Anatomy of a Murder (11 page)

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Authors: Robert Traver

BOOK: Anatomy of a Murder
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As my client sat writing out the address, a woman drove up to the side of the courthouse in a black sedan. She got out and a small frisking short-haired terrier followed her, the dog carrying in its mouth a lighted flashlight, of all things. The woman wore dark glasses and as she advanced across the lawn toward us I thought for a moment it was a certain Hollywood tigress: she had the same buoyant step, the same free-swinging stride and same generous blouseful; she had even the same mass of piled-up russet hair, the high color, the full cherry-red lips. But, no, it wasn't
my
lovely celluloid dream queen. Before she reached my car I knew this was the woman over whom my client had killed Barney Quill.
“Hello, Manny,” she said in a low musical voice. “How come you're out here in the sun? Did that nice Sheriff finally decide to let you go?”
“Hi, Laura,” my client said. “How are you? How's Rover? Did you get the trailer moved?” By this time we were both out of the car. “This is Paul Biegler, Laura. He's taking my case. He's arranged for us to talk out here.”
“How do you do, Mr. Biegler,” Laura Manion said, extending her hand. She smiled ruefully. “I do hope you can help Manny out of this terrible mess I've got him in.”
“I'll try, Mrs. Manion. If all of us do our part I think there's a fair chance.” I sounded, I thought, a little like a professionally pessimistic football coach on the eve of the big game.
There was a small thud of silence. Lieutenant Manion knelt and petted the little dog. The animal was in an ecstasy of yipping joy over seeing him. “Rover hasn't seen Manny since—since that awful night,” Laura Manion explained.
“And you?” I asked quietly. “When did you last see your husband?”
“Why, Sunday afternoon. Why do you ask?”
“I just wondered, that's all. Just making talk.” I paused. “By the way, when can you and I talk?”
“Why, any time you wish,” she said, tilting her head. “I came here today to see you. Now, if you like.”
“The sooner the better,” I said. “Do you think all of us should talk together?”
There was a perceptible pause. She pursed her moist red lips. “Why, just as you and Manny think best,” she said.
The Lieutenant was still kneeling, petting the dog. “What do you think, Lieutenant?” I said.
Lieutenant Manion looked up at me sideways. “Suppose you call the shot, Mr. Biegler? Whatever you think is best.” I glanced at his wife and it seemed to me that she shook her head.
“I think we two had better talk alone, at least for now, Lieutenant,” I said. “Do you think you can stand going back to the loving care of Sulo? I'd prefer to talk out here in the car.” There was another little jolt of silence, almost like that of relief. “There's one other thing,” I said. “It seems quite likely that all of us are going to see quite a lot of each other from now on. I'm no particular slave to the modern cult of informality, but may I suggest that we call each other by our first names?”
“O.K., Paul,” the Lieutenant said, rising and saluting. “I'll leave you and Laura to talk.” He turned to his wife. “I'll see you later, Hon.” He started for the jail. “Come on, Rover,” he called and the little dog ran joyfully after him. Frederic and Laura Manion, I observed, had not touched each other during this encounter.
I held the car door open for Mrs. Manion. She got in and I closed it and then walked around and sat in the driver's side. “Will you please remove your glasses, Mrs. Manion?” I said.
“The name is Laura,” she said. “Remember? If you can stand what you're going to see, I guess I can.” She removed her glasses.
“Good Lord!” I said. In my ten years as D.A. I had never seen a pair of more grievously blackened eyes, and professionally I had been exposed to plenty. “Did Barney Quill really do that?”
I caught my breath. Her eyes were large and a sort of luminous aquarium green. Looking into them was like peering into the depths of the sea. I had never seen anything quite like them before and I was beginning, however dimly, to understand a little what it was that might have driven Barney Quill off his rocker. The woman was breathtakingly attractive, disturbingly so, in a sort of vibrant electric way. Her femaleness was blatant to the point of flamboyance; there was something steamily tropical about her; she was, there was no other word for it, shockingly desirable. All this was something of a trick, too, for a woman with two of the loveliest shiners I ever saw. I remembered something Parnell McCarthy had once said. “Some women radiate sex,” he had said. “All the others merely trade in it.” She raised her long eyelashes and regarded me solemnly, nodding her head. “Yes,” she whispered. “Barney Quill did this to me.”
“You'd better put on those dark glasses,” I said wryly, feeling a little giddy. I fumbled for a cigar. “Do you mind if I smoke?”
“Not at all,” she answered in her low voice. “That's if you'll give me a light.”
We smoked in silence for a while. “I guess the first thing I'd better find out,” I began, “is whether you plan to stay for the trial—to stay, that is, and help?”
