The Edgar Pangborn Megapack

by Edgar Pangborn

  “Miss Blake, you ought to understand that what we are trying to do here is to discover the truth.”

  “What is truth?”

  “No comment.”

  “Mr. Lamson, since she must have got the poison in my apartment, and since I shouldn’t have had it there, I do feel remorse. But I am not breaking down and screaming at sight of these pictures, because that is not my way.”

  “Oh, now, the pictures aren’t all that important, Miss Blake. No occasion to make such an issue of the pictures. I thought it might be to your interest to look at them, since a jury will. The whole point, my dear girl—the whole point is we just don’t believe your story.”

  Cecil Warner came back from the side-bar discussion, looking rather blind. He murmured: “Couldn’t do much, Cal. They’re all going in. An open protest would just antagonize the jury.”

  “Does it really matter? She’d look the same whether she fell in or was pushed.”

  “Dear—I’ll be saying that of course. But it assumes that twelve minds can respect logic.”

  Hunter and Sergeant Peterson were being immensely fair. Finished now with the portraits of death, they were showing a photograph of a blunt-toed shoe superimposed on another mark. Peterson was even wordy and boring, explaining unnecessarily how you could tell that the footprint was made later. Then came photographs of the disturbed areas at other parts of the bank, and of the flat rock by the water’s edge that would take no sign.

  The rock. Cecil ought not to be looking so distressed for her. Behind her hand she whispered: “Peterson must have held his camera right where I stood. If the moon hadn’t come out of a cloud—I wonder, Cecil—would I have refused to understand she was there? It was a small cloud but deep, suddenly come, suddenly gone. The rock—I used to sit there for hours when I was a little girl, and dabble my feet. It was the first thing I saw, and suddenly, you understand?—because of the moon.”

  “The moon—”

  “Yes, ‘the moon, the inconstant moon’—don’t you remember I told you? The way the light strengthened in that gap of the hemlocks, and there was my rock, and then the whiteness in the water. Her arm, or that blouse—no, her jacket hid the blouse, she was face down. It must have been her arm, that whiteness, don’t you think?”

  “I suppose. Cal, this isn’t the time—”

  “I know. Hunter will ask: ‘Why didn’t you go into the pond, if your story is true? Why, Callista? She might have been alive.’”

  “We’ll deal with that in direct examination.”

  “He’ll come back to it, though. ‘How could you know, Callista? How could you know she was dead?’ And then I say: ‘Sir, dead or not, she was so quiet I couldn’t disturb her rest.’”

  “Cal, please!”

  “Are you going to cross-examine Sergeant Peterson?”

  “I don’t think so—nothing to gain.”

  “Ah, I was hoping you’d ask him why his damned silly face looks like a camera bellows.”

  “Hush! Shall I come to see you this evening?”

  “Oh—no—no, I am unwell. I mean—that is, I would so like to have two candles, one for you and one for—I’m sorry… I’m all right now. I’ll be quiet. But don’t come tonight—I did mean that. It’s something—I can’t explain it.”

  “All right, my dear. Maybe tomorrow evening.”

  “Yes, without fail. Let me tell you one thing more?”

  “What?”

  “I think I’m discovering that I want to live.”

  III

  Sergeant Peterson had droned his last and had been succeeded on the stand by Trooper Curtis, brisk and dry, with his plaster casts and fingerprints. Both men, Edith Nolan understood, were competent, honest, not deliberately wasting time. Hunter himself was not really unduly slow at this business of hammering home what was already clear and established: Callista had been there. The fingerprint evidence at Shanesville was quite negative: no prints except Ann’s on handbag or key case, none but hers and Jim’s on the Pontiac or the Dohertys’ front porch. All right and so what? It was half past three before Hunter and Curtis were solemnly finished with that apparent futility. It had never occurred to Edith that any part of this ordeal could be a bore. But it was.

