Calamity Town Page 18

  “No,” said Bradford wearily. ”Unconscious utterances. Inadmissible testimony. Go way, Emil, and let me work, will you?”

  Dr. Poffenberger was indignant. He repeated the story to as many of his patients as would listen, which was practically all of them.

  Gus Olesen’s story reached the Prosecutor’s ears by way of Patrolman Chris Dorfman, Radio Division (one car). Patrolman Chris Dorfman had “happened” to drop into Gus Olesen’s place for a “coke” (he said), and Gus, “all het up,” had told him what Jim Haight had once said to him, Gus, on the occasion of a “spree.” And now Patrolman Chris Dorfman was all het up, for he had been wondering for weeks how he could muscle into the trial and take the stand and get into the papers.

  “Just what is it Haight is supposed to have said, Chris?” asked Prosecutor Bradford.

  “Well, Gus says Jim Haight a couple of times drove up to the Tavern cockeyed and wanting a drink, and Gus says he’d always turn him down. Once he even called up Mrs. Haight and asked her to come down and get her husband, he was raisin’ Cain, plastered to the ears. But the thing Gus remembers that I think you ought to get into your trial, Mr. Bradford, is when one night Haight was in there, drunk, and he kept ravin’ about wives, and marriage, and how lousy it all was, and then he said: ‘Nothin’ to do but get rid of her, Gus. I gotta get rid of her quick, or I’ll go nuts. She’s drivin’ me nuts!’ “

  “Statements under the influence of liquor,” groaned Cart. ”Highly questionable. Do you want me to lose this case on reversible error? Go back to your radio car!”

  Mr. Anderson’s story was simplicity itself. With dignity he told the New York reporter: “Sir, Mr. Haight an’ I have quaffed the purple flagon on many an occasion together. Kindred spirits, you understand. We would meet in the Square an’ embrace. Well do I recall that eventful evening in ‘dark December,’ when ‘in this our pinching cave,’ we discoursed ‘the freezing hours away’! Cymbeline, sir; a much-neglected masterwork . . . ”

  “We wander,” said the reporter. ”What happened?”

  “Well, sir, Mr. Haight put his arms about me and he said, Quote: ‘I’m going to kill her, Andy. See ‘f I don’t! I’m going to kill her dead!’ “

  “Wow,” said the reporter, and left Mr. Anderson to go back to sleep on the pedestal of the Low Village World War Memorial.

  But this luscious morsel, too, Prosecutor Bradford refused; and Wrightsville muttered that there was “something phony,” and buzzed and buzzed and buzzed.

  The rumors reached Judge Lysander Newbold’s ears. From that day on, at the end of each court session, he sternly admonished the jury not to discuss the case with anyone, not even among themselves.

  It was thought that Eli Martin had something to do with calling the rumors to Judge Newbold’s attention. For Judge Martin was beginning to look harried, particularly in the mornings, after breakfast with his wife. Clarice, who served in her own peculiar way, was his barometer for readings of the temper of Wrightsville. So a fury began to creep into the courtroom, and it mounted and flew back and forth between the old lawyer and Carter Bradford until the press began to nudge one another with wise looks and say “the old boy is cracking.”

  * * *

  Thomas Winship, head cashier of the Wrightsville National Bank, testified that James Haight had always used a thin red crayon in his work at the bank, and produced numerous documents from the files of the bank, signed by Haight in red crayon.

  The last exhibit placed in evidence by Bradford¯a shrewd piece of timing¯was the volume Edgcomb’s Toxicology, with its telltale section marked in red crayon . . . the section dealing with arsenic.

  This exhibit passed from hand to hand in the jury box, while Judge Martin looked “confident” and James Haight, by the old lawyer’s side at the defense table, grew very pale and was seen to glance about quickly, as if seeking escape. But the moment passed, and thenceforward he behaved as before¯silent, limp in his chair, his gray face almost bored.

  * * *

  At the close of Friday’s session, March the twenty-eighth, Prosecutor Bradford indicated that he “might be close to finished,” but that he would know better when court convened the following Monday morning. He thought it likely the People would rest on Monday.

  There was an interminable conversation before the Bench, and then Judge Newbold called a recess until Monday morning, March the thirty-first.

