Anatomy of a Murder

by Robert Traver

  “When did you lock them up?”

  “Just about a week before the shooting.”

  There were dozens of questions I longed to ask: Had Barney asked for his guns back? Where were they then and now? These and many more questions shuttered crazily across my mind. But no, I couldn’t risk it—we didn’t need two coats of frosting on our cake.

  “Could you venture to tell us the reason why Mr. Quill seemed upset and drank more than usual?” I said. The question was purely rhetorical; I had to ask it because the jury would expect me to. The shrewd witness evidently saw the point.

  “No, sir,” he said, and he must also have seen my look of relief.

  “Could you tell us this, Mr. Paquette?—whatever the reasons, did they appear to have anything to do with the Manions?”

  “I would say definitely not, sir. None whatever.”

  I glanced over at Claude Dancer who sat staring stonily at the far wall, his arms folded like Napoleon at Elba, and I also longed to peek into his darting otter brain.

  After that I brought out that Barney Quill had been at the bar earlier that night; that he’d played pinball with Laura, as she claimed; that he’d left about the same time as she had, around 11:00; that he’d returned to the bar shortly after midnight; that he’d relieved the bartender so he could “rest,” and pretty much all that the bartender had told me on my earlier visit to Thunder Bay. I carefully avoided the subject of his possibly being a “lookout” (the conversion of hostile witnesses had its disadvantages, too, I saw) and I resolutely stayed away from the subject of Barney’s will and the rest. I could always argue the “lookout” business to the jury.

  “When Mr. Quill reappeared at the bar,” I went on, “did he come in the street door or from upstairs?”

  “Upstairs, sir.”

  “Had he changed his clothing?”

  The witness blinked. “My best recollection is that he had,” he finally replied. “I recall that he was wearing a loose sweat shirt after, and he’d worn a white shirt before.”

  “Had it been a warm evening?”

  “It was.”

  “Was it still warm in the bar after midnight?”

  “It was. Quite stuffy and warm.”

  “Ah, truth,” I thought, “your spell is irresistible.” I paused, and dared not look at Parnell. On a hot night Barney had seen fit to change from a white shirt (dirt, lipstick?) to a hot loose sweat shirt (freedom of motion, room to smuggle down his pistols?). “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury …” I could almost hear myself saying.

  “Mr. Paquette,” I said, “the other day when I was questioning you”—I glanced back at Claude Dancer—“and we were so rudely interrupted, we were talking about Barney’s drinking. Now was he drinking more than usual that day?”

  I crouched waiting for the booming objection, and was almost disappointed when it did not roll forth. Evidently Mr. Dancer was in a pout and was going to stay mad.

  “I wouldn’t say that day,” he replied, and my spirits sank. “I now recall he’d been drinking more than usual for about two weeks.” My spirits rose. Up, down, up, down … .

  “And what was his daily intake during more normal times?”

  “Barney could easily drink eight to ten double shots a day.”

  “And how much was a double shot?”

  “Two ounces.”

  That was eighteen to twenty ounces of whisky a day, I calculated, and I mentally gagged at the thought. “And was that whisky?”

  “Yes, bonded ‘white-vest’ bourbon, as I call it. Mr. Quill drank only the best.”

  “Now how about during this two weeks before the shooting—how much was he drinking then?”

  The witness shook his head. “It must have been easily a fifth. It got so I couldn’t keep track.”

  “That was what you yourself saw?”

  “Yes.”

  “And that didn’t take into account what he might take in his rooms or elsewhere?”

  “It did not, sir.”

  Barney had had at least four drinks with Laura and five more at the bar after the rape. That made nine, let’s see, eighteen ounces he’d had since 9:00 that night besides whatever else he’d sneaked. It was faintly incredible. Lord, if I kept on at this rate I’d have the man blind drunk, and I didn’t want that either.

  “Could Barney carry quite a load without showing it?”

  “Without showing it to strangers. We who knew him well could tell.”

  “He was not one to swagger and stagger and talk loud when he was loaded, then?”

  “If anything he appeared more gentlemanly than usual. It was a way he had.”

