I stood there thinking. I found the offer attractive on all counts, especially the desirability of having my wise old judge with whom I had worked so long, Judge Maitland. The judge in this case, I saw, was going to have to be a real lawyer, not some amiable political mountebank with a black gown and a law degree. And there were still other good reasons, too, that Mitch hadn’t mentioned because he wasn’t aware of them. If the case was continued over to the December term, wouldn’t I also have a much better chance to insist upon, and get, a substantial payment on my fee? The Lord knew that that was plenty important. Then there was the thomy question of lining up a competent psychiatrist and getting my man through his paces, and my growing doubt whether all this could be done—if indeed it could be done at all—in time for the September term of court. There was really only one big objection to a continuance: my client himself.
“What do you say, Polly?” Mitch said. “Do we continue the case? I didn’t think there’d be any question.”
I shook my head. “No, Mitch, I’m afraid we can’t agree to any continuance. I’d like to, I really would, for all the reasons you say and several more. But murder, as you know, is an unbailable offense, and I can’t very well ask my man to sit in Max’s jail here for an additional three months simply to suit our convenience. And there’s no assurance that Judge Maitland will be able to sit even in December. In fact I for one am getting a little afraid he may never sit again. Thanks, anyway, Mitch. I hope you see my point.”
“I do see your point,” Mitch said, nodding thoughtfully. “Then how about copping your lieutenant out next month on second degree and getting the whole damned thing washed up and over with?”
I shook my head. “No, Mitch, he could still get up to life for that. Too rough, too risky. He wouldn’t stand for that and I wouldn’t let him. But I have a suggestion. How about your lowering the charge to manslaughter so that I can get my man out on bail? That way you and I will get our cherished continuance, you can go out charming the voters, and I go out alarming the trout—and everybody lives happily ever after. Then before the December term we could seriously explore the possibility of his copping out to manslaughter, providing, of course, that you and Judge Maitland are sufficiently imbued with the spirit of Yuletide charity.”
“No, Polly. This deal is murder or it’s nothing. You know that. Would you lower to manslaughter if you were still D.A.?” Mitch snapped his fingers. “From life down to a fifteen-year max, just like that? How could I ever square that?”
“A nicely returned ball, Mitch,” I said, smiling. “But if I were D.A. and satisfied that Barney Quill had raped the Manion woman I really think I’d seriously consider making a lower charge.” I paused. “Especially if I had a nice big fat lie-detector test, say, to back me up—that’s if it did back me up.” I paused thoughtfully. “But I guess maybe I wouldn’t lower the charge if I still thought the rape were ‘alleged,’ as you just called it.”
My reference to the lie-detector test had not been according to plan. But Mitch, who certainly knew the results, had just seen the Sheriff, and Max had doubtless related our recent conversation on the subject. I waited for him to speak.
Mitch blinked thoughtfully and cleared his throat. Then he moved deftly around me, like a shifty halfback, and opened the outside jail door. “Well, Polly, I guess it looks like we go to work soon. You don’t go for the continuance and I can’t go for lowering to manslaughter.” Smiling. “But what are you going to use for a defense? Old box tops? Half the town of Thunder Bay saw your lieutenant plug Barney.”
“Don’t fret, Mitch, I’ll come up with something. And as a last resort there’s always that reliable home remedy: Old Doctor Crocker’s Special Cure-all for Accused Felons.”
“What’s that?”
I furrowed my brow into a Patrick Henry frown, clapped one hand across my breast and pointed scornfully at an imaginary jury. “Ladees an’ gen’emen!” I thundered. “You cain’t guess this man into state’s prison! Why, folks, I wouldn’t send a yaller dawg to a dawg pound based on this here now evidence!”
“Perfect,” Mitch said, laughing. “All you lack is Old Crocker’s red wig. Well, so long, Polly.”
“So long, Mitch.”
The jail door breathed shut on its pneumatic hinge and that, I saw, was that.
Laura Manion was pacing up and down beside my car when I emerged from the jail. When she saw me she stamped out her cigarette and got quickly into the car. I had no sooner joined her than she began to talk, rapidly, breathlessly.
