“You have everything to make a man want to crawl in bed with you,” he said with a sudden unreasonable desire to hurt her. “But what have you to offer for the other twenty-three hours and forty-five minutes of the day?”
She gazed at him with such a hurt expression on her face that he immediately felt ashamed of himself. All at once he realized she was one of those women whose sole interest in life was men, yet was slightly in awe of all men. If a woman had said to her what he had, probably she wouldn’t have hesitated to scratch the detractor’s eyes out. But she was no more capable of lashing back at male criticism than a child could lash back at a father.
She was probably what psychologists called a child-woman, he thought, one who needed a lover and protector and father-image all rolled into one. The very fact that she had picked a lover fourteen years older indicated this. Probably she wouldn’t make a bad wife provided she drew a dominating enough husband, because she not only would be amenable to bossing, but would need and expect it.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “That was a lousy thing to say. My only excuse is that sometimes I can’t help being a boor.”
“That’s all right,” she said in a small voice. “I guess I know what you mean. I guess I haven’t got all Mrs. Case’s fine ways. I never went to Bryn Mawr. I didn’t even finish high school.”
“I’m sure you’ll make some man an excellent wife,” he said, eager to amend the hurt. “Just because I’m upset about another woman being in jail is no excuse to take it out on you. Thanks for your time.”
“You’re welcome,” she said.
She walked with him to the door. As he stepped into the hall, she said, “Mr. Marshall.”
He turned to look back at her in the doorway.
“Were you just saying that to make up for being mean, or do you think someday I could be a good wife for someone?”
“I meant it,” he said. “You possess one quality which has nothing to do with physical measurements or age. I’m sure you would never screech at your husband.”
After considering this, she nodded solemnly. “I don’t like to fight. When Bruce ever got mad at me I just shut up and was nice to him until he got over it. I was able to make him happy in other ways than just in bed. Honest, he wasn’t bored the other twenty-three hours and forty-five minutes when we were together.”
“I’m sure no man would be,” he said with a smile. “Please forget my uncalled-for crack.”
“I already have,” she said. “Can’t we be friends even if I am a prosecution witness against Mrs. Case? I’m only going to tell the truth in court. I have to do that.”
He said slowly, “We could be friends if you did exactly that, with no embellishment of the truth just because you have a grudge against her — I mean such as you did at the preliminary hearing when you answered questions which weren’t asked in a deliberate attempt to hurt her.”
She thought about this before saying, “Maybe I did. I was so furious at her, I thought she ought to be convicted right then and there. I still hate her, but I promise I’ll be fair. I’ll just tell what happened and let the jury decide what it means.”
They were getting along so swimmingly he decided to push it further. “Would you mind if I saw the rest of those letters sometime?”
At that moment footsteps sounded on the stairway and a thin bald head came into sight. Then the rest of the man appeared: a tall, skinny man of about forty with a camera hanging from his shoulder by a strap.
“Here comes my date,” she said. “Why don’t you drop by tomorrow evening about eight and we’ll talk about it?”
As Marshall went down the stairs he realized that his opinion of Gail Thomas had totally changed in the short time he had talked to her. He had arrived with the preconceived notion that he would dislike her intensely; he came away feeling a little sorry for her and tending to like her. He could even understand her hate for Betty, now that he realized she had actually been in love with Bruce Case, for it would take a remarkably broad-minded woman to forgive another woman who had just killed the man she loved.
Chapter XX
Announcement of the apprehension of the cat burglar hadn’t appeared in any of the Buffalo or Erie Sunday papers for the simple reason that the local police hadn’t released the news to any reporter other than Marshall.
So the story he wrote for the Monday afternoon edition of the News was a scoop, even though it was thirty-six hours old by the time it reached print.
After some thought he decided to include in the story Herman Potts’ denial of attempting to break into the Case home the night of the shooting. He knew the moment the story broke, other reporters would descend on Chief Meister with precisely that question, and it was inevitable that the answer would be blasted from coast to coast. He therefore decided to let the News print it first, but he phrased it in a manner to do the least damage to Betty’s case.
