Anatomy of a Murder (6 page)

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Authors: Robert Traver

BOOK: Anatomy of a Murder
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“My wife.”
“And you were a special instructor in what?”
“Anti-aircraft artillery. It seems your big Lake Superior makes a nice safe place to lob shells into.”
“Tell me about your wife,” I said.
Again the merest flutter of the eyes: “What do you want to know?”
“Oh, things like matrimonial statistics, including present status.”
“I'm her second husband. She divorced the other one.”
Old Glory sagged a little. “Hm … . Did you know your—ah —predecessor?”
“Very well. We once served in the same outfit.”
Old Glory sagged still farther. “You mean you and he were buddies?”
There was the slightest pause. “
You
might call it that.”
I had received a musket ball through the heart and I saw I'd better brush up on the idiom of the modern fighting man. But to hell with it. “I see,” I said. “Now suppose you tell me where your ex-buddy was when you took up with his wife.” The ex-D.A. was beginning to enjoy turning the screws on Mister Cool, the anti-aircraft expert who scoffed at decorations.
“Germany. Army of occupation.”
“And where were you two?”
“Georgia.”
Old Glory hung limp and dead on its staff. “It made a neat arrangement, didn't it?” I said. He did not answer. “Did either of you have any children from your previous marriages?”
“No.”
“Or from this one?”
“No.”
“Any prospects?”
Mister Cool fell silent.
“Any prospects?” I repeated.
Savagely: “Not unless that dirty bastard Quill knocked her up!”
Here was a sudden revealing step upon dangerous ground, very dangerous ground. In a touchy case like this there were legal land mines lying all over, and I wasn't quite ready to chance exploding hem. So I abruptly veered away.
“What kind of a weapon did you use to dispatch Quill?”
The dark eyes gleamed. “A German lüger. War souvenir, World War Two.”
“Let's see, that's a semi-automatic pistol, fairly equivalent to our 38?” Having seen one once, I felt something like Hanson Baldwin and I tried to keep the note of pride out of my voice.
His answer practically made us old battle-scarred buddies. “Yes,” he replied.
“The cops have it now, of course?”
“Yes. I gave it to the state police.”
“Tell me where you got this pistol. Where and how? It may possibly be important.”
“Is it necessary?”
“Look, friend,” I said, “suppose you tend to your military knitting and I'll tend to the department of legal B.S.”
Lieutenant Manion flushed and sat up straight. The dark eyes clouded and gazed even farther away. “Well,” he began slowly, “we were advancing in Germany, the spring before the end of the European war. It was dusk and I was leading some men out on night patrol. About twelve of us. The sector had been badly shelled and there was very little cover. Intelligence had told us the Germans were in full retreat, that the way was clear.”
“Go on,” I said, listening carefully, mentally appraising the possible effect of all this on a civilian jury.
“Field intelligence was wrong,” he went on. “Suddenly there was a burst of small-arms fire. Three of my men fell, two of them killed outright, I learned later. The third died back at base.”
“Go on,” I said.
“All of us hit the ground and stayed there. As it grew darker I took a quick look and saw a fleeting flash of gray, a gray sleeve, disappearing behind a stub of ruined chimney.”
“What'd you do?” I said.
“We could have rushed the place, but I didn't know then how many there were. One thing was clear: if this wasn't a lone sniper it was probably either them or us. I couldn't communicate with my men, so I crawled on my belly, making a wide circle, and finally got behind the chimney.”
“A wide-end crawl,” I observed.
“It was a lone sniper. I crawled closer to get within safe pistol range—and then I let him have it.”
“In the back, from behind?” I said, dismayed, thinking of Old Glory, the playing fields of Eton, the Boy Scout oath.
He laughed briefly: his first sign of mirth. “It was either him or me. He'd just shot three of my men. I didn't stop to pose him.”
“Go on,” I said.
“When I got up to him I found he was an old lieutenant, gray, tattered, and already wounded. He must have been around sixty. His left arm was in a dirty sling. He had a patch over one eye. The other eye glared at me like a wolf in a trap. In fact he looked like a battered old timber wolf. He was still clutching the lüger pistol. He tried to raise it. He'd rigged up a rifle stock to it. He swore at me in German.”
“What happened?”
“I was going to let him have some more—and then he died. Here was a good soldier. So I took his pistol as a souvenir.” Frederic Manion paused and fiddled a bit with the Ming holder. “That's how I got the lüger.”
Old Glory was rippling and standing out straight. But I'd seen many duck hunters generate more excitement telling about their misses. “Excuse me,” I said, rising. “I'll be back shortly.”
“Yes,” Mister Cool murmured, solemn as an owl, turning his attention to the Ming holder.
