Richard Deming - This Game of Murder

“I meant it,” he said. “You possess one quality which has nothing to do with physical measurements or age. I’m sure you would never screech at your husband.”

After considering this, she nodded solemnly. “I don’t like to fight. When Bruce ever got mad at me I just shut up and was nice to him until he got over it. I was able to make him happy in other ways than just in bed. Honest, he wasn’t bored the other twenty-three hours and forty-five minutes when we were together.”

“I’m sure no man would be,” he said with a smile. “Please forget my uncalled-for crack.”

“I already have,” she said. “Can’t we be friends even if I am a prosecution witness against Mrs. Case? I’m only going to tell the truth in court. I have to do that.”

He said slowly, “We could be friends if you did exactly that, with no embellishment of the truth just because you have a grudge against her — I mean such as you did at the preliminary hearing when you answered questions which weren’t asked in a deliberate attempt to hurt her.”

She thought about this before saying, “Maybe I did. I was so furious at her, I thought she ought to be convicted right then and there. I still hate her, but I promise I’ll be fair. I’ll just tell what happened and let the jury decide what it means.”

They were getting along so swimmingly he decided to push it further. “Would you mind if I saw the rest of those letters sometime?”

At that moment footsteps sounded on the stairway and a thin bald head came into sight. Then the rest of the man appeared: a tall, skinny man of about forty with a camera hanging from his shoulder by a strap.

“Here comes my date,” she said. “Why don’t you drop by tomorrow evening about eight and we’ll talk about it?”

As Marshall went down the stairs he realized that his opinion of Gail Thomas had totally changed in the short time he had talked to her. He had arrived with the preconceived notion that he would dislike her intensely; he came away feeling a little sorry for her and tending to like her. He could even understand her hate for Betty, now that he realized she had actually been in love with Bruce Case, for it would take a remarkably broad-minded woman to forgive another woman who had just killed the man she loved.

Announcement of the apprehension of the cat burglar hadn’t appeared in any of the Buffalo or Erie Sunday papers for the simple reason that the local police hadn’t released the news to any reporter other than Marshall.

So the story he wrote for the Monday afternoon edition of the News was a scoop, even though it was thirty-six hours old by the time it reached print.

After some thought he decided to include in the story Herman Potts’ denial of attempting to break into the Case home the night of the shooting. He knew the moment the story broke, other reporters would descend on Chief Meister with precisely that question, and it was inevitable that the answer would be blasted from coast to coast. He therefore decided to let the News print it first, but he phrased it in a manner to do the least damage to Betty’s case.

He wrote: “Up to press time the alleged cat burglar had not admitted the break-in attempt at the Case home claimed by Mrs. Elizabeth Case in defense of the accusation of murder against her.”

When Jonas Marshall read the story, he approved it without comment and gave it a front-page position.

There were no visiting hours on Mondays at the County Jail, so Marshall was unable to see Betty that day. Instead, he drove out to Rexford Bay at eleven a.m.

Audrey Reed answered the door and said that Bud was playing on the beach just behind the house.

A hundred feet behind the house there was a six-foot drop-off to the narrow stretch of sand and shale beach. A brick wall which ran behind all the homes had been built flush against the drop-off and extended three feet above it in order to protect the homes from the lashing waves of winter storms, which sometimes threw spray even over the nine-foot wall. There was a break in the wall’s center, with stone stairs leading down to the beach.

Marshall found Bud, dressed in his usual jeans and T-shirt, building a sand castle.

The boy looked up and said, “Hi, Mr. Marshall.”

“Hello, Bud.” He sat on a slight outcropping of shale which extended above the sand about a foot and examined the castle. “That isn’t bad. Maybe you’ll grow up to be an architect.”

“I’m gonna be a lifeguard,” the boy said. “Trouble is, I’m not allowed in swimming without adult supervision.” He looked out over the calm lake broodingly.

“Won’t your aunt come down and supervise you?” Marshall asked.

“Aw, Aunt Audrey don’t even know how to swim. She’s scared I’ll drown if some expert swimmer isn’t around. Gee whiz, I’ve got my beginner’s certificate and I’m working on my junior certificate.”

The boy gave a final pat to the castle, got to his feet and brushed off his knees. After studying the structure critically, he casually kicked it apart.

“You going to see my mother again today?” he asked.

“They don’t let you in on Mondays,” Marshall said. “Would you like to help your mother, Bud?”

The youngster looked at him. “Of course.”

“Then I’d like to ask you a few questions about that night. I know your dad’s death must still be a painful subject to you, but if you’ll bear in mind that your answers might help bring your mother home, maybe you can bear up. Okay?”

Bud momentarily assumed a sad expression. “I don’t mind anything that’ll help get Mom home.”

“Okay. These questions are going to be a little personal. They may embarrass you. But I’m not just prying out of curiosity. I want to get your mother out of jail. So will you try to answer them truthfully?”

“Sure, Mr. Marshall. I know you’re on Mom’s side.”

“All right. Here’s the first one. How had your parents been getting along in the weeks before that night?”

The boy looked thoughtful. “Not too good, I guess. They didn’t fight or anything in front of me, but they hardly talked to each other. Dad moved downstairs to the study.”

“I know. How’d you feel about this trouble?”

“Well, I wished they’d get over it.”

“Whose side were you on?”

“It was Dad’s fault, whatever it was,” Bud said without hesitation. “‘Cause Mom never did anything wrong. I think maybe it was because he was always out at night. If he’d stayed home more, maybe Mom would have made up.”

Marshall said, “How’d you feel about your father, Bud? Did you love him?”

The boy looked at him in surprise. “Everybody loves their father.”

“I mean after he and your mother started having trouble. Did you still love him then?”

Bud thoughtfully dug his toe into the sand. “I wished he’d stop being mean to Mom. But I didn’t hate him.”

This wasn’t getting anywhere, Marshall thought. He said, “Now about that night? Were you sleeping in your own room all night?”

“Sure,” Bud said in a tone suggesting he didn’t consider this a very bright question.

“There had been all this scare about the cat burglar,” Marshall said explanatorily. “I thought perhaps your mother wouldn’t want you sleeping alone and had brought you in with her.”

“Oh, she did that for a while after Mrs. Ferris got cut, but I guess she finally decided he wouldn’t break in our house, so she put me back in my own room.”

“Oh,” Marshall said, disappointed. “How long before that night?”

“Just that night. She had me sleep in her bed the night before.”

The reporter felt a little tingle move along his spine. Had his mother rehearsed him to say that, he wondered? Why would she pick that particular night to put him back in his room? She had discussed the cat burglar with Marshall only that afternoon, and was still concerned enough about him to keep a gun under her pillow.