He wrote: “Up to press time the alleged cat burglar had not admitted the break-in attempt at the Case home claimed by Mrs. Elizabeth Case in defense of the accusation of murder against her.”
When Jonas Marshall read the story, he approved it without comment and gave it a front-page position.
There were no visiting hours on Mondays at the County Jail, so Marshall was unable to see Betty that day. Instead, he drove out to Rexford Bay at eleven a.m.
Audrey Reed answered the door and said that Bud was playing on the beach just behind the house.
A hundred feet behind the house there was a six-foot drop-off to the narrow stretch of sand and shale beach. A brick wall which ran behind all the homes had been built flush against the drop-off and extended three feet above it in order to protect the homes from the lashing waves of winter storms, which sometimes threw spray even over the nine-foot wall. There was a break in the wall’s center, with stone stairs leading down to the beach.
Marshall found Bud, dressed in his usual jeans and T-shirt, building a sand castle.
The boy looked up and said, “Hi, Mr. Marshall.”
“Hello, Bud.” He sat on a slight outcropping of shale which extended above the sand about a foot and examined the castle. “That isn’t bad. Maybe you’ll grow up to be an architect.”
“I’m gonna be a lifeguard,” the boy said. “Trouble is, I’m not allowed in swimming without adult supervision.” He looked out over the calm lake broodingly.
“Won’t your aunt come down and supervise you?” Marshall asked.
“Aw, Aunt Audrey don’t even know how to swim. She’s scared I’ll drown if some expert swimmer isn’t around. Gee whiz, I’ve got my beginner’s certificate and I’m working on my junior certificate.”
The boy gave a final pat to the castle, got to his feet and brushed off his knees. After studying the structure critically, he casually kicked it apart.
“You going to see my mother again today?” he asked.
“They don’t let you in on Mondays,” Marshall said. “Would you like to help your mother, Bud?”
The youngster looked at him. “Of course.”
“Then I’d like to ask you a few questions about that night. I know your dad’s death must still be a painful subject to you, but if you’ll bear in mind that your answers might help bring your mother home, maybe you can bear up. Okay?”
Bud momentarily assumed a sad expression. “I don’t mind anything that’ll help get Mom home.”
“Okay. These questions are going to be a little personal. They may embarrass you. But I’m not just prying out of curiosity. I want to get your mother out of jail. So will you try to answer them truthfully?”
“Sure, Mr. Marshall. I know you’re on Mom’s side.”
“All right. Here’s the first one. How had your parents been getting along in the weeks before that night?”
The boy looked thoughtful. “Not too good, I guess. They didn’t fight or anything in front of me, but they hardly talked to each other. Dad moved downstairs to the study.”
“I know. How’d you feel about this trou
ble?”
“Well, I wished they’d get over it.”
“Whose side were you on?”
“It was Dad’s fault, whatever it was,” Bud said without hesitation. “‘Cause Mom never did anything wrong. I think maybe it was because he was always out at night. If he’d stayed home more, maybe Mom would have made up.”
Marshall said, “How’d you feel about your father, Bud? Did you love him?”
The boy looked at him in surprise. “Everybody loves their father.”
“I mean after he and your mother started having trouble. Did you still love him then?”
Bud thoughtfully dug his toe into the sand. “I wished he’d stop being mean to Mom. But I didn’t hate him.”
This wasn’t getting anywhere, Marshall thought. He said, “Now about that night? Were you sleeping in your own room all night?”
“Sure,” Bud said in a tone suggesting he didn’t consider this a very bright question.
“There had been all this scare about the cat burglar,” Marshall said explanatorily. “I thought perhaps your mother wouldn’t want you sleeping alone and had brought you in with her.”