Outside I reflected that whatever else they were or weren't, Lieutenant Manion and the old German sniper shared one thing: they were both good soldiers, dedicated disciples of the philosophy of “Ours is not to reason why … .” Yes, somehow, someway, at the trial I'd have to try to get that lovely lüger story in. But how could I do it? And what was I thinking! Polly Biegler was the man, remember, who wasn't going to take this case. Were aging ex-D.A.'s as helpless as old fire horses? Did they begin to snort and prance and paw at their mangers whenever they heard the clang of the fire bell?
I used Sulo's phone to call my office. Sleeping Sulo didn't even stir in his chair. “Maida,” I said, “it's kind of looking like we might be in this damned Manion murder case.”
“Good, good,” Maida said. “But what's he going to pay you with? Purple Hearts? Didn't you know professional soldiers never have a dime? Remember, I was once married to one.”
I gulped and swallowed like a kid caught raiding a cooky jar. “I don't know yet. We—we haven't discussed it. All I'm after now are the facts, ma'am. You're so coldly commercial, Maida.”
“Well, you'd
better
discuss your fee, you'd better get commercial. I've just been going over your check book.”
“Sh … . Not over the phone, Maida. I'm supposed to be the successful, well-heeled defense lawyer. I'm loaded, see, and I only take cases out of my sheer love for an oppressed Humanity. My heart bleedeth for the under dog. I'm just an incorrigible old Liberal who toils solely for blind Justice and the battered Bill of Rights.”
“You're also damned near broke. Tell me, what'd you do with the fee in the King estate, help salt a uranium mine?”
“I just bought a few necessaries.”
“What necessaries?” Maida persisted.
“Only a little booze and a Burberry jacket. My old one's in tatters. And a nice little surprise for your birthday. Look, I called to tell you I won't be back this afternoon and you lecture me how broke we
are. Better cancel any appointments. I'll finish up on the mail tomorrow.”
“There are no appointments,” Maida said. “People are beginning to think you've migrated to the woods. And I'm beginning to think maybe they're right. Parnell McCarthy was in, there's an air-mail special from your mother—and that's all.”
“What'd Parn want?”
“He had his usual Monday morning sickness. Probably wanted money—what else does he ever want? Will you be back this afternoon?”
“No, I'll work here and then I'm going fishing tonight.”
“Fishing, fishing, fishing,” Maida said. “You just had a long weekend of it. Look, Boss, are you mad at the trout?”
“I'm afraid it's a blood feud, Maida. For years I caught them and now they've caught me. I'm getting to hate 'em worse than women. And there'll be damn little time for fishing once I dive into this case—if I take it. If you've nothing better to do but brood over my check book you can leave early.”
“Anything to do!” Maida snorted. “I'm on the latest Mickey Spillane.”
“Good girl. Always improving the mind, eh, Maida? But I thought you'd waded through the Spillane abattoirs long ago.”
“I re-read him every year, faithfully, like some people take a retreat. I find him so consoling.”
“Not retreat, Maida,” I said. “The magic word is bugout.”
“What did you say?”
“Bugout,” I said softly. “And good-by.”
 
That's the way it is between Maida and me.
I hung up the phone and stole a look at Sulo, who'd begun gently to snore. I speculated that some day some Good Samaritan would tiptoe in and take down the big brass key and empty the jail, stink and all. I also wondered what Lieutenant Manion might be tempted to do if he knew that the only person who stood between him and freedom was fast asleep. I turned to rejoin him and found him standing in the Sheriffs open office door. “Don't worry,” he said, smiling slightly. “I'm not going to bolt. It wouldn't help and anyway it might be fun to wait and see what happens.”
“Ya, ya, ya,” Sulo muttered, rubbing his eyes. “You through already, Polly?”
We were back at the Sheriff's desk. It was time to get down to cases. “Last night after I talked with your wife on the phone I read the newspaper account in your case,” I said. “Have you?”
“Yes, naturally.”
“Is it substantially correct?”
“Yes.”
“Touching only the high spots now, the newspaper states that you walked into Barney Quill's bar at Thunder Bay about forty-five minutes past midnight last Friday night—really early Saturday—and shot him five times; that you drove in your car back to your house trailer in the Thunder Bay tourist park; that you awakened the deputized caretaker of the park and told him you had just shot Quill; that he then left to summon the state police from Iron Bay; and that you waited in your trailer until the officers arrived. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“The paper further states that the officers then took you into custody and brought you in to this jail; that your wife accompanied you; and that your wife told the officers that earlier that evening Barney Quill had raped her in the woods and then later beat her up at the entrance gate of the tourist park. Correct?”
“Yes.”
“That the jail physician was called, who took a vaginal smear; that this smear was later reported by him negative for sperm; that he gave out his opinion that she had not been raped; and that your wife volunteered to take a polygraph or lie-detector test as to the truth of her story; that such a test was given but the results are undisclosed. Right?”
“Yes.”
