Rex Stout - 1939 - The Mountain Cat Murders Page 11

  “His name’s Eric Snyder. He’s red-headed. He lives at 319 Humboldt Street. He’s in the fourth grade—”

  Escott had pushed a button on his desk and the door opened to admit a young woman. He told her: “Tell Mr. Tyler to get Eric Snyder, 319 Humboldt Street. That’s right. He’s red-headed and in the fourth grade.”

  When the young woman had gone Escott turned to his client again, “Well, we might as well figure this out and be ready for him. Let’s see. If it’s to be divided in the same proportion as the cartridges were, that will mean seven dollars for you and three for him. Right?”

  “It don’t sound right.” Jimmie looked wary and suspicious again. “Three bucks for only fifteen catriches sounds like too much.” He frowned deeply. “Gimme a pencil and a piece of paper.”

  Escott got them and handed them over.

  Chapter 9

  Kenneth Chambers, Sheriff of Silverside County, with only one eye on the spittoon eight feet away from his chair, squirted a beautiful stream of tobacco juice squarely into its middle.

  “Yeah, I know,” he drawled, “I know all about that. But take it from me, Squint Hurley had a hand in it.”

  Bill Tuttle, Sheriff of Park County, who was seated at his desk in his office, said in a voice made querulous by the heat, not to mention one or two other vexations, “You’ve got a grudge against Hurley, Ken.”

  “What if I have?” the other demanded. “Who wouldn’t have? Didn’t he murder Charlie Brand right square in the center of my county and then go scot free just because a couple of wisenheimers said the bullet wasn’t from his gun? They call it science! Next thing they’ll measure my hind end and tell me where I sat down last!” He spat again and nearly missed. “As far as that goes, couldn’t he have faked up a catrich if he was a mind to? Couldn’t he have used another gun?”

  Tuttle sighed. “Well, Ken, I followed that trial pretty close. And I’ll tell you. My candid opinion is that both you and that what’s-his-name, the prosecutor, were as dumb as a pair of hee-haws. You didn’t have a single damn thing on Hurley except that he was handy, still you went ahead and tried to bulldog him. If you’d found some of that money on him, or a place where he cached it, that would have been different.”

  “He was as guilty as a bear in a bees’ nest.”

  “Maybe he was and maybe he wasn’t, but you had no proof of it. And here you drive over here on a hot day just to add to my troubles as if I didn’t have enough already! Didn’t I tell you on the phone yesterday that Hurley had nothing to do with it except he went up there to ask Jackson for some money and found the girl right there with the gun in her hand?”

  “I don’t care what you told me,” Chambers said obstinately. “I’m convinced Hurley was mixed up in it. How did he happen to be going to see Jackson at night? And how did he happen to be going to see Jackson at all? In the past year and a half, since that half-witted jury turned him loose, Jackson has refused to have anything to do with him and I understand he got a little nibble from Bert Doyle down at Laramie and since then he’s been eating bunch grass. Where is he? I suppose you’ve let him slide along?”

  “Certainly not. He’ll be my star witness.”

  “He will like hell. He’ll be one of the defendants.” The sheriff of Silverside County spat. “I’m going to light a fire under him.”

  “Not in Park County you’re not.” Tuttle, from being querulous, became pugnacious. “Get my star witness sore just to nurse a grudge? Not on your life! There’s not a bit of evidence that Squint Hurley was in it at all and no reason to suppose he was. You’re all right for a neighbor, Ken, these counties being as big as they are, but I’m damned if you’re going to start hazing my stock inside my fences. My God, as if this case wasn’t bad enough already! Go on back home and flush a mutton-rustler or something! I’d like to trade places—Excuse me.”

  The phone had buzzed, and he pulled it across and spoke into it. After a moment he said, “Send him on in,” and hung up.

  Chambers, stirring, began, “I’ll mosey along—”

  “No, you won’t. If you do I’ll have you tailed. This is just a parson calling. You stay here till we get this thing settled.”