“Oh, she did that for a while after Mrs. Ferris got cut, but I guess she finally decided he wouldn’t break in our house, so she put me back in my own room.”
“Oh,” Marshall said, disappointed. “How long before that night?”
“Just that night. She had me sleep in her bed the night before.”
The reporter felt a little tingle move along his spine. Had his mother rehearsed him to say that, he wondered? Why would she pick that particular night to put him back in his room? She had discussed the cat burglar with Marshall only that afternoon, and was still concerned enough about him to keep a gun under her pillow.
He said, “Listen carefully now, Bud. I suspect your mother has told you to say certain things. Kids should obey their mothers, but if you thought it might get her out of jail, would you tell me the truth even if she told you to say something else?”
The boy looked puzzled. “I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Marshall. Mom didn’t tell me to say anything or not say anything.”
“Not even about sleeping with her that night? Weren’t you really in her bed instead of your own?”
Bud gave his head a definite shake. “Why would she want me to lie about that?”
Marshall gave up. He doubted that any ten-year-old could be such a convincing liar. He watched his wonderful theory evaporate away to nothingness.
“She did tell me not to mention about the wire to anyone,” Bud said suddenly. “But you’re just talking about that night, aren’t you?”
“What wire was that?”
“That was Saturday morning,” the boy said. “I don’t know how that could help her.”
“Suppose you tell me anyway. Who was the wire from?”
Bud gazed at him for a moment, then collapsed on the sand in helpless glee. He laughed so hard, he had to hold his stomach.
Marshall patiently waited until he had recovered, then asked, “Want to let me in on the joke?”
“It wasn’t that kind of wire,” Bud said, barely managing to suppress a final giggle. “It was wire like you wind an armature with.”
Now there’s a graphic symbol of what a technological age they were in, Marshall thought. At ten he wouldn’t have known what an armature was.
He asked, “Where was this wire?”
“Stretched across the top of the stairs.” Then Bud’s broad grin faded and he said uncertainly, “Mom told me not to dare tell anybody about it.”
Marshall began to feel a tinge of excitement. “That was before what happened took place, wasn’t it? We’re trying to get her out of jail, remember.”
“Yeah, I guess,” Bud said slowly.
“Suppose you tell me all about this wire. If it isn’t going to help your mother in some way, we’ll just forget you told me and I’ll never mention it to anyone. Is that fair?”
“Yes, sir,” the boy said, his face clearing. “That’s fair.”
“Okay. Shoot.”
“Well, it was Saturday morning, the day before — before it happened. I found this wire stretched across the top of the stairs. I actually tripped over it.” He stopped, seemingly at the end of his story.
Marshall said, “Let’s do it this way, Bud. You begin with when you got up that morning and tell me every last detail of what happened. All right?”
“Sure, Mr. Marshall,” the boy said agreeably. “I got up at seven and brushed my teeth and dressed and wandered around the house awhile. Mom got up at seven-thirty and fixed my breakfast and then went back upstairs. Dad came out from the study while I was eating and made himself a cup of coffee. By then it was about eight, so I went down to the gate by the road to wait.”
“Wait for what?” Marshall asked.
“Mrs. Curtis. Eddie Curtis and me — I mean I — go to Red Cross swimming class at Civic Beach together. One day Mom used to take us, the next day Eddie’s mother. This was Mrs. Curtis’ day. She wasn’t supposed to pick me up until eight-thirty, but I didn’t have anything else to do so I went down to the gate to watch for boats going by on trailers.”
“I see. Did Mrs. Curtis get there on time?”
“Sure. But that was later. While I was horsing around waiting for her and Eddie, I remembered I didn’t have my towel. I had my trunks on under my pants, but you’re supposed to bring a towel. It was pretty close to eight-thirty by then, so I ran back to the house real fast, ducked in and ran up the stairs. Mom was coming down the upstairs hall from her room, all dressed, when I got to the top of the stairs. She smiled at me and said something I didn’t hear, because just then I hit the wire and fell flat on my face in the upper hall. She rushed over to pick me up and ask if I was hurt. I wasn’t, but I was sure shook up.”