“The newspaper also states that you have refused to amplify your original oral statement to the officers that you shot Barney Quill. Right?”
“Yes.”
“You have not made or signed any other statement to the police?”
“No.”
“All right. So far so good. Now let's talk about some things that may or may not have been in the newspaper. Did you see Barney Quill rape your wife?”
For the first time Mr. Cool's eyes showed some reaction; they seemed to move lidlessly, swiftly, like a serpent's—more of a quick glittering flutter than a blink. “No,” he said softly.
“Did you see him beat her up at the gate?”
“No.”
“Or hear her shout, as she claimed?”
“No … . Well I did seem to hear shouting, as though in my dreams. Anyway I met her at the trailer door.”
The old ex-D.A. was hitting his stride. “So the first time you learned of the attacks on your wife by Barney was when she told you about them?”
“Yes.”
“What did you do then?” I'd force him to say something more than yes or no.
“I took care of her, of course. She was in terrible shape. One eye was nearly closed, both eyes and her face were badly bruised, also her arms; her skirt was torn, her panties were missing, and—and—” He paused and again there was the glitter of a coiled serpent in his eyes.
“Go on,” I said.
“And this—this man left his—his marks on her thighs.” This was more hissed than spoken.
“What, if anything, did you do with these—ah—marks?”
“I wiped them off her body and burned the evidence.”
“Right then and there?”
“Immediately.”
I paused and examined my nails. Still examining them, I said, “Did it not occur to you that this would have been pretty conclusive evidence that the man had had sexual intercourse with her?”
His dark eyes seemed to wall up and cloud over; he sipped his small mustache that I was learning to love so well; and then he went into the ritual of loading his Ming holder.
“Did it?” I repeated.
“Did it what?” he said coolly.
It was no time for evasions. “Did it not occur to you that you were destroying the best evidence that Quill had laid her?”
“I never thought of that,” he blurted, almost flinging the Ming holder from him. “I—I couldn't stand the sight—I—I couldn't get rid of it fast enough.”
“Did this happen before or after you shot Barney Quill?”
“Before.”
“Hm … . How long did you remain with your wife before you went to the hotel bar?”
“I don't remember.”
“I think it is important, and I suggest you try.”
After a pause. “Maybe an hour.”
“Maybe more?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe less?”
“Maybe.”
I paused and lit a cigar. I took my time. I had reached a point where a few wrong answers to a few right questions would leave me with a client—if I took his case—whose cause was legally defenseless. Either I stopped now and begged off and let some other lawyer worry over it or I asked him the few fatal questions and let him hang himself. Or else, like any smart lawyer, I went into the Lecture. I studied my man, who sat as inscrutable as an Arab, delicately fingering his Ming holder, daintily sipping his dark mustache. He apparently did not realize how close I had him to admitting that he was guilty of first degree murder, that is, that he “feloniously, wilfully and of his malice aforethought did kill and murder one Barney Quill.” The man was a sitting duck.
It was tempting for me to ask the fatal question, sorely tempting for me to let this cool bastard boil in the oil of his own lardy ego. Why should I barter my years of experience to try to save this Mister Cool? Why, oh why, indeed? It was a nice question and I sat there pondering it. Was it because I saw a chance to beat this case, and at the same time beat Mitch Lodwick? Hm … . Or because it was my big chance to win a big tough case and finally knock that garrulous old fraud of an Amos Crocker from his pedestal as the leading criminal defense lawyer of the county, if not the Peninsula? Hm … . Was it because I was running for Congress against Mitch and this was my opportunity not only to beat him, but to demonstrate by dramatic contrast our relative capabilities? More dimly, but there: was it because some character had once made a drunken pass at my older sister, Gail, when she was in high school, years before, and my father Oliver had beaten him within an inch of his life and then dared the authorities to arrest him—a dare they didn't take? Or was it because a frustrated 4F could now bask in the reflected glory of defending a genuine military hero, a man who had fought in two bitter wars? Was it because of all of these things? And what did any
of this have to do with the guilt or innocence of Frederic Manion? Or this elusive thing called Justice?
At this point Sulo Kangas poked his head in the door. “Noontime,” he said. “Lunch he's served.” As I sat pondering how Sulo had ever come awake, whether he had set an alarm clock, he gave me a look of dawning inspiration and said: “You like eat with us, Polly?” He beamed, the genial host. “You very welcome.”
I recoiled inwardly with horror at the thought. Sheriff Battisfore's food would doubtless sustain life but, I suspected, contribute little or nothing to its sublimity. I glanced at my watch and swiftly arose.
“Sorry, Sulo,” I lied stoically. “Got a luncheon date downtown.” I glanced at my prospective client and found he was smiling. The man was actually smiling.
“Well done, Counselor,” he murmured after Sulo had retired. “Hope you enjoy your lunch.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Same to you. See you at two.”

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