  The prisoner was taken back to his cell on the top floor of the Courthouse, the courtroom emptied, and the Wrights simply went home. There was nothing to do but wait for Monday . . . and try to cheer Nora up.

  Nora lay on the chaise longue in her pretty bedroom, plucking the roses of her chintz window drapes. Hermy had refused to let her attend the trial; and after two days of tears, Nora had stopped fighting, exhausted.

  She just plucked the roses from the drapes.

  But another thing happened on Friday, March the twenty-eighth. Roberta Roberts lost her job.

  The newspaperwoman had maintained her stubborn defense of Jim Haight in her column throughout the trial¯the only reporter there who had not already condemned “God’s silent man,” as one of the journalistic wits had dubbed him, to death.

  On Friday, Roberta received a wire from Boris Connell in Chicago, notifying her that he was “yanking the column.”

  Roberta telegraphed a Chicago attorney to bring suit against News & Features Syndicate.

  But on Saturday morning there was no column.

  “What are you going to do now?” asked Ellery Queen.

  “Stay on in Wrightsville. I’m one of those pesky females who never give up. I can still do Jim Haight some good.”

  She spent the whole of Saturday morning in Jim’s cell, urging him to speak up, to fight back, to strike a blow in his own defense. Judge Martin was there, quite pursy-lipped, and Ellery; they heard Roberta’s vigorous plea in silence.

  But Jim merely shook his head or made no answering gesture at all¯a figure bowed, three-quarters dead, pickled in some strange formaldehyde of his own manufacture.

  Chapter 22

  Council of War

  The whole weekend stood between them and Monday. So on Saturday night Nora invited Roberta Roberts and Judge Eli Martin to dinner to “talk things over” with the family.

  Hermione wanted Nora to stay in bed, because of her “condition”; but Nora said: “Oh, Mother, it will do me lots more good to be up on my feet and going through some motions!” So Hermy wisely did not press the point.

  Nora was beginning to thicken noticeably about the waist; her cheeks were puffy and unhealthy-looking suddenly, and she walked about the house as if her legs were stuffed with lead. When Hermione questioned Dr. Willoughby anxiously, he said that “Nora’s getting along about as well as we can expect, Hermy.” Hermy didn’t dare ask him any more questions. But she rarely left Nora’s side, and she would go white if she saw Nora try to lift so much as a long biography.

  After dinner, which was tasteless and uneasy, they all went into the living room. Ludie had tightly flapped the blinds and lit a fire.

  They sat before it with the uncomfortable stiffness of people who know they should say something but cannot think of what. There was no solace anywhere, not even in the friendly flames. It was impossible to relax¯Nora was too much there.

  “Mr. Smith, you haven’t said much tonight,” remarked Roberta Roberts at last.

  Nora looked at Ellery beseechingly, but he avoided her eyes.

  “There hasn’t been too much to say, has there?”

  “No,” the newspaperwoman murmured. ”I suppose not.”

  “As I see the problem before us, it’s not intellectual or emotional, but legal. Faith isn’t going to acquit Jim, although it may bolster his spirits. Only facts can get him off.”

  “And there aren’t any!” cried Nora.

  “Nora dearest,” moaned Hermy, “please. You heard what Dr. Willoughby said about getting upset.”

  “I know, Mother, I know.” Nora glan
ced eagerly at Judge Eli Martin, whose long fingers were bridged before his nose as he glowered at the fire. ”How does it look, Uncle Eli?”

  “I wouldn’t want to deceive you, Nora.” The old jurist shook his head. ”It looks just as bad as it possibly can.”

  “You mean Jim hasn’t got a chance?” she wailed.

  “There’s always a chance, Nora,” said Roberta Roberts.

  “Yes,” sighed the Judge. ”You can never tell about a jury.”

  “If there was only something we could do” said Hermy helplessly.

  John F. burrowed more deeply into his smoking jacket.

  “Oh, you people!” cried Lola Wright. ”Moaning the blues! I’m sick of this sitting around, wringing our hands¯” Lola flung her cigarette into the flames with disgust.

  “So am I,” said Pat between her teeth. ”Sick as the devil.”

  “Patricia darling,” said Hermy, “I’m sure you’d better stay out of this discussion.”

