by Day Keene
“Of course.”
“Did Mrs. Latour and you get along all right? I mean physically?”
It was a delicate question, but under the circumstances pertinent. “Physically, yes,” Latour said. “When I went out to Lacosta’s trailer, I couldn’t have taken Rita if she’d begged me.”
Belluche was pleased. “Good. If I were you I’d have Jean stress that at your trial, even put your wife on the stand if he has to. She’s a very attractive girl and should make a good impression on a jury.” He added, “And by the way, I had a phone call from Jean just before I came in here. He said he may be delayed but he’ll get here as soon as he can to go over the case with you.”
“I’ll be here,” Latour said grimly.
“But why I’m really here, Andy …”
“Yes?”
“You know French Bayou. And there’s a lot of talk going on in the bars and on the street. Talk that I don’t like. Talk about ropes and tall trees. And how the old families in this section get away with murder.”
“I see.”
“More, someone is stirring the boys up. A lot of free whisky is going over the wood. And since Mrs. Lacosta was beaten and abused in the same way those other girls were, there’s talk that you’re the man who raped all four girls.”
“So?”
“So Tom and I talked it over after court this morning. This cracker box isn’t much of a protection. A determined man could kick his foot through it. So if you’ll feel easier in your mind, we’ll move you over to the new jail at the parish seat.”
Latour thought it over. What the sheriff said about the jail was true. It might keep a man in but it wouldn’t keep a mob out. Still, all things considered, he preferred to remain in French Bayou, if only to be near Olga and his attorney.
“Thanks a lot, Sheriff, but if you don’t mind, I’ll take my chances here.”
Belluche stood up and tightened his gun belt a notch. “I misdoubt if anything will happen. But I wanted the decision to be yours. If the boys get drunk enough they may get nasty and mill around and shoot off their mouths. However, while a lot of men can say a lot of things about me, no one can say I ever lost a prisoner. Believe me, Andy. One thing is for sure. I ain’t no saint. I’ve got a lot of black marks on my record. But if any mob tries to take you out of here, it will be over my dead body.”
Latour looked at the set of the old man’s jaw. Whatever else he was, Belluche was a man. “I believe you. Just one other thing, Sheriff.”
Belluche turned in the doorway of the cell. “What?”
“Those two attempts on my life. The lad who had those two tries at me is probably the same one who killed Lacosta and did what he did to Rita.”
Belluche said, “We’ve already figured that. As soon as it was light Tom checked that patch of cane you mentioned and he says you’re dead right about someone waiting for you to come along. Now that we’ve stopped being scared about what’s likely to happen to us, now that we’ve started to use our heads, we figure Jacques saw the guy and recognized him and he went out there last night to shut the old man’s mouth. What happened was an afterthought. They tell me some guys are like that. You know, killing or being cruel to someone excites them unnaturally. What’s the word for a guy like that?”
“A sadist.”
“Yeah. That’s the word.”
Belluche locked the door of the cell and returned to his office.
Latour felt a lot better. As big a drunk and lecher and as sticky-palmed as he was, the old man was smart. Time was when he’d been a good sheriff. Latour was glad to have him on his side.
Besides, the old man meant just what he said. If the worst thing that could happen did happen, if a lynch mob should try to take him out of the jail, it would be over Sheriff Belluche’s dead body.
Chapter Fourteen
THE MORNING was endless.
Deputies came and left as they went about their business, but they all seemed afraid to talk. At twelve-fifteen Mullen came down the corridor.
“Your wife to see you, Andy. With another big basket of food. How come? Don’t they feed prisoners in China or Malaya or wherever you met her?”
“Just about enough to keep them alive.”
“That’s a racket we didn’t think of. How you doing?”
The question was beginning to irritate Latour. “Fine,” he said. “I just came in from the ten-fathom banks and the red fish are biting like mad. I must have boated two dozen before a twenty-pounder tore up my light tackle.”
Mullen pushed his hat back on his head and leaned against the bars. “Still the wise guy, aren’t you? Well, stop fishing and beach your boat. You’re not going to like what I have to tell you.”
Latour gripped the bars of his cell. “What have I done now?”
“Nothing new. The old man told you I went out to the clearing the first thing this morning?”
“He did.”
“Well, some of your story stands up. Some doesn’t. I found the mashed-down patch of cane right where you said it was. And the guy who waited there to try to kill you when you drove with Lant Turner, if there was such a guy, wears a nine and a half shoe. The same size you wear.”
“Proving?”
“He could be about your size. You could be lying.”
“Just which side are you on?”
Mullen admitted, “I blow hot, then cold. One minute I think you’ve been framed. The next I’m not certain. For one thing, there’s the matter of fingerprints.”
“What about them?”
“Jack and I spent all morning going over the trailer inch by inch. And we only found three sets of prints. Yours, the girl’s, and Lacosta’s.”
“I’ve admitted I was in the trailer. Earlier, that is. When I drove them home.”
“Yeah, I know. You and the red-haired babe had a cup of coffee.”