The boy stopped again. After a moment of silence, Marshall said, “Surely that isn’t the end of the story.”
“I thought you just wanted me to go up to where I found the wire,” Bud said. “When Mom found out I wasn’t hurt she started to scold me for being clumsy. So I said I’d tripped over something and we both bent down to look. She looked real funny when she saw the wire. It was real hard to see because it was so thin, but it must’ve been real strong wire because it didn’t break when I tripped over it. It was wound around a stair post on either side, about six inches above the top step. Mom unwound it and put it in her pocket. Then she went to get me a towel, and when she gave it to me, she put her hands on my shoulders and talked to me for a minute.”
“About what?” Marshall asked.
“The wire. She said as a favor to her she didn’t want me to mention it being there to anyone, and particularly not to Dad. I promised. Is this breaking my promise, Mr. Marshall?”
The reporter’s mind was whirling with thoughts, but he managed a smile. “Obviously it was your dad she didn’t want to hear about it. And he can’t now.”
After thinking this over, Bud nodded. “I guess you’re right. She probably thought if I told anybody at all it might get back to Dad. Why do you think she didn’t want him to know about it, Mr. Marshall?”
“We won’t worry about that now, Bud. I think you’ve helped your mother tremendously by telling me this.”
“I have? You think she’ll be coming home?”
“I can almost guarantee it,” Marshall said.
“Gee, that’s swell, Mr. Marshall. Then I went back downstairs and out to the gate, and Mrs. Curtis’ car was already — ”
“Whoa!” Marshall said. “You’ve covered everything I need to know.”
“Oh. I thought you wanted me to tell everything that happened that day.”
The reporter came to his feet and playfully tousled the boy’s strawberry-blond hair. “I’d be listening until midnight with your total recall. Want to keep a secret?”
Bud’s face lighted up. “Sure. What?”
“Let’s not tell your Aunt Audrey or anybody else what we’ve been talking about just yet
. Just in case something went wrong, we wouldn’t want her to build false hopes.”
The boy’s face fell. “You mean you might not be able to get Mom out of jail after all?”
“No. That was a dumb thing for me to say. I’ll be frank with you. If you mention anything to your aunt, she’ll be on the phone by the time I get back to the office, wanting to know all about it. I’m going to get your mother out of jail, but I don’t want to get involved in a lot of long explanations to your Aunt Audrey. We’ll let your mother explain things when she gets home. Okay?”
“Okay, sir,” Bud said, brightening again. “Are you going to get her out right now?”
“It may be a few days, but believe me, she’ll come home to you. Just be patient.”
“All right,” Bud said. “I’ll try.”
Chapter XXI
As he drove back toward the newspaper office, Marshall visualized what would have happened if Betty, starting downstairs, had tripped over the wire. Going up, young Bud had suffered only a jolting fall to hands and knees, but a headlong pitch down those steep stairs would almost certainly have broken some bones, and might even have killed her. At best it would have left her helpless enough to be finished off with a final blow, which could be assumed by investigating officers to have also resulted from the fall.
There wasn’t the least doubt that it had been a murder attempt. And it would have worked if Bud hadn’t forgotten his towel. Marshall could imagine Bruce Case’s consternation when, from the kitchen or wherever he was at the time, he heard his son slam into the house and rush up the stairs. There would, of course, have been no time to head him off. Ten-year-old boys normally move at upsetting speed even when they aren’t in a hurry. Young Bud, on what to him was an urgent mission, probably had resembled a small tornado. He must have been tripping over the wire at the top of the stairs before it fully registered on his father that he had returned to the house.
Marshall couldn’t understand how he could have been so dense that the true explanation of what had happened that night hadn’t occurred to him long ago. His only consolation was that it obviously hadn’t occurred to anyone else either.
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