“You’ve seen Manny … . You’ve told him, I know you have … and you told me you wouldn’t … . Oh, why did you do it when you promised you wouldn’t?” She was perilously close to breaking down. “I should never—I—I—”
“Mrs. Manion!” I spoke sharply. “Please get hold of yourself. I haven’t laid eyes on the man. Here, light a cigarette and calm yourself.” I twirled my lighter and held it, waiting until she had taken several deep drags before I spoke. “Am I forgiven?” I said.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “But you left so abruptly—and stayed so long. Whatever kept you so long?”
“Did you see that handsome man in tan just leave the jail?”
She nodded. “Yes. Who is he?”
“He’s the old devil D.A., Mitchell Lodwick. I’ve just been talking to him.” I briefly recounted my conversation with Mitch. “So that’s what old Squealer Biegler’s been up to,” I concluded. “Am I reinstated in your confidence?”
“I’m sorry, Paul,” she repeated, laying her hand impulsively on my arm. “I’m so terribly upset and—and—”
“Afraid?” I suggested. “Is that the word? Are you afraid of your husband, Laura? Is that the cause of the tension?” I paused and went on. “I think I have a right to know what gives between you two. I can’t very well do my best if I’m working in the dark.”
Again she took off her glasses and looked at me, long and searchingly. I felt as though I were gliding to the bottom of the sea in William Beebe’s bathysphere. I fumbled to find a cigar and tore my eyes from hers to light it.
“Yes,” she said, in a low voice. “I’ll trust you, Paul. And I’ve simply got to talk to someone or I’ll explode. I—I—” She paused and smiled. “I don’t know where to begin.”
I flicked my cigar at the ash tray. “Suppose you begin with my question,” I suggested. “Are you afraid of your husband?”
When she spoke it was as though to herself. “Afraid? Afraid?” She turned toward me. “No, Paul, it isn’t fear, precisely, it—it’s something at once more subtle and more degrading than that. Have you ever been jealous?”
“You mean over a woman I cared for?”
She quickly nodded her head. “Yes, that’s what I mean. Of someone you really loved?”
“Mercifully no,” I replied thoughtfully. “Not ever seriously, that is, beyond occasional pangs. And that was long ago … . I consider jealousy the most corrosive and destructive of all emotions and I long ago made up my mind that I refused to be jealous of anyone or anything. Life is simply too goddam short. But my views on jealousy won’t help your husband beat this murder rap and yours might.” I paused and went on. “Is jealousy at the bottom of the tension between Manny and you?” This was an important and possibly serious development and I had to know.
She sat thoughtfully silent. “Yes,” she said slowly, “jealousy more nearly covers it than any single word.” She closed her eyes for a moment and then continued. “I’ll try to tell you,” she said. “Manny has always been jealous of me, even before we were married. I should have known how it would be. But then I found it only flattering and protective.” She paused. “Afterwards, after we were married, I discovered how—how terrible it could be.”
“We’re playing truth, now, Laura, so I won’t beat around the bush. Did he ever have any possible reason to be jealous?”
Her answer seemed too swift, too certain, for dissembling. “No, no! Never once. And God knows it was not for lack of opp
ortunity.” She smiled, and her smile had about it a certain little-girl quality of wistfulness and pathos. “This thing—” she gestured vaguely—“whatever it is I have—has always been … difficult.” She shook her head. “I don’t mean to have you think I don’t like gaiety and fun and flattery,” she went on. “And men, too, but not in the way that Manny apparently thinks I do. He’s jealous of any man I meet in the most casual way. In fact he’s probably jealous of you at this very moment”
I gave an involuntary start and for a prickly instant I could visualize a lüger trained on my back. Then it occurred to me that there was always the possibility that she was gilding the lily, that, being emotionally upset and understandably distraught by her recent experience she was somehow trying to expiate her sense of guilt. I remembered suddenly that my client had the day before spotted my fishing gear in my car. My car was parked in the same place. There was one way to find out a few things, a fast and simple way.
