Anatomy of a Murder

by Robert Traver

  “Yes.”

  “Did you examine his body?”

  “Yes, but not closely until after I’d cleared the bar and locked the place.”

  “What time was that?”

  “About one o’clock. Nobody had to be urged to leave; most of them fled the joint right after the shooting.”

  “So that finally you were left all alone with the dead body?”

  “Well, yes. Somebody had to wait for the police.”

  “Who called them?”

  “I did.”

  “When?”

  He hesitated for an instant. “It will all be a matter of record, you know,” I said. “They’ll tell me if you don’t.”

  “I was just thinking,” he said. “About one-fifteen, I should say.”

  “My, my. How come you waited so long to notify the police, Mr. Paquette?”

  “Oh, the excitement and all—I—I guess I just forgot.”

  “Hm, your boss is shot to death at twelve forty-six—in all the excitement you don’t forget to note that—and then you remember a half hour later that maybe the police should be notified. It simply hadn’t occurred to you before, is that it?”

  “Right,” he snapped.

  I sipped my drink and lit a fresh cigar. Alphonse Paquette had resumed polishing a glass. I noted that it was the same one he had already polished at length. This man, I concluded, probably knew much more than he had told anyone, or perhaps ever intended to tell anyone, but certain probabilities had already emerged despite his reluctance. I was now convinced that Barney Quill had been waiting for the Lieutenant; that he had deliberately relieved his bartender not only to get him out of the way of the anticipated show down but also to in turn warn Barney and further so that he, Barney could get behind the bar himself. It had been his fortress. Then by buying drinks he had further surrounded himself with an unwitting protective human cordon—all but at the waitresses’ service station, which customers were everywhere supposed not to occupy. That this one open spot had proved to be Barney’s Achilles’ heel was a nice ironic touch. I was now equally sure that he must have been armed —else why should he have waited around at all? I decided to play my hunch.

  “When did the police arrive?”

  “It was shortly after two—the distance and winding roads, you know.”

  “Yes, I know.” I paused. “So you were alone with the body for over an hour?”

  “Why, yes, that’s correct. Somebody had to take the rap and wait.” He was still preoccupied with the same glass, polishing it intently, and I was growing afraid he would wear it out.

  “You just told me that,” I said and again I paused. “Would you mind greatly putting down that glass, Mr. Paquette? You’ve been working on it for the last half-hour. Anyway, I like to look at the people I’m talking with, it’s an old-fashioned notion I have.”

  He had put down the glass and stood facing me with an air of defiant and unfeigned hostility. “I’m looking, Mister,” he said. “Fire away.”

  “Good,” I said. “Now was it during this lonely hour-long vigil that you removed the firearms from behind the bar and got rid of them?”

  His eyes bored steadily into mine. But the look of angry hostility now seemed mingled with a sudden gleam of fear. “What pistols?” he said evenly, trying to control himself. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Who said anything about pistols? If you’ve come up here to set smart lawyer traps for me, you’d better be on your way, Mister. I’ve got work to do.”

  “You seem already to have fallen into one of those ‘lawyer traps,’ my friend. I said ‘firearms’ not ‘pistols.’ What did you do with the pistols?”

  He had grown suddenly tense and pale. “Well, it—it would scarcely have been a rifle,” he countered.

  “I wouldn’t know,” I said. “But you called them pistols—I didn’t. You’d better remember that for the trial. Don’t fall into that trap again.”

  “Is that all?” he said coldly. “Is that all you wanted to ask me?”

  “Scarcely,” I said. “But perhaps we’d better move on to—to something less sensitive. Had Barney left the place during the evening?”

  Sullenly: “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “Around eleven, shortly before Mrs. Manion left.”

  “When did you next see him?”

  “Around midnight, shortly before he relieved me.”

  “Which way did he enter—from the street or the hotel stairs?” I paused. “Remember, others will know.”

  Uneasily: “He came down from the hotel.”

