The Chill la-11

by Ross Macdonald

  "I'm not ashamed of it, no matter what he says. It did her no harm to speak out about her father. It probably did her good. She had to get it out of her system somehow."

  "It isn't out of her system, though. She's still hung up on it." Just as you are, Miss Jenks. "But now she's changed her story."

  "Changed her story?"

  "She says now that she didn't see her father the night of the murder. She denies that he had anything to do with it."

  "Who told you that?"

  "Godwin. He'd just been talking to her. She told him she lied in court to please the adults." I was tempted to say more, but remembered in time that it would almost certainly be relayed to her friend the Sheriff.

  She was looking at me as if I had questioned a basic faith of her life. "He's twisting what she said, I'm sure. He's using her to prove that he was right when he was wrong."

  "I doubt that, Miss Jenks. Godwin doesn't believe her new story himself."

  "You see! She's either crazy or she's lying! Don't forget she's got McGee blood in her!" She was appalled by her own outburst. She turned her eyes away, glancing around the pink room as though it might somehow vouch for the girlish innocence of her intentions. "I didn't really mean that," she said. "I love my niece. It's just--it's harder than I thought to rake over the past like this."

  "I'm sorry, and I'm sure you love your niece. Feeling about her the way you do, and did, you couldn't have fed her a false story to tell in court."

  "Who says I did?"

  "No one. I'm saying you couldn't have. You're not the sort of woman who could bring herself to corrupt the mind of a twelve-year-old child."

  "No," she said. "I had nothing to do with Dolly's accusation against her father. She came to me with it, the night it happened, within half-an-hour of the _time_ it happened. I never questioned it for a minute. It had all the accents of truth."

  But she had not. I didn't think she was lying, exactly. More likely she was suppressing something. She spoke carefully and in a low voice, so that the motto in the living room wouldn't hear her. She still wasn't meeting my eyes. A slow dull flush rose from her heavy neck to her face. I said:

  "I doubt that it was physically possible for her to identify anyone, even her own father, at this distance on a dark night--let alone pick out a smoking gun in his hand."

  "But the police accepted it. Sheriff Crane and the D.A. both believed her."

  "Policemen and prosecutors are usually glad to accept the facts, or the pseudo-facts, that fit their case."

  "But Tom McGee was guilty. He was guilty."

  "He may have been."

  "Then why are you trying to convince me that he wasn't?" The flush of shame in her face was going through the usual conversion into a flush of anger. "I won't listen."

  "You might as well listen. What can you lose? I'm trying to open up that old case because it's connected, through Dolly, with the Haggerty case."

  "Do you believe she killed Miss Haggerty?" she said.

  "No. Do you?"

  "Sheriff Crane seems to regard her as the main suspect."

  "Did he say so to you, Miss Jenks?"

  "He as much as said so. He was feeling me out on what my reaction would be if he took her in for questioning."

  "And what was your reaction?"

  "I hardly know, I was so upset. I haven't seen Dolly for some time. She went and married behind my back. She was always a good girl, but she may have changed."

  I had the feeling that Miss Jenks was talking out of her deepest sense of herself: She had always been a good girl, but she might have changed.

  "Why don't you call Crane up and tell him to lay off? Your niece needs delicate handling."

  "You don't believe she's guilty of this murder?"

  "I said I didn't. Tell him to lay off or he'll lose the next election."

  "I couldn't do that. He's my senior in county work." But she was thinking about it. She shook the thought off. "Speaking of which, I've given you all the time I possibly can. It must be past twelve."

  I was ready to leave. It had been a long hour. She followed me downstairs and out onto the veranda. I had the impression as we said goodbye that she wanted to say something more. Her face was expectant. But nothing came.

  chapter 13

  The fog had thinned out a little along the coastline, but you still couldn't see the sun, only a sourceless white glare that hurt the eyes. The keyboy at the Mariner's Rest told me that Alex had driven away with an older man in a new Chrysler. His own red sports car was still in the parking enclosure, and he hadn't checked out.