The dark glasses abruptly swept around and bored into my eyes; I could almost see the round staring of those greenish depths. “Why how can you ask such a thing, Mr. Biegler?” she said evenly. “Whatever made you think I wouldn't stay?”
“Look, Mrs. Manion,” I said, “I ask it because as your husband's lawyer I have to know. You're a key witness in this case, and if you don't plan to stay—stay and help out—I would say your husband's chances for beating this rap are pretty slim. I figure they're only about fifty-fifty as it is. And you still haven't answered my question.” I was sorry that I had asked her to cover her eyes. I felt that about now they might be revealing to watch. “The question is, are you with him or against him?”
Laura Manion crushed her newly lit cigarette out in my ash tray. Her hand shook as she found a fresh one and turned toward me for a light. She inhaled the smoke deeply and held it and when she exhaled it seemed to escape her like a sob.
“Steady,” I said quietly. “One can never tell how a case like this will turn out.” I paused, cautiously feeling my way, following my nebulous but growing hunch that all was not well between this woman and her husband. “One can never bank on the result of a jury trial. A key witness might go away, and a man still get off. Or a key witness might stay, and the man still go to prison. One never knows about these things.”
She had listened tensely. “What did Manny tell you?” she said. “I don't mean about the case, but about us, about our lives together, about any plans we may have had for the future?”
Ah, so they'd planned to separate, I thought. “Not a thing, Mrs. Manion; not a hint, not a clue,” I said truthfully. “That I swear.”
“How could you know then—how can you sense—” She broke off and again rubbed out her cigarette and turned and faced me. “Tell me,” she said, speaking swiftly, “how could you doubt but what I'd stay and help? Did it seem so—so obvious to you that there was any question that I mightn't? Tell me, please tell me.”
“Why, Mrs. Manion,” I said blandly, “I've never doubted for a
moment but that you'd stay. It's just routine for us lawyers to try to make sure of our witnesses. I guess perhaps I was a little clumsy and blunt about it. I've been away from this business for a little while.”
“Was it because there was no sign of affection when we met just now—was that it?” She removed her glasses and her eyes glistened with tears.
“Are you staying, Laura?” I said.
“Yes,” she said slowly, closing her wet eyes. “Yes, I'm staying. That's the least I can do for poor Manny.”
“Then I noticed it, yes. You knew I did and I wanted you to know I did. And if you're staying I don't think it will be good if too many other people notice it. This is a small watchful community, doubly alerted by this murder, and, as in all such places, nasty harmful little rumors, often baseless, have a habit of traveling with the speed of light.” I opened the car door on my side. “Excuse me, Mrs. Manion, I've got to go speak to the jailer. I'll be back in a moment. We've still lots and lots to talk about.”
She leaned swiftly toward me with one hand on the seat. “Not a word to Manny,” she said. “Please, not a word.”
“I don't know what you're talking about, Laura,” I said, smiling. “But whatever it is, nary a word.”
As I was leaving the jail I ran smack into the prosecutor, Mitch Lodwick, just leaving the sheriff's office. We greeted each other and shook hands. The young prosecutor was a manly picture in tan: light tan summer suit, a pleated tan shirt and silk polka-dot tie, rich two-toned tan sport oxfords, a smart-looking waffle-colored soft straw hat with a folded tan ribbon. Then there was his tanned smiling face which made his flashing white teeth seem almost indecently incongruous. He looked as though he belonged more on the front porch of a country club than prowling Max Battisfore's jail.
“Well, Polly,” Mitch said, “Max just tells me you're in the Manion case. So I guess we're going ‘round and 'round again. This one looks like a real little daisy.”
“It has everything but Technicolor, Mitch,” I said. “Murder, rape and even a little dog. Hollywood couldn't have done better.”
Mitch smiled.
“Alleged
rape, don't you mean, Polly?”
“I wouldn't know for sure, Mitch. I just got into the case and have barely met the lady.”
Mitch grinned evilly. “Barely, Polly? I hear tell in some quarters that the last man who barely met up with her died from lead poisoning.” He lowered his voice. “I was hoping I'd run into you.”
“Well, here I am, Mitch. What's up?” Was this, I thought, to be the word on the lie-detector test?
“It's about a continuance,” Mitch said. “What do you say to our agreeing to continue the case from the September term over until the December term? We've both got this damned Congressional election. coming up—remember?—and I can't imagine your wanting to forsake your beloved trout for any mere murder case. And Judge Maitland is still at Mayo Brothers' and quite likely will not be able to sit in September. I assume you'd prefer, as I do, to have him try the case rather than gamble on some unknown grab-bag judge assigned from downstate. What do you say?”
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 opportunity.” 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?”

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