Authors: Robert Traver

Anatomy of a Murder (41 page)

BOOK: Anatomy of a Murder

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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 âwhite-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 Claude 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 thingsâthe 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 himâalmost 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, todayâjust 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 himselfâhe 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 lostâlike 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 beforeâwhy 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 existedâlet 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 mystery, Laura,” I said, tugging up my brief case. “Maybe you've been praying â¦ . 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 radioâall badâand 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 saidârather have left unsaidâif 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 dyingâwe 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 nowâit seems, boy, almost as though a despairing God or nature or fateâcall it what you willâhas finally challenged mankind to open up its heart or perish â¦ .” 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?”

“Yes, even take Judge Weaver, Parn. Both of us like and respect him, but all we know and probably all we shall ever get to know about the man is but three small hairs on his head. It's a solemn mystery.”

“Ah, there, lad, now you've touched it. Yes, take our judge, Polly. Judges, like people, may be divided roughly into four classes: judges with neither head nor heartâthey are to be avoided at all costs; judges with head but no heartâthey are almost as bad; then judges with heart but no headârisky but better than the first
two; and finally, those rare judges who possess both head and a heart âthanks to blind luck, that's our judge.”

I nodded wordlessly.

“Alas, boy, we have plenty of words of bitter invective and scorn for people, but none to describe that man or our own Judge Maitland. It seems that humility and kindness and profound intelligence are so seldom blent in one man that the worldâat least the English-speaking worldâhas never felt compelled to coin a word to describe it. If it has, that word has eluded me.” He shook his head. “Our words are legion to describe bastardsâRoget is simply a-crawl with 'em. Yet to describe this judge of ours I have instead to make a small speech!” He looked at his watch. “But come, Polly, better turn aroundâit's off to do battle again.”

Every seat in the courtroom was taken and it seemed that there were almost twice as many people squeezed in the seats as the place could comfortably hold. Most of them were the same frizzy-haired, wall-eyed women who could have been turned out on the same lathe. The room grew perfectly still and Judge Weaver looked down at me and nodded. It was time for me to make the opening statement for the defense, the statement that Parnell and I had brooded over so long.

I arose and walked before the bench and bowed slightly and half turned toward the jury. “May it please the court and ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” I said, in what was probably one of the shortest opening statements to a jury in the annals of Michigan murder, “the defendant proposes to show that he was not guilty of murder or of any crime growing out of the fatal shooting of Barney Quill; that he was actually and legally insane when he shot the deceased; and that he had a perfect legal right to go to the place of the deceased as he did and seek him out. I thank you.” I turned and went back to my table and sat down.

“Call your first witness,” the Judge said.

“The defense will call Dr. Malcolm Broun,” I said. The curtain had risen on the third and final act of our courtroom drama.

Dr. Broun, a country doctor of the old school, hurried up to the stand in a kind of impatient sidewise lope. He was a large sandy craggy cliff of a man, almost defiantly untidy, and a stethoscope protruded ominously from the pocket of his wrinkled tweed jacket
as though he were bent upon pinning down and thumping, the Judge.

“I certainly do, young man,” the doctor boomed in answer to Clovis' oath, sitting and squarely facing me. I briefly qualified him âeverybody in the county knew old Doc Broun or Red Brounâthe unabashed lover of county fair harness racing, Scotch whisky and newly born babies (though I was not quite sure of the order).

“Doctor,” I said, “did you have occasion during July of this year to make a physical examination of Barney Quill in connection with his application for some policies of life insurance?”

“I did,” the doctor boomed, and I could feel the Dancer panting softly on my neck. “July twenty-eighth in my office.”

“And did you do so on behalf of Mr. Quill or the insurance company?”

“The latter, young manâand they paid me, too.”

“And what kind of a physical specimen did your examination disclose Mr. Quill to be?”

“Objection. Irrelevant, immaterial. Anyway results of examination privileged,” the Dancer cabled the Judge. “Too remote. No showing physical condition continued unchanged up to murder.”

“Mr. Biegler?” the Judge said.

“I believe the privilege would be personal to the deceased or his fiduciary,” I said, “and I am not aware that Mr. Dancer has now wormed his way in on the dead man's estate. Furthermore, this examination was made by this witness for the insurance companyâhe was not acting as Barney Quill's doctor. As for remoteness or possible change, I suggest that would be a question of fact for the jury; also possibly a proper matter for rebuttal by the People.” I paused and glanced at Claude Dancer. “If Mr. Dancer wants to show that Barney Quill went into a wizened decline since July twenty-eighth he can call Dr. Raschid and the others who attended the autopsy to prove itâthat, and by suppressing, if he can, all of the People's exhibits of the excellent photographs showing the deceased lying on the slab.” I quickly found and held up the pictures of Barney, and waved them so that the jury could see the body-beautiful, superb even in death.

“The objection is overruled,” the Judge said, rather unsuccessfully suppressing a smile.

During this exchange Dr. Broun had sat impatiently drumming his fingers on the mahogany railing of the witness box. His disapproving
look declaimed eloquently that if all this infernal nonsense constituted the practice of law he for one would gladly stick to his stethoscopes and clattering bedpans.

“You may answer now, Doctor,” I said.

“Incredible,” he murmured. “Well, young man, I am a doctor of medicine and not of divinity,” he growled. “Whatever this man Quill's morals may or may not have been, I can say this: they were lodged in the body of a Greek god. The man was compounded of whalebone and piano wire. He was a magnificent animalâlike a blooded stallion.” He stirred restlessly. “Any further questions?” It was more of a challenge than a question.

It was also a good question. “No further questions, Doctor, and thank you,” I said. “Your witness, Mr. Dancer.”

“No questions,” Claude Dancer said from his table, to which he had returned, glancing up sharply and glowering at Dr. Broun as he loped past him.

“The defense will call Dr. Orion Trembath,” I said. Dr. Trembath was the “lady” doctor who had examined Laura about a week after the shooting. He transported his big-shouldered field-marshal bulk to the stand with surprising ease and was sworn, sat down, and was examined by me as to his qualifications.

“Now, Doctor, do you have any specialties?” I went on, the preliminaries over.

“Yes,” he replied. “Obstetrics and gynecology.”

“And gynecology is what?”

BOOK: Anatomy of a Murder

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