Flash and Filigree (9 page)

The Doctor ended on a severe, almost reprimanding note; but, after a pause, he added with a smile of encouragement: “We have a good deal to go on, you see, and these people, of course, will eventually be found.”

One of the Jurors, a serious, business-type man, seated on the lower row nearest the Judge, immediately raised his hand as in question, first at the Doctor, then at the Judge.

“Are questions in order?” asked Dr. Eichner of the Judge before acknowledging the gesture.

“Yes, yes,” said Judge Lester. “The Jury may ask questions now.”

“Dr. Richards,” the man blurted out, already half standing, but his attention was caught at once by the woman on his left who cupped her hands in a whisper.

“I mean, Dr. Eig-ner,” continued the businessman and snickered embarrassedly. Some of the Jurors nearest him tittered, as in approval of the mistake, and Dr. Eichner smiled condescendingly.

“Do you know of any reason why there should have been this attempt made on your life?” demanded the businessman, frowning heavily. “I mean, do you know anyone who would have wanted to
kill you
?”

The rest of the Jury became respectfully attentive again, waiting, with the easy interest of young philosophy students.

“No,” said the Doctor earnestly, “nor did I mean to imply as much. I did not, in fact, mean to imply that an attempt had been made on
my
life as such—though, of course, my opinion on this could not be properly brought out before your question. Let me now state, however, that to my knowledge I have no, shall we say,
mortal enemies.
The criminal aspect of this case is under investigation, of course; but, at this point, there occurs to me only one plausible explanation, the obvious one:
mistaken identity.
”

Perhaps it was merely a dramatic arrangement of the words, but many of the Jurors were visibly moved by the Doctor’s statement, and whispered, as in his behalf, among themselves. Against this, however, a woman seated just in the middle of the body who had vied with the businessman for first question, and had kept her hand half raised during the Doctor’s answer, now rose above the neighboring looks of wonderment in a voice edged with accusation: “Doctor, how fast would you estimate you were going at the point of the collision?”

“Let’s clarify this question,” said Dr. Eichner with spirited good nature. “There were several ‘points-of-collision,’ though perhaps no more than three distinct ones, these occurring over the distance of a 16th mile or so. You have asked for an
estimate
of speed. Clearly, it will be only that—though I might add, that, as such, it will be relatively expert. Frankly, I anticipated this, if not as a question, then as a point of interest, and I have already made the calculations. I think I will ask your indulgence, however, to mentally re-check these figures.”

And while the wrath on the woman’s face appeared to soften toward annoyance, and around her some of the Jurors coughed and whispered, Judge Lester himself gently cleared his throat, and Dr. Eichner was again in the attitude of concentrated thought, his head back, eyes half-closed, fingertips tremoring on the railing of the stand, but only for an instant. “Yes, that is correct,” he said with finality. “My estimates, then—for the speed at the points-of-collision: first point, 95; second, 112; and the third, 127.” Each figure was spoken distinctly and after a pause, evidently for the benefit of anyone taking notes; but with the announcement of the third figure, the Jury became such a muddle of whispered astonishment that Judge Lester had to rap twice for order.

“A-hundred-and-twenty-seven-miles-an-
hour
?” echoed one young-man’s voice above the gavel.

“That is my estimate,” said the Doctor, taking it for a question, and there was a whining woman-chorus of “Why, I never!”

“What kind of car do you
drive,
Doctor?” asked the businessman in a voice that seemed too harsh for contempt alone.

“Delahaye 235,” said the Doctor, almost proudly; but his smile was modest, as though the two men had established a bond.

“
What
kind?” asked the chorus, turning cross on itself like a thin, wounded snake. And as the young man’s voice was heard again to say “souped-up!” Judge Lester spoke out mildly: “Let us have order. The two cars involved, as stated in Officer’s Report, were a Cadillac sedan, and a Delahaye. The Delahaye is a French sports car.”

When Judge Lester stopped speaking, the attention of the Jury seemed to remain with him as if he should have more to say on the matter. Several actually strained toward him in speechless anticipation, and then seemed to take his silence as an unleashing, for they all tried to speak at once, but almost as quickly gave way to the woman who had asked the important question, and who was still standing.

