Maigret at the Coroner's
Page 13
No one had seen the coroner, or the attorney, or O’Rourke, who were usually bustling about in the corridors.
The regulars had taken their places in the courtroom as of nine thirty and then had drifted out one after the other, leaving a hat or some other object to save their seats. They gazed down on Ezekiel. Some of them went downstairs for a Coca-Cola. The black woman with the baby spoke to Maigret, but he did not understand what she said and simply smiled at her, then tickled the child’s chin with one finger.
He went downstairs too, saw there was a meeting going on in the coroner’s glassed-in office and recognized O’Rourke, who was on the phone.
He slipped a nickel into the slot of the red machine and drank his first Coca-Cola of the morning from the bottle. From below, he continued to watch the five men leaning on the balustrade upstairs.
That is when he took a piece of paper from his wallet and scribbled something on it. There was a vendor of newspapers and postcards in the arcade who also sold envelopes, so Maigret bought one, slipped his paper inside, closed it and wrote O’Rourke’s name on the outside.
There was an increasing sense of impatience and a certain uneasiness. Everyone had finally noticed the door behind which the officials were closeted and from which emerged the occasional harried deputy, who would rush off to another office.
At last a light-coloured car stopped in front of the arcade, and a short, squat man crossed the patio, going towards the sheriff’s office. They must have been watching for him, because O’Rourke ran to meet him and led him back to the office. The door closed behind them.
Finally, at five to ten, with a last puff on his pipe, Ezekiel called out his traditional: ‘Members of the jury!’
Everyone sat down. The coroner tried different positions in his armchair and adjusted the microphone. Ezekiel fiddled for a moment with the air-conditioner buttons and went to shut the venetian blinds.
‘Angelino Potzi!’
O’Rourke looked around for Maigret and winked at him. Harold Mitchell, sitting a little way off, noticed the gesture and glowered.
‘Are you a food retailer and supplier for the Air Force base?’
‘I provide food and drink for the officers’ mess and the non-coms’ mess.’
His background was Italian, and he still had an accent. He was overheated from his hurried arrival and mopped his brow constantly, looking around with curiosity.
‘Do you know anything about the death of Bessie Mitchell? Have you heard anything about this inquest?’
‘No, sir. I arrived one hour ago from Los Angeles, where I went with one of my trucks to pick up some produce. My wife told me that someone had telephoned several times during the night to ask if I’d got home. A little while ago, just when I’d showered and was about to go to bed, a man from the sheriff arrived.’
‘What have you been doing since the morning of July 28?’
‘When I left the base, where I had some orders to pick up—’
‘Just a moment. Where did you spend the night of July 27 to July 28?’
‘In Nogales, on the Mexican side. I had just bought two truckloads of cantaloupes and one truckload of vegetables. I spent part of the night with my suppliers, as we often do.’
‘Did you have a lot to drink?’
‘Not much. We played poker.’
‘Did anything else happen?’
‘We went up to have a drink in the red-light district, and while my vehicle was parked outside, a car must have run into it, because I found one fender damaged.’
‘Describe your vehicle.’
‘It’s a beige Pontiac, which I bought used about a week ago.’
‘Did you know that the tyres had been bought on credit?’
‘I did not. I often buy and resell vehicles. Not so much for profit as to do someone a favour.’
‘At what time did you begin driving back to Tucson?’
‘It must have been about three a.m. when I drove through the border gate. I chatted for a moment with the immigration agent, who knows me well.’
He had kept the European habit of gesticulating while speaking and kept looking at all the people around him, as if he did not yet understand what was wanted of him.
‘Were you alone in the car?’
‘Yes, sir. As I approached Tucson Airport I saw someone signalling me to stop. I figured he was hitchhiking and was sorry he hadn’t turned up earlier, because I would have had some company.’
‘What time was that?’
‘I wasn’t driving fast. It must have been a little past four.’
‘Was it daylight?’
‘Not yet. But the sky wasn’t black any more.’
‘Turn around and tell us which of these men waved you down like that.’
Potzi did not hesitate.
‘It was the Chinese man!’
‘Was he alone by the highway?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘How was he dressed?’
‘I think he was wearing a purplish or violet shirt.’
‘Did you see any vehicles on your way to Tucson?’
‘Yes, I did, sir, about two miles farther on.’
‘Headed towards Nogales?’
‘Yes. A Chevrolet was parked by the side of the road, in front of a telegraph pole. Its lights weren’t on, and for a moment I thought it was an accident, because the front bumper was almost touching the pole.’
‘Did you notice anyone inside it?’
‘It was too dark.’
‘What did Corporal Wo Lee say when you stopped?’