  The door opened and the Reverend Rufus Toale entered. His preposterous straw hat was in his hand, his black coat was buttoned up and a strand of his dark hair, pasted to his broad forehead by perspiration, curved to a point aimed at his left eyebrow. He came forward with his other hand outstretched, saying in his deep musical voice, “God bless you, Brother Tuttle.—Oh yes, yes indeed, I know Brother Chambers, or perhaps I should say I recognize him. I saw him, of course, during the trial of that poor man for the murder of Charles Brand. God rest his soul.”

  Ken Chambers, muttering something, resumed his seat. Tuttle got heartiness into his voice: “Sit down, Doctor, sit down. Anything I can do?”

  “Praise God, there is.” Rufus Toale, with his customary deliberation, hung the straw hat on the back of a chair and deposited himself on the seat, sitting straight, clasping his hands in front of him. “There is, Brother Tuttle. You can welcome the truth and let it serve you. God’s truth is His alone and it alone is everlasting, but there is also worldly truth which, alas, is often chosen for a guide.” His tone all at once became fierce and a fire gleamed in his eyes. “God’s truth will prevail!” The fire receded and his tone calmed. “I have been three times to see Delia Brand and she will not see me. She refuses to let me speak to her.”

  “Yeah, I heard about that.” The sheriff looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry, but the warden didn’t see how he could—”

  “I understand. Faith and grace cannot enter by force, and the servant of the Lord must wait for the door to open. That poor innocent child! God’s blessing on her!”

  Tuttle frowned. “You say innocent?”

  “I do. I think she is innocent. I do not think she killed. But even if she is guilty by man’s law, who are you to judge her? Only God can brand Cain. For my sins I answer not to man! By your insolent judgments and punishments you usurp His power and deny His mercy!”

  “Of course,” Tuttle agreed, “that’s all right for preaching. But we’ve got to enforce the law. If they didn’t want ’em enforced, why did they make ’em?”

  Rufus Toale sighed. “I know. Practically, it’s useless. That’s why I am here. I, even I, must render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s. So I came to tell you that the man whom Delia Brand desired to kill was myself.”

  The end of the sentence unfortunately caught Ken Chambers in the very act of spitting and he missed the spittoon by nearly a foot. Tuttle’s mouth fell open and, staring, he neglected to close it. Then he demanded, “Huh?”

  Rufus Toale nodded. “Let me explain. I was not aware that the poor child desired my death, though I knew that hatred for me had entered her heart. But when I read in the paper that when she bought the cartridges in the sporting goods store she declared her intention to shoot a man, I knew the man must be me. I am not at liberty to tell you what it was that caused her to conceive her hatred for me, but I assure you it existed. It is not an overstatement to say that she abhorred me. I have been trying to see her, it is true, to persuade her to trust in God’s wisdom and mercy in this sore trial, but I also wanted to gain her permission to tell you of her hatred for me and, as far as it might be necessary, of the reason for it. She will not see me. So I can tell you nothing of the reason, but I can say that I know she hated me and it was me she desired to kill.”

  “Then she was a derned poor shot.”

  That came from Ken Chambers. Tuttle turned a glare on him; Rufus Toale ignored him. Tuttle said, “Well, Doctor, of course I’m pretty surprised. It sounds remarkable. It sounds close to incredible.”

  “It is true.”

  “Maybe so. You’re not prepared to open up any about the reason?”

  “I am not. The confidences of a shepherd with his flock are holy.”

  “Sure, I suppose they are. Did she ever threaten you or tell you she felt
like shooting you?”

  “No. But I saw her soul.”

  “Did she ever tell anybody that, that you know of?”

  “No.”

  “Then what—you understand I’m not necessarily doubting it a bit—but what has this got to do with the fact that she was found standing in front of Dan Jackson with the gun in her hand he had just been killed with?”

  “It has to do with it, Brother Tuttle, that it convinces me there has been a mistake and the poor child is innocent.” Rufus Toale’s voice lifted and became more sonorous. “And I will add, and I warn you, sir, to give it heed, that there is another quite different reason, which I cannot divulge, why I am certain that she did not shoot Jackson. God rest his soul.”

  “Certain’s a strong word, Doctor.”

  “I am certain.”