  The time had come to put on a little more pressure. “About the guns being kept behind the bar against holdups, could you tell us how many holdups you had at the bar of the Thunder Bay Inn this past summer?”

  Frowning: “None.”

  “Any attempts?”

  “No.”

  “Had there been any such attempts during all the time you have worked there?”

  “None.”

  “Have you ever heard of any holdups or attempts made before you came?”

  “None.”

  “But the loaded guns were kept there for holdups?”

  Smiling slightly: “For holdups, sir.”

  I could have gone on to the subject of whether Barney had had his own two guns behind the bar that night, and all the interesting questions that subject suggested, but I dared not. I was afraid to risk it. The jury now plainly knew there were two pistols unaccounted for and the witness might get in a jam with the police if I now made him admit there were guns he had hidden or not told them about. Why drive him to say that there weren’t any?

  I abruptly abandoned Barney and his guns and drinking. The “white-vest” bourbon had reminded me of something else. I saw I’d have to lower the boom still a little more.

  “Did you drive Laura Manion to the jail at Iron Bay to see her husband the Sunday after the shooting?”

  The witness stirred uneasily. “I did.”

  “Did you then give the Lieutenant a carton of cigarettes?”

  “I did.”

  “And did you tell him in substance that the only thing you held against him was that he’d smashed your mirror and shot up a bottle of ‘white-vest’ bourbon instead of some cheap pilerun whisky?”

  His eyes flickered and I saw that our brief honeymoon was about over. “I don’t remember precisely what I said.” His voice rose. “I was trying to cheer the man up. I may have said something like that for a joke.”

  “You wouldn’t say you hadn’t said it?”

  “No.”

  “The fact was that your mirror was smashed and you did lose a bottle of bonded bourbon?”

  “Yes.”

  “And on the way driving down did you tell Laura Manion that it was too bad she and the Lieutenant had arrived in Thunder Bay when they did?”

  “I may have. What I meant was that if they weren’t there they couldn’t have been in all this trouble.”

  “Naturally. Maybe you were trying to sympathize?”

  “Yes.”

  I now lowered the boom a little more. “And were you also trying to sympathize when you told Laura Manion you could have warned her that Barney was a wolf?”

  I’d tagged him at last and his eyes glittered with sudden anger. “I didn’t say I said that,” he blurted angrily. “You’re trying to trap me with smart lawyer’s questions.”

  Mildly: “I appreciate the testimonial, but I ask you now, Mr. Paquette. Surely that is no trap. Did you say that to Mrs. Manion? Did you refer to Barney as a wolf?”

  “I don’t recall saying any such thing,” he snapped, and candidate Biegler had lost another vote for Congress.

  It was my turn to study the skylight. This was the end of the line with this witness; in a sense I had used him and finally betrayed him. But perhaps it was better to close on an angry note before the jury got to thinking that the witness had been reached. I turned to Cla
ude Dancer. “The witness is back to the prosecution.”

  Claude Dancer had grown grim and white; he looked boiling mad; he’d evidently counted on this witness for big things—the biggest thing probably being negative: a vast pall of silence on the significant disclosures I’d brought out. He arose and walked toward the witness.

  “How did Mrs. Manion conduct herself at your barroom that night before the shooting?” he said crisply, as though biting each word.

  The question was objectionable on several grounds, including leading one’s own witness. It came to me now: this witness prior to his temporary “conversion” had evidently sought, for reasons of his own, to tear down Laura’s behavior and character, much as he had to me when he’d called her a “floozie.” He’d doubtless gone over all this with Claude Dancer and now the smarting Dancer was trying to bring it all out. I kept stoically silent.

  “Well,” the witness said, “at times I thought her behavior wasn’t quite ladylike.” I pricked up my ears.

  “Like when?” Claude Dancer snapped.

  “Like once when she took off her shoes to play pinball.”

  “All right. And didn’t she do anything else while her shoes were off?”

  “I don’t recall, sir.”

  “Didn’t she also dance with Hippo Lukes who carried her shoes in his pocket?” (A George Lukes had been one of the People’s eye witnesses who had testified earlier to the shooting.)

  I still kept silent. The Judge shot a surprised look at me, for this was a grievously objectionable question, leading, suggestive, prejudicial, and just about everything in the book, but I maintained my stolid silence; I was liking it better this way.

