“The day I met her.”
There was a murmur in the courtroom. Beaudoin himself looked upset; nothing Kilgore had said against Honey damned her so effectively as what Beaudoin’s own cross-examination had revealed, just now.
Recovering, Beaudoin went on, “These intimacies continued regularly after she moved to San Carlos?”
“That’s right. But she was sleeping with other men, too.”
“Just answer my questions!” Beaudoin said coldly. “You needn’t interpolate any thoughts of your own!”
Harry said seriously, “I’ll try not to think, Mr. Beaudoin.”
“May I remind you that you’re on trial here, as well as on the witness stand?” Beaudoin asked. “Did you, at any time, intend to marry the deceased?”
“Never,” Harry said.
“But did you tell her you had such intentions?”
Harry paused. “I might have,” he said slowly. “For a joke, that is. The way I gave her that fraternity pin. But I certainly didn’t mean what I said. I might have been drunk.”
“You were trifling with her, is that it?”
“I suppose you’d have to call it that. But I didn’t think she was taking me seriously.”
“Did you,” Beaudoin asked slowly, “give her any other tokens besides the fraternity pin? Such as a diamond ring of considerable value?”
Harry was silent a long moment. Kilgore looked up at him, his eyes menacing. Harry said finally, “Yes. Yes, I gave her a diamond ring.”
There was a loud, involuntary groan of despair in the courtroom; Dan McCandless’ face was contorted in anguish and humiliation as he buried his face in his hands.
Beaudoin said, “When did you give her this ring?”
“Early in October.”
“And you subsequently took it back from her?”
“No,” Harry said, and Kilgore looked up in surprise. “No, I never saw the ring again after I gave it to her. For all I know, it’s still hidden somewhere in Dade Rawlins’ shack.”
“He’s lying!” Laurie Morgan burst out. “He took the ring away from her! He’s got it!”
She was silenced. Beaudoin said, frowning, “Did you send a letter to your sister Carlotta informing her that you had given the ring to Honey Morgan?”
“Yes, I did.”
“And what reply did your sister make?”
“She said I should get the ring back immediately.”
“But you did not do this?”
“No,” Harry said, “I didn’t take it back. And I don’t have any notion where it might be now.”
Kilgore put his hands to his pounding head. A client who changed stories under cross-examination, a client who lied up and down to his lawyer—this was too much! But the sudden turn of events, confusing though it was, nevertheless helped Harry’s case, Kilgore realized. If Harry had not taken back the ring, then his major motive for the murder, fear of Laurie’s civil suit, was wiped out.
Beaudoin realized this, too. For five minutes he hammered relentlessly away at Harry. But the youth stoutly maintained his story. He had given the ring, yes, in a drunken moment. But he had disregarded his sister’s advice about getting it back. And he had no idea of its whereabouts now.
Throwing up his hands, Beaudoin dropped the matter of the ring and said, “You have heard the coroner and Dr. Hewlitt testify that the dead girl was found with her mouth stuffed full of building plaster.”
“Yes, I have.”
“How would you interpret that?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” Harry said.
“Would you care to guess?”
Harry said, “Well, it might be that some renegade Indian had killed her and stuffed the plaster in her mouth following some superstition to prevent the girl from speaking ill of her murderer in the hereafter.”
“Very ingenious.” Beaudoin stared at the ceiling. “Unfortunately, none of the Indians of this region have such a superstition. An Apache has testified to that effect already.”
“Well, perhaps.”
“Would you concede the possibility,” Beaudoin went on, “that some non-Indian committed the crime and stuffed the girl’s mouth to give the impression that it was a murder according to some Indian ritual—thus laying a false trail away from any white man?”
Harry shrugged. “It’s far-fetched, but I suppose it’s possible.”
“I suppose it might be,” Beaudoin agreed. He signaled to Duer, who handed up a large brown volume. “Mr. McCandless, are you familiar with this book?”
“I’ve read it, yes.”
“Would you tell the court what it is?”
“It’s an anthropology text published in Berlin in 1889.”
“You own a copy of this book, do you not?”