  I bought a sandwich at a drive-in down the street and ate it in my room. Then I made a couple of frustrating phone calls. The switchboard operator at the courthouse said there wasn't a chance of getting hold of a trial transcript this afternoon: everything was locked up tight for the weekend. I called the office of Gil Stevens, the lawyer who had unsuccessfully defended Tom McGee. His answering service said he was in Balboa. No, I couldn't reach him there. Mr. Stevens was racing his yacht today and tomorrow.

  I decided to drop in on Jerry Marks, the young lawyer who had acted as Mrs. Perrine's defense counsel. His office was in a new shopping center not too far from the motel strip. Jerry was unmarried and ambitious, and he might be in it, even on a Saturday afternoon.

  The front door was open and I walked into the waiting room, which was furnished with maple and chintz. The secretary's cubicle behind the glass half-wall on the left was deserted for the weekend, but Jerry Marks was in the inner office.

  "How are you, Jerry?"

  "I'm all right."

  He looked at me guardedly over the book he was reading, an enormous tome entitled _Rules of Evidence_. He wasn't very experienced in criminal practice, but he was competent and honest. His homely Middle-European face was warmed and lit by intelligent brown eyes.

  "How's Mrs. Perrine?" I said.

  "I haven't seen her since she was released, and I don't expect to. I seldom see much of my ex-clients. I smell of the courtroom to them."

  "I have the same experience. Are you free?"

  "Yeah, and I'm going to stay that way. I promised myself a clear weekend of study, murder or no murder."

  "You know about the Haggerty murder then."

  "Naturally, it's all over town."

  "What have you heard?"

  "Really not very much. Somebody at the courthouse told my secretary that this lady professor was shot by a girl student at the college. I forget her name."

  "Dolly Kincaid. Her husband is my client. She's in a nursing home, under a doctor's care."

  "Psycho?"

  "It depends on your definition of psycho. It's a complex situation, Jerry. I doubt that she's legally insane under the McNaghten rule. On the other hand I very much doubt that she did the shooting at all."

  "You're trying to get me interested in the case," he said suspiciously.

  "I'm not trying to do anything to you. Actually I came to you for information. What's your opinion of Gil Stevens?"

  "He's the local old master. Get him."

  "He's out of town. Seriously, is he a good lawyer?"

  "Stevens is the most successful criminal lawyer in the county. He has to be good. He knows law, and he knows juries. He does pull some old-fashioned courtroom shenanigans that I wouldn't use myself. He's quite an actor, heavy with the emotion. It works, though. I can't remember when he's lost an important case."

  "I can. About ten years ago he defended a man named Tom McGee who was convicted of shooting his wife."

  "That was before my time."

  "Dolly Kincaid is McGee's daughter. Also, she was the key witness for the prosecution at her father's trial."

  Jerry whistled. "I see what you mean by complex." After a pause, he said: "Who's her doctor?"

  "Godwin."

  He pushed out his heavy lips. "I'd go easy with him."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I'm sure he's a good psychiatrist, but maybe not so much in the forensi
c department. He's a very bright man and he doesn't hide his light under a bushel, in fact he sometimes acts like a mastermind. Which puts people's backs up, especially if their name is Gahagan and they're sitting on the Superior Court bench. So I'd use him sparingly."

  "I can't control the use that's made of him."

  "No, but you can warn her attorney--"

  "It would be a lot simpler if you were her attorney. I haven't had a chance to talk to her husband today, but I think he'll go along with my recommendation. His family isn't povertystricken, by the way."

  "It wasn't the money I was thinking about," Jerry said coldly. "I promised myself that I'd spend this weekend with my books."

  "Helen Haggerty should have picked another weekend to get herself shot."

  It came out harsher than I intended. My own failure to do anything for Helen was eating me.

  Jerry regarded me quizzically. "This case is a personal matter with you?"

  "It seems to be."

  "Okay, okay," he said. "What do you want me to do?"

  "Just hold yourself in readiness for the present."