  Then in a brief cross examination Warner brought out the fact that a police search of the grove between the pond and Walton Road had produced nothing at all. It could not matter. Curtis and Peterson had both acted rather pleased with their casts and photographs of the Volkswagen’s tire marks on the shoulder of Walton Road. They liked things complete, well wrapped. But it couldn’t matter, for in her statement to District Attorney Lamson Callista had admitted taking the Volkswagen first into the Dohertys’ driveway, following the footpath, seeing Ann’s body in the pond. She had admitted leaving then, driving around to Walton Road, parking there out of sight of her mother’s house.

  And the prosecution would surely not trouble to deny or even question Callista’s story of what happened then, in that half hour. She had stumbled off into the thick second-growth woods on the other side of Walton Road, a tangle of saplings, briers, poison ivy, wiry bushes, and young locust trees thorny in the dark, to get through a miscarriage in secret like a wounded animal and have done with it. To Edith, on the first occasion when with Warner’s help Edith had broken through the barriers and won a visit with Callista in the detention cell, Callista had said tersely, in haste to change the subject: “The brambles were the worst of it.” And that visit was not a time when she would accept any word of consolation. Something held back, Edith knew, some private tormenting reason why, even to her, Callista could not speak freely about that agony in the woods. Later, maybe. Everything now must be qualified with such words: “later”—“some time”—“after all this is over, Cal, and you are free.”

  Curtis was gone. Something smart and bright-eyed was down there swearing to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

  “Your full name and occupation, sir?”

  “Sutherland R. Clipp. I own and manage Clipp’s Garage on Duke Street, uptown—you know, repairs, gas, body work, matter of fact we do everything, you’d be surprised.”

  In startled disgust Edith thought: Everything? How lovely for you, Mr. Clipp! With the utmost geniality, Mr. Clipp went on to testify that on the evening of Sunday, August 16th, he had been driving home to Winchester by Walton Road, after delivering a 1956 Buick in the nicest condition you could imagine to a customer in Emmetville. He wanted to emphasize that the Buick was a dish, in spite of—well, low mileage. He had practically robbed himself, but that was his way, the customer came first, and it paid off—oh—yes, he’d been watching the time that evening because he had to pick up his wife after a church supper; got talking with that (completely satisfied) Emmetville client, and besides, the car he’d taken in exchange was kind of a sad heap that wouldn’t safely do anything over forty, and you know how women are if you keep them waiting, not that she—yes, he had passed the junction of Summer Avenue and Walton Road between 9:10 and 9:15, no later. He had seen a maroon Volkswagen parked under the pines, not too well off the road either, careless parking, one reason why he’d noticed it, although he always did notice them cheap foreign cars, which weren’t too bad if all you wanted was economical transportation, like, however—what?—no, there wasn’t anybody in the Volks or near it, unless somebody was scrouched down back of the dashboard when his headlights got there, but you couldn’t hardly do anything like that in them foreign cheapies—“Your witness, Mr. Warner.”

  Mr. Clipp’s hurt, astonished look inquired: Is that all?

  Without rising, Warner asked: “You do front end alignment?”

  “Well, no, sir, that calls for pretty tricky machinery. Still, the way we’re growing all the time—”

  “Interior finish?”

  “No, sir, that’s mostly factory. Of
course, in a pinch—”

  Edith heard Hunter begin snarling: “What possible bearing—”

  “None, sir. I just wanted to make sure Mr. Clipp hadn’t left out anything. No further questions.”

  During the short courtroom roar, checked by the gavel, Edith thought she could read exasperated forgiveness in the face of Judge Terence Mann. But foreman Peter Anson, she saw, was not amused, nor Hoag, nor Francis Fielding. Business is serious: to make fun of a man when he’s advertising is something like interrupting him in the men’s room.

  State Trooper Carlo San Giorgio, solemn, deceptively fresh-faced and young, followed Mr. Clipp. He had stopped a blue and white Pontiac, license JD1081, on Walton Road two miles beyond the city line, at 8:34 P.M., Sunday, August 16th. The driver was a young woman who gave her name as Mrs. James Doherty, which agreed with her driver’s license. Her driving had been unsteady, with some wavering over the white line.

  “Was she driving fast, exceeding the limit?”

