Erle Gardner - The Case of the Lame Canary

“I demand he be called as a witness,” Cuff said.

“Come forward and be sworn, Mr. Weyman,” the coroner ordered.

“I’m not going to do any such thing,” Weyman said, his voice surly. “I don’t want to be a witness, and you can’t make me. I’m a hell of a looking specimen to get on the witness stand!”

The crowd roared with laughter, which Scanlon made no effort to check. When it had subsided, he said, “Come forward and be sworn, anyway, Mr. Weyman.”

“I’m not going to tell anything,” Weyman said doggedly.

The good-natured smile didn’t leave the coroner’s lips, but his eyes suddenly became hard. “I think,” he said gently, “you’re in error on that point, Mr. Weyman. Officer, bring him forward.”

The officer took Weyman’s arm and said, “Come on, buddy. This way.”

Weyman, his temper flaring up, jumped back and lashed out a blow at the officer. The next instant he found himself grabbed with a strangle hold, spun neatly around, and then rushed down the corridor toward the witness chair, while the spectators set up a delighted tittering.

Scanlon said, “Hold him there just a minute, Mr. Officer. I want to say something to him... Now, Mr. Weyman, this is an inquest. The coroner has the power to subpoena witnesses and make them testify. If you disobey me you’re going to jail. I don’t want to have any trouble, but if you know anything about this case, we’re going to find it out... Have you been drinking?”

Weyman said in a surly voice, “I’ve had a drink or two.”

“Raise your right hand and be sworn,” the coroner ordered sternly.

The officer released his hold, and Weyman, scowling savagely, raised his right hand and was sworn.

Scanlon indicated the witness chair, and Rodney Cuff stepped forward. “Mr. Weyman,” he said, “you remember the automobile accident which took place in front of Walter Prescott’s home?”

“Well, what if I do?”

“You live next door to Prescott?”

“Yes.”

“And you saw that accident?”

“Yes, I saw it.”

“Where were you at the time?”

“I was standing on Fourteenth Street.”

“You’d been drinking, had picked a fight, and got the worst of the argument, is that right?”

“That’s none of your damn business.”

Scanlon banged with his gavel, frowned at the witness, but turned to Rodney Cuff and said, “This man is an unwilling witness. I’m forcing him to testify. I don’t want him unnecessarily annoyed. What has his fighting got to do with it?”

“Simply this,” Rodney Cuff said. “This witness has a habit of fighting when he’s drunk. It’s been a matter of argument between him and his wife. This time he’d been beaten into unconsciousness, had to go to a doctor to have his face dressed, and didn’t want to go home and face the music. So he was standing rather uncertainly on Fourteenth Street near the comer of Alsace Avenue when the accident occurred. I want to show he was there at the time, and show why he was there.”

“All right,” Weyman said, in a surly voice, “that’s right. I was there. So what?”

“You could see into Walter Prescott’s house?”

“I could see through some of the windows on the Fourteenth Street side of the house.”

“Could you see the little hallway where the telephone’s located?”

“Yes, I could see that.”

“Did you see Mr. Driscoll using the telephone?”

There was a moment of tense silence, when Weyman said reluctantly, “I seen a man standing there, telephoning. He had his back turned, though.”

“Now you were standing there when the accident took place?”

“Yes.”

“What was Driscoll doing when the accident took place?”

“The man I saw was still at the telephone.”

“And how long had he been there?”

“I don’t know, four or five minutes maybe.”

“What did you do after the accident occurred?”

“I started to go over and see what had happened. Then I decided to keep out of it. I went back and sat down on the curb, watched them load the guy that was hurt into the van. This guy in the blue suit ran out and helped. Then he went back in the house, and I saw the van drive away.”

“Then what?”

“Then, after a few minutes, I saw this man, Driscoll, come out of the house again. Just then a prowl car swung around the comer and the officers nailed this guy.”

“How long did you stay there after that?”

“I didn’t stay. I didn’t want those officers asking me questions, so I beat it. I walked around for a while. I was kinda sleepy and wasn’t feeling very good. After a while I made up my mind I had to face the music, so I turned around and went home.”

“What time was that?”

“I don’t know. It was long enough so I’d commenced to feel sick.”

Rodney Cuff made a little gesture of surrendering the witness, and resumed his seat with a satisfied smile.

The coroner looked across at Overmeyer, and the deputy district attorney got to his feet, moved over toward the witness and said, “Could you be sure it was Mr. Driscoll you saw at the telephone?”

Weyman said in his thick, surly voice, “The telephone sets right up against the window. This guy was standing, leaning his shoulder against the side of the window. I could see his back and the back of his head. He had the same kind of black curly hair this Driscoll has. When he came out of the house I could see his face. The man who came out was Driscoll. I know that. I think he was the one who was telephoning.”

“You’d been drinking at the time?”

“I’d had a few, yes.”

“More than you’ve had now?”

There was a half smile on Weyman’s face as he said, “A lot more.”

“Are you positive about the time?”

Weyman shook his head and said, “No, I’m not. They told me the accident took place at noon. If that’s true, then the rest of it’s okay. If it ain’t true, I don’t know what time it was. All I know is I’d been standing around there for about ten minutes before the accident, and I saw this man telephoning.”

Overmeyer frowned thoughtfully and said, “That’s all. I may want to talk with you again about this, Mr. Weyman.”

Mason said, “May I ask one question?”

Scanlon nodded.

“Whom have you told about what you saw?”

“I told my wife,” Weyman said.

“Anyone else?”

Weyman shook his head.

“Did you tell her about this as soon as you got home?” Mason asked.

“No,” Weyman said with a wry grin. “We talked about other things right after I got home.”

Again a titter swept the room.

“That’s all,” Mason said.

Scanlon nodded to Weyman. “You’re excused, Mr. Weyman,” he said.

Rodney Cuff got to his feet and said, “I wish to point out that in view of the testimony of this witness, and the fact that we can show definitely the automobile accident took place almost exactly at the hour of noon, it was impossible for Jimmy Driscoll to have killed Walter Prescott.

“I think you can see what this means,” Cuff went on, staring steadily at the deputy district attorney. “It means that sometime after Rosalind Prescott and my client had gone to Reno, and while Rita Swaine was in the house, Walter Prescott arrived. I won’t presume to conjecture what happened, but Rita Swaine killed him. From what my client tells me of Rita Swaine, I presume that the provocation was great. Perhaps it was self-defense, or—”

“If Counsel is going to make an argument,” Perry Mason said casually, “I want to make one.”

“He isn’t going to make one,” Scanlon ruled. “Sit down, Mr. Cuff.”

“I merely wanted to point out that—”