James Cain - The Magician's Wife

He produced a paper, approached the judge’s desk, and, when Mr. Pender had joined him, let him read. Then, in a low tone, he went on: “Your honor, when that insurance came to light, when Mrs. Gorsuch rang in about it, the police checked this girl out — the defendant, Miss Conlon, especially the men she’d been seeing. There were four, including this man Lockwood, who had been the subject of a thinly veiled newspaper item, which coupled him with the defendant. What he did the night of the crime was thoroughly investigated, and so far as complicity went, he was cleared one hundred percent. And in fact, until he took the stand yesterday, he hadn’t figured in this case. Now, however—”

“Your honor,” asked Mr. Pender, “what is this, anyway? Here’s a man, a community leader, president-elect of one of our biggest corporations, who takes the stand for a girl he thinks falsely accused, and his reward, on the basis of still another police report, is to be charged in this court with perjury without any—”

“Yes, Mr. Kuhn,” said the judge. “I’m disturbed.”

“Then I hold the charge at this time.”

“Perjury is easy to allege when a witness won’t say what we want him to. And here, it seems to me, you’re less concerned with a violation of the law as such than with winning this other case — or in other words, you seem to be using it tactically, as a means of smoking this witness out, as the saying goes. That I can’t have.”

“If so, I wasn’t aware of it.”

“Of course if the cross-examining develops evidence of a substantial kind, the court itself must take cognizance of it.”

“Then I await your honor’s decision.”

“Bailiff, bring in the jury.”

Mr. Kuhn then began his dreadful drumfire, and Clay could feel himself sweat. He brought out the visit to the garage, the arrangements about the car; Clay’s parking it outside, snug to the curb on Spring Street; his little scene with Doris, and her putting the keys in his box; his arrival in the apartment, his call to Pat, his call to Miss Helm, and her call to Atlantic City. “And then?” asked Mr. Kuhn.

“She called me to check on the rate.”

“And you told her?”

“That forty a day was all right.”

“And then?”

“I started to take off my clothes, but was restless and didn’t feel like going to bed. Then I remembered Mike, and he seemed as good an excuse as any to get out of the house again and go somewhere. So I went.”

“Out through the lobby, of course?”

“No — after all that hocus-pocus about putting the keys in the box, I would have felt kind of silly asking Doris to start over again. So I dropped duplicate keys in my pocket and went out the back way. I keep three or four sets around, ignition keys and trunk keys, on little spiral rings.” He took out a pair and clinked them at Mr. Kuhn. “I took a set from a bureau drawer and drove off without telling Doris.”

“Straight to the Lilac Flamingo?”

“That’s right — to the side street by the club.”

“When was this?”

“At a guess, I’d say I left at eleven-thirty.”

“And then you came back?”

“I did.”

“Parking where?”

“Same place as before.”

“The same way as before? Snug? To the curb?”

“Mr. Kuhn, I haven’t the faintest idea. I always park according to law, or try to — and in this case I suppose I followed habit. But if independent recollection is what you want, I don’t have any.”

“What time was this?”

“One-thirty, one-forty-five.”

“And you went in the back way, as before?”

“No, I went in through the lobby.”

“Being checked in? By the late man? On the desk?”

“No — Frank was asleep.”

So far, having had his moment of warning, while the lawyers wrangled, Clay had made lightning improvisations, and feeling they might be believed, had regained his big-shot manner, a combination of cold civility and slightly annoyed impatience. But it all began to wear thin when Mr. Kuhn abruptly asked: “Isn’t it true, Mr. Lockwood, that you stayed home that night, that you didn’t leave at all, by the front door, back door, or any door, and that you’ve told this incredible tale simply to help Miss Conlon — that you’ve been her paramour and are trying to get her off, at any cost, even a breach of the truth?”

“No, Mr. Kuhn, it’s not true.”

“You’ve been a visitor at her home?”

“I’ve never been to her home.”

“Mr. Kuhn picked up his report and, elaborately letting the jury see, asked Clay: “You deny that on August eighteenth last you went to her home, leaving around dusk?”

“Her apartment house, not her home.”

“Explain this distinction, please.”

Clay’s mouth, disconnected from his mind, began to talk, explaining his concern for Buster, her safety in the projected act, and “I wanted to check on it, what had been done with the rails — and I wanted no piece of Gorsuch, or Alexis, as he called himself with me. So, being in Baltimore one evening, I decided to look her up, and after finding her in the phone book drove over to that part of town. I located her place, went in, and checked the mailboxes, lighting a match to look, as I’m sure your report says. Her box was there, but then I decided I’d better call, rather than barge out of the blue. So I went up the street, looking for a call box, and, not finding any, came back. Then, to my surprise, she came bouncing out of the doorway and down the steps. So we had our talk, right there on the sidewalk, and I found everything had been done in the way I had said it should be. But then we went on to other things and stepped into a vestibule — of an office building nearby. You want the details of what we said?”

“Not particularly,” said Mr. Kuhn.

“WHY DON’T YOU WANT THE DETAILS?” thundered Clay.

His mouth having come up with a tale that at least steadied his nerves, he summoned courage to take the offensive, and sounded once more, as he had the day before, like the big, overbearing, self-righteous business executive, determined to be heard. “Or do you only want part of the truth? The part that’ll burn this girl.”

“Then — the details,” said Mr. Kuhn.

Clay told of Buster’s concern over Mr. Alexis, that he was ‘giving me the air, so he can go back to her — out of gratitude for what she did, helping his father die, at least as he thought, and bringing him all that money.’ Pointing at Sally, whose eyes looked like fragments of glass, Clay explained: “She meant that lady there, Mrs. Sally Gorsuch — though of course, Mr. Kuhn, your police reports cover it. I hope you’ve referred to them — I know of course you wouldn’t suppress anything.”

“Mr. Lockwood, you’ve been warned,” snapped the judge.

“ If you’re trying to shut me up, I won’t shut! ”

Clay looked at Judge Warfield, as utter recklessness swept caution aside. It was his great moment at the trial, and for a long interval silence hung on the courtroom. Then Mr. Kuhn resumed: “So even then, on August eighteenth, the defendant, Miss Conlon, had her mind on revenge?”

“On a replacement, I’d say,” Clay told him.

“... Replacement? What do you mean?”

“Some guy — in Alexis’ place.”

“Ah! Meaning you?”

“Yeah! We kidded along about it!”

“And you kissed her?”

“You bet I did. She kisses nice.”

Mr. Kuhn had no further questions, Mr. Pender only a few deferential ones of a kind to remind the jury of Clay’s personal eminence, and there was no more mention of perjury. Nevertheless, Clay’s face was drawn as he left the stand, and he didn’t look at the judge, the jury, or anyone, not even at Buster, where she sat trying to beam him a smile. Not waiting for lunch with Mr. Pender, he hurried out to his car and drove home, finding nobody there. He went to Grace’s bedroom and flung himself down on her bed, a square, newfangled thing with shelves in the place of a headboard and no footboard at all. There, some time later, returning from market, she popped in and sat down beside him. But when she asked how it went, he merely said, “O.K., I guess,” in a vague, dull way, still keeping his face in the pillow. But when she opened the paper she had bought, he turned over and stared at the headline. It was The Pilot’s noon edition, which had the perjury charge but not its subsequent withdrawal. In a jerky, dramatic way then, he said: “So — you want to know how it went, that’s how. They later withdrew the charge — but the word was used — and for a couple of minutes there, to leave that court I’d have had to put up bail.”