“Hm … .” I said, pondering what the sly old goat was up to now.
chapter 26
The Lieutenant and I were sitting in the sun on the rear steps of the courthouse directly across the driveway separating it from the jail. “And so, Lieutenant,” I said, “that pretty well brings you up to date on my trip to Thunder Bay.”
“Looks like you had a busy day, Counselor,” the Lieutenant said.
“Faint praise from the master,” I thought. “Middling,” I said, thinking that he did not know the half of it, that there was much that I had merely hinted at to him, and still much else that I did not tell him at all, including the reluctance of the people around the Thunder Bay Inn to tell us what they knew. Telling him that—at least now—would only worry and upset him more than he already was; after all I needed him insane only at the time of the shooting, not at the trial as well.
Nor did I tell him what we had learned about Mary Pilant and her midnight tryst on the beach with the young Army officer; however true, this still smacked too much of dreary small-town gossip, and beyond that I had a growing feeling, however vague, that whatever value this tidbit might possess for the defense lay in its not becoming common knowledge. If everybody knew, then … “Surely, Biegler,” I thought, “surely you wouldn’t be contemplating a sort of genteel blackmail, would you?” But blackmail was never genteel; however one dressed it up it was an ugly word; perhaps it was prettier to say that I was dimly appraising the possibility—some—how, someway—of exchanging with Mary Pilant a continued discreet silence for, say, a little helpful truth. Yes, that sounded much better. I turned back to my lieutenant.
“Were you aware before that night, Lieutenant, that Barney Quill was an expert shot, especially with pistols?”
“Yes, I’d heard about it and seen his medals on the bar and heard some of the other officers commenting on it—the man apparently made no secret that he was good. But personally I never shot against him.”
“Only the one time, you mean—when he lost,” I reminded him. “Did you know or ever hear that he owned a lot of guns and pistols and was reputed to keep some behind the bar?”
“It was common talk around the village that he owned quite a collection of guns, including side arms, and that he kept some behind the bar.”
“Good. What else?”
“Now that you speak of it I recall that one of our officers told me that this Barney and a group of our boys were discussing small arms one day in his bar and this—this Barney reached down behind the bar and produced a semi-automatic.”
“Good. Very good. And you knew about that, then, the night of the shooting?”
“Naturally I knew before the shooting—I’ve been in the jug ever since.”
“True,” I said. “But the officer could have come and told you after the shooting. Still I prefer it your way. You never saw any of these guns yourself, then?”
“No, I didn’t cotton to this Barney character and avoided both him and his place as much as I could. We were never chummy.”
I tried to imagine this aloof client of mine being really chummy with anyone, but gave it up. “And this officer that saw Barney produce the pistol—where is he now?” I said.
“Doubtless on his way to Georgia if the Army pulled out, as you say.”
“Hm … .” I said. “Did you also know or had you heard that Barney was good at personal combat, that is, with his dukes and Judo and all?”
The Lieutenant shrugged. “Well, I’d heard all about that—this Barney was not one to hide his light, you know—; about how he’d cleaned the lumberjacks out of his place and had done in some husky young boxer. Then Laura confirmed all that when she told me how he’d carried on with her that night bragging about how good he was at Judo and all the rest.”
My heart sank. “You mean, she told you this before the shooting?”
“No, later—either here at the jail or on the way.”
My heart rose again or whatever it is that hearts do after they stop sinking. “I see,” I said, “but at any rate that night you knew when you went to the tavern that you were about to face a tough customer, a man who was widely reputed to be pretty well able to take care of himself against all comers?”
The Lieutenant seemed reluctant to concede that there was anything good about Barney Quill, in any department. “Yes,” he grudgingly admitted, “yes, I’d heard that the man was pretty good.”
“And nevertheless you had the guts, the raw courage to walk in on him?” I said wonderingly.
He looked at me sharply. “All hell could not have stopped me,” he said in a low intense voice.
We were getting on dangerous ground and my impulse was to veer away, and then I thought of the question that Parnell had asked me to ask him. Should I risk asking such a loaded question? But if I didn’t, wouldn’t the People do so later? Wasn’t it better to face up to it now?
