“Then you think he might have murdered her?”
He shook his head. “In the light of his confession, temper, the tenseness between Fran and Matt, I think he hit her in a rage and then tried to set up an alibi to avoid publicity. Of course, I suppose he was capable of murdering her, I mean if you and I wanted to murder, we wouldn't even know how to go about it. Matt would. But then, if he really wanted to kill Fran, I think he would have done it long ago.”
“What do you think of this Kolcicki?”
Joel shuddered. “That horrible creature! When the maid found the body, all the police and stuff were happening, at that point—when it was thought Fran had killed herself accidentally—I got rather blotto. But just before supper, when Matt came out of his study with this fat thug and we were told Matt had confessed, I tried to get drunker but I was never so sober in my life. That detective lump—he frightens me. He questioned me later that night and merely talking to him gave me a chill. Look, Norman, I tried to do the best I could for Matt. You have no idea how the thought of telling it all again at the trial upsets me. I talked to Kolcicki and men the D.A.—and there's a cold fish—and I hate to be placed in the position of being a witness for the D.A., but what can I do? It's such a mess. I wish to God we'd never gone out there.”
We were both silent for a moment. I glanced at my watch. I still had almost an hour before I saw Jackson Clair.
Joel asked, “Like a drink? Just talking about this makes me jittery.”
“I have to be on my way soon. I'm seeing Matt's lawyer this afternoon. But I did want to say hello to your wife.”
“She should be home soon. Maybe she went to the doctor. Wilma wasn't feeling well this morning. Cold, I guess.”
My insides contracted; morning sickness already! I mumbled, “I'm sorry to hear that.”
“It's nothing. Wilma is as healthy as that well-known horse. How about that drink?”
I stood up. “No, thanks. Think I'd better go. It's been good talking to you, Joel. Tell Wilma we'll all get together one of these days.”
Walking me to the door Joel asked, “Do yon think there's anything for me at Longson? I don't think my publisher is pushing my books and—” He suddenly giggled. “What writer doesn't think that? Wilma wants me to change publishers but I don't see it. What do you think, Norman?”
“We haven't much of a juvenile list, as I told... Mrs. Hunter. Juveniles aren't the type book any publisher can push. But I'll be back in the office in a few days, talk it over with our children's editor, if you wish.”
“That would be swell. Of course you understand this is all in strict confidence. I'd die if it ever got back to my present publisher.”
I said of course and we shook hands. Once I hit the street I stood around in a doorway across the street, like a hammy detective. I wanted to have it out with Wilma, find out what the doctor told her—as if I didn't know.
I kept thinking how odd it would look if Joel came out of the house or saw me from a window. I went to a rundown bar on the corner and had a few beers. I had a tangent view of their house, but if Wilma came from uptown I wouldn't be able to catch her before she went in. The bar was depressing and after a half-hour I was glad I had to leave, if I wanted to see the lawyer. Also, I wasn't certain talking to Wilma was a good idea. Suppose she thought it was Joel, or she wanted it to be Joel's, why should I force matters? Why should I make any play until she contacted me? Which would probably be damn soon... maybe tonight. Or was Wilma trying to call me this second?
I stopped a cab and gave him Clair's address, almost wishing we'd have an accident on the way there—a fatal one.
Jackson Clair
“I'm very happy to see his publisher taking an active interest is Mart's case, my friend, for he needs help,” Jackson Clair said, leaning back in his fancy tan leather swivel chair, almost beating out the rhythm of his words with a long finger on the desk top.
Clair was impressive and slick. He was tall and lean, with a homely rugged swarthy face topped by wild gray hair. The hair was obviously carefully uncombed and everything about him from his unironed shirt to his slow, booming voice, was set up to give him a Lincoln-like air. And he had it; the honest, strong, trustworthy face, a voice dripping with sincerity. Even the nervous twisting and tapping of the strong hands implied boundless energy. The only thing spoiling the act were his eyes—shrewd, intelligent eyes... like a good pitchman's.
“Frankly,” the deep voice went on, the restless eyes probing my reaction, “Matt needs money. Not for myself. I'm in this case for two reasons: I want to see justice done, of course, and to be open about it, my pay will be in the publicity. We lawyers can not advertise, as you must know, so our only ads are good court work. I have an established reputation but—” (He smiled, showing a set of buck teeth, very white and strong, that fitted his face perfectly.) “This is big league. However, there are certain expenses in every case and Matt is busted.”
“I was out to End Harbor yesterday. No, the day before. And Miss Fitzgerald, the maid, wants to know about closing the house and her salary.”
He nodded. “I'll inform Ed. He's Mart's regular lawyer, handles his personal affairs.”
“Can't you raise money on the property?”
“What money?” His voice was projected so it hit me like a slap in the belly. I wanted to tell him to take it easy— I wasn't a juror. “Mr. Anthony hasn't a dime of equity in either the house or the land, everything is mortgaged to the hilt. For Christsakes he owes on his boats, his cars. Ed is trying to get some movie outfit that has an option on one of Mart's books to buy it at half price. But those chicken-hearted bastards are afraid of the publicity. That's why I'm glad to see Harpers take an—”
“Longson,” I cut in.
“I'm delighted to see his publishers have the guts to take a stand. Now how much...?”
“It isn't definite yet, as I told you, Mr. Clair. That's why I'm here.”
He got up and started pacing the office. He must have been at least six-three. There was a Phi Beta Kappa key— highly polished—hanging from his belt, a brightly beaded affair. He turned toward me like a pug answering the bell. “Assuming you publish one of his books, how much will he realize?”
“Depends upon the sale. About two or three thousand, if we sell out.”
“That's all? Well, as you literary people say, it's better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick.”
“Is that what we say? Mr. Clair, will the D.A. get his murder indictment?”
He went to his desk, held up an afternoon paper. “He already has. But an indictment isn't a verdict; I'll get Matt off.”
“If I'm not breaking ethics or state secrets, what sort of defense do you plan?”
“Temporary insanity. My staff is doing research on it now. We already have found a quote from Dreiser about writers shouldn't be limited to one woman. We'll find... say, maybe you at Longson's can help me get some top authors to testify? Fellows like Hemingway, Faulkner, Ferber, O'Hara, Williams?”
“I doubt that. You're losing me: testify about what? You mentioned temporary insanity, but how do they...?”
“Listen, Connor,” he said and his voice made sure, you listened, “our contention will be that men like Matt Anthony are creators, the rare creatures of our banal earth. Matt is a genius. Laws and conventions can not apply to men like him, they are above such petty mundane barriers. They have a God-given gift that requires them not merely to exist, like you and I, but to really taste of life. They must be allowed to dig into life, experiment with it, if they are to write. In short, they must be allowed to look upon life freely, ordinary standards can not apply to them. Mrs. Anthony failed to understand that; she nagged him, to a point where he broke, and in a blind rage he killed to save his genius!”