Ричард Деминг - The Copper Frame

“Yeah?” Saxon asked, pausing.

“The D.A. says we have to book you tomorrow.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You’re going to need bail,” Burns said diffidently. “I only have a couple of thousand salted away, but you’re welcome to it.”

Saxon’s resentment at Burns’s earlier suggestion as to what might have really happened in Grace Emmet’s cell had left him a little cool toward the man. But now his coolness evaporated.

“Thanks, Vic,” he said. “But I’m sure I can arrange professional bond.”

He drove to the big lake-front home of outgoing Mayor Ben Foley.

Saxon found Foley and his wife in their bathrobes. They had just finished a late breakfast. Alice Foley excused herself to go upstairs and dress, leaving Saxon alone with her husband in the big front room.

The outgoing mayor looked at him keenly. “Something’s wrong, Ted. What is it?”

“You haven’t heard?” Saxon asked with raised brows.

“Heard what? We haven’t been out of the house.”

Saxon told the whole story.

When he finished, Foley regarded him shrewdly. “Have you told Emily?”

“Of course,” Saxon said. “I drove over to the hospital last night as soon as I got away from headquarters. She was on night duty.”

“How’d she take it?”

“She was madder than I was. Not at me. At the people who rigged this.”

Foley gave a satisfied nod. “Then I guess you’re as innocent as you claim.”

Saxon frowned at him. “Of course I am.”

“If you were guilty, you wouldn’t have gone near Emily. You would have wanted to hide your face from her. Do you have any idea of the motive behind this frame?”

Saxon shook his head. “Not the slightest.”

“Hmm. You want me to handle the legal end of this?”

“That’s why I’m here. You’re a lawyer, and I certainly need one.”

“Okay. You say Arn Kettle’s going to push for the lowest possible bail?”

“He implied that.”

“Then you forget everything until tomorrow morning,” Foley said. “I’ll arrange professional bond. I’ll meet you at headquarters at nine A.M.”

Saxon didn’t feel like a lonely lunch at home, but neither did he care to patronize a local restaurant where he would run into people he knew. It had stopped snowing during the night and plows had already cleared the main roads, so he drove thirty miles to a roadhouse on the outskirts of Rigby and lunched there. Afterward he watched television in the road-house bar.

Because Emily had worked until 7 A.M. and usually slept until 3 P.M. when she was on the third shift, Saxon didn’t disturb her until the late afternoon. It was almost four when he arrived at her apartment. He had timed it correctly, for she told him she had just finished showering and dressing.

“Where’s Julie?” he asked as he removed his hat and coat.

“She’s on three to eleven this week. As a matter of fact, I’m her relief. What did Arn Kettle have to say?”

Sinking into the center of the sofa, he stretched out his long legs and glumly regarded his toes. “I’m to be booked and have a preliminary hearing tomorrow morning. Meantime he’s trusting me not to run.”

“Will they put you in jail, Ted?”

“Not unless I’m convicted. And the trial may not come up for months. There seems to be a general reluctance to jail the chief of police. I’ve retained Ben Foley as my lawyer.”

“Oh, I’m glad,” she said. “He’s not only good; he’s nice.”

“I chose him primarily for the first reason,” Saxon said dryly. “Incidentally, he believes in my innocence.”

“I told you he was nice.”

“It isn’t just blind faith. He reasoned it out. He thinks if I were guilty, I wouldn’t have run to you for sympathy the minute I got away from headquarters. He says I wouldn’t have been able to face you.”

After contemplating this, she said, “I suppose he has a point, but I wouldn’t have believed you did it even if you had avoided me. I’d figure you were just embarrassed by the charge, not by guilt.”

“Boy, are you prejudiced,” he said with a grin. “We’ll try to get you on the jury. Have you had anything to eat?”

“Toast and coffee when I got up at three. I’m not hungry, but I’ll fix you something.”

“I had lunch,” he said. “I was going to offer to take you out for some. It isn’t snowing and the sun’s shining. Or was.”

“Maybe later on,” she said. “Would you like a beer?”

“That sounds good.”

As she moved into the kitchen, he walked over to turn on the TV set. Channel 4 was broadcasting the Rose Bowl game, which, because of the three-hour time difference, was just about to start. A marching band filled the screen. Then the station cut in on the preliminary features of the game to give its regular five-minute summary of the four-o’clock news.

At that moment Emily brought in two bottles of beer.

The newscaster turned to local news. The first item was:

A one-car accident at Halfway Creek on Route Twenty just southwest of Buffalo claimed the life of one person and caused minor injuries to another early this morning. Instantly killed when the car driven by Sergeant Harry Morrison of the Buffalo Police Force skidded on snow and went over a twenty-foot bank was alleged murderess Grace Emmet, who was being transported in handcuffs from Erie, Pennsylvania to Buffalo by the police officer. Thrown from the car as it went over the bank, Sergeant Morrison suffered superficial bruises. He was treated for minor injuries at Meyer Memorial Hospital and released. The accident occurred at about 1:45 A.M.

The dead woman, wanted for the month-old murder of Buffalo industrialist Michael Factor, had been picked up by Erie police on December 30 and had waived extradition to New York. Sergeant Morrison was bringing her back to face the murder charge.

Saxon lost all interest in the football game. As the newscaster went on to another local item, he set his beer bottle on the floor, rose, and switched off the set. Crossing to the phone, he dialed Ben Foley’s home number.

Alice answered. Saxon asked for her husband.

When the lawyer came on, Saxon said, “Did you happen to hear the newscast just now?”

“I heard it on the two P.M. news,” Foley said. “I imagine it’s been on all day, but who turns on TV New Year’s morning? I tried to phone you, but there was no answer.”

“I haven’t been home,” Saxon said. “How’s this affect matters?”

“With the alleged victim dead, I’d say it pretty well kills the charge against you. We’ll see in the morning, though. Kettle may insist on pushing it on the basis of the two living witnesses’ testimony.”

“I see We still meet at nine A.M., then?”

“That’s right. But I don’t think I’ll bother with a bondsman. If things get to that point, we can always phone Jimmy Good and tell him to hustle over.”

“Okay,” Saxon said. “See you in the morning.”

When he hung up, Emily asked, “What did he say?”

“He thinks this will kill the charge. I’m sorry it happened, though.”

“Why?” Emily asked in surprise. “The woman was a murderess and she did this terrible thing to you. I can’t feel any sympathy for her.”

“I wasn’t thinking about her. But now she can never retract her charge. I wanted a public admission from her that she lied.”

“Oh,” Emily said. “I hadn’t thought of that. Now how will we ever prove it?”

Walking over to the sofa, Saxon drew her to her feet and put his arms about her. “The important thing is your believing in me, doll. It doesn’t really matter what the rest of the world thinks.”

“It does to me,” she said. “I won’t have people thinking badly of you. They’d better not say anything to me if they know what’s good for them.”