  “Of course, Momsy,” said Lola with a grimace. ”Your baby. You’ll never see Pat as anything but a long-legged brat who wouldn’t drink her nice milk and kept climbing Emmy DuPre’s cherry tree!”

  Pat shrugged. Mr. Ellery Queen regarded her with suspicion. Miss Patricia Wright had been acting peculiarly since Thursday. Too quiet. Over-thoughtful for a healthy extrovert. As if she were brewing something in that fetching skull-pan of hers. He started to say something to her but lit a cigarette instead. The Gold Rush of ‘49, he thought, started with a battered pan in a muddy trickle of water. Who knows where the Fact may be found?

  “Ellery, what do you think?” pleaded Nora.

  “Ellery’s been mulling over the case looking for a loophole,” Pat explained to Judge Martin.

  “Not legally,” Ellery hastened to explain as the Judge’s brows went up. ”But I’ve been handling crime facts so long in fiction that I’ve¯uh¯acquired a certain dexterity in handling them in real life.”

  “If you juggle these with any success,” growled the old lawyer, “you’re a magician.”

  “Isn’t there anything?” Nora cried.

  “Let’s face it, Nora,” said Ellery grimly. ”Jim’s in a hopeless position. You’d better prepare yourself . . . I’ve gone over the whole case. I’ve sifted every grain of evidence in the hopper. I’ve weighed every known fact. I’ve reexamined each incident a dozen times. And I haven’t found a loophole. There’s never been so one-sided a case against a defendant. Carter Bradford and Chief Dakin have built a giant, and it will take a miracle to topple it over.”

  “And I,” said Judge Eli dryly, “am no Goliath.”

  “Oh, I’m prepared all right,” said Nora with a bitter laugh. She twisted about violently in her chair and dropped her face on her arms.

  “Sudden movements!” said Hermy in an alarmed voice. ”Nora, you’ve got to be careful!” Nora nodded without raising her head.

  And silence entered, to fill the room to bursting.

  “Look here,” said Ellery at last. He was a black man against the flames. ”Miss Roberts, I want to know something.”

  The newspaperwoman said slowly: “Yes, Mr. Smith?”

  “You’ve lost your column because you chose to buck public opinion and fight for Jim Haight.”

  “This is still a free country, thank God,” said Roberta lightly. But she was sitting very still.

  “Why have you taken such a remarkable interest in this case¯even to the point of sacrificing your job?”

  “I happen to believe Jim Haight is innocent.”

  “In the face of all the evidence against him?”

  She smiled. ”I’m a woman. I’m psychic. That’s two reasons.”

  “No,” said Ellery.

  Roberta got to her feet. ”I’m not sure I like that,” she said clearly. ”What are you trying to say?”

  The others were frowning. There was a something in the room that crackled more loudly than the burning logs.

  “It’s too beautiful,” mocked Mr. Queen. ”Too, too beautiful. Hard-boiled newspaperwoman renounces livelihood to defend total stranger who¯all the facts and all the world agree¯is guilty as Cain. There’s an excuse for Nora¯she’s in love with the man. There’s an excuse for the Wrights¯they want their son-in-law cleared for the sake of their daughter and grandchild. But what’s yours?”

  “I’ve told you!”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “You don’t. What am I supposed to do¯care?”

  “Miss Roberts,” said Ellery in a hard voice, “what are you concealing?”

  “I refuse to submit to this third degree.”

  “Sorry! But it’s plain you do know something. You’ve known something from the time you came to Wrightsville. What you know has forced you to come to Jim’s defense. What is it?”

  The newspaperwoman gathered her gloves and silver-fox coat and bag. ”There are times, Mr. Smith,” she said, “when I dislike you very much . . . No, please, Mrs. Wright. Don’t bother.” She went out with a quick step.

  Mr. Queen stared at the space she had just vacated. ”I thought,” he said apologetically, “I might be able to irritate it out of her.”

  “I think,” said Judge Martin reflectively, “I’ll have a heart-to-heart talk with that female.”

  Ellery shrugged. ”Lola.”

  “Me?” said Lola, surprised. ”What did I do, teacher?”

  “You’ve concealed something, too.”