  "I'll be here all afternoon. After that my answering service will be able to contact me."

  I thanked him and went back to the motel. Alex's room next to mine was still empty. I checked with my own answering service in Hollywood. Arnie Walters had left his number for me and I called Reno.

  Arnie was out of the office, but his wife and partner Phyllis took the call. Her exuberant femininity bounced along the wires:

  "I never _see_ you, Lew. All I hear is your voice on the telephone. For all I know you don't exist any more, but simply made some tapes a number of years ago and somebody plays them to me from time to time."

  "How do you explain the fact that I'm responsive? Like now."

  "Electronics. I explain everything I don't understand electronically. It saves me no end of trouble. But when am I going to _see_ you?"

  "This weekend, if Arnie's tabbed the driver of the convertible."

  "He hasn't quite done that, but he does have a line on the owner. She's a Mrs. Sally Burke and she lives right here in Reno. She claims her car was stolen a couple of days ago. But Arnie doesn't believe her."

  "Why not?"

  "He's very intuitive. Also she didn't report the alleged theft. Also she has boy friends of various types. Arnie's out doing legwork on them now."

  "Good."

  "I gather this is important," Phyllis said.

  "It's a double murder case, maybe a triple. My client's a young girl with emotional problems. She's probably going to be arrested today or tomorrow, for something she almost certainly didn't do."

  "You sound very intense."

  "This case has gotten under my skin. Also I don't know where I'm at."

  "I never heard you admit that before, Lew. Anyway, I was thinking before you called, maybe I could strike up an acquaintance with Mrs. Sally Burke. Does that sound like a good idea to you?"

  "An excellent idea." Phyllis was an ex-Pinkerton operative who looked like an ex-chorus girl. "Remember Mrs. Burke and her playmates may be highly dangerous. They may have killed a woman last night."

  "Not this woman. I've got too much to live for." She meant Arnie.

  We exchanged some further pleasantries in the course of which I heard people coming into Alex's room next door. After I said goodbye to Phyllis I stood by the wall and listened. Alex's voice and the voice of another man were raised in argument, and I didn't need a contact mike to tell what the argument was about. The other man wanted Alex to clear out of this unfortunate mess and come home.

  I knocked on his door.

  "Let me handle them," the other man said, as if he was expecting the police.

  He stepped outside, a man of about my age, good-looking in a grayish way, with a thin face, narrow light eyes, a pugnacious chin. The mark of organization was on him, like an invisible harness worn under his conservative gray suit.

  There was some kind of desperation in him, too. He didn't even ask who I was before he said: "I'm Frederick Kincaid and you have no right to chivvy my son around. He has nothing to do with that girl and her crimes. She married him under false pretenses. The marriage didn't last twenty-four hours. My son is a respectable boy--"

  Alex stepped out and pulled at the older man's arm. His face was miserable with embarrassment. "You'd better come inside, Dad. This is Mr. Archer."

  "Archer, eh? I understand you've involved my son in this thing--"

  "On the contrary, he hired me."

  "I'm firing you." His voice sounded as if it had often performed this function.

  "We'll talk it over," I said.

  The three of us jostled each other in the doorway. Kincaid senior didn't want me to come in. It was very close to turning into a brawl. Each of us was ready to hit at least one of the others.

  I bulled my way into the room and sat down in a chair with my back to the wall. "What's happened, Alex?"

  "Dad heard about me on the radio. He phoned the Sheriff and found out where I was. The Sheriff called us over there just now. They found the murder gun."

  "Where?"

  Alex was slow in answering, as though the words in his mouth would make the whole thing realer when he let them out. His father answered for him:

  "Where she hid it, under the mattress of the bed in that little hut she's been living in--"

  "It isn't a hut," Alex said. "It's a gatehouse."

  "Don't contradict me, Alex."

  "Did you see the gun?" I said.

  "We did. The Sheriff wanted Alex to identify it, which naturally he couldn't do. He didn't even know she had a gun."

  "What kind of a gun is it?"

