Busy as we were, Charleston tried to keep a couple of men on night patrol, a chore he didn’t assign me presumably because I was on special duty. The night patrol rode around for reassurance, since the town and county were edgy, parents keeping sharp watch on their girls. Who could say that the murderer wouldn’t strike again? Charleston doubted the probability, not the possibility, of a third crime. On the streets men were saying, not quite in criticism, that at last he faced problems that were too much for him.
Under the circumstances it was largely Cole and I, assisted by Blanche Burton, who held down the office. Off and on Gewald would come in. He would brush by the watch command, enter the office as if it were his by right of position, pace around, scan the record, perhaps take a note or two and go out, barely speaking.
Yet I managed one night to spend a couple of hours with Anita. She had called to invite me to dinner, and I resolved to go even if I went to sleep at the table. Over chicken and dumplings and rhubarb pie we talked about the rape-murders, about the weather, about her livestock, with Omar telling us about pastures, the likely size of the hay crop and the general health of his charges.
He left us soon afterwards. I helped with the dishes and said thanks, I had to be going. At the door I kissed Anita’s responsive mouth, but when I pressed against her, she pushed me back, saying, “I told you once, when I do it I do it for keeps.”
Driving back for a turn at the office, I thought of the good job awaiting me. I thought of my age. I thought of Anita. Keeps didn’t seem a bad proposition.
I was at the office, yawning, by ten o’clock the next morning. Cole was yawning at the board. I heard Charleston’s greeting to Cole before he came through the door. The damn man had a habit of looking fresh and fit. He went to his chair and rubbed his hands as if with satisfaction. “You won’t believe it, Jase, but at last we have some leeway in our budget.”
“Good. But we manage to get along as it is.”
“Barely at the best of times. At the worst, as of now, we’re in bad shape. You know it. Stop yawning.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m going to put Blanche Burton on the force full time. What do you think about that?” His eyes questioned me, waiting for an objection, or perhaps for approval.
“Fine with me. She knows the routine. I guess she could handle herself against rough stuff.”
“I’m betting on it. But now, Jase, no male chauvinist protest?”
“Not from me. I can’t speak for the others.”
“A lightened workload is a great convincer.” He took out a thin cigar, lighted it, and presently pointed it at me. “That’s not all. I’m putting three women on as watch commanders, three of them, to be relieved on their days off by Blanche. She can train them to begin with. It’s a shame, wasting manpower on that board. A trained woman can function there as well as any man.”
“No question …”
“So be it, then. I want you to visit Blanche, tell her about her appointment, and ask her for suggestions about the women prospects. I’ll be strongly inclined to accept her recommendations.”
“Go now?”
“When better?”
I rose, but he halted me with, “Visit the prospects maybe. Might be best.”
I drove to Blanche’s small house. It stood on a fifty-foot lot freshly mown, with planters of petunias and pansies in bloom.
She opened the door to my knock and asked me in. The place was neat, not too feminine, as if she had no time or taste for frills. She motioned me to a black Boston rocker and took a seat on a sofa.
“Official call, Jase, or just social?”
“Make it both. First of all, the sheriff wants to put you permanently on the force. Full time, I mean.”
“Why,” she said with a movement of her hands that was not a flutter, “that’s wonderful. I accept.”
“That’s one thing.”
“Conditions?”
“Nope. Just more work for you. Mr. Charleston wants to add three women on as watch commanders.”
“That’s sensible, but where do I come in?”
“You’re the nominator, subject to approval. Know any likely prospects?”
“I certainly do.”
“You’ll have to train them, so be careful.”
“I can think of half a dozen offhand.”
“Names?”
“How many middle-aged widows would you guess we have around here? How do they spend their time? With bridge games, that’s what, and with sewing circles and with morning coffees and the trading of recipes they’ll never use and maybe a volunteer stint at the hospital. Anything to fill up the time.” Her eyes asked me for understanding. “They’re desperate, Jase. Some of them are. Their lives are so empty.”
“Gossipy old ladies wouldn’t do.”
“You ought to know me better than that.”
“Your suggestions then, Blanche.”
“I’ve been thinking ever since you opened the subject. Here are two I recommend. One is Jane Innis, the other Margaret Stafford. Know them?”
“They’re pretty solid citizens, as I remember.”
“You can repeat that. The other one might not strike you that way. She’s an unmarried mother.”
“With a child to take care of.”
“No. The grandparents have taken over the baby and are delighted with it.”
“And she’s delighted to shed the responsibility.”
“Not so. And don’t be impossible. The grandparents are not people of means, not by a long shot. So the girl does housework to support herself and help support them and the child. She’s a bright girl.”
“Not too bright, getting caught pregnant.”
“She was deceived by a man she won’t name. Now remember, Jase, one fall doesn’t make a whore out of a girl. Have you ever heard of redemption?”
“Not lately.”
“She was valedictorian of her class. She’s intelligent, industrious, and, despite your doubts, decent.”
“I suppose I ought to see her.”
“Not the other two?”
“I’m sure they’ll pass.”
“Let me see if I can find her.”
