Richard Deming - This Game of Murder

He said, “Listen carefully now, Bud. I suspect your mother has told you to say certain things. Kids should obey their mothers, but if you thought it might get her out of jail, would you tell me the truth even if she told you to say something else?”

The boy looked puzzled. “I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Marshall. Mom didn’t tell me to say anything or not say anything.”

“Not even about sleeping with her that night? Weren’t you really in her bed instead of your own?”

Bud gave his head a definite shake. “Why would she want me to lie about that?”

Marshall gave up. He doubted that any ten-year-old could be such a convincing liar. He watched his wonderful theory evaporate away to nothingness.

“She did tell me not to mention about the wire to anyone,” Bud said suddenly. “But you’re just talking about that night, aren’t you?”

“What wire was that?”

“That was Saturday morning,” the boy said. “I don’t know how that could help her.”

“Suppose you tell me anyway. Who was the wire from?”

Bud gazed at him for a moment, then collapsed on the sand in helpless glee. He laughed so hard, he had to hold his stomach.

Marshall patiently waited until he had recovered, then asked, “Want to let me in on the joke?”

“It wasn’t that kind of wire,” Bud said, barely managing to suppress a final giggle. “It was wire like you wind an armature with.”

Now there’s a graphic symbol of what a technological age they were in, Marshall thought. At ten he wouldn’t have known what an armature was.

He asked, “Where was this wire?”

“Stretched across the top of the stairs.” Then Bud’s broad grin faded and he said uncertainly, “Mom told me not to dare tell anybody about it.”

Marshall began to feel a tinge of excitement. “That was before what happened took place, wasn’t it? We’re trying to get her out of jail, remember.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Bud said slowly.

“Suppose you tell me all about this wire. If it isn’t going to help your mother in some way, we’ll just forget you told me and I’ll never mention it to anyone. Is that fair?”

“Yes, sir,” the boy said, his face clearing. “That’s fair.”

“Okay. Shoot.”

“Well, it was Saturday morning, the day before — before it happened. I found this wire stretched across the top of the stairs. I actually tripped over it.” He stopped, seemingly at the end of his story.

Marshall said, “Let’s do it this way, Bud. You begin with when you got up that morning and tell me every last detail of what happened. All right?”

“Sure, Mr. Marshall,” the boy said agreeably. “I got up at seven and brushed my teeth and dressed and wandered around the house awhile. Mom got up at seven-thirty and fixed my breakfast and then went back upstairs. Dad came out from the study while I was eating and made himself a cup of coffee. By then it was about eight, so I went down to the gate by the road to wait.”

“Wait for what?” Marshall asked.

“Mrs. Curtis. Eddie Curtis and me — I mean I — go to Red Cross swimming class at Civic Beach together. One day Mom used to take us, the next day Eddie’s mother. This was Mrs. Curtis’ day. She wasn’t supposed to pick me up until eight-thirty, but I didn’t have anything else to do so I went down to the gate to watch for boats going by on trailers.”

“I see. Did Mrs. Curtis get there on time?”

“Sure. But that was later. While I was horsing around waiting for her and Eddie, I remembered I didn’t have my towel. I had my trunks on under my pants, but you’re supposed to bring a towel. It was pretty close to eight-thirty by then, so I ran back to the house real fast, ducked in and ran up the stairs. Mom was coming down the upstairs hall from her room, all dressed, when I got to the top of the stairs. She smiled at me and said something I didn’t hear, because just then I hit the wire and fell flat on my face in the upper hall. She rushed over to pick me up and ask if I was hurt. I wasn’t, but I was sure shook up.”

The boy stopped again. After a moment of silence, Marshall said, “Surely that isn’t the end of the story.”

“I thought you just wanted me to go up to where I found the wire,” Bud said. “When Mom found out I wasn’t hurt she started to scold me for being clumsy. So I said I’d tripped over something and we both bent down to look. She looked real funny when she saw the wire. It was real hard to see because it was so thin, but it must’ve been real strong wire because it didn’t break when I tripped over it. It was wound around a stair post on either side, about six inches above the top step. Mom unwound it and put it in her pocket. Then she went to get me a towel, and when she gave it to me, she put her hands on my shoulders and talked to me for a minute.”

“About what?” Marshall asked.

“The wire. She said as a favor to her she didn’t want me to mention it being there to anyone, and particularly not to Dad. I promised. Is this breaking my promise, Mr. Marshall?”

The reporter’s mind was whirling with thoughts, but he managed a smile. “Obviously it was your dad she didn’t want to hear about it. And he can’t now.”

After thinking this over, Bud nodded. “I guess you’re right. She probably thought if I told anybody at all it might get back to Dad. Why do you think she didn’t want him to know about it, Mr. Marshall?”

“We won’t worry about that now, Bud. I think you’ve helped your mother tremendously by telling me this.”

“I have? You think she’ll be coming home?”

“I can almost guarantee it,” Marshall said.

“Gee, that’s swell, Mr. Marshall. Then I went back downstairs and out to the gate, and Mrs. Curtis’ car was already—”

“Whoa!” Marshall said. “You’ve covered everything I need to know.”

“Oh. I thought you wanted me to tell everything that happened that day.”

The reporter came to his feet and playfully tousled the boy’s strawberry-blond hair. “I’d be listening until midnight with your total recall. Want to keep a secret?”

Bud’s face lighted up. “Sure. What?”

“Let’s not tell your Aunt Audrey or anybody else what we’ve been talking about just yet. Just in case something went wrong, we wouldn’t want her to build false hopes.”

The boy’s face fell. “You mean you might not be able to get Mom out of jail after all?”

“No. That was a dumb thing for me to say. I’ll be frank with you. If you mention anything to your aunt, she’ll be on the phone by the time I get back to the office, wanting to know all about it. I’m going to get your mother out of jail, but I don’t want to get involved in a lot of long explanations to your Aunt Audrey. We’ll let your mother explain things when she gets home. Okay?”

“Okay, sir,” Bud said, brightening again. “Are you going to get her out right now?”

“It may be a few days, but believe me, she’ll come home to you. Just be patient.”

“All right,” Bud said. “I’ll try.”

As he drove back toward the newspaper office, Marshall visualized what would have happened if Betty, starting downstairs, had tripped over the wire. Going up, young Bud had suffered only a jolting fall to hands and knees, but a headlong pitch down those steep stairs would almost certainly have broken some bones, and might even have killed her. At best it would have left her helpless enough to be finished off with a final blow, which could be assumed by investigating officers to have also resulted from the fall.

There wasn’t the least doubt that it had been a murder attempt. And it would have worked if Bud hadn’t forgotten his towel. Marshall could imagine Bruce Case’s consternation when, from the kitchen or wherever he was at the time, he heard his son slam into the house and rush up the stairs. There would, of course, have been no time to head him off. Ten-year-old boys normally move at upsetting speed even when they aren’t in a hurry. Young Bud, on what to him was an urgent mission, probably had resembled a small tornado. He must have been tripping over the wire at the top of the stairs before it fully registered on his father that he had returned to the house.