“Doctor, how did you happen to be going so fast in the
first
place?”

Dr. Eichner’s face clouded slightly. “Fast?” There was some confusion in his tone, which only then seemed overcome by friendly reproach. “Perhaps our standards are different,” he said quietly. “By ‘first
place,
’ however, I assume you mean the first point of collision? The speed there we’ve estimated at 95 . . .” Here his voice trailed away and, though not at a loss, he gave a shrug, merely as if there were nothing more to add.

“And don’t you consider that just
a-little-fast,
Doctor?” The businessman spoke out so sharply that for one electric moment everything seemed to hinge on the Doctor’s response.

Yet he did not falter, but only gazed at the man with curious interest before replying: “In what sense? Certainly not in the
legal
sense—our concern here—since there is no lawful requirement, or limitation, of speed on the Canyon Drive between Wilshire and Drexel. That is correct, is it not, Judge Lester?”

“Yes, that is true,” said the Judge, who was leaning forward now in close attention, and he continued after a pause: “I do not consider the question, however, necessarily improper.”

“
I
do not consider the question necessarily improper,” Dr. Eichner agreed, speaking with restrained enthusiasm to Judge Lester, as though the two of them were comfortably before an open fire, alone, about to savor some Old Port and metaphysics. “It is a
personal
question, however, and I think our best approach to it is a semantic one. I would have to ask the Juror what he intends by his word,
fast?
” And so, returning to the questioner with a tolerant smile, the Doctor continued. “
Fast,
you mean, no doubt, as opposed to
slow.
But I would have to ask you: which slow? Slow, as the hands of a clock? Or Slow . . . as a guided missile?”

“I don’t mean
slow,
Doctor,” said the businessman as though he had uncovered a scorpion, “I mean FAST, and fast for an automobile!”

“I was almost sure you did,” said the Doctor affably. “Still, we mustn’t anticipate the relative-value, must we? And yet I
will
anticipate, that by automobile, you mean
my
automobile or
an
automobile of its type: straight-six with an FIA Class D displacement. In which case, the answer is: No, it is not fast. A glance at last year’s record sheets for the Le Mans and Biarritz runs will reassure you on that point; or again, at the Official Log of flat-trials at Salt Lake, available, I believe, in our Public Library.”

When the Doctor ended, the Jury seemed embarrassedly quiet, immobile, some staring at the Doctor with that open, hopelessly committed wonder that ragged children hold for people eating cake, while the eyes of the others turned beseechingly to the presidium, from where Judge Lester, his head slightly to the side, a faint smile on his lips, asked in a curious voice: “How
did
you happen to be going at that speed, Doctor? In the first place,” he added, a bit colloquially, so that there was at least a sheen of innocent levity over the question, and from somewhere in the Jury then, came one, isolated laugh, raucous, but buried and irrelevant, as the rest of the body seemed to relax into confidence again.

“In point of fact,” the Doctor took him up, certainly with a trace of outward malice, “since it has been recorded—by our estimate, granted—that the initial speed, that is, the speed of the ‘first place,’ was 95, while the others were: 112 and 127 respectively, I think we may safely say that it was not
fast,
but, indeed,
relatively
slow.”

This drew a strange laugh from a part of the Jury, a blind and desperate laugh, as though now they were laughing at the possible ridicule of Judge Lester, who himself smiled, a little painfully. But all this suddenly changed when the one apparently Negro member of the Jury, a properly dressed man, who had followed the proceedings with straightfaced attentiveness, leaned toward his neighbor and said aloud: “Ah cain’ heah! Do he say:
slow
? Or do he say:
flyin’ low
?”

Here was a recognizable attempt to be a party to things, and about half the Jury laughed uproariously.

“How’s that?” asked Dr. Eichner, not having correctly heard, but wanting, with a searching smile, to be in on the joke too. And the Jury laughed again, this time with a kind of savagery.