“Lieutenant,” I said quietly, “I’m going to ask you a question and I want an honest answer. All I ask is that your answer be honest and that you consider well before you answer.”
“Shoot,” the Lieutenant said.
“If you didn’t intend to kill Barney Quill that night when you went to his bar with a loaded gun, just what did you intend to do?”
“To—to grab him,” the Lieutenant answered quickly. “To—to get my hands on him and hold him—to stop him.”
A dim light was beginning to dawn. Had shrewd old Parnell won again? “What do you mean—grab him and hold him?” I said.
“I—I don’t exactly know. Just what I said, I guess … . If this—this man had done what Laura had said he’d done, what I believed he’d done, then I knew he shouldn’t be at large.” The Lieutenant paused and spoke rapidly. “Don’t you see … I couldn’t rest with this—this animal still at large … . It was all so crazy … . If he could have done that how could I know that he wasn’t still lurking out there, or that he might come back again or try to skip or that he might even come for me if—if I didn’t go grab him and hold him?”
“Grab him and hold him for whom?” I asked, scarcely above a whisper. The brilliance, the audacity of Parnell’s shrewd gamble was slowly coming to me.
“For the cops, I guess. All I knew is that I had a feeling I had to go get him before he skipped or somehow got me. I simply had to.”
“To kill him?” I said.
“No, no—not to kill him—to stop him.” The Lieutenant’s eyes darkened. “But I’ll be honest—I would have killed him if he’d made a false move.”
“Did he?” I said. “Did he make a false move?”
“I—I really can’t say.” The Lieutenant brushed the heel of his thumb across his eyebrows. “It’s all so kind of blurred.”
“Suppose you try to tell me what you remember,” I said. “Think hard.”
The Lieutenant blinked his eyes. “When I got near the side of the hotel I parked my car and stood by the side of it for a moment to adjust myself to the light,” he began. “Then I went quickly into the bar. This—this Barney was behind the bar facing the rear mirror, his back to me.” The Lieutenant spoke jerkily now, as though it were all happening as he spoke. “I see him and he sees me. We watch each other … I see nothing else—the bar may have been deserted for all I know … the scene is frozen, like in a picture … . I move forward, we’re still watching each other … then when I’m about halfway, perhaps more, between the door and the bar he turns around—whirls, more like—and drops his left forearm across the bar, in front of him, like this. His right arm is down out of sight … his lips are curled and moving … .” The Lieutenant paused and sighed. “Then I guess I let him have it . . It’s all cloudy after that.”
I lit a cigar and puffed away in silence. An inmate of the jail came out and quickly knelt and retrieved one of my cigar butts. I stood up and silently handed him a fresh one and ground the butt under my heel. He mumbled and squeezed past us with his pail and a mop. ‘Excuse it, please.’ The Lieutenant mopped the sweat off his
face. This was the first time I had heard the actual story of the shooting. What carelessness or intuition had ever made me wait till now? I recalled the pea that had rattled vaguely in the back of my mind the day I had pondered the possible significance of the fact that a Barney Quill at large after the rape was an unarrested felon. The pea was sounding like castanets now. Shrewd old Parnell. But there were still some loose ends to gather up … .
“If you felt this man had to be ‘grabbed,’ as you say, didn’t it occur to you to go wake up the deputized old caretaker to arrest Barney?” I said. “You knew he was deputized, didn’t you?”
Lieutenant Manion laughed briefly and without mirth. “Yes, I guess I knew the old man was a deputy. But I never thought of it or him. Even if I had I wouldn’t have bothered him.” He turned and looked at me. “If—if this thing had happened to you, Counselor, would you have sent your aged father?”
I puffed my cigar and stared at the intricate stonework of the barred jail across the way. “I guess that’s the complete answer, Lieutenant,” I said. Mitch could do with that what he would. “Yes, I guess we’ll leave it rest right there.”
I sat and thought, a dead cigar in my mouth. Good old Parnell had at last possibly solved one of our biggest headaches: Why had this man gone to the bar? The pieces were beginning to fall into place. I wanted to go find him right away and break the big news. “Hm … .” I said.