‘He asked me if I would wait a moment for his two friends, who would be arriving any second. He added that all three of them were from the base, and I replied that I was just on my way there. I thought the two others had gone off a moment to relieve themselves.’
‘Did you wait a long time?’
‘It seemed long to me, yes.’
‘About how many minutes?’
‘Maybe three or four. The corporal shouted some names, using his hands like a megaphone, turned towards the railway tracks.’
‘Could you see the tracks?’
‘No, but I often drive that route and I know where they pass.’
‘Did Wo Lee walk towards the tracks?’
‘No. I could tell he’d decided to leave without his friends if they didn’t show up right away.’
‘He was inside the vehicle?’
‘He stayed outside, leaning on the front fender.’
‘Was that the fender that had been damaged in Nogales?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Maigret understood. The police must have found paint chips on the highway, which was why the three men had been asked if the car that brought them back to the base showed signs of an accident.
‘What happened next?’
‘Nothing. The other two arrived. We heard their footsteps first.’
‘Coming from the direction of the tracks?’
‘Yes.’
‘What did they say?’
‘Nothing. They got right in the car.’
‘Did they sit in the back?’
‘One of the two sat in back with the Chinese. The other sat next to me.’
He turned around and, without being asked, pointed at O’Neil.
‘That’s the one who was in front.’
‘Did he chat with you?’
‘No. He was very red and breathing heavily. I thought he was drunk and had maybe just vomited.’
‘They didn’t talk among themselves?’
‘No. To tell you the truth, I began to talk on my own.’
‘All the way to the base?’
‘Yes. I left them in the first courtyard, just after the barbed wire. I think the Chinese fellow was the only one to say thank you.’
‘Did you find anything in your car afterwards?’
‘No, sir. I took care of my business at the base and drove home. I often stay up all night. The driver came to get me with one of the trucks, and we headed out towards Los Angeles. We left there yesterday at noon. I haven’t read the papers, because I’ve been real busy.’
‘Any questions, members of the jury?’
They shook their heads, and Potzi, collecting the straw hat he had placed on the floor, went towards the exit.
‘One moment. Would you be good enough to hold yourself for a little while yet at the disposal of the court?’
As there were no empty seats, Potzi stood in the doorway and lit a cigarette, thus drawing upon himself the thundering of Ezekiel.
Just when O’Rourke was standing up at last, the elderly black juror raised his hand as if at school.
‘I would like for each of the five men to be asked, under oath, when he saw Bessie Mitchell, alive or dead, for the last time.’
Maigret shivered and looked at the juror with mingled astonishment and admiration. As O’Rourke sat back down, he turned towards his colleague with a look that said, ‘Not so stupid, that old guy!’
Only the coroner seemed annoyed.
‘Sergeant Ward!’ he called.
And when the sergeant was seated before the chrome-plated microphone:
‘You have heard the juror’s question. I remind you that you are still under oath. When did you last see Bessie, alive or dead?’
‘On July 28, in the afternoon, when Mr O’Rourke took me to the morgue to identify her.’
‘When did you see her before that for the last time?’
‘When she left the car with Sergeant Mullins.’
‘When the car was stopped for the first time, on the right side of the highway?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘When you left the car later to go and look for her, you did not see her?’
‘No, sir.’
The black juror indicated that he was satisfied.
‘Sergeant Mullins! I ask you the same question and remind you of the same caution. When did you see Bessie for the last time?’
‘When she got out of the car with Ward, and they went off into the darkness.’
‘During the first stop?’
‘No, sir. The second one.’
‘Meaning, when the car was already turned towards Tucson?’
‘Yes, sir. I did not see her again after that.’
‘Corporal Van Fleet.’
He was clearly at the breaking point. His nerves, for whatever reason, were beginning to give way, and the slightest shock would be enough to make him crumble. His face was red with blotches, his fingers twitched, and he hardly knew where to look.
‘Did you hear the question?’
O’Rourke had leaned over the attorney, who addressed the witness.
‘I emphasize the fact that you are testifying under oath and I remind you that perjury is a federal crime punishable by up to ten years in prison.’
He was a painful sight to see, like an injured cat being tortured by frenzied boys. For the first time, the tragic drama was striking home. At that very moment the black woman’s baby began to cry. The coroner scowled impatiently. The mother tried in vain to hush the child. Twice Van Fleet opened his mouth to speak, and both times the baby wailed even more loudly, so that in the end the woman regretfully decided to leave the courtroom.
Then Pinky opened his mouth once more, and it remained open without producing a single sound. The silence seemed as long as Potzi’s three-minute wait beside the highway. Everyone felt a desire to help the corporal, to whisper an answer to him or ask the coroner not to intimidate him any more.