  "It's a Smith and Wesson revolver, .38 caliber, with walnut grips. Old, but in pretty fair condition. She probably bought it at a pawn shop."

  "Is this the police theory?"

  "The Sheriff mentioned the possibility."

  "How does he know it's hers?"

  "They found it under her mattress, didn't they?" Kincaid talked like a prosecutor making a case, using it to bring his son into line. "Who else could have hidden it there?"

  "Practically anybody else. The gatehouse was standing open last night, wasn't it, Alex?"

  "It was when I got there."

  "Let me do the talking," his father said. "I've had more experience in these matters."

  "It hasn't done you a hell of a lot of good. Your son is a witness, and I'm trying to get at the facts."

  He stood over me with his hands on his hips, vibrating. "My son has nothing whatever to do with this case."

  "Don't kid yourself. He's married to the girl."

  "The marriage is meaningless--a boyish impulse that didn't last one full day. I'm having it annulled. It wasn't even consummated, he tells me."

  "You can't annul it."

  "Don't tell me what I can do."

  "I think I will, though. All you can do is annul yourself and your son. There's more to a marriage than sexual consummation or legal technicalities. The marriage is real because it's real for Alex."

  "He wants out of it now."

  "I don't believe you."

  "It's true, isn't it, Alex, you want to come home with me and Mother? She's terribly worried about you. Her heart is kicking up again." Kincaid was throwing everything but the kitchen sink.

  Alex looked from him to me. "I don't know. I just want to do what's right."

  Kincaid started to say something, probably having to do with the kitchen sink, but I talked over him:

  "Then answer another question or two, Alex. Was Dolly carrying a gun when she came running back to the gatehouse last night?"

  "I didn't see one."

  Kincaid said: "She probably had it concealed under her clothes."

  "Shut up, Kincaid," I said calmly from my sitting position. "I don't object to the fact that you're a bloodless bastard. You obviously can't help it. I do object to your trying to make Alex into one. Leave him a choice, at least."

  K
incaid sputtered a couple of times, and walked away from me. Alex said without looking at either of us: "Don't talk to my father that way, Mr. Archer."

  "All right. She was wearing a cardigan and a blouse and skirt. Anything else?"

  "No."

  "Carrying a bag?"

  "I don't think so."

  "Think."

  "She wasn't."

  "Then she couldn't have been carrying a concealed .38 revolver. You didn't see her hide it under the mattress?"

  "No."

  "And were you with her all the time, between the time she got back and the time she left for the nursing home?"

  "Yes. I was with her all the time."

  "Then it's pretty clear it isn't Dolly's gun, or at least it wasn't Dolly who hid it under the mattress. Do you have any idea who it could have been?"

  "No."

  "You said it was the murder gun. How did they establish that? They haven't had time for ballistics tests."

  Kincaid spoke up from the far corner where he had been sulking: "It's the right caliber to fit the wound, and one shell had been fired, recently. It stands to reason it's the gun she used."

  "Do you believe that, Alex?"

  "I don't know."

  "Have they questioned her?"

  "They intend to. The Sheriff said something about waiting until they nailed it down with ballistic evidence, Monday."

  That gave me a little time, if I could believe Alex. The pressures of the night and morning, on top of the uncertainties of the last three weeks, had left him punchy. He looked almost out on his feet.

  "I think we all should wait," I said, "before we make up our minds about your wife. Even if she's guilty, which I very strongly doubt, you owe her all the help and support you can give her."

  "He owes her nothing," Kincaid said. "Not a thing. She married him fraudulently. She lied to him again and again."

  I kept my voice and temper down, for contrast. "She still needs medical care, and she needs a lawyer. I have a good local lawyer waiting to step in, but I can't retain him myself."

  "You're taking quite a lot into your hands, aren't you?"

  "Somebody has to assume responsibility. There's a lot of it floating around loose at the moment. You can't avoid it by crawling into a hole and pulling the hole in after you. The girl's in trouble, and whether you like it or not she's a member of your family."