“Yes, I do.”
“And you have a reading knowledge of the German language?”
“Yes,” Harry admitted.
“Furthermore, you are known to have an interest in such subjects as anthropology?”
“That’s true.”
Beaudoin paused dramatically. “Your Honor, I’d like permission to read a few paragraphs of this book and have them entered in the record in their original language.”
“Go ahead,” Hazledine said.
Opening to a marked page, Beaudoin read resonantly in a somewhat Americanized German. When he had finished, he recited a translation. The passage dealt with customs of Bantu tribesmen of Africa—in particular, an alleged custom of stuffing the mouth of a dead person with earth to prevent the spirit from naming the murderer.
Kilgore sat stunned. Where had Beaudoin obtained this obscure book? How did he know Harry had read it? Who at Wa-po-nah had informed the prosecutor of its existence, Kilgore wondered. The courtroom was quiet.
Kilgore rose. “Let’s see that exhibit!”
It was a work of more than one thousand pages printed in small Germanic type and bound in calf and boards. His eye caught the name of a publishing house in Leipzig and the word Naturwissenschaft. He said thickly, “I’d like to ask Mr. Beaudoin how he happened to get hold of a book belonging to my client. Maybe somebody ought to be on trial here for book stealing.”
Judge Hazledine tapped for order. “What’s that got to do with the issues, Mr. Kilgore?”
Beaudoin seemed amused. “May it please the court, I’m not embarrassed by Mr. Kilgore’s insinuation. I did not abstract this book from the defendant’s library. Mr. McCandless, is this your copy?”
“No,” Harry said. “It would have the Wa-po-nah bookplate if it were mine. And mine was a well-thumbed book. This one is almost new.”
Beaudoin laughed. “You see, Mr. Kilgore? I obtained this by my own devices, from an expert on such lore who mailed me the book from Washington at the beginning of the year. It was just coincidence, was it not, that the defendant also owned the book, also was familiar with this passage, and happened to use it as his inspiration in the murder of—”
“Objection!”
“That last remark will be stricken, Mr. Beaudoin,” Hazledine declared. “The jury is instructed to disregard it.”
Beaudoin did not seem displeased. “No further questions, Your Honor.”
Harry came down from the stand. Kilgore felt inner turmoil now. Things had looked to be under control when Harry denied knowledge of the ring—but the bothersome business of the German anthropology text looked damning, and Kilgore had no idea how he was going to rebut.
He had only two witnesses left to call. Julian DuVivier came to the stand to testify briefly in support of Harry’s claim to have returned to Wa-po-nah by one in the morning on the night of Honey’s death. Beaudoin, in the cross-examination, tried vigorously to shake Julian’s story, but the old man held firm. Kilgore successfully objected to any innuendoes by the prosecutor that Julian was perjuring himself in his master’s behalf.
Kilgore said, “Julian?”
“Sir?”
“Was Honey Morgan alive when she left Wa-po-nah?”
“Indeed she was!”
&
nbsp; “When Harry McCandless came back that night, was there anything remarkable about his manner?”
“No, sir.”
“He was calm?”
Julian DuVivier’s glance passed momentarily from Harry McCandless to the tragic figure of Dan McCandless in the first bench. He said firmly, “Mr. Harry McCandless was unusually calm and untroubled, Mr. Kilgore. If he were excited or distressed, I would have known. I don’t think Mr. Harry could conceal the state of emotions from me. He never has.”
“No more questions.”
Strangely dissatisfied, Kilgore called his last witness for the defense—a saloonkeeper who testified that he had seen Harry’s fraternity pin on Honey Morgan as long ago as September, and had questioned her at that time about it. She had told him it was a gift from Harry.
Hazledine said, “Is that all, Mr. Kilgore?”
“That’s all. The defense rests.”
“All right. It is now well past the usual lunch hour of this court. We will recess until thirty minutes past two, at which time the Territory may offer its rebuttal.” He tapped his gavel. “The sheriff will take custody of the prisoner during the recess.”
