Маргарет Миллар - Vanish in an Instant

Meecham crossed the road. He felt sluggish, and wished he could have stayed in bed until it was light.

In front of the courthouse a thirty-foot Christmas tree had been put up and four county prisoners were stringing it with colored lights under the direction of a deputy. The deputy wore fuzzy orange ear-muffs, and he kept stamping his feet rhythmically, either to keep warm or because there was nothing else to do.

When Meecham approached, all four of the prisoners stopped work to look at him, as they stopped to look at nearly everyone who passed, realizing that they had plenty of time and nothing to lose by a delay.

“Speed it up a little, eh, fellows?” The deputy whacked his hands together. “What’s the matter, you paralyzed or something, Joe?”

Joe looked down from the top of the ladder and laughed, showing his upper teeth filled at the gum-line with gold. “How’d you like to be inside with a nice rum toddy, Huggins? Mmm?”

“I never touch the stuff,” Huggins said. “Morning, Meecham.”

Meecham nodded. “Morning.”

“Up early catching worms?”

“That’s right.”

Huggins jerked his thumb at the ladder. “Me, I’m trying to inject the spirit of Christmas into these bums.”

Three of the men laughed. The fourth spat into the snow.

Meecham went inside. The steam had been turned on full force and the old-fashioned radiators were clanking like ghosts rattling their chains. Meecham was sweating before he reached the middle of the corridor, and the passages from his nose to his throat felt hot and dry as if he’d been breathing fire.

The main corridor smelled of wood and fresh wax, but when he descended the stairs on the left a new smell rose to overpower the others, the smell of disinfectant.

The door lettered County Sheriff was open. Meecham walked into the anteroom and sat down in one of the straight chairs that were lined up against the wall like mute and motionless prisoners. The anteroom was empty, though a man’s coat and hat were hanging on a rack in the corner, and the final inch of a cigarette was smoldering in an ash tray on the scarred wooden counter. Meecham looked at the cigarette but made no move to put it out.

The door of the Sheriff’s private office banged open suddenly and Cordwink himself came out. He was a tall man, match-thin, with gray hair that was clipped short to disguise its curl. His eyelashes curled too, giving his cold eyes a false appearance of naivete. He had fifty years of hard living behind him, but they didn’t show except when he was tired or when he’d had a quarrel with his wife over money or one of the kids.

“What are you doing around so early?” Cordwink said.

“I wanted to be the first to wish you a Merry Christmas.”

“You bright young lawyers, you keep me all the time in stitches. Yah.” He scowled at the cigarette smoldering in the ash tray. “What the hell you trying to do, burn the place down?”

“It’s not my...”

“That’s about the only way you’ll get your client out of here.”

“Oh?” Meecham lit a cigarette and used the burnt match to crush out the burning remnants of tobacco in the ash tray. “Have you dug up any new information?”

“I should tell you?” Cordwink laughed. “You bloody lawyers can do your own sleuthing.”

“Kind of sour this morning, aren’t you, Sheriff?”

“I’m in a sour business, I meet sour people, so I’m sour. So?”

“So you didn’t get a statement from Mrs. Barkeley.”

“Sure I got a statement.”

“Such as?”

“Such as that I’m an illiterate buffoon of canine parentage.”

Meecham grinned.

“That strikes you as humorous, eh, Meecham?”

“Moderately.”

“Well, it so happens that I graduated from the University of Wisconsin, class of ’22.”

“Funny, I thought you were a Harvard man. You act and talk like a...”

“You bright young lawyers kill me.” He grunted. “Yah. Well, I don’t care if she makes a statement or not. We have her.”

“Maybe.”

“Even you ought to be smart enough to see that. You’d better start combing the books for some fancy self-defense items. Make sure you get a nice stupid jury, then razz the cops, turn on the tears, quote the Bible — yah! Makes me sick. What a way to make a living, obstructing justice.”

“I’ve heard the theme song before, Sheriff. Let’s skip the second chorus.”

“You think I’m off-key, eh?”

“Sure you are.”

Cordwink pressed a buzzer on the counter. “You won’t get away with a self-defense plea. There isn’t a mark on the girl, no cut, no bruise, not a scratch.”

“I don’t have to prove that the danger to her person was objectively real and imminent, only that she thought, and had reason to think, that it was real and imminent.”

“You’re not in court yet, so can the jargon. Makes me sick.”

The Sheriff pressed the buzzer again and a moment later a young woman in a green dress came into the room blithely swinging a ring of keys.

She greeted Meecham with a show of fine white teeth. “You again, Mr. Meecham.”

“Right.”

“You ought to just move in.” She switched the smile on Cordwink. “Isn’t that right, Sheriff?”

“Righter than you think,” Cordwink said. “If justice was done, the place would be crawling with lawyers.” He started toward his office. “Show the gentleman into Mrs. Barkeley’s boudoir, Miss Jennings.”

“Okeydoke.” Cordwink slammed his door and Miss Jennings added, in a stage whisper, “My, aren’t we short-tempered this morning.”

“Must be the weather.”

“You know, I think it is, Mr. Meecham. Personally, the weather never bothers me. I rise above it. When winter comes can spring be far behind?”

“You have something there.”

“Shakespeare. I adore poetry.”

“Good, good.” He followed her down the corridor. “How is Mrs. Barkeley?”

“She had a good sleep and a big breakfast. I think she’s finally over her hangover. My, it was a beaut.” She unlocked the door at the end of the corridor and held it open for Meecham to go through first. “She borrowed my lipstick. That’s a good sign.”

“Maybe. But I don’t know of what.”

“Oh, you’re just cynical. So many people are cynical. My mother often says to me, Mollie dear, you were born smiling and you’ll probably go out smiling.”

Meecham shuddered. “Lucky girl.”

“Yes, I am lucky. I simply can’t help looking at the cheerful side.”

“Good for you.”

The women’s section of the cell-block was empty except for Virginia. Miss Jennings unlocked the door. “Here’s that man again, Mrs. Barkeley.”

Virginia was sitting on her narrow cot reading, or pretending to read, a magazine. She was wearing the yellow wool dress and brown sandals that Meecham had brought to her the previous afternoon, and her black hair was brushed carefully back from her high forehead. She had used Miss Jennings’ lipstick to advantage, painting her mouth fuller and wider than it actually was. In the light of the single overhead bulb her flesh looked smooth and cold as marble. Meecham found it impossible to imagine what emotions she was feeling, or what was going on behind her remote and beautiful eyes.

She raised her head and gave him a long unfriendly stare that reminded him of Mrs. Hamilton, though there was no physical resemblance between the mother and daughter.

“Good morning, Mrs. Barkeley.”

“Why don’t you get me out of here?” she said flatly.

“I’m trying.”

He stepped inside and Miss Jennings closed the door behind him but didn’t lock it. She retired to the end of the room and sat down on a bench near the exit door. She hummed a few bars of music, very casually, to indicate to Meecham and Virginia that she had no intention of eavesdropping. I’ll take the high road ...