“I wish I had my camera,” a woman’s voice said. “You two look as though you were planning a fishing trip.” It was Laura Manion and her little dog. Laura quickly kissed the Lieutenant, glancing at me, and then shook my hand and joined us sitting on the sun-lit steps. She was dressed in a becoming dark linen suit and wore sheer stockings and high-heeled shoes and a little straw hat with a short veil that fell over her eyes. This was the first time I had seen her dressed up and I calculated that with glasses and a few yards of hawser to lash her in that, yes, I might risk showing her before a jury.
“I’m glad you came, Laura,” I said. “Manny’ll tell you about my Thunder Bay trip later but there are some questions.” I laughed. “With a lawyer there are always more questions.”
The Lieutenant arose as though to leave. “Sit down, Lieutenant,” I said. “I don’t think there’s anything we can’t all discuss together. If there is I’ll send you back to Sulo. In fact I want both of you to help if you can.” I turned to Laura. “Did you remember to have the pictures taken and go visit the doctor?”
“Yes, Paul, I’ve been photographed and pawed over and peered at like a Hollywood starlet. The pictures will be ready tomorrow.”
“Good. Now take this Mary Pilant gal—had both of you met her?”
“Yes,” Laura said. “And isn’t she charming?”
“Yes,” I agreed, remembering a succinct earthy phrase that old Danny McGinnis had for all attractive women: “She’d make a dog break his chain.” “Yes, she’s certainly charming. Can either of you tell me anything more about her? She worked for Barney, you know.” I not only wanted’to learn how much Laura and Manny knew but also how little they knew.
“Well,” Laura said, “there were stories about her and Barney.” She paused. “But as far as I knew she was a perfect lady. One of our young officers was rather sweet on her, too.”
“Who was that?”
“I don’t remember—Manny might.”
I turned toward the Lieutenant. “Sonny Loftus—second lieutenant,” he said briefly.
“Were they—was this serious?” I said.
Laura and Manny looked at each other and shrugged. “Lord, I don’t know, Paul,” she said, smiling at Manny. “These devilish Army men, you know … . All work and no play … .” She held up her hands. “Serious? A summer flirtation? Who knows?”
“And you, Manny?” I said.
He shook his head. “I wouldn’t know,” he said, forever helpful.
“How about the bartender, Paquette?” I said.
“He made the best old-fashioneds in town,” Manny said. “It was a drink, not a fruit salad.”
“He was always courteous to me,” Laura said. “I guess he was just an alert smart bartender, a good man for the house. And he was thoughtful to us after the shooting.”
I sat up. “How do you mean?” I asked.
“Well, he came and offered to drive me down to the jail to see Manny that first Sunday—I was in no shape to drive—and he brought Manny a carton of his favorite cigarettes.”
I pricked up my ears. “Anything else?” I said.
“On the way driving down he told me how sorry he was for Manny and me and said—how did he put it now?—he said he could have told me that Barney was a wolf.”
I stared at her. One of the endless fascinations—as well as frustrations—of the law are the constant surprises—both good and bad—that its practitioners get from their clients and witnesses. “You mean,” I said, hot on the scent and in full cry now, “you mean Barney’s bartender said that he could have warned you that he, Barney, was a wolf? He used that word? He said ‘wolf’?”
“Why, yes, Paul. I thought I’d told you that before. He also said Barney had been drinking hard lately and that it was too bad we had come to Thunder Bay when we had. Is—is that good?”
“Clients are clients and lawyers are lawyers—and never the twain shall meet,” I thought. “It might help,” I agreed. “Anything else?”
“Well, he brought Manny those cigarettes, as I say. He was real nice and thoughtful.”
I turned inquiringly toward the Lieutenant. “When he gave me the cigarettes,” the Lieutenant said, “he told me how sorry he was for my trouble and said that he wanted me to know that for his part the only thing he held against me was that when I shot Barney I broke a bottle of bonded white-vest bourbon rather than some cheap pilerun cooking whisky.”
“He used those terms?”
