“Yes,” Lola said defiantly.
“Did you notice anything strange in Mr. King’s conduct that day?”
“Yes. He was nervous and jumpy. He put on a good act for other people, but he couldn’t fool me.”
“Nervous and jumpy,” Cabot said. “That’s all, Miss Arkwright.”
He called Nancy King. After asking her the same preliminary questions about her movements during the newscast, he said, “Mrs. King, how did your husband take the cancellation of his TV contract by Station KZZX?”
“He was very upset,” Nancy said in a low voice. “It meant that he was through on the air — at least, he thought it did.”
“Would you describe his mental condition as depressed?”
She took a moment to think. “Bitter would be a better description. Bitter and angry.”
The coroner interrupted. “You undoubtedly knew your husband better than anyone else, Mrs. King. Would you say he was high-strung, temperamental, given to sudden changes of mood?”
“Not any more than you’d expect from a popular performer. He had to be onstage a lot, as they say in show business, and that kind of life can be wearing.” Nancy’s glance went for a flick of time to the second row of the witness section. “But I would definitely not call my husband nervous and jumpy. At most times he was easy-going and good-natured.”
The redhead’s thin lips became thinner. Layton was furious. He could only imagine what the silent battle Nancy was compelled to wage in public with the woman she despised was costing her.
“Mrs. King,” the coroner said, a little testily, “did your husband ever threaten to commit suicide?”
“Never,” Nancy said firmly.
“Not even when he thought his career was finished?”
“No, sir. I still can’t believe my husband took his own life. He had too much to live for, career or no career.”
“Then it’s your opinion, Mrs. King, that he did not commit suicide?” The coroner sounded positively unhappy.
“I don’t know what to think.” Her distress was beginning to show through. “I suppose anyone’s capable of such a thing, at some crisis in life... I just don’t know.”
“Thank you, Mrs. King,” young Cabot said hastily at the coroner’s surreptitious nod. “You may step down.”
Nancy was the last witness.
The coroner gave his formal instructions to the jury, and they filed out to consider their verdict.
Their deliberations lasted six minutes. They brought in a verdict of suicide.
When Layton returned to the courtroom from phoning the Bulletin, he had to step aside to allow Hubert Stander and Lola Arkwright to pass. Hathaway was just behind them. Neither Stander nor the red-haired girl so much as glanced his way. But George Hathaway muttered, “Thank you, thank you, Layton,” as he went by.
Nancy was still seated in the witness section, her eyes closed. They opened at Layton’s step.
“Don’t disillusion me, let me dream,” Layton said lightly. “You were waiting for me.”
“As a matter of fact, yes.” She sounded very tired. “Did you drop your car off this morning to be fixed?”
“I did.”
“I’ll drive you wherever you say. It’s the least I can do for all the chauffeuring you’ve done for me.”
“You bet it is! I’d like to have a word with Trimble first, though. Mind waiting a few minutes, Nancy?”
She smiled the faintest, most pathetic smile. “Of course not, Jim. I’ve spent my life waiting... it seems.”
Layton said gruffly, “Well, that’s all over!” and strode over to the table where Arthur Cabot was still sitting, talking to Sergeant Trimble.
“Thanks for keeping my promise to Hathaway,” Layton said to the scarred detective.
Trimble grunted. “What the hell! He’s got troubles enough with that bitch who’s suing him for divorce.”
“You weren’t as considerate of Stander.”
“Stander,” Trimble said, “I don’t like.”
“You had your hooks into him over that ice pick. What happened?”
The detective grinned wryly. “He’s got a lawyer who ought to be in my job, that’s what happened. I sure got chewed out.”
“What do you mean?”
“We take Stander downtown and this legal eagle hears what we’ve got. He says, ‘Let’s go back to Mr. Stander’s house.’ We go back, and he asks Mrs. Stander one question — what did she do with the ice pick? You know, he hit it on the head? She hefted that behind of hers up to her bedroom, opened a drawer of her vanity, and there it was. She’d borrowed it from the tool drawer in the kitchen to punch a hole in a belt — a new hole, naturally! — and didn’t bother to put it back. Bam.”
Layton shook his head. With the Stander ice pick found, there was no legal evidence against him sufficient to warrant an indictment. No wonder they had rushed through the inquest.
“At that, you went easy on him,” Layton said. “You didn’t even mention his shacking up with the redhead.”
“Give the old devil his due,” the sergeant said dryly. “I had a long session with both of them. Stander wouldn’t have swatted a fly because of her. He has a yen for her, sure. But murder?” Trimble shook his head.
“You’re convinced, Mr. Cabot, you got a proper verdict?”
The assistant district attorney said stiffly, “If we hadn’t been, we wouldn’t have settled for it.” He seemed to feel the need to add, “To press a murder charge, a D.A. has to have evidence to bring into court. You know that, Layton. In this case, legally speaking, there just isn’t any. So what difference does it make?”
“There are thousands of murderers walking around without a care in the world,” the glass-eyed detective said with a shrug, “for the same reason. So long, Layton.”
“So long,” Layton said.
They were right. Society put a premium not on guilt but on proof. Trimble, Cabot the Coroner, the D.A. — they could only obey the rules. Tutter King had been murdered, but for practical purposes he might just as well have committed suicide. The decision of the coroner’s jury was merely an exercise in reality.
That’s exactly what’s wrong with it, Layton thought. Not legally wrong, but wrong.
But then Layton was an honest man.
Nancy had managed to find a parking place near the Hall of Justice.
“This was Tutter’s,” she said, stopping at a sleek white Jaguar. “I usually drive the station wagon, but I always have trouble parking it downtown — I’m an awful driver. Maybe you oughtn’t to trust yourself with me. Or would you like to drive?”
The thought of touching the wheel that had been grasped so many times by Tutter King’s hands was unpleasant. “I’ll take a chance,” Layton said. “How about some lunch? I could eat a horse, hoofs and all.”
He liked the way she promptly said, “All right, Jim,” and slipped behind the Wheel, indifferent to who might be watching. It had been different last night! Layton went around the Jaguar and got in beside her. “Where do we go?” she asked.
“Ling’s. Ever been there?”
“No.”
“It’s only a few blocks from here, in old Chinatown.”
They were sitting in one of the candlelit booths, protected by beaded curtains and sipping the pungent Chinese tea, when Nancy suddenly said, “I like this, Jim. It’s restful... intimate.”
“That’s why I suggested it,” Layton said.
Her lashes drooped. “Jim,” she said. “Not today. Not now:”
So she knew. Layton’s heart began to hammer away.
They ate in silence. When Nancy set her fork down with a little sigh of repletion, he lit two cigarettes and put one between her lips and the other between his.