O’Rourke bent down yet again to the attorney, who then rose and walked straight over to the witness stand, shaking a pencil at Van Fleet like a schoolteacher.
‘Did you hear Mr Potzi’s deposition? When he pulled over at the side of the highway, your friend Wo Lee was there, alone. Where were you?’
‘In the desert.’
‘Over by the railway tracks?’
‘Yes.’
‘On the railbed?’
He shook his head vigorously.
‘No, sir. I swear I did not set foot on the tracks.’
‘But, from where you were, couldn’t you see them?’
No reply. Van Fleet looked everywhere and nowhere. Maigret sensed that he must have been making a huge effort not to turn around towards O’Neil.
His forehead was beaded with sweat, and he was biting his nails again.
‘What did you see on the tracks?’
He did not answer, rigid with panic.
‘In that case, answer the first question: when did you see Bessie, alive or dead, for the last time?’
The Dutchman’s anguish was so telling that everyone’s nerves felt the strain, and some people must have felt like shouting, ‘Enough!’
‘I said alive or dead … Did you hear me? Answer!’
Then Van Fleet shot to his feet and burst into tears, shaking his head convulsively.
‘It wasn’t me! It wasn’t me!’ he yelled, panting. ‘I swear it! It wasn’t me! …’
He was shaking from head to toe, in hysterics, his teeth chattering, and he gazed around the courtroom with eyes so lost they could not have seen a thing.
O’Rourke moved quickly to him and grasped one arm firmly to keep the young man from flinging himself to the floor. He led him that way to the door and handed him over to Gerald Conley, the stout deputy with the carved-grip revolver.
He spoke to the deputy in a low voice, then went to confer with the coroner.
The atmosphere was one of hesitation, indecision. The attorney joined the discussion with the coroner, which continued for a few moments. Then the men seemed to look around for someone. Hans Schmider, the plaster-mould technician, was brought in from the corridor, carrying a package.
Addressing the black juror, the coroner murmured, ‘If you’ll allow us, we will listen to this witness before asking the last two men your question. Step up, Schmider. Tell us what you discovered last night.’
‘I went to the base with two men, and we searched through the rubbish waiting to be burned. The rubbish is piled up on some waste ground a little way from the barracks. We had to use flashlights. And this is what we found.’
From a cardboard box he withdrew a pair of shoes, rather battered, and showed that they had rubber heels.
‘I compared these with the footprints. They are definitely the shoes that left the second set of prints.’
‘Explain.’
‘I call set number one the footprints that go approximately from the car to the railway tracks, more or less following the path of Bessie Mitchell. Set number two designates the prints that begin farther along the highway towards Nogales, ending at the same place, on the railway bed, not far from where the body was found.’
‘Were you able to determine to whom these shoes belong?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Did you question the people at the base?’
‘No, sir. There are around four thousand men there.’
‘Thank you.’
Before leaving, Schmider placed the shoes on the attorney’s table.
‘Corporal Wo Lee.’
He walked over to the witness stand, and, once more, the microphone had to be lowered.
‘Do not forget that you are testifying under oath. I ask you the same question I put to your comrades. When did you see Bessie Mitchell for the last time?’
He did not hesitate. He did, however, wait a beat, the way he usually did, as if mentally translating the question into his own language.
‘When she left the car the second time.’
‘You did not see her after that?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Didn’t you hear her?’ the attorney asked quickly, after prompting from O’Rourke.
This time, Wo Lee thought longer, staring at the floor for a moment, opening his clear eyes wide, with their lashes as long as a girl’s.
‘I am not sure, sir.’
He immediately looked over at O’Neil, with an air of asking forgiveness.
‘What do you mean, exactly?’
‘I heard some noises, as if people were arguing and shaking bushes.’
‘When was that?’
‘Maybe ten minutes before the car drove up.’
‘You’re talking about Mr Potzi’s car?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You were by the highway?’
‘I never left it.’
‘Had it been a long time since you’d sent away the taxi?’
‘Maybe half an hour.’
‘Where were your friends?’
‘When we let go of the taxi, we walked all together at first towards Nogales, as I told you. I believe we had made a mistake about the place and had stopped too close to the airfield. After a while, we turned around and we split up. I continued to walk along the highway. I heard Van Fleet about twenty yards into the desert, and O’Neil was farther off.’
‘Over by the railway tracks?’
‘Just about. At one point, there was some noise.’
‘Did you recognize a woman’s voice?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Did the noise last a long time?’
‘No, sir, it was very short.’
‘Did you hear either Van Fleet’s voice, or O’Neil’s?’