  So far so good; that would give Barney the time and opportunity to change and clean up and—ah, yes—get rid of Laura Manion’s missing underpants.

  “Had he changed his clothes?” I asked. There was no answer and I repeated the question. He still remained silent. “Must I continue to remind you with every question that I can find out from others if you won’t talk?”

  “Why don’t you go and ask the others, then?” he demanded hotly. “Why do you keep firing away at me?”

  “One talks to but one witness at a time,” I said. “Right now your number is up.” I shrugged. “But if you want it that way … .” I turned as though to leave. “Perhaps you’d prefer to have me bring out in court that you wouldn’t answer that simple little question?”

  He almost spat his reply. “He’d changed from a white shirt to a sweat shirt. He—he often did. It was a hot night. What other clothes he’d changed I wouldn’t know. I was the man’s bartender, not his valet.”

  “Perhaps the sweat shirt gave him more freedom to lift a glass, say —or even a gun?” I said gently. “Weren’t you surprised when you wheeled around and saw the Lieutenant still standing and not Barney? And when you wheeled could it have been that you were checking the time so you could testify later—for Barney?”

  He smiled frostily and I swiftly concluded I would rather take him scowling. “Suppose,” he said slowly, “suppose you try checking that one with the others.”

  His dart was well aimed, I saw, and I saw further that as far as he was concerned I would get little or nothing out of him that could not be confirmed by others. “At any rate,” I said, “Barney comes down in his sweat shirt and immediately relieves you from behind the bar.”

  “That’s correct. Everybody saw that.” He seemed almost to be apologizing to me—or perhaps to himself—for admitting anything that might help the defense. It was an interesting development; both interesting and challenging. And it could be serious. Why was this little man so evasive and hostile?

  “Was it Barney’s regular practice to relieve you behind the bar?” I said.

  His eyes flickered. “Occasionally.”

  “How often had he relieved you, say, during the last two weeks before the shooting? All this can be checked, too, remember. Now I’ll promise cross my heart to quit saying that if you’ll just promise to remember it.”

  “Well, he just didn’t happen to relieve me during that time. Lots of other times, though.”

  “During the entire last month then?” I said.

  “I don’t remember.”

  “I don’t think a jury would like that answer. They might even suspect you of being evasive or something, and for such a frank and open person that would indeed be a pity. Suppose you try again.”

  “He didn’t relieve me.”

  Despite some glaring gaps, some of the pieces were now falling into place. “Ah, now we’re getting somewhere,” I said. “Barney just happened to relieve you the very night he also just happened to have raped and beat up Laura Manion.” It was time to level. “Look, chum, didn’t he really tell you to get to hell away from the bar so you wouldn’t get hurt? And on his orders weren’t you standing by that window for nearly an hour so you could spot the Lieutenant coming and warn Barney?”

  “Who said Barney raped her?” he demanded.

  “You doubt it?” I said.

  “I wasn’t there.”

  “I know you weren
’t there, comrade. But I just asked you if you doubted that he’d raped her.” He had a cute little habit of turning my question to other channels.

  Defiantly: “Yes, I doubt it. If he laid her at all, which I also doubt, it was with her willing consent. Anybody can see she’s a floozie.”

  There was going to be great fun with this winning character in court, I saw. “I see,” I said. “You couldn’t tell me just now whether he raped her, because you weren’t there, but now, still not having been there, you have all the answers as to what happened. Is that it?” I paused, pondering whether to risk drying up this man by further antagonizing him or to push on, doggedly getting as much as I could by a softer approach. I decided to take the risk and speak a few homely truths.

  “Mr. Paquette,” I said, “you don’t like my asking you all these embarrassing questions, I suppose, and I really can’t blame you. Nobody likes the hot seat. In fact you obviously bitterly resent my asking them. But that’s the penalty for having a ringside seat at a murder, and it so happens that a man’s freedom and whole future ride on this case. And you happen to have some of the answers. Now I intend to get those answers, my friend, but you are not coming clean with me, not even halfway clean. And if I can see that you aren’t, I promise you I’ll make a jury see it. What you’ve had from me so far, unpleasant as you may find it, will be nothing to the going over I’ll give you in court unless you come off this cozy routine. I’ll make a damn fool or liar out of you or both. I—I’ll burn your ass to a crisp.”