  “I don’t quite recall that, sir,” the witness coolly answered.

  There was no doubt in my mind now that the witness had told Dancer precisely that; Dancer was a hard and dangerous fighter but I was sure he wouldn’t have stooped to make that up.

  The color drained from his face, and I almost felt sorry for him—almost but not quite. “Have you been talking with Mr. Biegler since you last appeared in court here the other day?” The inference was plain that I had “reached” the witness, but I kept mum.

  “I have, sir,” the witness answered, and, startled, I stole a look at Parnell.

  “Where and when?” Dancer pressed, beagling away on this scent.

  “Why, today—just now, here in court.”

  Harshly: “I don’t mean that. In private?”

  “No, sir, I have not had a word with Mr. Biegler since this trial started,” he truthfully replied.

  “Or with anyone connected with the defense?”

  “No sir, not a word,” the witness again truthfully answered.

  “Did you not tell me in private that, among other things, Mrs. Manion had so danced with Hippo Lukes?”

  This was also highly objectionable but I resolutely held my fire. “I don’t see how I could have, sir, when I don’t recall ever seeing it,” the witness answered. “You and I discussed quite a number of things and you may have misunderstood me.” He paused. “Possibly you could ask Hippo Lukes himself—he should remember an incident like that.”

  Hippo Lukes had already been called off, I saw, and this clever lying little bastard of a bartender had doubtless arranged it. Though his testimony was helping us, or at least I hoped it was, I had never felt less gratified or, on the other hand, felt closer to Claude Dancer during the trial than now. The crushed and frustrated little man looked up at the Judge and held out his hands and shrugged. “Your witness,” he said, wagging his bristling head.

  “I have but one further question,” I said. “Was this man Hippo Lukes that Mr. Dancer just referred to the same big red-faced man called George Lukes who testified here as a People’s eyewitness the other day and was examined by Mr. Dancer?” I pointed out in the back court. “The same man sitting out there in the front row right now, grinning and with his hands on his knees?”

  The witness smiled. “It was. That’s our Hippo.”

  “No further questions,” I said, happy to be done with the shift) Alphonse “Call-me-Al” Paquette, a little character who should have been in international counter-espionage rather than wasting his time tending bar.

  Claude Dancer nodded his head grimly. “No more,” he said. “Enough of this.”

  “Noon recess,” the Judge said, and Max shot up and brought down his gavel as though he was chopping birch chunks out at his deer camp.

  chapter 17

  “I’ll send the Lieutenant over soon, Max,” I said to the hovering Sheriff. “We want to talk a little.”

  “O.K., Polly,” Max said, departing, and I saw that all was not yet lost—like Mary’s little lamb the Lieutenant could still be trusted to find his way home.

  “Lieutenant,” I said, “I’ve been so damned preoccupied with other things I haven’t been able to keep an eye on Mr. Dancer’s pet psychiatrist. Have you observed him analyzing you with his telescope?”

  The Lieutenant was his usual helpful and co-operative self. “I hadn’t noticed,” he grunted briefly.

  “Well I have,” Laura said. “The man positively gives me the willies. Every time I glance over that way he’s looking not at Manny but at me. Once or twice I think he smiled.”

  “Perhaps he’s trying to make a date,” I thought. I bowed gallantly. “Well at least, Laura, he’s picked out the most attractive woman in the room,” I said, disloyally forgetting the pretty virginal jurywoman. Laura was closer to testifying than she knew, and I had to try to keep her in good spirits. Anyway this was no more than the solemn truth.

  “Oh thank you, Polly,” Laura said, coloring, and the Lieutenant obediently scowled, still wearing his jealousy for all the world to see.

  “Please put on all your ribbons and decorations tomorrow, Lieutenant,” I said. We’d been saving them for when he took the stand. “Tomorrow may be the big day.”

  “Right,” the Lieutenant said with his customary garrulity.

  I explained to the Manions that we would now no longer need to use the photographs of Laura taken by our photographer because the People’s were so much better. It was just another example of the “waste” of a trial, like all the futile legal research Parnell and I had done to possibly prevent the People’s psychiatrist from getting a crack at our man. It was much the same in trials, I thought, as that old lion Sir Winston had said about war, where “nothing succeeds like excess.”

