In the meantime, after combating the cold by means of a double Scotch, he made a brief foray to the Embers Room to complete a small piece of research.
The headwaiter greeted him politely, but with a puzzled look, not knowing whether he was a late luncher or an early diner.
“Sorry,” Sidney said, “I’ve eaten. I just want to ask you a question. Can you recognize this gentleman?”
He pulled a five-by-seven glossy photograph of Howard Gadwell from his briefcase and held it out to the man.
“Sure. That’s Mr. Gadwell,” the waiter said. “He eats here a lot.”
“Did he eat here on Friday?” Sidney said. “Friday evening?”
“Friday?” the headwaiter said. “Sure, I think it was Friday. One of the gentlemen couldn’t have a steak because it was Friday, and they were kidding him. Yeah. He had a party of four gentlemen, Friday night, sort of late.”
“Thank you,” Sidney said. “You’ve been an immense help.”
At four o’clock June Beattie joined Sidney and his newspaper friend at the Press Club, where there was much speculation in progress about the murder. The body had frozen so quickly that it was not possible to determine even the day of death, but the evidence of the parking lot attendants suggested it must have been Friday—late in the evening.
When Press Club conversation swung away from the murder to the evening’s hockey game, Sidney slipped away with June to the Simcoe, where they could be more private.
“It’s terrific!” he said. “Our friend Black became Black Mailer. He put the bite on Gadwell, and Gadwell killed him. I’m afraid we signed Black’s death warrant, or at least I did, when I gave him Gadwell’s name. And I think I know how it was done. Notice the way phone calls and parking lots keep cropping up?
“A blackmailer always has to meet his victim privately, but he’s always afraid of really remote places because a blackmailer is liable to be murdered more than any other type of man. Gadwell cunningly suggested this parking lot because it would seem so safe, being close to a busy street—especially around here on a Friday evening. He told Black to pull in right to the rear of that lot, just after ten. The attendant goes off at ten. He told him to park there, turn the lights out and sit in the car.
“Then he invited three men to have late dinner with him at the Embers. At the right moment he excused himself to go to the men’s room. He went out the back of the restaurant into the hotel corridor. Maybe he left his coat at the hotel check room instead of in the restaurant, or maybe he went out without a coat. He went out the York Street entrance, up the lane behind the hotel, made sure nobody was just parking or leaving, and then stepped out and yanked open the door of Black’s car. Black had his left side to the lane, and he was probably looking out toward King Street, waiting for Gadwell’s car to turn in. Gadwell had probably promised to turn up with much, much money in small bills.
“Gadwell pumped two rounds into him, probably using a silencer, shoved the body over onto the floor, then locked all the doors. You can reach over from the back seat and lock the front door in that model.
“Then he pocketed his weapon and returned to the hotel, having been gone less than five minutes—possibly as little as three. Very bold, very successful.”
“And was it the gun he was throwing through the ice up north?” June asked.
“Of course. He hid the gun Friday night, but when the body wasn’t found all day Saturday—it just sat there in the car, with the windows all frosted—he decided to dispose of it, but good. It was an easy run to Muskoka after dark on Saturday, and it put the gun away where it could never be found.”
“Never?”
“Never,” Sidney said, “except for the long, long chance that someone might find his hole in the ice before it froze over properly. June, the five hundred for Snake Rivers was money well spent.”
“But can the gun be found in that deep water?” she said.
“I have an idea for some ice fishing that might do it,” he replied.
The murder of Black had put certain other events of the day in the shadow, but June at length came round to them. Ralph Paget and old Mrs. Beattie had learned that morning of Baldwin Ogilvy’s withdrawal from the case, and Paget had called June to give her what for.
“His rage surpassed all measure,” she said, “and Gran is absolutely furious. Uncle Ralph says he has certain serious matters to discuss with you as well.”
And so the day passed, and Sidney Grant had still not met his most important client.
