Carlotta’s smile vanished. “Yes. She’s an unhappy person, Clem. There’s tension between her and my father. I don’t really understand why. But they’re miles apart, and have been for years.”
She changed the subject quickly by taking Clem down to the wine cellar. Case upon case of fine vintages were stored there. Carlotta handled the dusty bottles with confidence, showing ports and sherries and champagnes, Château d’ Yquems and Mouton-Rothschilds, Johannisberger Kabinets and Clos-Vougeots.
They emerged from the wine cellar, Clem taking the lead. As he reached the top step, he heard a little cry and turned, just as Carlotta tripped and began to fall forward. His big hands caught her wrists and pulled her to her feet. For a moment they stood that way, their bodies close, his hands on her wrists, their lips only inches away. But the moment passed as Clem, surprised and caught off guard, released her. They smiled self-consciously at each other, and Clem knew that he had missed an opportunity. He might have kissed her. But, he thought, she might have slapped him, too. Regretfully, he resolved to have his wits more about him the next time Carlotta stumbled into his arms.
The tour of the ranch went on until finally it was lunch time, and Clem, ravenously hungry, sat down to a meal of a kind he had never had before. A slab of steak the size of his head, blood-red and tender, a bottle of wine, elaborately sauced salads and vegetables. Isabella McCandless did not come to the table; her husband muttered in explanation that she was ill and was remaining in her rooms at least for the next few days.
There was brandy after the meal, and then Dan McCandless excused himself, saying it was time he went into town and to oversee the office work. Again Clem was left alone with Carlotta.
“I hope you’ll come again,” she said.
“I’d love to. And I hope it doesn’t have to be a professional call.”
“You could come out here to see me, I suppose. That is, if you wanted to.”
“I’d guess I would,” he said. She gave him her hand, and he held it a moment, feeling the strong, cool fingers, and then, succumbing to the impulse, he bent and kissed it. She touched his hair.
“Thank you, Clem. And do come again. Julian will show you out.”
The Wa-po-nah buggy clattered rapidly down from the ranch into the town. Clem sat back, his eyes closed, dreaming of Carlotta. A kiss on the hand—then, perhaps, the lips—and then what?
Mrs. Carlotta Erskine, he thought, trying the name out for size. He invented an imaginary newspaper report: Mr. and Mrs. Clem Erskine arrived in London today for the first stop on their three-month grand tour of Europe. After a week here, the Erskines will depart for Calais. Mr. Erskine is a well-known American barrister.
He grinned and told himself to stop building castles in Spain. Dreaming like this would only set himself up for ultimate disillusionment. Carlotta wouldn’t have a country oaf like himself. She had only been politely friendly today, nothing more.
He said nothing to Kilgore of the events at Wa-po-nah after the telephone call. But Kilgore did not care to know the state of romance between his assistant and Carlotta. He had other news.
The grand jury had convened and had handed down its expected indictment: murder in the first degree. On Monday next, Judge Hazledine was prepared to deal with the writ of habeas corpus.
The legal process was under way. Before long, Harry McCandless would be on trial for his life.
13.
JUDGE ABRAHAM HAZLEDINE adjusted his glasses and drew a sheet of paper closer as he prepared to enter a notation in his minute books. The courtroom was crowded on the return day of the writ. The stove was blazing and hot to his right near the window and the stink of wet wool was strong in the press of humanity. Without raising his glance, he could visualize the array of humanity who had turned out to see the opening skirmish. Laurie Morgan, mother of the dead girl, was seated in the front row, garbed in black, flanked by a pair of private detectives hired by Tilley. This was not his concern. It was merely an indication of the struggle of forces yet to come. A stout, bald man was surely Ben Weingarten—father of the key witness, and this relationship might be deduced from the expression of uneasiness and shame of a man whose son was about to betray a friend to the law.
