William Bankier: Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, Vol. 110, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 673 & 674, September/October 1997

The lawyer rose slowly, unbuttoned his jacket, and ran his hand through his hair, mussing it ever so slightly. He paced slowly in front of the witness. When he spoke he spoke to the jury. “I’m very sorry for your misfortune, Mr. Cabot.”

The witness cocked his head.

The lawyer continued, “The death of a young woman is a terrible thing. Just terrible. Inexcusable.”

“Yes, well. Thank you.”

The jury’s collective eyes scanned Lescroix’s troubled face. He glanced at the witness stand. Cabot didn’t know what to say. He’d been expecting an attack. He was uneasy. The eyes were no longer steely hard. They were cautious. Good. People detest wary truth-tellers far more than self-assured liars.

He turned back to the twelve men and women in his audience.

He smiled. No one smiled back.

That was all right. This was just the overture.

He walked to the table and picked up a folder. Strode back to the jury box. “Mr. Cabot, what do you do for a living?”

The question caught him off guard. He looked around the courtroom. “Well, I own a company. It manufactures housings for computers and related equipment.”

“Do you make a lot of money at it?”

“Objection.”

“Overruled. But you’ll bring this back to earth sometime soon, Mr. Lescroix?”

“You bet I will, your honor. Now, Mr. Cabot, please answer.”

“We had sales of eight million last year.”

“Your salary was what?”

“I took home about two hundred thousand.”

“And your wife, was she employed by the company too?”

“Part time. As a director on the board. And she did some consulting work.”

“I see. And how much did she make?”

“I don’t know exactly.”

“Toss an estimate our way, Mr. Cabot.”

“Well, in the neighborhood of a hundred thousand.”

“Really? Interesting.”

Flipping slowly through the folder, while the jury wondered what could be interesting about this piece of news.

Lescroix looked up. “How was your company originally financed?”

“Objection, your honor,” the gray-faced prosecutor said. His young assistant nodded vigorously, as if every bob of his head was a legal citation supporting his boss.

The judge asked, “Going anywhere real, Mr. Lescroix, or’re we being treated to one of your famous fishing trips?”

Perfect. Lescroix turned to the jury, eyes upraised slightly; the judge didn’t notice. See what I’ve got to deal with? he asked tacitly. He was rewarded with a single conspiratorial smile. And then, God bless me, another.

“I’m going someplace very real, your honor. Even if there are some people here who won’t be very happy where that might be.”

This raised a few murmurs.

The judge grunted. “We’ll see. Overruled. Go ahead, Mr. Cabot.”

The witness said, “If I recall, the financing was very complicated.”

“Then let’s make it easy. Your wife’s father is a wealthy businessman, right?”

“I don’t know what you mean by wealthy.” Cabot swallowed.

“Net worth of twelve million’d fall somewhere in that definition, wouldn’t it?”

“I suppose. Somewhere.”

Several jurors joined Lescroix in chuckling.

“Didn’t your father-in-law stake you to your company?”

“I paid back every penny—”

“Mr. Cabot,” Lescroix asked patiently, “did your father-in-law stake you to your company or did he not?”

A pause. Then a sullen, “Yes.”

“How much of the company did your wife own?”

“If I remember, there were some complicated formulas—”

“More complexity?” Lescroix sighed. “Let’s make it simple, why don’t we. Just tell us what percentage of the company your wife owned.”

Another hesitation. “Forty-nine.”

“And your?”

“Forty-nine.”

“And who owns the other two percent?”

“That would be her father.”

“And on her death, who gets her shares?”

A moment’s hesitation. “If we’d had any children—”

“Do you have children?”

“No.”

“I see. Then let’s hear what will in fact happen to your wife’s shares.”

Cabot cleared his throat. “I guess I’ll receive them.”

Play ’em right. Just like an orchestra conductor. Light hand on the baton. Don’t add, “So you’re the one who’s profited from your wife’s death.” Or: “So then you’d be in control of the company.” They’re dim, but even the dimmest are beginning to see where we’re headed.

Cabot took a sip of water, spilled some on his jacket. His hands were shaking very nicely.

“Mr. Cabot, let’s think back to June, all right? You hired Jerry Pilsett to do some work for you on the second, correct?”

“Yes.”

“And you’d hired him several times before, right?”

“Yes.”

“Starting when?”

“I don’t know, maybe six months ago.”

“How long have you known that Jerry lived in Hamilton?”

“I guess five, six years.”

“So even though you’ve known him for six years, you never hired him before last spring?”

“Well, no, but—”

“Even though you had plenty of opportunities to.”

“No. But I was going to say—”

“Now June second was what day of the week, Mr. Cabot?”

After a glance at the judge, Cabot said, “I don’t remember.”

“It was a Friday.”

“If you say so,” the witness replied churlishly.

“I don’t say so, Mr. Cabot. My Hallmark calendar says so.” And he held up a pocket calendar emblazoned with fuzzy puppies and kittens.

A wheeze of laughter from several members of the jury.

“And what time of day was he supposed to do the work?”

“I don’t know.”

“Early?”

Cabot coughed. “Not real early.”

“ ‘Not real early,’ ” Lescroix repeated slowly. Then snapped, “Wasn’t it in fact evening?”

“Maybe it was.”

Frowning, pacing. “Isn’t it odd that you hired somebody to do yard work on a Friday night?”

“It wasn’t night. It was dusk and—”

“Please answer the question.”

“It didn’t occur to me there was anything odd about it.”

“I see. Could you tell us exactly what you hired him to do?”

A surly glance from Cabot. Then: “He mowed the lawn and took away some rotten firewood.”

“Rotten?”

“Well, termite infested.”

“Was it all termite infested?”

Cabot looked hopelessly at the prosecutor, whose milky face shone with concern, and then at his assistant, who would probably have been concerned too if he hadn’t been so confused at the moment. Jerry Pilsett merely flicked his earlobe and stared morosely at the floor.

“Go ahead,” the judge prompted. “Answer the question.”

“I don’t know, I saw termite holes. I have a wood-framed house and I didn’t want to take the chance they’d get into the house.”

“So you saw some evidence of termites but this stack of wood wasn’t completely rotten, was it?”

“I don’t know. Maybe not.”

“So there was some — maybe a lot — of good wood there.”

“I don’t know.” He snapped, “What difference—”

“But for some reason you wanted Jerry Pilsett to haul the entire pile away. And to do so on this particular Friday night.”

“Why are you asking me all these questions?”

“To get to the truth,” Lescroix spat out. “That’s what we’re here for, isn’t it? Now, tell us, sir, was the pile of wood covered with anything?”

A slight frown. He’d only be wondering why Lescroix was focussing on this fact but the result was a wonderfully suspicious expression.