***
Just because a little delay would have been useful, the proceedings of the assize court accelerated. An accused man committed suicide in jail; another, scheduled for trial, pleaded guilty; and Sidney suddenly realized on Tuesday morning that the case would probably be called against Wes on the following Monday.
Tuesday was also the day when Sidney’s appointment as Wes Beattie’s counsel was published. When Wes was brought up in the magistrate’s court for remand, Baldwin Ogilvy stood up and made a brief statement.
“Your Worship,” he said, “until now I have been appearing for the accused, Wesley M. Beattie. But I have so many pressures and commitments that I feel compelled to withdraw from this case. My withdrawal does not reflect any change in my attitude to the accused or his case, and I am happy to know that his defense will be in very competent hands.”
“Then who is appearing for Beattie?” the magistrate asked.
“I am, your Worship,” Sidney said.
The accused stood in the dock and goggled at his new lawyer. It was their first meeting, and Wes did not appear to be impressed. Sidney turned and grinned at him as the magistrate said, “Remanded in custody.”
Their first conversation was held a few minutes later in the corridor before Wes was hustled away to the hospital.
It was too brief to add much to Sidney’s knowledge of the case, but it was memorable nevertheless, because Wes and his weird world had come to dominate Sidney’s life, and the central figure of this cosmogony was therefore per se a figure of surpassing interest.
And, as Sidney looked into the light blue eyes and the slightly anxious face, he found himself wondering again: “Could this boy kill?” But the annals of crime were too richly studded with baby-faced killers for Sidney to put much store in appearances. And he himself had seen the face of an angel contort into a visage from the road show of Dracula.
Which left him still in a terrible quandary with regard to the defense. He could trace the skilled hand of Gadwell in Wes’s affairs to a point, but at that point the tracks faded away. The question, as Sidney put it to himself, was: Did Edgar Beattie really believe Gadwell—as Paget asserted—and did he really give up the pursuit? If so, it was a strong possibility that Wes, in utter frustration, had killed the man he worshiped. If, on the other hand, Edgar had been pressing forward with his investigation (and if Wes knew it), there was no chance on earth that Wes would have attacked him. Another question: Had Edgar tested and tempted Wes by telling him he had given up the search for Mrs. Leduc?
And then a new and comforting theory began to form in Sidney Grant’s mind: Edgar had insisted to Gadwell that he was going to continue to track him and Mrs. Leduc down, until he met them face to face, and so Gadwell came to Edgar’s apartment and killed Edgar, and Wes, who had been hanging around to hear the results of the interview, went up to the apartment, let himself in and found the body. He started to call the police, but suddenly he felt that his own position might be precarious. He hung up, looked again at the body, and the horror of it blotted everything from his mind.
Yes, that was it, Sidney decided. There was a hypothesis that could be taken into court. It would be a dandy hypothesis, founded partly on evidence and partly on conjecture.
With this comforting thought in mind, Sidney was about to leave his office on Tuesday afternoon when the telephone rang and Miss Semple called out that it was Mr. Ralph Paget.
Sidney cursed, but picked up the phone. Mr. Paget wished to see hi
m and give him some information that would be of immense help to him. Could Sidney come to his office at once? Sidney toyed with the words “Climb a tree,” but agreed to go and see Mr. Paget instead.
Mr. Paget’s office would have served admirably as the almoner’s office in some medieval monastery. It had the right discreet mixture of God and Mammon, with steel engravings of church towers and arches to give the religious note, and the corporate seal of the company (a fine antique machine, with the look of a thumbscrew about it) to lend the secular touch.
Mr. Paget, however, was all business.
“Mr. Grant,” he said, “my wife’s nephew, in his all-seeing wisdom, has decided to appoint you as his counsel in place of Mr. Baldwin Ogilvy. Since it is his own neck that is in jeopardy, he certainly has the right to appoint anyone he chooses. And you, as Wes’s lawyer, are planning, if I mistake not, to alter the line of defense chosen by Mr. Ogilvy. This, too, is right and proper. But I feel it is my duty to point out certain facts which I had rather you learned now than in the middle of the trial.”