  I asked Laura about the “barefoot-dancing” story and she denied it vehemently. “I didn’t dance with anybody,” she said, “and if I had I wouldn’t have danced with that grotesque lurching Zippo or Hippo or whatever he’s called.” She made a face. “They had him on the stand before—why didn’t they ask him?”

  “Probably little Dancer was saving it for a surprise,” I said. “He loves surprises, you know. Anyway, at that early point of the trial the People wouldn’t concede that a lady called Laura Manion ever existed—let alone had danced or been attacked. You can feel flattered that Mr. Dancer now permits you to breathe.”

  “Well, I feel better, at least.”

  “But did you remove your shoes playing pinball?” I pressed.

  “Yes, Paul,” she said, “I now remember that I did. I’d really forgotten. I did so for a few minutes during our last game so I could stand on my toes and aim better. But I didn’t walk around that way and I didn’t dance.”

  “Well, tell it that way,” I said. The Lieutenant was frowning and I hoped this barefoot incident wasn’t going to throw him or them into another emotional tailspin. “I think they made it up,” I said reassuringly, “to pull you down and protect Barney.”

  “But why didn’t they go through with it, then?” Laura asked innocently. “Why did they give up? Why was this bartender suddenly so truthful about the drinks and guns and all? You’ve been worried about that little bartender all along.”

  For a number of reasons I had not told the Manions about my visit with Mary Pilant. “’Tis a waking myster
y, Laura,” I said, tugging up my brief case. “Maybe you’ve been praying … . I must go now.”

  The deserted back court corridors echoed hollowly, and I thought it fitting and proper that I should use Mitch’s phone to call Mary Pilant.

  “I’ve been waiting for your call,” she said. “How did it go; Paul?”

  “Like a dream,” I said. “At times our little bartender was a reluctant dragon and at others he experimented gingerly with the truth. All in all though I think he definitely helped. Anyway, Mary, I am most grateful to you for unlocking as much truth as he told.” I paused and lowered my voice, “And I want to thank you in person as soon as this mess is over.”

  “Please do, Paul, the whole thing has been worrying me terribly. I had not realized the danger to your case.”

  “The danger is not over yet, Mary, and I want to see you real soon.”

  There was a moment of silence. “So do I, Paul. I’ll be thinking of you. Good luck and good-by.”

  Parnell was waiting for me in my car. Neither of us was very hungry and we decided to drive up along the north shore under the Norway pines. We picked up some potato chips and pop on the way. Parnell was by way of making a pop convert out of me. The trial was reaching a crucial stage and by common consent we did not talk much about it. I filled him in a little more on Mary Pilant; then, like men marooned on a desert island we discussed the news we heard on the car radio—all bad—and Parnell made some suggestions to me about my coming campaign for Congress. We parked at a secluded spot and ate our meager lunch and watched the lake.

  I shook my head, mystified. “One of the most disturbing things in this case to me, Parn, is how vastly I miscalculated Mary Pilant. It bothers me. I thought I knew a little about people, and now I’m afraid I don’t know anything. I shudder to think what that little fox of a bartender of hers might have said—rather have left unsaid—if you hadn’t been inspired to send me to see her.” As I stared out at the lake I thought I saw Mary Pilant’s sweetly solemn face.

  Parnell also stared at the lake. “The lack of knowledge of people, our lack of human communication, one with the other, may be the big trouble with this old world,” Parnell said soberly. “For lack of it our world seems to be running down and dying—we now seem fatally bent on communicating only with robot missiles loaded with cargoes of hate and ruin instead of with the human heart and its pent cargo of love.” Parnell still gazed morosely out over the lake. “And now—it seems, boy, almost as though a despairing God or nature or fate—call it what you will—has finally challenged mankind to open up its heart or perish … .” He paused. “Take our own situation in this case. All along we think that Mary Pilant is a calculating and avaricious female. She in turn thinks we’re nothing but a lot of designin’ bastards. Well, we were both wrong.” He shook his head. “What chance is there for the world if people like us fall into the same old trap?”