  “No, sir, rather slow. Just unsteady.”

  “Did she seem in good command of herself when you spoke to her?”

  “Yes, but I did ask if she’d been drinking a little.”

  “Was her response satisfactory to you as a police officer?”

  “Well—yes, sir, it was.”

  “Did you notice any smell of alcohol on her breath?”

  “A trifle.” San Giorgio fidgeted. “Just barely noticeable.”

  “But according to your observation, she wasn’t what you’d call drunk, is that right?”

  “No, sir, she certainly wasn’t. Spoke coherently, understood what I said—real polite and—and nice.”

  “Did anything in her appearance suggest she might be ill?”

  “She was slightly hoarse. I’d stopped her car where there was a pretty good light from a house across the road, and I thought her eyes looked very slightly inflamed. Enough to suggest she might be—oh, perhaps coming down with a cold. You understand, sir, these were very slight things, otherwise I couldn’t have let her drive on.”

  Back of all that, Edith knew—back of the hedging, the slowly chosen words, back of Hunter’s questions blunted by the hearsay rule—was the thing that San Giorgio knew and keenly remembered and could not say. Warner’s dark eyes had narrowed to cold watchfulness, and Judge Mann’s pencil was still. There wasn’t any hearsay rule in Mr. Lamson’s office. But here in the arena, Carlo San Giorgio couldn’t say: “She said she’d had one little shot of brandy. And I said: ‘Oh well, Miss, I guess we won’t throw the book at you for that.’”

  Last night at dinner, Cecil Warner had done some thinking out loud about Trooper San Giorgio, who would have in his own young mind no reasonable doubt. San Giorgio could not repeat Ann’s words on the stand. And yet if he could, the Old Man said, it ought (if juries were logical) to make no essential difference. For there was no defense, he said, except a reasonable doubt as to criminal intent. “Reasonable doubt!” he said, and set down his glass because his fat hand was shaking. “You see it, Red? T.J. can say that criminal intent and premeditation are proved up to the hilt by the mere presence of the poison in Cal’s apartment. He will. He’ll rub their noses in it. Against that and a flock of other circumstantial facts, we’ve got just one fact, the fact of something that happened in Cal’s mind. Is it a fact?”

  “You and I both know it, don’t we? She had no intent to kill.”

  But instead of answering directly, the Old Man had said: “Red, do you understand she’s not certain of it herself?”

  Edith had not quite understood it, until then.

  “Did you give her a ticket, Trooper?”

  “No, sir. From the address on her driving license I knew she had only about a mile to go. I told her she’d better head straight for home, and I told her I’d follow along behind till she got there, which I did.”

  The youth was reliving it, Edith saw, and perhaps painfully. A pretty girl, hot night and hazy moon—had he hoped to be invited into the house for a quick check on burglars and a little drink? Oh, probably not. Ann had carried an obvious flag of conventional virtue. San Giorgio would have recognized and respected it, and done no more than a bit of summer’s-night dreaming.

  “You drove behind her car, as far as the house on Summer Avenue?”

  “I did, sir. I saw her turn in at the driveway, and since she made it all right, I drove on.”

  “Did you note the time?”

  “Yes, sir: 8:43.”

  “Mr. Warner?”

  “No questions.”

  Later last night, up at her studio, watching the fire in the grate through the prism of his wineglass, the Old Man said: “Who started the legend that the law court is a place devoted to search for truth? Answer, lawyers of course. But not counsel for the defense, Red. We know our function is to persuade. The prosecution may fool itself now and then, and kick the word ‘truth’ around; we can’t afford to.”

  Edith had said flatly: “The system stinks.”

  He wasn’t startled; he only grumbled: “I agree. The adversary system stinks. But working inside of it, my own position has logic enough to satisfy me. I get it out of a hypothesis, Red—not abstract truth, but working hypothesis. I say a human being once born has a right to live, if the word ‘right’ is going to mean anything—or let’s say, a right not to be murdered, judicially or any other way. In other words, I’d defend Cal if I thought she was guilty as hell.”