  “Well …” Tuttle twisted in his chair and his voice changed. “See here. I suppose you know that the law doesn’t recognize the right of any clergyman or even any priest to withhold knowledge of a serious crime, let alone murder. Now you spoke of confidences being holy and so on. That kind of talk won’t be allowed to justify—”

  “God will justify!” The fire showed in Rufus Toale’s eyes again, a zealot’s fire, and he spoke with a zealot’s voice. “Do you imagine, Sheriff, that I respect your ordinances or bow to your compulsions through fear? God forbid! Do you suppose I would relinquish one small glance of favor from His blessed throne to earn any earthly justification you or anyone could bestow? A ghastly error not only in the sight of God, but in the sight of man!”

  Tuttle gazed at him. He would sooner or later, presumably, have replied something or other, but the opportunity passed before he seized it. The phone buzzed. He took it and spoke into it, and gave instructions that someone was to be told to wait till he was free, but the instructions must have been either misunderstood or disregarded, for as he was shoving the phone back the door burst open and a man irrupted into the room. His momentum took him clear to the desk and he was talking when he got there.

  “I said I was busy!” the sheriff yelled. “I said for you to wait!”

  “I don’t care how busy you are,” Tyler Dillon declared. He was panting, more from emotion, it appeared, than from exertion. “Whatever it is, it can wait. I’ve got—”

  “You can wait yourself! Who’s your client this time?”

  “I haven’t got a client. I’ve got evidence that will clear Delia Brand!”

  “The hell you have. Why don’t you take it to her counsel?”

  “Because there’s no use delaying it. It’s conclusive. Get a stenographer in here. I’ve got some witnesses. I want a record—get a stenographer—”

  “Keep your shirt on.” Tuttle reached for the phone. “You’re not going to give me a ride on any more of your legal privileges.” He told the phone, “Ask Ed Baker if he’ll please step down here right away.—Hey, where are you going?”

  “I’m going to bring in my witnesses.”

  “You are not. You stay right here and tell it to the county attorney.”

  “I can have—”

  “You can have a chair, or a square foot to stand on, until he gets here.”

  Tuttle leaned back and glared, first at his brother sheriff, then at the Reverend Rufus Toale and, finally, at the young lawyer in search of a client. In a long experience he had never seen so much ruckus about one bullet in one man, from so many different quarters; and besides the ruckus, there were the correlative perils personal to himself and his job, which constituted, from his standpoint, by no means the least important feature of the case. He was around sixty and he was kind of tired, and he hadn’t saved up much money. He was about deciding that he had better shoo the clergyman and the brother sheriff out of the room when the door opened to admit Ed Baker. He approached the desk, demanding, “Well, Bill, what is it?”

  “This Dillon here again. Says he’s got evidence.”

  Baker wheeled. “Oh, you. What kind of evidence?”

  Ty Dillon faced him. “Evidence that will clear Delia Brand.”

  “Where’s her attorney?”

  “I don’t know and I don’t care. I’m taking it for granted that you have no ill will for Delia Brand and if you are given facts that create a strong presumption of her innocence, you’ll turn her loose. I know you didn’t believe Pellett’s story about her bag, but you only had his word for it and he’s her uncle. This is different. It’s evidence.”

  “What is it?”

  “Get a stenographer.”

  “Go on and tell me.”

  “Just as you say, I won’t forget it. I’ve got witnesses, but I’ll sketch it first. As you know, Delia bought a box of cartridges at MacGregor’s Tuesday morning. The clerk who sold them to her took the gun she had and looked at it and it wasn’t loaded; he said so in the interview he gave the Times-Star. Tuesday afternoon at the Pendleton School Delia left her handbag with her hat on a shelf in the cloakroom which is partitioned off from Room Nine. Two boys sneaked into the cloakroom and, while she was teaching the class, they stole the box of cartridges from her bag. That’s all they took. They saw the gun there. They took the cartridges home with them and I’ve got them. Right here in my pocket. Fifty of them. All of them. Then where did she get a cartridge to shoot Jackson with? And the ones in the gun?”

  Baker, eyeing him, grunted. “Somebody got a cartridge to shoot Jackson with.”

  “She didn’t. Where?”

  “Who says the cartridges you’ve got are the ones she bought?”