  Lola stared. Then she laughed and lit a cigarette. ”You are in a Scotland Yard mood tonight, aren’t you?”

  “Don’t you think the time has come,” smiled Mr. Queen, “to tell Judge Martin about your visit to the back door of Nora’s house just before midnight New Year’s Eve?”

  “Lola!” gasped Hermy. ”You were there?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing at all, Mother,” said Lola impatiently. ”It hasn’t a thing to do with the case. Of course, Judge, I’ll tell you. But as long as we’re being constructive, how about the eminent Mr. Smith getting to work?”

  “At what?” asked the eminent Mr. Smith.

  “My dear Smarty-Pants, you know a lot more than you’ve let on!”

  “Lola,” said Nora, in despair. ”Oh, all this wrangling¯”

  “Don’t you think,” cried Pat, “that if there were something Ellery could do, he’d do it?”

  “I dunno,” said Lola critically, squinting at the culprit through her cigarette smoke. ”He’s a tough ‘un to figure.”

  “Just a minute,” said Judge Martin. ”Smith, if you know anything at all, I want to put you on the stand!”

  “If I thought going on the stand for you would help, Judge,” protested Ellery, “I’d do it. But it won’t. On the contrary, it would hurt¯a lot.”

  “Hurt Jim’s case?”

  “It would just about cement his conviction.”

  John F. spoke for the first time. ”You mean you know Jim is guilty, young man?”

  “I didn’t say that,” growled Ellery. ”But my testimony would make things look so black against him¯it would establish so clearly that no one but Jim could have poisoned that cocktail¯that you wouldn’t be able to shake it with the Supreme Court to help you. I mustn’t take the stand”

  “Mr. Smith.”

  Chief Dakin, alone . . .

  “Sorry to bust in this way, folks,” said the police chief gruffly, “but this was one subpoena I had to serve myself.”

  “Subpoena? On me?” asked Ellery.

  “Yes, sir. Mr. Smith, you’re summoned to appear in court Monday morning to testify for the People in the case of People Against James Haight.”

  PART FIVE

  Chapter 23

  Lola and the Check

  “I got one, too,” murmured Lola to Ellery Queen in the courtroom Monday morning.

  “Got one what?”

  “A summons to testify today for the beloved People.”

  “Strange,” muttered Mr. Queen.

  “The pup’s got something up his sleeve,”
said Judge Martin. ”And what’s J.C. doing in court?”

  “Who?” Ellery looked about.

  “J. C. Pettigrew, the real-estate man. There’s Bradford whispering to him. J.C. can’t know anything about this case.”

  Lola said in a strangled voice: “Oh, nuts,” and they stared at her. She was very pale.

  “What’s the matter, Lola?” asked Pat.

  “Nothing. I’m sure it can’t possibly¯”

  “Here’s Newbold,” said Judge Martin, hastily standing up. ”Remember, Lola, just answer Carter’s questions. Don’t volunteer information. Maybe,” he whispered grimly as the bailiff shouted to the courtroom to rise, “maybe I’ve got a trick or two myself on cross-examination!”

  * * *

  J. C. Pettigrew sat down in the witness chair shaking and swabbing his face with a blue polka-dot handkerchief, such as the farmers around Wrightsville use.

  Yes, his name is J. C. Pettigrew, he is in the real-estate business in Wrightsville, he’s been a friend of the Wrights for many years¯his daughter Carmel is Patricia Wright’s best friend.

  (Patricia Wright compresses her lips. Her “best friend” has not telephoned since January first.)

  There was an aqueous triumph about Carter Bradford this morning.

  His own brow was slick with perspiration, and he and J.C. kept up a duet of handkerchiefs.

  Q.¯l hand you this canceled check, Mr. Pettigrew. Do you recognize it?

  A.-Yep.

  Q.¯Read what it says.

  A.¯The date¯December thirty-first, nineteen-forty. Then it says: Pay to the order of cash, one hundred dollars. Signed J. C. Pettigrew.

  Q.¯Did you make out this check, Mr. Pettigrew?

  A.¯I did.

  Q.¯On the date specified¯the last day of last year, the day of New Year’s Eve?

  A.¯Yes, sir.

  Q.¯To whom did you give this check, Mr. Pettigrew?