A stir in the rear heralded the arrival of Jake Kilgore, whose progress through the crowded benches was like that of a Roman emperor on a triumphal march. Kilgore swaggered through the press, cheeks ruddy under a close shave, his flaunting mane of jet hair gleaming with brilliantine. He was in the courtroom regalia of the period—Windsor collar, black four-in-hand ornamented with a pearl stickpin, black coat, and linen handkerchief. A pair of gold cuff links clanked with the authority of affluence as he shook the hands of well-wishers and exuded the gusto of a gladiator assured of victory in the arena. Close on his heels, slightly embarrassed and self-conscious, swayed the lanky, tall young apprentice whom the judge recalled with respect and appreciation. Erksine was young, the judge thought, but a strong mouth showed the makings of a trial lawyer.
“Order, order!”
Judge Hazledine tapped the bench in warning as Kilgore reached the oak rail that divided the divinity of the bar from the mortality of the populace.
“Kilgore!”
“Beaudoin!”
The rival lawyers shook hands with mutual respect. Pete Beaudoin was resplendent in his Prince Albert—a courtly affectation that put Kilgore slightly in the shade. Like two fighting cocks, thought Judge Hazledine acidly, putting out colorful plumage to dazzle the fair sex and overawe their rivals. Champions of the right! He smiled grimly and nodded to Sheriff Mike Duer who had been waiting glumly for the signal to begin.
“Bring in the prisoner!” the judge ordered. “Are you gentlemen ready?”
“For the Territory!” Beaudoin’s voice cut like a knife, and the subdued murmur of voices making side bets in the rear subsided.
“For the defense!”
Kilgore sank heavily into his chair and tightened his mouth with pain. Clem Erskine busied himself with a valise of lawbooks. He had noted the play of jaw muscles as the fire darted through his senior, but he was silent. He was worried about Kilgore. Earlier that morning, while crossing the plaza, Kilgore had staggered, supporting himself with an effort against a dizzy spell. Clem had tried to support the older man, only to draw a blast of indignation. But the fact remained that Kilgore was a sick man.
A hush swept the room as the rear door opened and there appeared the white, intelligent face of the prisoner. Harry McCandless glanced at the wall of hostility, noting Anglo faces, Spanish faces, a multitude of strangers—and the absence of McCandless faces was an immediate blow. Julian DuVivier was seated in the rear—cool, reserved, his eyes cast on a pattern in the splintered pine flooring.
“Stand there!” Duer said.
Harry obediently took a position before the bench and assumed an air of disdain as Kilgore came to his side. Toying thoughtfully, Beaudoin came forward and requested certain papers from the sheriff. Kilgore turned a murderous glance toward his young client.
“Stop staring at the people like they’re sheep,” Kilgore hissed. “Can’t you show that you’re seriously affected by this charge? I’ll have to draw a jury from those people. You need their sympathy. Look worried. Anything but indifferent.”
“Sorry, Mr. Kilgore,” Harry said casually. “I’m depending on you to show my innocence.”
“Jesus!” Kilgore groaned.
The judge tapped the bench. “Mr. Kilgore? I’d like to dispose of your writ. Would you like to withdraw your petition?”
Kilgore shook his head. “I’d like to argue, Judge. I can see that the sheriff has produced the prisoner. I’ve got a copy of his answering papers that show some lame attempt to repair the illegality of the arrest by scraping up some worthless and misleading testimony from an incompetent and jealous rival of the prisoner’s—but this transparent effort can hardly repair the deficiency of the original arrest.”
When Kilgore had concluded his peroration, the judge
turned to the attorney general. “Mr. Beaudoin?” The prosecutor patted his mouth with fine linen and retorted with an air of complacency, “The only question before the court is the legality of the arrest.” Clearly, economically, he marshaled the case against Harry McCandless. The fraternity pin. The testimony of Eli Weingarten. The Wa-po-nah insignia on the buckboard seen by the campesino.
When he was finished, Hazledine looked down from the bench. “Mr. Beaudoin, unless you show me something more, I’m inclined to sustain the writ and discharge the prisoner. So far as I can see, you have no sufficient grounds to make this arrest merely on the circumstances described. They point to guilt, but they are far short of being conclusive.”
A murmur of disbelief followed the calm statement of law, uttered in the hard tones of a judge accustomed to authority. Kilgore showed no change of expression. Judge Hazledine went on, “I presume you have something more to show, Mr. Beaudoin?”