  He flushed with hot anger and took a quick step back. “Is that a threat?” For a moment I thought he might try to hit me. The moment passed.

  “No, not a threat,” I said, “but a promise. I’d rather call it a little preview of what lies in store for you if you don’t try telling the truth. And fast. The truth is so easy, Mr. Paquette; nothing to make up, no evasions, no traps, no entanglements, no inconsistent statements to try to explain away. Just the simple truth. I recommend you try it sometime. Why not now?”

  “You think everything I’ve told you is a pack of lies?” he demanded.

  “Of course not. But you’re holding back, you’re not telling the whole truth. Do you think I’m a goddam dummy, man? I’ve been bulldozed by experts. While you’re good and will doubtless improve, you still don’t quite pitch in that league.”

  “What do you mean?” he said.

  “You’re leveling with me only on the things you know I already know or that others will testify to anyway, or things you know I can check you up on. And you’re evasive, evasive as hell. A little while ago I asked you if it wasn’t true that instead of relieving you Barney sent you away from the bar so you’d be out of range when the fireworks started and also to warn him. You didn’t attempt to answer me. Did you think I’d forget that question or that it’d just go away?”

  Alphonse Paquette blinked his eyes thoughtfully. I had apparently given him food for thought; he seemed to be weighing something, considering the pros and cons of some situation I knew not of. I wondered what his angle was. I was convinced now that he was holding back, but why was he? Why this loyalty, this desire to shield something or someone? Had the thoughtful and relieving Mister Barney meant so much to him? And, if so, what was there in it for him? Who’d put the “silencer” on him and why?

  “You still haven’t answered me,” I said.

  He sighed and shook his head. “He didn’t send me away,” he said almost doggedly. “He relieved me, just like I told you. I wasn’t watching for Lieutenant Manion or anyone.”

  I sensed that I’d almost had him. “Very well, my friend. You want it that way; you’ve chosen your course. But don’t forget I warned you. And I don’t mind telling you you’re lying by the clock. Even a child can see that.”

  “It’s the truth, I tell you,” he said sullenly, almost resignedly. The anger and defiance were gone now—gone or hidden—; all he wanted was for me to go away.

  I decided to gratify his desire up to a point; I would leave temporarily to go visit the wash room. “Excuse me,” I said. “I’m going to the can and I’ll expect to see you here when I come back.”

  chapter 20

  I was mildly surprised to find him there upon my return and I wasted no time in boring in. “How long did you work for Barney?” I began. “Cheer up. See, that’s another question you can afford to answer truthfully. I can check it and it surely can’t hurt anything any- way.”

  Tonelessly: “Eighteen months.”

  “Had you known him before that?”

  “No. I just blew in. He needed a bartender and I got the job.”

  “Who are you working for now?”

  After a pause, “I’m not sure.”

  “Come, come, man. Surely somebody is in charge of this joint. Who is he? Or are you the new boss man?”

  “It’s a woman.”

  I felt a small inward jolt of recognition. Of course, a woman—there simply had to be a dame. Why hadn’t I thought of that before? Well, a man couldn’t think of everything—and during trout season women were the farthest thing from my mind. Well, almost the farthest … . “This woman,” I said, “who is she?”

  “Mary Pilant. You’ll find her upstairs. She’s running things up there. She—she was Barney’s hostess.”

  He had hesitated ever so little over the word “hostess.” It opened up new vistas. “Is she—is she going to own the place now?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” he said. “I’m just a dumb bartender, you know. I just work here. Why don’t you try asking her?”

  “Not so dumb,” I said. “But we’ll pass that; I can find that out easily enough elsewhere.”