“Thank you. Pray tell me, sir,” Sidney said.
“Well, first of all, it was a great blessing, we thought, that the Crown Attorney more or less agreed to accept the insanity plea. Because Wes actually confessed to two witnesses, and the Crown is holding those witnesses in reserve.”
“He confessed?” Sidney said.
“Yes. You didn’t know that, did you? I knew, and I told no one. I considered it too dangerous a thing. It was the confession which compelled us to seek the insanity compromise.”
“Did Baldwin Ogilvy know about the confession?”
“No. I was tipped off in strict confidence that the Crown held this very damaging evidence. I had to protect my informant.”
“Well, let’s hear about it. What did he say exactly?” Sidney said, noting that the pit of his stomach had entirely disappeared.
“Oh, it’s simple enough,” Paget said. “After the police interrogation Wes was questioned by various psychiatrists. His behavior was getting more and more neurotic; they had to give him sedation and all that sort of thing. Well, the question arose then as to where Wes should remain in custody. The Attorney General’s department had the final say, but they decided to consult an official of the Department of Reform Institutions on the question of security. This official is a respected civil servant with a certain amount of psychological training.”
“With a certain knowledge of brain surgery,” Sidney said. “A pilot with a certain knowledge of aviation. Pray, sir, continue.” Paget suppressed a certain irritation. “Now this man went to see Wes in the Psychiatric Hospital, and he questioned the doctors and nurses there in order to see if Wes was a danger to fellow patients, or a security risk escape-wise. He also interviewed Wes, with a hospital orderly present. Now this man knows something of psychology, but he has had enough experience of looking after criminals that he doesn’t hold with a lot of coddling or beating around the bush. So he spoke out quite firmly to Wes. He’s rather military in appearance, and…”
“Okay, okay,” Sidney said. “Now I know who you’re talking about. So his mustache bristled, his face turned purple and then he said…go on.”
“Well, you may be right about that,” Paget said, “but this gentleman said to Wes: ‘The reason for all this stupid, scatty behavior of yours is simply because you’re trying to escape from something, isn’t it?’ Wes replied, ‘Yes sir.’ ‘And what you are escaping from is the knowledge that you killed your uncle. You’re responsible for his death, aren’t you?’ Wes again replied, ‘Yes sir.’”
Sidney leaned forward and saw that Paget was reading the details from an aide-mémoire on his desk, but Paget covered the paper until Sidney leaned back again.
“Then the major—er—this gentleman—said: ‘You killed him, didn’t you? Isn’t that it?’ and Wes said, ‘I guess you could say so. Sure.’ And then he sobbed and sobbed and this gentleman and the orderly quietly left the room.”
“Now let me take it from there,” Sidney said. “So Major Hale went out and wrote down the conversation at once. Later, the orderly was summoned to Hale’s office, and, after having his memory refreshed from Hale’s notes, he corroborated the whole thing in an affidavit and has since been given a good government job as a prison official.”
“You may be right. That I don’t know. Of course I was silly to try to conceal the name. You are perfectly right on that. But, Mr. Grant, this is admissible evidence…”
“Is it, my Lord?”
“Wes had been arrested, charged and warned. It was a voluntary statement made without any inducements or threats.”
“And did Wes, by any chance, get the idea that this was another psychiatrist he was talking to? Notice his words. This is not an unequivocal confession. Wes might well mean that it was his stupidity and weakness that killed Edgar, not his hand holding a blackthorn stick. So Major Hale faded away quietly and whipped the orderly witness out of reach and recommended to the A.G. to leave Wes in the Psychiatric, and then proudly handed the A.G. this clinching piece of evidence, gained because the major got a C in second year pass psychology in 1921 and now knows more about it than Jung. Sir, thank you, thank you, I am most grateful for this knowledge. I suppose Wes just never felt it was worth telling his defenders that he had made this confession.”