  “Don’t worry about that. That’s sewed up. The boys are in the anteroom.”

  “She hasn’t said anything about the cartridges being stolen. She says bag and all were stolen.”

  “That was later, from her car. She hadn’t missed the cartridges. This thing is watertight. It’s so tight that I didn’t even have her sister see her before I came to you, to warn her not to say that she noticed the cartridges in her bag after she left the school. She couldn’t say that, because they weren’t there. This is open and shut.”

  The county attorney, still eyeing him, chewed at his lip. Finally he turned to the sheriff. “Get the boys in here, Bill.”

  In response to the sheriff’s message, the population of the office was increased not by two, but by four. In front was Clara, her face a weary composite of hope and anxiety; next came Jimmie and Eric; in the rear was James Archer, Senior, carrying his coat over his arm. The young man from the anteroom stayed to help get chairs collected and occupied and then withdrew.

  Names were supplied by Dillon to the county attorney, who opened up on Jimmie. “Were you at the Pendleton School Tuesday afternoon?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What were you doing?”

  “Doing my dooty.”

  “What were you doing while Delia Brand was teaching her class?”

  “I was finding something because somebody had offered a reward.”

  “Oh, a reward? Did you get the reward?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Who gave it to you?”

  “Mr. Escott. My lawyer.”

  “I see. When he gave you the reward did he tell you what to say when you were brought here?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Did anybody tell you want to say?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What did they tell you to say?”

  “The truth.”

  Dillon put in savagely, “Oh, cut it out, Baker. That’s tommyrot. There’s any amount of corroboration—the fathers and mothers and the school principal—”

  “I’ll handle it, thanks.” Baker went on with Jimmie: “What was it you found?”

  “A box of catriches.”

  “Where did you find it?”

  “In Miss Brand’s bag. I was there in the cloakroom with Eric, and I whispered to him, I said …”

  Jimmie was off. It took over an hour. Ed Baker, first with one boy and then the other, exhausted every detail of the entire episode from beginning to end, and then
started over again and repeated the performance. He questioned James Archer, Senior, with equal thoroughness and then went after Jimmie once more, regarding his visit to the offices of Escott, Brody & Dillon and his surrender to the bait of the silver dollars. He was working on that, and Dillon was pacing up and down in impatience, when he was interrupted by the sheriff, who had been speaking briefly on the phone.

  “It’s Frank Phelan,” said the sheriff, covering the transmitter. “He says he’s got something and he’s bringing it over right away, and he wants you to be here.”

  “Well, I’m here!” Baker told him testily. “Tell him to bring it along!” He resumed with Jimmie. Five minutes later he had all he seemed likely to get. The questions stopped. He surveyed the boy a moment, then turned to face Dillon. “All right,” he said grudgingly. “You said you have evidence. You have. Congratulations. But it seems to me you should have taken it to the defense attorney in the first place. You’d better take it there now.”

  Dillon stared. “Take it—why? What more do you want? Do you mean you’ve got the nerve to hold—” His voice was on the way, crescendo, to a shriek of indignation.

  “Cool off, Dillon. Use your head a little. What’s my nerve got to do with it? I admit you’ve dug up evidence, enough of it so that when Harvey Anson gets it he’ll probably take a crack at a habeas corpus writ and then I’ll have to decide whether to fight it or not. I’ve got to think it over. There’s still a preponderance against her and if you were in my place you’d know it as well as I do.”

  “But damn you, what more do you want? This proves that she couldn’t—”

  “This proves only one thing, that if she shot Jackson she didn’t do it with one of the cartridges she bought from MacGregor’s clerk Tuesday morning. I admit that’s something. I admit that it puts it up to me—now what?”

  He wheeled. The door had been flung open and feet were tramping in. Everybody gazed at the new influx, which seemed to threaten, as it continued, to jam the office. First was Lem Sammis, followed by Quinby Pellett. Next in order, entered a uniformed policeman, a tall skinny young man in a polo shirt and seersucker slacks, with wavy blond hair, Chief of Police Phelan and another cop in uniform. At the tail end, as usual, progressing with a minimum of exertion, was Harvey Anson.