“Excuse me,” I said abruptly, and I quickly got out of my car and elaborately yawned and stretched, at the same time wheeling and glancing casually up at the jail windows. Despite the dust and soot there was no mistake: I had caught a retreating glimpse of a familiar dark be-mustached face, the merest flash of disappearing Army khaki. Now any poor man had a right, I conceded, to stand and stare out of his cell window; in fact I knew that some of them simply had to, like animals in a cage. But here the quick retreat had done it, had told the story; the jealous Lieutenant stood convicted; I now saw that this woman was probably telling me the truth.
“Are you all right?” she inquired anxiously as I regained my place beside her.
“Leg cramps,” I said wryly. “Please go on with your story.”
“Well, there isn’t much more to tell. I thought when Manny got assigned up here that things would be better. This wasn’t his regular outfit, you know.”
“Were they?” I said. “Were things any better?”
She shook her head. “No, they were worse, if possible. It just meant a whole new strange crew of men for him to be jealous over.” She paused. “Manny’s really a grand person, but he’s strangling my feeling for him. How can you continue to love a man who constantly makes you feel like a—a common street-walker?”
“Go on,” I said. I did not propose to digress any further on jealousy or the male’s reactions to it.
“Just two weeks ago we attended an Army cocktail party at the hotel. Some silly half-drunk young second lieutenant I’d never seen before kept following me around and calling me Cleopatra. He was just a boy, I suppose I could have been his mother. Finally he playfully grabbed and kissed my hand, like an overzealous puppy. It was just one of those things all Army people experience and understand. But Manny knocked him down. That’s the last time I was out—socially—until that awful night. Why, I think he was even half jealous of Barney Quill.”
I pricked up my ears. “How do you mean?”
“We’d gone to Barney’s bar several times. It was about the only decent place to drink in town. Barney was one of those loquacious blarney-tongued operators who’d flatter a witch on a broomstick provided only she was wearing a skirt. He paused at our table once or twice—he did the same at most of the others, too—and ran out his poor little stock of complimentary banter, the same dreary sort of thing I’ve heard in a hundred bars and Army posts, with or without Manny. But this time Manny went into one of his more elaborate sulks. So we quit going to Barney’s bar.”
“Was there any incident—any scene?” I asked, holding my breath.
“No, thank goodness. Manny made me hurry my drink and we left.” She shook her head. “It was so utterly childish. It’s all so childish—and now so tragic. And I feel so guilty.”
1 spoke casually. “Have you mentioned any of these things we’ve just been discussing to the state police?—or to anyone?”
“Heavens no. I told them all about the—the incidents of that night, of course. I had nothing to hide.”
“You are sure of this. Think back now.”
“I am positive.”
“Did you tell them about the sexual attack by Barney? And all the rest, both before and after the attack?”
“In great detail.”
“Did you tell all this during your lie-detector test?”
“Why, yes, of course,” she said impatiently.
“Who first suggested that you take this test?”
“I did. I’d read about them somewhere.” She incuriously studied her nails.
“Do you know the results of the test?”
“No, I haven’t given it a thought. But if the machine’s any good there could only be one result. I told them the simple truth. Heaven knows that was bad enough:”
I had not meant to tell either the Lieutenant or Mrs. Manion, at least for the time, that I knew the results of the lie test; this, not only to protect Sulo but for certain reasons of my own. I now saw I would have to change my plans.
“Well, you passed the test,” I said. “It showed you were telling the truth.”
“Oh,” she said, with mild interest. “Did that handsome young prosecutor just tell you?”
“You see well with your dark glasses, madam,” I said. “No, the handsome prosecutor didn’t tell me. I can’t tell you how I know, but I know. There are certain trade symptoms I have learned to recognize.” One of them occurred to me as I spoke. Mitch surely knew the results of the test, and if it had been bad for our side he would certainly have told me so to aid his cause when he was making his pitch for a guilty plea to second degree murder. He had no reason then to hide the results of a bad test—bad for our side—and several good selling reasons not to. Why hadn’t I thought of it before?