“He may well have forgotten it,” Paget said. “But you see, it will never be produced if the insanity plea is used.”
“Oh, won’t it?” Sidney said. “In other words, the Crown Attorney knows it stinks, so he won’t use it unless he has to. Well, that’s dandy. I’ve always wanted to get Major Barnaby Hale in the witness box, so at least I’ve achieved one minor ambition.”
“Mr. Grant, great heavens!” Paget said. “After what I’ve told you, you surely are not going to go ahead with your plan! Don’t you care whether your client hangs or not?”
“Oh yes, I care very much. But sir, why have you kept this knowledge so close to your chest?”
“In order to protect my informant, as I said before. I was told in strictest confidence. But the other point, also very unfortunate, is that I am certain to be called as a witness for the Crown against Wes if you follow your plan. And that would be most painful and embarrassing for me.”
“You—a Crown witness?” Sidney said.
“Yes. Unfortunately I was perfectly frank when the police questioned me about wills, and it seems I will have to tell about the contents of Edgar’s will, and I will have to state that he intended to change the will and cut Wes out. You see, these things were told to Wes in my presence and are therefore admissible.”
“Splendid,” Sidney said.
“But I can’t say why Edgar planned to change his will,” Paget said brightly. “You can object to that, I’m sure, because it brings in Wes’s previous criminal record. I’m sure you can keep that out.”
“Goody for me,” Sidney said.
“Now then, old man,” Paget said, suddenly a pal, “don’t you feel that, really, Mr. Ogilvy had the right approach, in the light of everything? Can I perhaps arrange a little meeting between you and a representative of the Crown Attorney?”
“No thank you, Mr. Crown Witness,” Sidney said. “I will now say thank you and good-bye, and I’ll see you in court.”
“You’re a god…” Paget began, half-rising, then shrugged and sat down.
Eleven
“WES,” SIDNEY GRANT SAID, “you’ve got to come back to earth. Earth, man. Your situation is serious.”
Sidney was seated by his client in Wes Beattie’s small private bedroom in the Psychiatric Hospital.
“But, gee, I feel so good. I mean now somebody believes me, after all the time I kept screaming at them, trying to tell them, and nobody would listen.”
“But you’re not out of the woods yet,” Sidney said. “I now know who the people were who had you charged with theft. It looks to me as if they really worked an elaborate gag to frame you. I haven’t found any reason why they
should frame you. Something very fishy was going on—but what?”
“Search me,” Wes said.
Sidney handed him two lists of names, one male names, the other female.
“Read those names out loud,” Sidney ordered, “and then tell me if you know anybody by those names. Tell me if they mean anything at all.”
Wes read the names slowly, but neither Howard Gadwell nor Janice Swann Wicklow, who were included on the lists, meant anything to him.
“No dice,” Sidney said. “Well, now. Here is our problem. If you were being tried for that theft, we could get you acquitted without difficulty. But you are being tried for murder. If you plead insanity, two psychiatrists will swear that you have lost your marbles, and you’ll be locked away in an institution ‘at the Queen’s pleasure,’ as we say.”
“I hope the Queen gets a lot of pleasure out of it,” Wes said.
“On the other hand, we can claim that you did not kill your uncle. We can probably show the existence of a conspiracy against you. We can also, probably, show that your Uncle Edgar was interested in tracking down these conspirators. We can put forward the hypothesis that the conspirators killed him and framed you a second time. But unless we explain how your fingerprints got onto that telephone, we may be stumped.
“We say: ‘Our story is that we were lured away by a woman in the pay of these conspirators, that she lured us to an apartment. We don’t know where the apartment is, not even what district it’s in.’
“That is going to sound pretty feeble. And the Crown Attorney is going to say that he knows the apartment, that it was Edgar Beattie’s apartment, and he’s going to produce your fingerprints to prove it.”
“I can’t help that,” Wes said. “This gang—they’re pretty cunning. It’s like they can change the truth.”
The Weird World of Wes Beattie Page 13