  Crew-cut gray hair and dignity marched to the stand, the face under the gray brush unknown to Edith but carrying a nearly unmistakable professional stamp. This would be bad. Look towards me, Cal! I’ll wear this old green suit tomorrow, too. “Arthur J. Devens, M.D.” Look toward me! But telepathy is like other kinds of magic, she knew: fun to play with as a notion; if it worked, we’d run screaming. “A.B. Columbia, 1930, M.D. from College of Physicians and Surgeons.” And maybe soon, another century or so, there’ll be no such thing as privacy on earth except in the dark center of a few minds not quite overwhelmed. The desert shall blossom like the rose: distilled sea water, atomic-power pumps, sure, nothing to it, but no room for roses, and no hiding place—“active as Coroner’s physician for Winchester County, New Essex, since 1952.” But friend, if something happens inside the mind I don’t know, to make you remember me, to turn your head toward me, I will smile. I’ll say with my lips: “We’re going to win.”

  “—preliminary examination made on the scene. The body was that of a young white woman in the middle twenties, of slight build, height five feet two. Rigor was complete, a light reddish post-mortem lividity noticeable, the face not markedly cyanotic. A moderate quantity of white cohesive foam adhered to nose and mouth. The hands, though stiffened in rigor, were not clenched as one often finds them in drowning cases. The conjunctivae were congested. Cutis anserina—gooseflesh—was pronounced on the thighs and upper arms. Gooseflesh,” said Dr. Devens politely and patiently to the jury, “is frequently evident after death by drowning, if the water is far enough below body temperature, as it ordinarily is even in the tropics. To sum up that preliminary, superficial examination: it suggested, but did not prove, that death had occurred with less struggle than is usual in a drowning. It did prove that life was not extinct when the body entered the water. There was at least some breathing, possibly the shallow breathing of unconsciousness, but enough inhaling and exhaling and choking reflex to cause that foam.”

  “Doctor, a hypothetical question: if a person were stunned, I mean knocked entirely unconscious, before falling or being thrown into the water, and then perished by drowning, would you expect to find the body, after twelve to thirteen hours of submersion, more or less in the condition of Mrs. Doherty’s at the time you made that first examination?”

  Edith saw Callista start as if struck in the face. Her dark brows gathered in that quick frown of hers, and s
he was leaning to Cecil Warner, whispering. She looked, Edith thought, more disgusted than angry. Cecil’s poker face remained in control. He only listened, shook his head, patted her hand.

  “Oh, hypothetical—well.… I dare say the findings wouldn’t be inconsistent. Of course, Mr. Hunter, I looked for any sign of head injury, a matter of routine, and found nothing of the kind.”

  “Isn’t it possible, Doctor, to receive a head injury, perhaps from a padded thing like a sandbag, that won’t leave any marks?”

  “No superficial marks, maybe. I think you’d find post-mortem evidence, likely subdural hemorrhage.”

  “Even from a blow that merely stunned?”

  With some acid and faraway amusement Dr. Devens remarked: “Even as Coroner’s physician, I’m not too versed in the lore of sandbags. But I think that a blow heavy enough to stun, followed very soon by death from another cause, would leave some internal evidence.”

  “Did you look for such evidence?”

  “I did.”

  “Is that standard procedure, by the way, when there’s convincing evidence of drowning?”

  “I can’t say that I lean very much on standard procedure. So far as I’m concerned, any case that reaches the Coroner’s office is unique. When there’s any possibility of homicide, I try to think of everything, including the apparently far-fetched. Yes, I examined the head: cranial section—well, I don’t suppose you want those details. Head, neck vertebrae, all perfectly normal, uninjured. In fact the one and only injury on the entire body surface was a trifling abrasion on the right anklebone, which could have been caused in any number of ways—a fall, or the anklebone scraping against something: impossible to say. I also examined the palms for earth marks, such as she might have got if she’d fallen forward and tried to break the fall with her hands. There weren’t any, but I dare say several hours’ immersion would have removed them if they were ever there. The skin of the palms was perfectly clear.”