“Mort? Ed Welch, I’ve got one for you here in the sheriffs office. Come and get him... No, he can walk... What the hell do you care? Come and get him.” He hung up and started writing on the pad.
I looked at the gate in the railing and considered ways and means. There weren’t any. Lily was certainly trying to get Dawson, and Wolfe was probably trying to get Jessup, but all I could do about that was to wish them more luck than they were likely to have. It was more than likely, it was next to certain, that I would not only have neither ham nor bacon for Sunday breakfast; I wouldn’t even get them Monday. The question was, could I do anything about anything? Could I, for instance, say something to Welch that might have some effect on how he spent the rest of the weekend? I had got nowhere with it when the door opened and Mort appeared. He was a wiry little guy with a long red scar on his left cheek, in gray uniform pants with a permanent crease, and a dirty gray shirt, and a gun in his belt. Welch looked at him and demanded, “Where’s your jacket?”
“It’s hot in there,” Mort said. “Just overlook it.”
“I ought to report it.” Welch rose, got his key ring from a pocket and selected one, and came and unlocked the cuffs and took them. “Stand up,” he said, “and empty your pockets. Everything.”
As I rose I said, “I’ll keep the paper signed by Thomas R. Jessup.”
“You’ll keep nothing. Unload.”
I obeyed. I made a pile on the desk, glad that there was nothing strictly private like a copy of the letter I had written Wolfe. When I had finished, Welch went over me and did a good job, not too rough, and then he handed me a surprise. When he picked up my wallet and took the bills out I supposed he was going to count it and have me sign a slip, but he didn’t even flip the edges. He held them out and said, “You can keep this,” and when I took it he picked up the chickenfeed and handed me that too. That had never happened to me before in any of the coops I had been checked in at, and it was an interesting new item for my file on Montana folkways. Of course it could be only local; there could be someone inside, an inmate or one of the help, who had fast fingers and split his take with the front office. It isn’t reasonable to expect the people who run a jail to average up any better than those who run things on the outside.
Welch told Mort, “Put him in five and don’t get in front of him. Is Greve still in twelve?”
Mort nodded. “You know he is.”
“All right, put this one in five. Evers can get his prints later. It looks like he’s a killer and you may have him a long time. I can’t give you his name on the record because he’s not talking, not even his name. Call him whatever—”
“I know his name. Goodman.” Mort put his hand on his gun. “On out, Goodman. Turn right.”
I obeyed.
Chapter 11
At ten minutes past five Sunday afternoon a turnkey inserted a key in the lock of my cell door and turned it, opened the door, and said, “Someone for you.”
I did not respond with enthusiasm. It couldn’t possibly be Wolfe or Lily. Conceivably it was Luther Dawson, since Lily could be extremely energetic when she wanted to, but if so it would be only a courtesy call. One of the bets I had made with myself during the day was 20 to 1 that no judge would be available on an August Sunday for setting bail. It might be Sheriff Haight, but that would be no treat. He would merely try to get me to talk and I would merely try to think of bright remarks about standing mute. So I wasn’t bothering to guess as I crossed to the door, which took two and a half steps.
It was Ed Welch, and I raised a brow when I saw he had handcuffs. That must mean a trip, and to where? He snapped them on, jerked his head to the right, and said, “Take a walk,” and I headed down the corridor. Passing the door with the figure 12 on it I hoped Harvey wouldn’t look out and see me, since I couldn’t stop and explain how I got there. Welch used a key on a big barred door at the end of the corridor, and another one at the far side of the square room, and we were at the end of the side hall of the courthouse. So it would be the sheriffs office, and probably the sheriff. But it wasn’t. We went on by to the big lobby, across to the main stairs, and on up. I began to think I might have been wrong about judges, Lily and Dawson might have scared one up, but at the top of the stairs Welch steered me to the right and on to a door I had entered before. It was standing open, and a man appeared on the sill as we approached — the man whose name was on the door, County Attorney Thomas R. Jessup. We were still four paces away when he spoke.
“Why the handcuffs, Welch?”
“Why not?” Welch asked.
“Take them off.”
“If that’s an order, it’s your responsibility. He resisted arrest.”
“It’s an order. Take them off and take them with you. I’ll ring you when—”
“I’m not leaving. I have orders to stay with him.”
Jessup took a step into the hall. “Take off those handcuffs or give me the key. If you don’t know what the boundaries of authority are, Sheriff Haight does and I do. Don’t enter my office. I’ll ring you when to come for him. Give me the key.”
Welch had to do some more thinking. But it took him only a few seconds to decide he needed help on it, and the nearest help was downstairs. He got his key ring out, removed one of the keys, handed it to Jessup, and turned and marched off. It was a good performance. Better men than him, including me, have had trouble getting a key off of a ring, and he had done it, smooth and fast, under pressure.
Jessup motioned me in, followed, and shut the door. He was about as slim and trim as usual from the neck down, but his eyes were red and the lids puffed and he hadn’t shaved. There were a desk and a table in that room, but no one was at them, and there was no one in the inner room he ushered me to. There was good light from the three windows, and he looked at me and said, “I don’t see any marks.”
“None anywhere,” I said, “except maybe my shoulder where Welch kicked me. I resisted arrest by ducking when he swung a wide one.” I put my hands out, and as he used the key on the handcuffs and slipped them off he asked, “How much have you talked?”
“Not at all, except telling Welch what ‘stand mute’ means and saying I wanted to phone a lawyer named Jessup. That was around three o’clock this morning. Since then there has been no one to talk to.”
“Haight?”
“No sign of him.”
“Well, you’ll do some talking now, but first—” He pointed to a carton with cord around it on a chair. “That’s from Miss Rowan. A snack, she said. Do you want to eat first or talk first?”
I said I would rather get the talking done and take my time with the eating, and he went to his chair behind his desk. As I took one across from him he got an envelope from his breast pocket. “This explains itself,” he said, and offered it, and I reached to take it. It wasn’t sealed, and it held a single sheet of paper, Lily’s Bar JR letterhead, and the writing on it, in a hand I knew, said:
AG: I have spoken at length with Mr. Jessup and have reserved nothing relevant to the inquiry we are engaged on. Therefore neither will you. We are committed with him irrevocably, and I think he is with us.
August 11, 1968 NW
I folded it and put it in the envelope and stretched across to hand it back to Jessup. “I’d like to have it later,” I said, “as a souvenir, but Welch will frisk me again when he gets me back. Okay, I talk, but first a couple of questions. Where is Mr. Wolfe?”