“Does Manny know?” she said.
“Not yet, but I’ve decided to tell him.” For it was now plain to me that I’d have to reassure this troubled man, and fast, or we perhaps might not need to employ a psychiatrist or anyone to tell us he was insane; he actually would be. “There’s one more thing,” I said. “Don’t tell a soul you know the result of this lie-detector thing. If people ask you—anyone—simply tell them you don’t know. This may be vital. Do you promise?”
“Just as you say, Paul. And you won’t tell Manny these things I’ve just told you.”
I shuddered inwardly at the thought. “Heavens no, my good woman. And don’t you.”
“No, of course not,” she said, smiling wanly. “Now we have secrets. And I do hope I have made you see certain things more clearly.”
“I’m beginning to see a number of things,” I said.
She again quickly placed her hand on my arm. “Please don’t think I have said any of this to criticize Manny. Or to be disloyal. He was—he is—so tender and good in so many ways. He’d go through hell and high water for me.”
“He might even kill for you?” I said.
She buried her face in her hands and I regretted having spoken. I was afraid she was going to cry. “Steady, Laura,” I said. “The man probably can’t help himself. I sometimes think that jealousy is a disease—a sort of disease of the personality or of the emotions. I don’t know … . You want to help him. As his lawyer I want to help him.” I paused. “Now I must go. I want to talk to you in the morning. Tonight I must work on this case. I suggest you go put on a little scene of loving reunion with Manny for the benefit of Sulo and the Sheriff. But mostly, I guess, for Manny. I’m getting a little worried about that man.”
“Thank you, Paul,” she said. She extended her hand and I took it. “You’ve been very understanding. I feel much better already.” She kept her hand in mine.
“We have secrets, now, Laura, so I’ll tell you another one. I wouldn’t have mentioned it except for what you’ve told me this afternoon.” I looked down at her hand. “Your husband’s jail window overlooks my car.” She colored and withdrew her hand quickly. I got out of the car and walked around to open her door. I forced myself not to look up at the jail window.
“Good night, Paul,” L
aura Manion said, smiling.
“Good night, Laura. Keep the chin up—like a good Army wife.”
chapter 12
That night I worked late in my office. I looked some law and wrote out a letter for Maida to sign for me and send the Lieutenant’s commanding officer, reviewing the case and its problems and putting in an urgent request for an Army psychiatrist. Then I left a note for Maida to tell Pamell McCarthy I wanted to see him at my office late the next night. “After fishing,” I added defiantly. Then I fell into my unmade bed.
“Hi, Sulo,” I said. “Greetings from the early bird. I want to see the Lieutenant for a minute. How about my skipping up to his cell and saving a lot of commotion?”
“Sure, sure, skip away, Polly,” Sulo amiably agreed, taking down his big brass key and admitting me to the inner sanctum, the jail proper. “Three flights up, den turn right, den walk to end—his cell door’s unlocked—an’ dat’s where you Lieutenant live his new address.” Sulo chuckled over his little joke.
I managed a wan little smile as I started up the steep iron-shod stairs. “If Mrs. Manion shows up tell her to wait in my car.”
As I trudged up the clanking echoing stairs winding through a maze of pipes of all kinds, water pipes, sewer pipes, steam pipes and miscellaneous brackets and girders, all done in battleship gray, I reflected that men could apparently get used to almost anything. Thousands of men, all over the world, lived in places like this and worse.
I thought of the hundreds of uncomplaining iron miners only a few miles away who daily plunged down into the chill and damp of ill-lit holes in the ground where for hours on end they groped their way about as through some vast insecure cheese. I thought, too, of the time I had once inadvertently wandered into the sawyers’ room of a flooring mill, while campaigning, and had suddenly been so clutched and frozen by the demented screaming and awful banshee wailing of the dozens and scores of whirling saws—each presided over by a calmly oblivious workman—that it was only with physical effort I had turned and fled the place in terror. Even my usually dogged zeal for votes for Biegler had failed to hold me.
Anatomy of a Murder Page 10
