Маргарет Миллар - Spider Webs

“While Harry slept, Cully King and Richie Arnold did the necessary work around the Bewitched , including the cooking. Mrs. Pherson did not appear in the galley although she was ostensibly taken on as cook.

“The evidence will show that Harry Arnold came on night watch as scheduled. During the course of it he heard a loud quarrel taking place in Cully King’s quarters. He was not unduly alarmed since he assumed Mrs. Pherson’s presence on board was for other than culinary purposes.

“Early the next morning Cully directed the berthing of the boat in its usual place in Marina Five. When he appeared on deck, he was not wearing work clothes but was dressed for going ashore in his navy blue blazer and gray slacks. Holding a folded handkerchief against his left cheek, he told Harry that he had a toothache and needed to see a dentist right away.

“When a yacht like the Bewitched returns to its home port, it is customary for the skipper to pay a courtesy call on the harbormaster and exchange information. This was not done. Cully began walking quickly toward State Street.

“Harry Arnold made breakfast for Richie and himself and Mrs. Pherson. When she didn’t appear, he assumed she was still sleeping after an active night.

“When the galley was cleaned up, Harry and his son began going over the rest of the boat, beginning with the cabin occupied by Cully King and Mrs. Pherson. Mrs. Pherson was not sleeping, as Harry had assumed, sleeping off an active night. She was not there. Moreover, there was no sign that she had ever been there, no lipstick stains on the pillowcases, no damp towels, no hair combings in the bristles of the silver brush engraved ‘Bewitched,’ no used tissues in the wastebasket. Although the bed was freshly made, the laundry hamper was empty.

“Harry Arnold began to doubt his own senses. Had he really seen a woman come aboard the Bewitched the previous afternoon? Yes, and one thing stuck in his mind to prove it: The blue and white striped coat she’d been wearing matched one of the spinnakers belonging to the Bewitched . He could never forget that. And it brought to mind other items that reinforced the memory: a green case the woman had been carrying and the diamond stud earrings she wore. Now there was no trace of anything.

“Mrs. Pherson, with her spinnaker coat and green case, had vanished.

“Meanwhile, where was Cully King and what was he doing? The evidence will show that he was in a pawnshop on lower State Street, attempting to make a deal with the owner on a pair of diamond stud earrings. These earrings belonged to Mrs. Pherson, as her husband will testify, and she was wearing them when she went on board the Bewitched.

“Mr. King initially asked seven hundred dollars for the earrings but settled for five hundred. His story was that being a stranger in town, he was unable to get credit, and he needed the cash to pay a dentist. He appeared to be in pain, grimacing and holding a handkerchief against his left cheek, indicating that a molar was the source of trouble. Evidence that this was all playacting will be provided by the dentist who services the prisoners at the county jail. All of Cully King’s teeth are in excellent condition.

“We don’t know where Mr. King spent the next four days. A lot can happen in four days. A woman’s body can be fished out of the water, and minor scratches on human skin can heal to the point where they are hardly noticeable. Now, I’m sure that counsel for the defense will bring to your attention my use of the adjective ‘minor.’ ”

Donnelly stood up, a tall, brittle man with granite gray hair. He had none of the nervous mannerisms of most of the other people in the courtroom. He didn’t scratch, twitch, frown, cross his arms, shift his weight from one foot to another. Something seemed to have frozen the moving parts of his body.

He sounded bored. “I didn’t realize it was incumbent upon the district attorney to read minds.”

“Are you objecting, Mr. Donnelly?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Then say so for the record.”

“I object to Mr. Owen’s attempt to read my mind, on the following grounds—”

“Oh, don’t take it so seriously, Mr. Donnelly. The jury has been warned in advance that what you gentlemen say in your opening statements may be nothing more than rhetorical claptrap... Please continue, Mr. Owen.”

“It’s very difficult to recall the exact place where I was so rudely interrupted.”

“Scratches,” the judge said. “Scratches on the defendant’s face that would heal fast because they were minor.”

“Thank you, Your Honor... Now, why were they minor? Because they were inflicted by a woman who was weakened in a struggle for her life, trying to loosen the vicious hold those hands held on her throat. A deadly hold indeed. Does Your Honor consider this just so much rhetorical claptrap?”

Ho hum & lordy, lordy. The judge sat in silence, his chin resting on his locked hands, his eyes fixed on the ceiling as if they were expecting the arrival of something interesting, a bit of weather, an earthquake, a skyquake.

The silent treatment was a new ploy on the part of the judge, and it enraged the district attorney. To regain his composure, he went over to the cooler and poured himself a paper cup of water. It was hardly more than a mouthful and it didn’t help much. The old bastard’s trying to make a fool of me, and Donnelly’s gloating over it, eating it up.

The three men were now so intent on each other that the other people in the room seemed to be forgotten, the jury, the court reporter, clerk and bailiff, even the defendant, Cully King. He seemed irrelevant, like a spectator at a boxing match which needed only two contestants and a referee.

Cully Paul King. Nobody knew him; nobody cared about him. He was a black man from the other side of the continent.

The judge stirred inside his black robe, which was turning green with age. He was anxious to retire, rid himself of this robe like an old crow molting its worn-out feathers.

“Whose turn is it?” he said suddenly.

“I had asked a question,” Owen said testily, “and was waiting for a reply.”

“Who was supposed to reply?”

“You were.”

“And I shall. Yes, indeed, I shall.”

Eva Foster, the court clerk, leaned toward the bailiff, who was sitting at the same table. “He’s been tippling again. Lock up the booze.”

“Waste of time,” the bailiff said. “He’s got keys hidden all over the place.”

“You’re supposed to be a cop. Find them.”

“I shall answer,” the judge repeated. “Now, what was the question, Mr. Owen?”

“It has lost its relevancy by this time.”

“Too bad, yes, indeed, a pity.” The judge sounded like a man ready to face even more dire adversities with good cheer. “Let’s go on to something else.”

He took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes and looked down at the defendant as if he’d just been brought in to meet the jury. “Do you have anything to say?”

“I don’t think so. Nobody’s asked me anything yet.”

“I’m sure someone will.”

“Yes, sir.”

“In fact, I’ll start the ball rolling myself.”

The court reporter, Mildred Noon, lifted her hands from the stenotype machine and pushed her chair as close to the judge’s bench as possible. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea, Your Honor. Why don’t we allow the district attorney to finish his opening statement?”

“We, Mildred? We? ”

“Us.”

“Us. That’s better. Very well.” He glanced briefly at the district attorney. “You may proceed, Mr. Owen.”

“It’s almost impossible to proceed after this kind of interruption.”