“That’s right.”
“Did you make a play for her then?”
“No, not exactly a play.”
“What, then?”
“Well, she made it plain she wasn’t happy with Lacosta. In fact, she told me in so many words that the old man was impotent.”
“And you didn’t do anything about it?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I wanted to think it over.”
“So you thought it over and went back and she was out of the mood and you had to use force.”
Latour left the bars and sat on his bunk. “If that’s what you think, the hell with you.”
“O.K. The hell with me. But how do you account for the fact there are only three sets of prints in the trailer?”
“Maybe the killer wore gloves.”
Mullen shook his head. “Uh-uh. Considering what happened right after Jacques was shot, I’m afraid it might be a little difficult for Jean Avart to get a jury to swallow that. I talked to her before I went out to the trailer this morning and Mrs. Lacosta made it very clear she was handled quite extensively.”
Latour returned to the bars. “Did she describe the man’s hands?”
“As a matter of fact, she did. She said they felt smooth and cool.”
“Then it could be he was wearing gloves. Thin rubber ones. You know, like surgeons wear.”
Mullen lit a cigarette and puffed on it thoughtfully. “You know, you could have something there, Andy. That would also explain why he didn’t leave any fingerprints on the wheel of your car when he backed it into the slough.”
Latour’s apathy left him. He began to think along another line. “Another thing.”
“Yes?”
“My shield was found in her left hand.”
“What about it?”
“If she tore it off my shirt while I was forcing her, it should have been in her right hand. Figure it out for yourself.”
Mullen thought a minute. “Yeah. I see what you mean. The guy who you say slugged you could have put it in her hand when he was through with her. But who hates your guts that bad?”
“
I wish I knew. She still swears I’m the man?”
“You heard her deposition. She swears she’s going to appear in court as the chief witness against you if it’s the last thing she ever does.”
“What do you think?”
“Well, the old man is on your side one hundred per cent. But like I told you before, I blow hot and cold. For quite a number of reasons. One of them is that I had a talk with your brother-in-law and he tells me that you and your wife haven’t been getting along too well.”
“What does Olga say?”
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing. In a lot of five-dollar words. Up to a point she’s been very co-operative. But I get the impression that in the country she came from, at least in the circles she traveled in, the personal relations between a husband and wife are something a wife doesn’t talk about.”
“That’s about the way it is. And I’ll play along with it. But I can say this much: I wasn’t in any need when I went out to Lacosta’s last night.”
Mullen was even more emphatic than Sheriff Belluche had been. “Then have Jean Avart put her on the stand and have her tell the jury that. And if they believe her, the jury will find you not guilty without even leaving the box. With homework like that in his bed, a man would be a damn fool to look at another woman.” Mullen pushed himself away from the bars. “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow sometime.”
“Why tomorrow?”
“I’m driving up the delta and around the Gulf to Ponchatoula.”
“Why?”
“To find out what kind of reputation Mrs. Lacosta has in her home town. I can’t see any reason why she should want to lie you into the chair. But when you’re dealing with a woman, anything is possible.”
“You’re going alone?”
“No. Jack is going along to spell me with the driving. We can get up there and back a lot faster that way. It was Jean Avart’s idea, but I think it’s a good one.”
Latour was wryly amused. “For a guy who blows hot and cold, it seems to me you’re going to a lot of trouble.”
Mullen wiped the leather sweatband of his hat. “That may be,” he admitted. “I’m no lily. You know that. But to the best of my knowledge, I’ve never helped to convict an innocent man. If you killed Jacques and jumped the babe, I hope they give you the chair. I’ll even close the switch if they want me to. But the way it lines up in my mind right now, in spite of Mrs. Lacosta’s positive identification, there’s room for reasonable doubt. And as this will probably be the last case the sheriff and I will ever work on, we’re both agreed we want it to be clean-cut.”
“Why should it be the last case you ever work on?”
Mullen said with a grimace, “That’s right. You’ve been stuck in here since things began to boil. And, believe me, they’re boiling.”
“In what way?”
“There are more reporters than drunks on Lafitte Street. And more coming every minute. There’s even some joe from CBS, down from New Orleans, who has a mobile TV unit parked in front of Amy’s, and he isn’t showing his viewers packages of Crispy Crunchies. I haven’t had time to look at a set myself, but Todd Kelly’s wife called in a few minutes ago and it seems she’d been glued to her picture tube all morning and she wants Todd to quit his job and go back to commercial fishing. She says she didn’t realize what kind of town she was living in. According to her, the guy doing the broadcast is calling us the Louisiana Phenix City, and proving it with pictures. By tonight, when we really get jumping, we’ll probably be on every screen from coast to coast.”
“I wonder how that’s sitting with the boys up in Baton Rouge.”
Mullen returned his hat to his head. “You know how it’s sitting. When Jack and I get back from Ponchatoula, we’ll probably find the governor and the attorney general in the old man’s office. There’s only one thing in our favor. We’ve broken so many laws that the big brass are going to have trouble trying to decide just what to pin on us. Well, see you sometime tomorrow.”