“Yes. He visited awhile and then he left. Said some friends would drive him back to Thunder Bay. Laura stayed over that night—we were trying to reach you all day. And she also had to go visit your—” he paused and smiled “—your favorite horse doctor.”
I restrained the impulse to leap and shout and go seek out Parnell and give him the word. “Have either of you seen him since?” I said. “The bartender, I mean?”
Laura shook her head. “I saw him once on the street in Thunder Bay—naturally I have not been back to the bar—and he paused briefly and inquired for Manny and hurried on his way. That’s the last either of us have seen or heard of him.”
“Was there any more talk about Barney—when you met him on the street?”
“No. Just as I’ve told you.” Laura paused and reflected. “Now that you speak of it, it does seem he was sort of restrained and reticent. And in a hurry. About all he did was say hello, ask how Manny was —and he was gone.”
Again I saw the fine silky hand of Mary Pilant at work. What was the gimmick? What had happened? Here was a man who’d gone out of his way to be nice to the Manions, who’d called his dead boss a wolf—and then, by the time I’d talked to him, had grown shifty and evasive and had referred to Mrs. Manion as a “floozie” and an “easy lay.” What was the score? I shook my head.
I then told the Manions of the brush-off on the psychiatrist; that I had now written his own outfit; and that they must begin to learn to live with the grim prospect that we might not be able to get a psychiatrist in time for the trial. “It’s only about two and a half weeks away. But I haven’t given up yet. I’ll pry a psychiatrist out of this Army of yours, Lieutenant, if I have to make a sign and go picket the Pentagon. ‘Army unfair to Lieutenant.’” I arose. “Right now I must leave you. Tomorrow is Saturday and I won’t be down. Next week I must put on my black sateen sleevelets and hit the law books in earnest. I’ll be in touch with you. Good-bye for now.” I turned away.
“Happy fishing this weekend, Paul,” Laura called after me. I turned and she and the Lieutenant stood smiling, arm in arm, a picture of wedded compatibility and connubial bliss.
It was a pity, I thought, that the ubiquitous newspaper photographers were never around when they were really needed.
chapter 27
I went in the sun-blistered back door of the courthouse in search of Parnell and Maida. Gaining the tall main marble hallway I turned and climbed the wide marble stairs leading to the courtroom on the second floor, thinking I might find them in the adjoining law library. My steps rang hollowly along the deserted upper corridors, and it occurred to me that there were fewer places in the world lonelier and emptier than the precincts of a country courtroom between terms of court. For company I’d any day take a lone beaver dam at dusk … .
Making my way to the tangle of corridors in back of the courtroom I found the law library deserted and musty-smelling and hot as a Finnish sauna in the bottled summer heat. Packets of unopened and dusty law books and advance sheets and pocket-parts cluttered the tables and chairs. I left this oven and glanced into the jury conference room, where so many fates were decided, and found it empty except for the long table and the traditional twelve chairs.
The attorneys’ conference room was as empty as a morgue except for a pegless cribbage board on a table. The door of the prosecuting attorney’s office—my old one and Mitch’s new one—stood open; the office was also empty except for the dusty desk and chairs. A fly about the size of a Russian Mig buzzed crazily up and down one of the sooty windowpanes, with its goal of Lake Superior gleaming far beyond. The court stenographer’s office was empty; the heavy door to the judge’s chambers was closed but unlocked and I entered. I walked through the dusty book-lined judge’s office and down a short corridor and tried a heavy mahogany door. It breathed open and shut behind me and I found myself standing alone in the dim and empty courtroom.
Way back in 1905 the supervisors of Iron Cliffs County outdid themselves when they built the new county courthouse. Conceiving the structure as an undying monument to their statesmanship and proceeding on the theory that if one architectural scheme or motif could be impressive, a combination of styles would presumably dazzle all the more, they had succeeded beyond their wildest dreams. Few structures in the Peninsula presented a more startling pile of stone and slate and marble and mortar, vestiges of Roman, Norman and Gothic architecture vying mightily with each other for predominance, with authentic nineteenth-century St. Louis Brewery perhaps winning by a nose.
Anatomy of a Murder Page 21
