“I wasn’t sure whether or not you’d be here to meet me,” I said.
Kiefer blushed. He’d obviously been told to give me the boot and he didn’t relish the job. “Oh,” he said, “there was no question of not meeting you. But, well, under the circumstances, this will have to be our last contact. Your usefulness to the Agency is, well, seriously compromised and—”
“Fine with me,” I said. “I was planning to retire and write my memoirs anyway. So if we can go some place where we can make the transfer safely, I’ll give you the package and be on my merry way.”
Kiefer stopped short in mid-stride. His mouth dropped open and for once he forgot to blink. “The package?” he finally managed to gasp out. “But that was stolen.”
I took his arm and started him moving again. “There’s an old saying, Kiefer,” I said, “that you should bear in mind as long as you stay in this business: Believe nothing you hear and only half of what you see. There was no robbery. I faked the whole thing by emptying a bottle of chloroform down a drain and then lying down on the floor. It was the only way I could think of to get out of Germany in one piece.”
It had been a lousy trick to play on Dietrich, though. Nobody with half a brain could have missed him following me like a puppy dog from the coffee shop to the Observation Deck to the washroom. And then coming out first and alone. It was a short and logical step from there to the conclusion that he’d grabbed the package and run. But then, I’d owed him one for Zurich.
Ponsonby and the Dying Words
by Alan K. Young[5]
Professor Amos Ponsonby of Briarwood College is now a series detective. In this, his newest case — a literary dying message — Professor Ponsonby draws on his academic background and ivied (and ivory-towered) knowledge to rescue his godson, Public Defender Paul Anders, from “ignominious defeat” But Professor Ponsonby does not solve the case alone — he would be the first to admit it: he enlists the aid of a distinguished panel of well-known and famous American literary figures — including Bronson Alcott (the father of Louisa May Alcott), Edward Emerson (the son of Ralph Waldo Emerson), William Ellery Channing, and, last but most decidedly not least, Henry David Thoreau…
The county attorney cast a final glance at his notes and then dropped them casually on the prosecution table.
In the back row of the crowded courtroom Professor Ponsonby shifted nervously. Here it comes, he thought — the testimony that was almost certain to send Samuel Greatheart to prison for murder. The two preceding witnesses had doubtlesss told much the same tale as Sergeant Means would now tell, but they had been amateurs. Here was the expert, the trained observer; here was the man who would take Samuel Greatheart’s scalp for society.
From his seat on the aisle, Ponsonby could see the young defendant’s profile — the broad Shoshone forehead, the stern Shoshone nose, the jet-black hair and the black eyes that never once during the trial had looked anywhere but into the eyes of his accusers, or those of the twelve men and women who soon would judge him. Beside him Public Defender Paul Anders slouched in his chair, defeat written in every sagging line.
Poor Paul, thought Ponsonby — saddled with an all-but-defenseless case in his first appearance as Public Defender. For how could he hope to persuade the jury to close its ears to the murdered man’s last words?
The County Attorney approached the balding, red-faced man on the witness stand. “Will you tell the court your name and title, please?”
“Detective Sergeant Alfred Means, Briarwood Police.”
“And will you tell us, please, Sergeant, where you spent the evening of April fourth last, and what you were doing at the time?”
“Yes, sir. I spent that evening at the bedside of the late Professor Nicholas Twining in Briarwood Hospital. I was there to get a statement from him in case he regained consciousness.”
“And did Professor Twining regain consciousness while you were present?”
“Yes, sir, he did. For just a minute or two before he died.”
“Now, Sergeant, the court has already heard the testimony of Nurse Mary Gebhorn and Hospital Orderly Horace Cayther as to what they heard Professor Twining say that evening in response to your questions. I now intend to take you over the same ground, but first let me ask you this: during that evening or since, have you discussed Professor Twining’s last words with Miss Gebhorn or Mr. Cayther, or been informed by them or by anyone else for what they thought they heard Twining say?”
“No, sir, I have not.”
“So that any common ground between your testimony and theirs must stem entirely from your having shared the experience of being present at Professor Twining’s deathbed?”
“Yes, sir.”
The County Attorney cast a satisfied glance at the jury. “Now, Sergeant, please tell us exactly what occurred in that hospital room from the time Professor Twining regained consciousness until the moment he died.”
“Well, as soon as we realized he was conscious — it was the orderly who first noticed his eyes were open — both the nurse and I started talking at once. That was my fault; I was excited — I’d been in that room off and on for three days without ever seeing the color of his eyes — and I started identifying myself while she was still asking him how he felt. But then we saw that he was trying to say something, so we both shut up and he said something like one at a time.”
“ ‘Something like’ is rather vague, Sergeant. Could you be more specific?”
“No, sir, I don’t think I can. Professor Twining sounded very groggy and was breathing real hard — he had to take a deep breath after almost every word — and sometimes he made a sound that might’ve been a word or it just might’ve been a rattle in his throat. But I think he said — very haltingly, you understand — one — at — a — time.”
Ponsonby’s thoughts returned to the testimony of the two previous witnesses. Nurse Gebhorn had been under the impression that there had been at least one other word in that mumbled phrase, but she hadn’t been able to swear to it; Horace Cayther had missed the remark altogether, having stepped outside to send for the resident physician.
“What happened next?” the County Attorney asked.
Sergeant Means ran a chubby finger around the inside of his rapidly wilting collar. “Well, sir, at that point I said to the nurse, ‘Let me go first, please, Miss,’ and then I said to the deceased, ‘Professor Twining, I’m Detective Sergeant Means of the Briarwood Police. Can you tell me who it was that hit you?’ ”
“And did Twining reply to that?”
“Yes, sir, although not very satisfactorily from my point of view. He said — still very groggy, you understand — I did not, and then a couple words that I just couldn’t make out, and then the word we, and then he said what could have been another word or maybe a groan, or maybe he was just gasping for air. But then he said, real clear this time, the word quarreled. And then he took a deep breath — at least I think it was a breath — and he said the name Ann.”
“In other words, Sergeant, he could very well have been trying to gasp out the statement, ‘We quarreled over Ann’?”
“Your Honor, I object!” Paul Anders was instantly on his feet, his chubby face glowing with indignation.
But the judge needed no prompting. “Mr. Franks, you know better than that! Objection sustained. Clerk, strike that last question from the record. And the jury is hereby instructed to disregard any words other than those which the witness testifies to having heard the deceased speak, or to believing he heard the deceased speak.”