She excused herself and went out of the room to phone. When she returned, she said, “She’s housecleaning for Mrs. Gray today, and it will be all right if we call.”
At Mrs. Gray’s home a sprightly old lady answered the bell. She said, “Hello, Blanche. Come in. You want to talk to Susan Strand, you said. I’ll call her.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Gray, and do you know Deputy Sheriff Jason Beard?”
“I know his mother, of course, and his father when he was alive. But am I in some trouble?”
I said, “Not a bit of it.”
She left the room and presently a girl entered. She had on working clothes and a smudge on her nose. Her straight hair was tied back.
“Susan,” Blanche told her, “let me introduce Deputy Sheriff Jason Beard.”
The girl looked me straight in the eye and held out her hand. “I hope the law isn’t after me.” In spite of the words she looked unafraid. She had a small, stubborn nose and, I thought, suffering eyes.
“Yes,” I said, “the law is after you, thinking you might fit a job that is open.”
She had us sit down but kept standing herself. “A job?” she asked.
“This is exploratory,” I said. “The questions are: Do you want the job and do we want you?”
“What job?”
Blanche cut in. “It’s really just operating the switchboard and working the radio at the sheriff’s office. Answering questions and requests for help and radioing the reports to the deputies.”
“I know nothing about switchboards, and all I know about radio is to turn the set on.”
“That’s where I come in,” Blanche said. “I’ll teach you.”
The girl looked down at her soiled clothes. She raised her soiled hands and regarded them. She murmured, “A job.”
Differently gotten up, I
thought, she could be pretty. She was pretty already. But prettiness wasn’t a credential. The stubborn nose, and honest eyes, the open manner—they could be.
Blanche put in softly, “Mr. Beard knows about your trouble.”
“Everybody does.” She turned her face full to me. “There’s no funny business in this job, is there?”
Again Blanche broke in, “For goodness sake! Funny business? In Mr. Charleston’s office? Of course not.”
“I had to know. I can’t rely on trust.”
Blanche’s eyes questioned me, and I gave her the go-ahead. “We’re satisfied,” she told the girl, “and we hope you will be. I’ll notify you when to report, and Mr. Charleston will explain about salary.”
Susan looked me full in the eyes again, though her own were shiny. In a low voice she said, “Thank you.”
She turned before I could say to her, “Thank Blanche Burton.”
Gewald was entering the inner office when I came in. I followed him. Charleston was looking out a window, his face thoughtful, but walked to his desk and sat down when we appeared. Without invitation Gewald took a seat. “I’ve talked to Mefford’s brother,” he announced.
“The one who put up bond?”
“Yep. First name’s Giles. Business man and doing well. Real estate and insurance.”
“What was the purpose?”
Gewald gestured with a bony finger. “Background. Background. He told me a lot.”
As if we were eager to hear, he went on, “He’s younger than our Mefford, a sort of baby brother. That’s why he put up bond. I mean when they were kids Mefford protected him from the bullies. Broke one boy’s jaw, but that was juvenile stuff and nothing came of it.”
Charleston said, “Uh-huh.”
“Now Giles told me his brother was always self-willed and hot-headed and, though he didn’t like to admit it, not too smart. Mefford’s been charged a couple of times, assault and battery and such, but spent just one week in jail. That’s our weak-headed law for you.”
“Interesting,” Charleston said, not meaning it.
“What’s more interesting is this.” Gewald used that finger again. “Long as I was in the big town, I thought I’d question Antonelli, that music teacher. But he wasn’t home in his apartment, and no one, not even his son, knew where he was. That mean anything to you?”
Charleston gave a flat “No.”
“It might. It might. Anyhow I’ve told you.”
Gewald hitched himself up and went out the door.
Charleston leaned back and folded his hands over his stomach. “You know, Jase, that man’s thorough. Give him that much credit. All he needs is a new personality.”
“And to quit thinking everyone’s guilty.”
“Now what about those women for the board?”
I told him about the prospects, and he answered, “Good. Sounds good. So does the idea of dinner. Knock off, Jase.”
18
The next day was what I called indignation day. It was as if the men arrived by arrangement among themselves, though developments showed otherwise.
First on the scene was Gerald Fenner, the Overthrust attorney, who had given the sapphire to Laura Jane Smitson. He came in, grim-faced, and stated to Charleston, “My name is Gerald Fenner. I’m a lawyer.” His nod to me was abrupt.
Charleston said, “Yes,” and offered his hand, which Fenner affected not to see. “Please sit down, Mr. Fenner.”
“Briefly, for what I have to say won’t take long.” He was looking Charleston square in the eye. “A citizen’s complaint, Mr. Charleston, against the breaking of confidences and the harassment of innocent men.”
“Those are serious charges.”
“Not so long ago I gave your Mr. Beard here some highly confidential information, not to be used unless vital to a murder case. Now I find it is public knowledge.”
“What leads you to that conclusion?”
“A man named Gewald, representing you, I take it.”
“You take it wrong. Gewald does not represent this office.”
“Then who? Then what?”
“The state. He is the criminal investigator. As an officer of the law he will or should keep that information confidential.”
“But he came by it through you. You can’t deny that.”