“Indeed I have, Judge!”
Smoothly, pleasantly, almost in the manner of drawingroom conversation, Beaudoin advised the court that the grand jury had returned an indictment based on other, secret information and that the prisoner was now in the hands of the sheriff on a warrant of arrest. The arrest therefore was now completely legal and an attack against the indictment would await the outcome of the trial. The judge nodded thoughtfully.
“Anything wrong with that, Mr. Kilgore?”
Kilgore shrugged. “Grand-jury proceedings are ex parte and in camera. Those words are Latin, Judge. For the benefit of the ignorant, they mean that there’s where the prosecution can practice its unfair and prejudicial tactics safe from Kilgore. But a day of judgment is coming! It’s coming—and I’ll expose the worthlessness of those star-chamber proceedings!”
Hazledine tapped the bench. “Petition is denied. The writ is dismissed. The prisoner is continued in custody of the sheriff. This case will be set down for early trial.” The words rang out peremptorily. “Are you ready to plead to the indictment, Mr. Kilgore?”
Kilgore nodded, closing his eyes.
Harry McCandless’ tone was cool and indifferent, somewhat high pitched, but clear and earnest.
“Not guilty!”
Hazledine nodded. “I’ll set this case down for trial one month from this date. Anything else, Mr. Kilgore?”
Kilgore hesitated.
“Your Honor, I ask that the defendant be admitted to bail until the trial. I’ll accept custody.”
“Bail?”
An air of grim amusement touched the judge’s mouth at the effrontery of the request. “Bail?” he echoed, incredulously. “Oh, Mr. Kilgore! Even you, even you must admit that the indulgence of the court is being strained to the limit in a hanging case!”
Kilgore said doggedly, “This court has inherent power to admit to bail anyone, even Judas Iscariot, where there is so little evidence that a verdict of acquittal is a foregone conclusion. I’m asking for bail. I’m asking for the son of Dan McCandless.”
“Are you, indeed?” Judge Hazledine’s air of amusement was unpleasant indeed as he made ruling. “Denied!” he said harshly.
Kilgore scowled. He took his seat. There was nothing further to say. The entire proceeding had been ludicrously fast. He had made only token attempts at obstructing the serene progress of the steamroller.
Hazledine rapped with his gavel.
“The court stands adjourned.”
The onlookers filed out. They were disappointed, for they had come to see legal fireworks and instead had seen nothing but dull routine.
Kilgore heard someone mutter, “Jake didn’t even put up a fight today, did he?”
Kilgore thumbed his eyes wearily. He felt one of his rare moments of doubt. Had he let things slide by too easily? Was the damnable infection in his ear affecting his conduct of the case?
He shook his head. There had been no roadblock he could have used. Beaudoin had a case, and the dismissal of the writ was scarcely surprising. This morning, Pete had held all aces, and there was no sense fighting that fact. Kilgore had already resigned himself to the fact that Harry McCandless would have to come to trial.
But maybe I could have done more this morning, he thought. It’s still not too late for me to resign from the case. Dan McCandless can get a new lawyer, maybe some sharp Easterner. There’s none better in the country than Kilgore, but if Kilgore is not up to form, why, I’d be doing a disservice by continuing to take the case. And I should really get this damn ear looked at before the infection gets to my brain and kills me.
Kilgore blotted all thoughts of giving up from his mind. It would look bad, he knew, if he withdrew now. Nobody would believe that he was sick. They would simply think that Jake Kilgore had run out on a losing battle.
Besides, Kilgore reassured himself, that infection can’t hurt my brain. The old cerebellum is so thoroughly preserved in alcohol that it’s proof against all decay.
He smiled. Rising, he followed Clem out of the courtroom, walking erectly though a trifle unsteadily.
A joyous Sunday feast was the rule at Wa-po-nah. Fine thick steaks, the best wines and liqueurs, and a mighty array of tempting vegetables. But the Sunday before the opening of the trial, there was no joy at the McCandless table. Dan McCandless sat in his position at the head of the table, his eyes veiled in sorrow. To his right sat Isabella, to his left, Carlotta. The fourth seat at the big table, the one facing Dan, was empty.