Harry was led away. Kilgore left for the office provided for the defense’s use, where Sarah had brandy ready for him. His head was throbbing mercilessly. But he felt hopeful.
Dan McCandless entered with Clem. McCandless said bitterly, “I searched for the ring every day, Kilgore, and couldn’t find it. And to think that the boy gave it to a piece of trash like that—”
“He’s young, Dan. And very foolish.”
“And my son. Do you think you’ve saved him, Kilgore?”
Kilgore managed a painful smile. “I’d say a tentative yes. Except for that stunt with the anthropology book, Beaudoin’s not offered anything worth a damn as evidence. And the book alone isn’t sufficient to prove anything. After the recess I’ll ask Hazledine again to throw out the indictment.”
“And if he doesn’t?” McCandless asked fearfully.
“Then we proceed. Either we’ll get a verdict in our favor, or else the record will guarantee a reversal on appeal. I tell you there’s no case against your boy, Dan. And both Beaudoin and Hazledine know it.”
McCandless shook his head slowly. “I wish I could believe that, Jake. But there’s trouble ahead for us yet. They won’t let Harry slip through their hands so easily. I’m worried. So terribly worried.”
18.
THE MOMENT Kilgore saw the smiling faces of Beaudoin and the prosecution crowd after the recess, he knew that Dan McCandless’ premonitions of disaster were about to be fulfilled. Beaudoin did not look like a man whose case was shattered. He had the glinting smile of a cougar about to leap on its prey.
He and Duer were conferring with Judge Hazledine now. Kilgore watched uneasily.
“What do you think they’re up to?” Clem asked.
“I don’t like it, whatever it is,” Kilgore muttered. “That Beaudoin gives me a pain in my good ear. He’s got something in mind, but what? What?”
When the court was called to order, Beaudoin arose and addressed the bench, glancing ironically at his opponent. Information had been received during the recess, he said, drawling for effect, which required that court and jury take a view of the various places mentioned in the testimony.
Kilgore was instantly on his feet, wincing with pain. “Take a view? View of what?”
“When we get there, you’ll see!” Beaudoin said.
“In this cold?”
“Oh, what’s that got to do with it?”
Kilgore said slowly, “Judge, the rules allow the jury to view the site of a crime, but it’s an extraordinary remedy. I think we ought to know the purpose.”
A wrangle ended with a firm ruling from the bench that the court adjourn to the following morning at nine o’clock. The jurors were advised to take warm clothing and the sheriff instructed to provide suitable clothing for the prisoner. Judge Hazledine arose wearily. “Mr. Kilgore, you may note any exception you wish. We’ll go to Paraguay if that’s where justice can be found. Our first view will be taken at Wa-po-nah. I imagine that your client’s father has no objection?”
Dan McCandless slowly shook his head, bewildered by the turn of events—and then the judge was gone and newspapermen were running pell mell to the telegraph office, where the rattling keys began to distribute the news across the nation.
Confusion.
Kilgore could do nothing, could offer no explanation to Dan McCandless or to Clem. He stared in bewilderment at the smug Beaudoin and at the smiling Duer. Everyone in the room was reacting to the startling turn of events—everyone but Harry, who remained aloof, bored, thoroughly uninterested in the new development.
Kilgore left the courtroom quickly and, accompanied by Clem, went to his home. Though it was only three in the afternoon, the lawyer undressed and clambered into bed. His head ached numbingly. He had a fever. His eyes refused to focus properly. The exertion of the trial was taking its toll.
The tap on the door was repeated. There was no answer, and the door was opened. The gaunt, giant figure of McCandless was sprawled in a great white chair of leather that faced a hearth of dressed stone. The bed had not been slept in.
“Mr. McCandless,” said Julian gently.
McCandless drew a pair of stiff fingers across a strong jaw covered with white stubble.
“Julian?” he murmured vaguely. “Do you believe in retribution?”
“I don’t know, sir,” Julian said. “I think we get what we deserve, but I’m not sure what to call it.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right. What’s there?”
“Coffee, sir.” Julian uncovered a silver platter heaped with scrambled eggs and bacon, crisp toast and fine silver. “You haven’t much time, sir. There’s a line of buggies coming from San Carlos.”