  “You can?” he said, looking surprised. “How?”

  “By checking the files in probate court or the records in the register of deeds office down in Iron Bay. Or else by wiring the Liquor Control Commission in Lansing regarding any pending application for the transfer of your liquor license. And there are other ways. We live in an age of papers and records, you know; one can’t even properly die these days without some notary or other clamping his official seal on the corpse. But it seems a shame, doesn’t it, to put me to all that needless bother?” I paused. “Come, Alphonse, does she own the joint? Don’t mar our budding new friendship by making me suspect you’re holding out on me.”

  “Barney left a will,” he said resignedly. “I guess he left the works to Mary—Miss Pilant. In fact I know he did. It’s still got to go through probate court and all, but I guess she’ll eventually get everything.” He spread out his thin supple hands as though to embrace the place. “Everything.”

  “Was this Mary person present during the shooting?”

  “No.”

  “Hm … . Where was she?”

  He dropped his eyes. “I really wouldn’t know,” he replied, and I made a mental note to check on that one.

  I had a sudden hunch. “This will, Alphonse,” I said, “were you one of the witnesses to it?”

  He looked startled. “How do you know that?”

  I laughed. “I have lived, Alphonse, I have lived. And when did Barney make out this will that you witnessed, Alphonse? Or would you prefer me to check up on that myself?”

  “About three weeks before—before he was killed.”

  “Was Barney married?”

  “Married and divorced. Long ago. Down in Wisconsin.”

  “Any parents?”

  “Both dead.”

  “Any children?”

  He smiled fleetingly, and I put the smile away in cold storage. So Barney had been that way … . “I think there was a daughter,” he said.

  “Did he leave any other relatives and did any of them show up for the funeral?”

  “He was buried down in Wisconsin.”

  “Very well, but my question had two horns,” I said. “How about the relatives?”

  He glanced nervously in the direction of the stairway. “Besides the divorced wife and daughter there may have been a married sister. I don’t k
now nothing about that.” He stirred uneasily; oddly enough, this new subject seemed to bother him more than the shooting itself.

  I paused and lit another Italian cigar, pondering this swift change in the picture. The plot, like homemade French pea soup, was getting thicker and thicker. If Barney had not left any will his daughter would get everything; that was plainly the law; she would be his sole heir. If he left no wife, and willed everything to a stranger, then the stranger would get everything and the daughter nothing; that was equally the law. But if a relative or guardian or someone contested and could somehow successfully block the will—because of coercion, undue influence, fraud, drunkenness, mental incapacity and the like —then the will would fall and the daughter take all. And the stakes were certainly high enough—a prosperous and well kept summer hotel located on the main tourist beat. In any will contest, too, the witnesses to the will would hold important—and valuable trumps. A light was beginning to dawn.

  “Who was the other witness to the will?” I said.

  “The night clerk upstairs.”

  It was almost too neat; this left Mary Pilant and her loyal employees solely in the driver’s seat. I decided to test my growing hunch of the cause—or one of the causes—of all this reticence. Could it be from fear of someone upsetting the will?

  “How about Barney’s drinking?” I said.

  He threw out his hands. “He drank some. Most people in this business almost have to.”

  “Yes, I suppose. Like the well-known fact that proprietors of candy-stores hang around all day eating candy,” I said. “But on the day of the shooting—how about his drinking then?”

  “He drank about the same as usual. In fact he drank about the same amount every day.”

  “Look, friend, one could truthfully say that about a quart-a-day-man, or even a hopeless drunk. The question is: how much was he drinking?”

  “If you mean he was drunk, he wasn’t. He’d had his regular quota.”

  Patiently: “And how much was that?”

  “Oh, a few shots more or less.”

  “Hell, man, don’t give me that stuff—he drank more than that with Laura Manion alone. What in hell was he doing behind the bar for an hour buying house drinks and all—swiggling soda pop? But we’ll pass that for now and take up this interesting Mary person—what was she to Barney?”