“I don’t. Of necessity our records are open to him.”
“You could keep them out of his hands.”
“On the contrary. The law is the law, as you must know. You may ask why I don’t boot him out. Few things would give me more pleasure. But I’m impotent. I can’t fight the state, not to any advantage. Power and politics enter there.”
“And you have to think of your political future.”
Charleston’s face went tight. His mouth was a straight line. He leaned forward, and the tone of his voice was enough to draw up the stomach. “That remark is uncalled for. A gratuitous sneer. Good day, Mr. Fenner.”
Mr. Fenner moved uncertainly, taken aback by the force of the words. “I only meant—” Then, out of character, “Oh, shit, Mr. Charleston, forget it, please. The objection is sustained. You have my apologies.”
“I don’t apologize. Mr. Gewald’s activities are none of my doing.”
“He has the manners of a Hitler gauleiter. His questions are not so much questions as accusations.”
“I’m aware of that. Anyone he interviews has my sympathy.”
Mr. Fenner was recovering his composure. He let himself smile. “I’d welcome the opportunity to cross-examine him sometime.” He rose. “All right, Mr. Charleston. My apologies again to you and to Mr. Beard. No confidence betrayed.”
He let himself out.
I followed him part way. Blanche Burton, at the board, was wasting no time drilling her crew. Susan Strand sat at her side. Blanche had arranged her program in two-hour hitches at different times of the day, morning, afternoon, and night, thus giving her recruits variety. This was Susan’s second hitch.
Blanche was saying into the phone, “Now don’t worry, Mrs. Wilcox. We have patrols out. They’ll pick up anyone out of line.”
She hung up and said to Susan, “Old Mrs. Wilcox reports a loiterer in her block. She’s always afraid someone has broken into her house or is about to break in.”
I asked, “Afraid or hopeful?”
Blanche smiled. “A bit of both, I’d say.”
I was turning away when Alfred Parsons, the school principal, hustled in. “Mr. Charleston here?” he asked abruptly.
I nodded and showed him through the door. Charleston greeted him and told him to have a seat.
Parsons sat, breathing heavy. He wasn’t beaming today. He was steaming. A little more, and the furnace might blow up. “It’s an outrage,” he said. “A downright outrage.”
“What is, Mr. Parsons?”
“That man named Gewald, working out of this office.”
“What about him?”
“For one thing he’s agitated young Pat Lenihan into a state of extreme anxiety, virtually charging him at least with complicity in Virginia Stuart’s death. The boy came to me trembling, almost in tears.”
“Why not his father?”
“Mr. Lenihan is a strict and stern man, and the boy’s been in trouble once, you know, with breaking into that house. He was afraid to consult his father, so came to me. I have a good rapport with my boys.” The last was said with a self-satisfaction that nudged into his anger.
“Is that all?”
“Isn’t it enough? But no, by the infernal, it isn’t all. Gewald questioned me. It was his blunt implication that I knew more about the girl and her death than I had revealed. It was with difficulty I restrained myself. As an educator I can’t afford violence. So, Mr. Charleston, what are you going to do?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? That’s incredible.”
With patience then Charleston explained as he had explained to Mr. Fenner.
At the end Parsons said, “To use the vernacular, that’s a pretty
kettle of fish.”
“Isn’t it? But we’re not the cooks.”
“I can hope he’s through with us.”
“I believe I can reassure you on that point. I doubt he’ll come back.”
Parsons had the courtesy to give us thanks before he went out.
Charleston and I had lunch at the Jackson Hotel and came back to the office. Once seated, he said to me, “You didn’t take notes?”
“No. Sorry if you meant me to.”
“Your memory’s good, though.”
“Good enough, I guess.”
“Then write up this morning’s proceedings. They’ll make one report I want Mr. Gewald to see.”
I got busy. Charleston went out, came back, went out and came in again. It was along toward the tail end of the afternoon when we received our next complaint. It was voiced by Mr. Duncan Stuart.
He came in, erect as always, as if iron pride stiffened his spine. The day was warm, but he wore tweeds. He stood before Charleston like a post, but I could see his trousers twitch to the trembling of his legs. I knew his control had slipped even before he said, “Domnation to all of you! Domnation to your office and to your men!”
“Before we go to hell, Mr. Stuart, won’t you sit down. How about a glass of water?”
“Forget that.”
“Do take a chair.”
Mr. Stuart perched on the edge of one. “Knowing what I know—”
“And we don’t. So tell us.”
“Gewald, he said his name was. I call him a bastard. Aye. An utter bastard.”
“What’s he done now? By the way, have you spoken to others who have complaints?”
“To whom would I speak? No. You’re evading the subject.”
“You were going to tell us?”
“He came into my house, that high and mighty man.” Mr. Stuart swallowed the beginning tremble in his voice. “He insinuated my Virginia was not what we thought. He implied she was loose, that low life! If I had been able I would have thrashed him. Aye, I would have beat him senseless.”
“It’s as well that you didn’t.”
“You would say that, Charleston. You are to blame. I hold you responsible.”
Charleston made his explanation then. It was becoming almost rote.
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