McCandless gazed up at the serious, concerned face of the house servant. “How many?”
“Seven.”
“Julian, what most concerns you about this visitation?”
Julian hesitated. “I’m just thinking, sir, about Don Alfredo. When he was alive, Wa-po-nah would never have seen a thing like this. Officers of the law inspecting the premises. He would not have permitted their presence.”
McCandless was silent. “I’m afraid he’d sing another tune, Julian,” he said finally. “Those people have got his grandson in their hands. It’s quite different when you’ve given a hostage to fortune.” He paused. “How is my wife this morning?”
“No different,” Julian said. “Shall I pour?”
McCandless was dressed and waiting at the great portal to the house when the convoy of buggies drew up at the house and there debouched court and jurors and several newspapermen and curiosity seekers. Judge Abraham Hazledine, wrapped in a muffler of wool, snorting puffs of steam in the icy air, mounted the steps, followed by the lawyers of both sides.
“This isn’t customary, McCandless,” the judge began without preliminary. “Most cases don’t call for a view of the premises—but we all want to clear up some matters. I’ve given instructions for decorum. Is it agreeable?”
McCandless said dully, “I suppose I’ve got to tolerate every cockalorum of the law who wants to bring his muddy boots through my house. I’m helpless to object. I’ve just got this to say—Hazledine, another day is coming and I’ll know what to do. Meanwhile, I can’t imagine what you hope to find.”
“We’ll soon see.” Judge Hazledine stood in the great foyer and loosened his clothing while the rest of the party entered. The soaring Hispanic walls gleamed in the myriad colors of a great wheel of stained-glass windows which filtered the morning light. It was a scene of richness few had ever seen in their lives. Stamping and blowing their frozen hands, they murmured among themselves in low voices, conscious of the vast wealth indicated by the structure and its furnishings. A savage Goya painting stared down like a commentary on human cruelty and folly.
“Mr. Beaudoin, it’s your play,” Judge Hazledine n
oted. “Let’s get the jury lined up. What’s first?”
Beaudoin was standing in the foyer, wiping his mouth with a dandified air.
“First, let’s get the defendant present during the procedure.”
Father and son, the McCandlesses confronted each other in the great foyer. It was a moment of embarrassment. Neither spoke for a moment, and then Harry McCandless’ eyes went to the floor.
“Sorry, Father!” he muttered.
“It’s all right, son,” McCandless said painfully. “You’ve got nothing to hide. There’s nothing here for them to see but your home.”
Beaudoin said, “Your Honor, I’d like the jury to take a view of the house.”
Judge Hazledine said, “Any objections?”
“Just a minute,” McCandless said. “I’d like everyone to keep out of the east wing. Those are my wife’s rooms, and she’s not well. I can’t have you disturbing her.”
Sheriff Mike Duer said uneasily, “I wouldn’t dream of disturbing Mrs. McCandless, Judge. It’s just that the testimony covered the entire house—”
Kilgore had kept silent during the exchange, but at the sign of rising temper, he nudged Dan McCandless and drew him aside. “McCandless, I think you’d better offer to cooperate. It’s got past the point where you can worry about feelings. Chances are, they’ll skip any view of your wife’s bedroom.”
McCandless muttered. “Take charge, Kilgore,” he said despondently. “I’m not fit to make any decisions. Let ‘em do whatever they please. Julian!” he called out. “Take these gentlemen around.”
“Aquí, aquí,” Duer said to the Spanish-speaking members of the jury.
Led by Julian, the entire throng—judge, jury, and entourage—examined the house in a guided tour. The group was silent, grim and purposeful as each room was described by Julian. Harry McCandless walked through the ritual with an air of surprise, as though seeing the familiar walls for the first time. On the top landing leading to the attic, he tried an uneasy joke.
“Have you ever had a feeling, Kilgore, that you’ve been in a certain place before? That you’re walking through a scene that you seem to remember?” A nervous smile played feebly over a sensitive mouth. “I have a conviction that I’ve been here before.”
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