Mullen swaggered down the corridor. A moment later, high heels clicked on the cement floor. Then, carrying the same wicker basket, escorted by Deputy de la Ronde, Olga looked in at him through the bars of the cell.
“Your wife with some lunch,” De la Ronde said. He unlocked the door. “The sheriff said she could come in. Just why I don’t know.”
Olga gave the basket to Latour and perched birdlike on the very edge of the bunk. “Thank you.” She smiled at De la Ronde. “You have been very kind.”
The deputy shrugged and walked back the way he’d come.
Olga added to Latour,. “It is more substantial this noon. I had more time to prepare it.”
Latour sat beside her. There were hot baking-powder biscuits and crisp fried chicken in the basket. It had been the night before since he’d really eaten. He was hungry. He ate, alternating chicken legs and thighs with bites of sweet-potato pie.
“You don’t have to do this, honey. We feed our prisoners in this country.”
“But not such food as this?”
“No. Not such food as this.”
Latour continued to eat. At least one good thing had come out of the mess he was in: He felt closer to Olga than he had in two years. It was easier to talk.
“What did you think of the hearing this morning?” he asked her.
She was frank. “It was not very nice. Especially when the men read what the girl said you did to her.”
“I’m sorry you were in the courtroom.”
“I was ashamed to be there.”
“She’s mistaken. I didn’t do it. Believe me.”
Olga wasn’t entirely convinced. “So you told me before court. But if you are not guilty, why do they keep you here?”
“Because I have to stand trial.”
“For killing the old man and doing what the girl says you did?”
“That’s right.”
“But why did not Mr. Avart tell them that you did not do it?”
Latour tried to explain. “He did. That’s what a not-guilty plea means.”
Olga shook her head. “This I do not understand. Mr. Avart, as your attorney, had the right to address the court?”
“Yes.”
“Then why did he not tell them this morning that this thing could not be?”
“He did.”
“No. All he did was make a speech that made all the people hate you. All around me I could feel hate. Why did he not tell them you did not need this girl, that you had just been with me?”
“For one thing, I didn’t tell him.”
“You are ashamed for having made love with your wife?”
Latour was amused. “Of course not. And if you’re willing, I want you to testify at my trial as to just what happened before I went out there.”
“Why did you go out there?”
“To assure myself that the girl was safe.”
“You told him that?”
“I did.”
“Then why did he not tell the court?”
“Because it was just a preliminary hearing and Jean didn’t think it was wise. He thought it best for us to save our ammunition.”
“Ammunition?”
“My side of the story.”
“He preferred to let them think what everyone in town is thinking?”
“What are they thinking?”
“That you are the same man who abused three other girls in a similar manner.”
Latour lost his appetite. “Where did you hear that?”
“Georgi told me. He heard it in one of the drinking places.”
“He would.”
“This is not true?”
“Of course not.”
Olga persisted. “You have nothing of which to be ashamed?”
“No.”
“Then why did you not stand up and say it in court? Why did you not shout it to the people? Why did you continue to let them think what they are thinking?”
“I did. I pleaded not guilty.”
Olga shook her head. “That is
not the same. A man who has nothing to fear shouts his innocence from the rooftops.”
There was sense in what she was saying. Latour admitted it. “Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I should have insisted on stating my side of the story. But Jean didn’t think it was wise.”
Olga wet her lips with the tip of her tongue. “He is your friend?”
“My good friend.”
Olga started to say something more and changed her mind. Instead, woman-like, she reverted to the subject that was of the most interest to her. “These other girls who were abused …”
“What about them?”
“It was not you who abused them?”
“No.”
“You swear?”
“I swear.”
Olga, as always, was practical. She asked simply, “Then if your needs are not satisfied elsewhere, why do you not come to me more often than you do?”
Latour hoped De la Ronde wasn’t listening. He cracked his knuckles, embarrassed. What could he tell her? That he was too proud to accept begrudged favors, that every time he took her he had a feeling that she despised him for availing himself of his marital rights after the way he had failed to live up to his promises to her?
He said, “It’s difficult to explain.”
Olga’s voice was small. “It must be. This I do not understand. Have I ever refused you?”
“No.”
“Did I refuse you last night?”
“No,” Latour admitted. He tried to express what he felt. “And it was very beautiful.”
Tears filled Olga’s eyes and overflowed on her cheeks. She made no effort to brush them away. “Then why did you not tell me so? Why did you leave my arms and dress and go out into the night at two o’clock in the morning? Georgi says there can be but one reason.”
“What’s that?”
“That you do not really care for me, that you are sorry you took me for your wife. That to you I am but a convenience to be used when none of your other women are available.”
Latour protested. “But that isn’t so. There aren’t any other women.”
“This I am supposed to believe?”
“You have to believe me, darling.” Latour realized, shocked, that it had been two years since he’d used a term of endearment, since he’d called her anything but Olga. “I mean that, sweetheart. I — ”