Julian DuVivier stood by, a decanter of brandy at his elbow. McCandless needed only to signal by flicking his finger, and the amber fluid would appear as though by magic in his glass when Julian glided noiselessly to the table.
McCandless had begun his drinking at eleven in the morning. It was now half past two, and he had consumed close to a fifth of brandy. He was a big man, and burned the liquor rapidly. Yet there was a residue of fog in his mind at all times, now. It was as though only by drinking heavily could he lift the burden of fear and guilt from his brain.
Tomorrow, he thought, Harry goes on trial.
My only son. On trial for his life.
He did not look at his wife, or at his daughter. He lifted the glass to his lips and let the brandy pour down his gullet. He no longer tasted it now. He simply tossed it down. It might have been dime-a-quart rotgut, and not expensive cognac shipped from Paris.
They say my boy killed that girl, McCandless thought broodingly. Well, maybe he did. But this isn’t just a murder trial. They’re trying Harry’s whole past. And worse. They have me on trial, too. They’ve always hated me, and they know they can stab me in the heart by hanging Harry.
Sheep, that’s what they are, he thought contemptuously. The honored citizens of San Carlos are a bunch of sheep. Only suddenly they’ve grown fangs and claws.
I would have made them all rich, if they had had faith in me. Sure, I would have been richer. I would have deserved to be! But they’d have prospered. Instead they grew jealous of me. Hated me. And here’s their chance to bring me down, and they’re delighted. Little people always hate big ones. Pygmies have to cut the legs off giants. And I was a giant, dammit! I carved an empire out here. Could Joe Valdez have done that? Dade Rawlins? Doc Hewlitt? Of course not. But I did! I! That’s why they hate me, because I had the strength to do what they didn’t dare to do.
And now they’ve got me caught, and they’ll be able to take out their petty little hates against me. And crush me.
He stared off into nowhere in particular. Everything was falling apart at once. His wife had not addressed a direct statement to him in days. His daughter was distant and cool, his son a stranger.
And this trial was not helping his financial woes. Instead of going to the office, instead of spending hours fighting the Eastern vultures, he was letting Hicks handle everything, letting things slide. McCandless spent his time nervously pacing the long halls. It was too cold to go out, too harsh.
And while he lurked at home, neglecting matters of importance, trouble brewed. The McCandless railroad line—the Denver, Sa
n Carlos, and Galveston—had never extended its lines to Galveston, and this was widely regarded as his fault, his bad management. But, he asked himself bitterly, was it his fault that financial panic gripped the country, that investment funds had dried up?
The railroad faced bankruptcy. That would mean ruin not only for the investors but for the homesteaders who had put down roots in the expectation of the railroad. They had hated Dan McCandless because of his tactics as an empire builder; now they hated him because his empire was not strong enough.
The railroad had failed to meet its obligations at the first of the year. The trip to Wall Street, cut short by the news of Harry’s arrest, had been a failure. The Chicago railroad crowd stood by, ready to take over, to pick up the crumbs of his empire. They had blocked his quest for funds. And he was certain that they and Joel Tilley had conspired to arrange this trial in such a way as to engage him fully and thus leave him open for destruction.
The wolves were baying already. In New York they were applying for a Federal receiver to take over the railroad. He had knowledge of this, but he had no way to fight it. He could not go to New York now. His influence in Washington was less than Tilley’s. He could only remain here, paralyzed and impotent for the first time in his life, and watch his empire collapse and his son go to the gallows.
He drained his glass.
“Julian, serve the meat,” he muttered.
They were the first words anyone had spoken since the McCandless family had come to the table for Sunday dinner.
To her husband’s right, Isabella Lucero McCandless sat quietly, eating only a bit of her food. She rarely ate much, rarely said much these days. She lived in a shadow world of renunciation, aware that her life had gone off the tracks but unwilling to face the situation.
She was not surprised at this murder business. There was murder in the family, Isabella knew. Harry had inherited her feminine instability and his father’s rapacity, and the combination was an unhealthy one.
And now, she thought, old crimes were arising to haunt the family and bring down retribution.
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