James Cain - The Magician's Wife

“To drop in for a chat.”

“At his club?”

“The Lilac Flamingo, that’s right.”

“And you did drop in?”

“I did — drove up there one night and parked.”

“On the Lilac Flamingo lot?”

“On the street, next to the lot. Well, there was space there at the curb, and why waste a buck? On that parking attendant of Mike, who spatters spit when he talks — and I didn’t have my umbrella.”

“Object.”

“Sustained.”

Clay’s crack got a laugh from the courtroom, but Mr. Pender didn’t smile. “Mr. Lockwood,” he said piously, “the boy can’t help his affliction.”

“He can help his l-l-l-lies,” said Clay.

He sounded like Frank Fontaine, and this time the crowd gave a roar, with hand-clapping mixed in. Plainly they liked this big, good-looking witness, and their sudden silence was hostile as the judge said to Clay: “Mr. Lockwood, you’ve already been warned about gratuitous opinion. I fine you one hundred dollars for contempt.”

Clay, patterning his behavior after Mr. Pender’s, got up, took out his wallet, counted some bills, and handed them to the bailiff. But his face reddened, and before resuming his seat he said: “Your honor, if I showed contempt for this court, I did so unintentionally, and apologize. But, if this be contempt, to louse this silly case up by letting the truth in, I can only repeat: someone primed this little jerk up, filled him full of lies, as nothing took place that night resembling what he said here in this place today. I was there. I know. If I’m again in contempt, I have more cash in my pocket.”

He sat down, and the judge thought a long time. Then, to Mr. Kuhn: “Are you going to move a mistrial?”

“Or a dismissal?” asked a grinning Mr. Pender.

“... I’ll let it ride,” said Mr. Kuhn.

“Mr. Lockwood,” said the judge, “this court is so impressed by your sincerity that I’m remitting your fine and instruct the bailiff to hand it back.” Waiting until Clay had taken his money, he went on: “However, the law is the law, and if there’s one more lapse on your part, cash will not be enough. I intend to send you to jail.”

“Yes, your honor,” whispered Clay.

“How long were you parked?” asked Mr. Pender.

“Only a few minutes — I meant to go in the club, but then Mr. Alexis came out, by a back door.”

“In the dark you could recognize him?”

“Dark? The lot has floodlights on it.”

“He was in costume, or what?”

“He was in dinner coat, black tie, and pink tarboosh, I believe it’s called.”

“Describe the tarboosh, please.”

“Like a hat, in the form of a silk turban.”

“You left the car then, or what?”

“I stayed where I was, beside my parked car — after my brush with him that day down at the shop I wanted no piece of this guy. I waited to see what he’d do, and sure enough he spoke to the boy, who trotted to a car and in the next minute or two backed it out in the middle.”

“All right. Then what?”

“Miss Conlon piled out of the door.”

“She was in costume, too?”

“She was in tights, trunks, and jacket.”

“And what happened then, Mr. Lockwood?”

“They had this comedy brawl.”

“Object.”

“Sustained.” The judge’s manner was kind as he turned to Clay. “Tell what they said, tell what they did — omit your interpretation.”

“He was laughing at her,” snapped Clay at the judge, “and where I come from, that makes a comedy brawl. I tell it as well as I can. Do you want the truth out of me or not? ”

“Objection withdrawn,” said Mr. Kuhn.

“Tell it your way,” said the judge.

“You tell it according to law,” growled Mr. Pender at Clay. “I request the jury to disregard ‘comedy brawl,’ and pray the court to instruct the reporter to strike it.”

“So ordered,” said the judge.

“What did they say?” asked Mr. Pender.

“She said it was all a fake, what he had said to her about going home early to talk about divorce. She said: ‘You’re going back to her, that’s what you’re up to, you louse — so go on, see who gives a damn!’ She screamed it, and he started to laugh. He said: ‘So O.K., I’m lying, I’m the world’s original louse — but come on, see for yourself! It’ll cost us a million bucks, but anything to please!’ And she said, ‘Well, maybe I will,’ and jumped in.”

“Did she threaten to kill him at all?”

“No. At least, not that I heard.”

“Did she make any threats of any kind?”

“Well — I guess she did, in a way. She said: ‘O.K., go back to her, but don’t you come back to me! You try coming back to me and see what happens to you!’ ”

“Did she say what she meant by that?”

“God knows what she meant. Maybe nothing.”

By then it was nearly five, and when Mr. Kuhn, asked if he meant to cross-examine, said yes he certainly did, the judge adjourned until morning. Mr. Pender, leaving the courtroom, was exultant. “Boy, did you smash ’em up!” he whispered, grabbing Clay by the arm. “And with comical stuff yet! That ‘l-l-l-lies’ was worth all the rest put together!” He led Clay over to Buster, who was waiting for her policewoman, and she patted his arm, her eyes soft, her nervous fingers grateful. Home, he told it all to Grace, including his fine for contempt and its inexplicable remission. “It was remitted to you,” she said, “because even that judge knew that you were telling the truth and that truth’s day had come — it was entitled to be heard.” They both laved themselves in the healing balm of the truth, it seemingly occurring to neither of them that the truth had not been told — that he had scarcely heard twenty words before leaving that night and that Mike had formed no part of his purpose. But, in their twisted, left-handed way, they had helped basic justice, and so were warmed for one night.

“Mr. Lockwood, where did you dine the night in whose early morning hours you drove to the Lilac Flamingo?”

“... Well, I don’t just offhand recall. I generally dine at the Channel City Yacht Club and no doubt did that night.”

“Alone?”

“I do as a rule, Mr. Kuhn.”

“And then you went home?”

“I assume so, yes.”

“You drove?”

“I always do.”

“In your own car?”

“Of course.”

“What did you do with it then?”

“Just a moment, please.”

Mr. Pender got to his feet, saying: “Your honor, I don’t like to clog up a trial with objections that merely obstruct, but I must say I don’t see the point of all this. We’ll stipulate the car if it makes any difference, and it’s assumed, I would think, that Mr. Lockwood did something with it — after all, it won’t go in his pocket. So unless there’s some reason for this I don’t see, I must object at this point.”

“So.”

Mr. Kuhn was very quiet and then went on: “Perhaps it’s just as well, your honor, that counsel has raised the question, but before I answer, I suggest that the court exclude the jury.”

“Very well.”

Waiting until the bailiff had shoed the jury out, Mr. Kuhn went on, still in his quiet way. And he had hardly said ten words when Clay’s head began to reel, for he knew his perfect alibi was rising up to destroy him. “What he did with his car,” said Mr. Kuhn, “what he did with his night, these commonplaces which my colleague would have me assume, are actually of the essence, for they prove that Mr. Lockwood, in spite of his outbreak yesterday, his noisy appeal to Truth, was actually lying out of hand in all that he told this court, of his trip to the club that night, the reasons he had for taking it, what he heard, and what he saw. I’ll bring incontrovertible evidence that he spent the night at home, that he never left his apartment, that his story was pure invention. In fact, so overwhelming is this evidence that I intend to charge him with perjury and ask that he be held, when he leaves the witness stand, for the action of the grand jury.”