A part of the Jury, however, did
not
laugh but, like the Negro, maintained very straight-faces, as if they were consciously refusing to laugh at what was ordinarily laughable; and Dr. Eichner may have taken this combination of laughter and the show of plain serious faces as interest and allegiance, for he proceeded in the next few sentences dangerously to incriminate himself.

“The speed, then, was 95. As a matter of personal curiosity, however, I don’t mind telling you the circumstances of that particular figure.” He paused, and then began anew, speaking with brisk confidence. “I know this stretch of drive,” he said firmly. “I time my descent, from one-eighth mile, on the light at Drexel, a five-second duration. This calls for an average of 97.5. Now then. I had
slowed
to 65 for the starting marker, and from that point I gained steadily until the first collision . . . which occurred at almost precisely—give or take a maximum 30 feet—the halfway point of the descent, that is to say: a 16th mile from the light. Immediately prior to this, I had attained a speed of . . . perhaps 105, but had dropped to 85 to let the sedan pass, which, as I stated in my earlier account, it failed, or refused, to do. Then, of course, when I made my bid . . .”

“I’m sorry,” interrupted Judge Lester with a look of discomfort on his face. “You say you
timed
your descent against the light, Doctor. What do you mean by that, exactly?”

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” replied the Doctor. “I don’t believe I said ‘
against
the light,’ but rather ‘
on
the light,’ or perhaps, ‘
by
the light.’ ”

“But you were, in fact, racing the light? Isn’t that so?”

“No. No, I could not express it that way. You imply an element of competition that, in fact, was not present. The light was, as it
is,
of course, a fixture, a mechanical implement. I was
using that
fixture to
time my descent
; exactly, I believe, as I stated.”

Judge Lester had started forward, as in exasperation, a finger raised to press the question, when the Jury suddenly exploded in a disorder of mixed comment:

“He was trying to beat the light when it happened!”

“Where does he think this is?”

“Running a red light!”

“
He’s
not so dumb!”

“Ran the light.”

“Yeah,
he’s
crazy—like a fox!”

“Not as dumb as he makes out!”

Judge Lester rapped for order with his gavel, at the same time shuffling some papers before him.

“If I’m not mistaken,” he said evenly, “this is an aspect of the incident that you failed to bring out in your earlier statements, both to the Officers and to Captain Meyer. Is that not correct?”

“I can’t go along with that phrasing,” said Dr. Eichner, irritably. “
‘Failed?’
No, I withheld the fact, if you like. And advisedly so. To have done otherwise would have served no constructive end in point of law, while, psychologically, it would simply have pointed up the already misplaced emphasis that the Officers had given the circumstances. I’ve had a decent amount of training in fundamental psychology, you see, and I-think-I-know-when . . .”

“That’s sophistry,” said the loud young whisper that had earlier said “souped-up.” And, as suddenly, a man who looked like a farmer, in the center of the body, lurched himself forward, speaking abruptly, his face a scrubbed red leather. “What I want to know, and what I believe the
rest
of this Jury wants to know, without all this two-faced double talk, is whether or not you were trying to BEAT THAT LIGHT!”

Dr. Eichner sighed aloud. It was evident he had begun to tire. “No,” he said wearily. “No, decidedly not. You apparently imagine the traffic-light to be something other than a useful mechanism. Perhaps you see it as a
living
thing, whose intelligence and attitude somehow represent a threat . . . to me, and with whom my relationship necessarily is one of combat. Now, is this my attitude? Or is it your attitude? Or, indeed, is it not simply the attitude you
attribute
to me? In any event, let us agree that
you
see in my relationship to the traffic-light, a combat. And in this much, your statement is, in our hypothesis, correct, for it justifies the use of your word, ‘beat.’ As far as you are concerned then, I was, indeed, ‘beating the light.’ Not even in this context, however, is the word, ‘trying,’ admissible, for ‘trying’ implies
risk
or possible failure as a point of my attitude. This is not within your prerogative. You may say, if you like, simply that I
was
‘beating the light.’ The choice of words is, of course, your own affair.”

“Boy, is that sophistry!” said the young man. “Dig that sophistry!”