s place because I wasn’t there. So, I didn’t hang him. Or strangle him or whatever, eh? Does that cover it?”