I took my celluloid card out of my breast coat pocket.
Ralph stopped me. “What are you doing, Henry?”
“I’m about to read Mr. Washburn his rights.”
“Why?”
“The Supreme Court insists on it.”
Ralph took me aside. “Henry, you know and I know that Washburn killed his wife. Everybody in this room does. But what solid proof do we have? I’m talking about things that people can see and touch. People like district attorneys who have to get the indictments or the judges who have to issue them.”
“Ralph, the man seems almost eager to confess.”
“Henry, I doubt that his daughter, the brand-new lawyer, will allow him to confess to anything.”
Marianne had edged close enough to hear us. She nodded and smiled sweetly.
I experienced moral indignation. “Ralph, we have here a coldblooded murder. This man held a pillow over the face of his wife until she was asphyxiated. Seven or eight minutes, assuming that there was no leakage of air. But probably longer.”
James Washburn had joined us. “Seven or eight minutes? But it wasn’t anywhere near—”
Marianne quickly put her hand over his mouth. “Suppose,” she said, “suppose this somebody who wielded the pillow merely wanted to stop the victim’s vituperation and hysteria. He had no intention at all of murdering her. He just wanted to shut her up for a while. He held the pillow over her head for perhaps one minute.”
Washburn freed his mouth. “Maybe not even that long.”
“Maybe less,” Marianne said swiftly. “And when Paula ceased to struggle, he removed the pillow from her face and was utterly astounded to discover she was dead.”
Washburn nodded eagerly.
Marianne glared at him for a moment, then continued, “And suppose that since he had no conception at all as to the amount of time it takes to asphyxiate anyone with a pillow, he merely assumed he had killed her? Actually she had died of a heart attack, not of asphyxiation. And so, succumbing to perfectly understandable panic, he carried her body down to the vault and tried to make it appear as though she had accidentally locked herself inside.”
I folded my arms. “Even assuming that is what occurred, in this state if a person dies as the result of stress during a hostile act, it would be considered at least manslaughter.”
Marianne smiled. “But can you prove even manslaughter? And there will be no confession. And if this person were somehow convicted — which is highly unlikely since thirty-seven character witnesses will testify in his behalf — he will probably — considering his unblemished past and his standing in the community — be put on probation for six months. Would you cause all that trouble just to stick some poor unfortunate soul with a six-months’ probation?”
There was respectful silence while I stared out of a window.
Finally I put my celluloid card back into my pocket. “Ralph, my mother cried for three days when she discovered that I had joined the Milwaukee Police Department. She was right.”
“Now, now, Henry,” Ralph said. “We win some and we lose some.” He turned to the others. “Does anyone have a glass of sherry?”
“Not here, Ralph,” I said firmly.
Ralph embarrassed me further by explaining. “Whenever one of Henry’s cases doesn’t go just right, he finds that a glass or two of sherry helps to buck him up.”
Ronald Goodcart folded his arms. “I’ll bet he drinks a lot.”
That remark was entirely uncalled for. I consume perhaps one bottle of sherry a year. Well, maybe two.
I declined their sherry and we left.
At eight that evening the coroner phoned me at my apartment to let me know that the autopsy had shown that Paula Washburn had died of a heart attack, not of asphyxiation.
At nine my door buzzer sounded.
It was Marianne. “Do you realize that you are the only Turnbuckle in the telephone directory?”
I sighed. “I am the only Turnbuckle who ever left Sheboygan for more than a weekend.”
She held up what looked like a bottle in a paper bag. “I thought I’d drop in and see if it’s possible to cheer you up.”
It was.
A Woman Waits for Me
by William Bankier
The highly successful plastic surgeon from California, dissatisfied with life, was seeking a new career. In Brighton, England, he met two women, two entirely different women — “a young girl with astonishing silver hair” and a mature woman, “not really his type,” with taffy hair and dressed in tweed. Both women were to change the face of Mark Whitman’s life, each in her own fashion...
The pub was almost deserted. Not many people inhabited the Brighton seafront on a cloudy day in early April. Mark Whitman left his bench by the window, walked to the bar, and asked for another bourbon and water.
The feeling that he had made a fool of himself was strong today. If he could not achieve something in England soon, he would probably end up back in California with more egg on his face than a chicken farmer in a hurricane. But not necessarily. He could easily afford to drink himself to death. Or he could walk a hundred yards down the shingle, shed his clothes, and trudge into the breakers like Fredric March in “A Star Is Born.” If he did, his wife back home would not announce bravely to the world, “This is Mrs. Mark Whitman.” She would say something like, “The idiot finally got what he was after.”
Somebody was having trouble with the doors. Back on his bench, Whitman saw why when a woman struggled in leading on a chain the biggest Great Dane he had ever seen. It was charcoal-gray and as tall as a Shetland pony. She caught his eye and they exchanged sympathetic smiles. “He’s taking me for my walk,” she said.
“I’m glad he brought you in here.”
“Thank you.”
Whitman was more surprised than she was by his flirtatious remark. He had managed a few interesting pickups since arriving, all in London, but this mature woman was not really his type. Her taffy hair was permed in an old-fashioned style he thought of as “dancing teacher.” She had a large plain face that he assessed professionally: no lift needed, a little work around the eyelids would help, some padding in the chin. The dog, however, was hopeless, its face draped in enough skin to make another Dane or a couple of terriers.
“I’m off to the bar,” Whitman said, tossing back the bourbon. “Can I bring you something?”
“Yes, please. I’d like a gin and tonic.”
When he came back carrying the drinks, she was settled in with her tweed jacket unbuttoned revealing a full but not flamboyant chest. Her sturdy build, her clear-eyed look, and her confident accent suggested to Whitman that this was a girl who had done well at field hockey for her private school during the war.
“What’s the dog’s name?” Whitman said. “Cheers.”
“Cheers. His name is Giant.”
The animal was stretched out proudly like one of Landseer’s lions in Trafalgar Square. “Nice boy, Giant. I hope you never run into a dog named Jack.”
They exchanged introductions. Then they began chatting and he learned that her name, Brenda Belziel, was French. She was the widow of an officer in the Free French Army, a Colonel who had walked not far behind le Grand Charles himself when de Gaulle returned to Paris. No, he had not been killed in the war, nothing as heroic as that. Brenda had only met Belziel in 1960 when he was serving with a trade commission in London. They married, she for the first time, he for the third. His death had occurred accidentally a year and a half ago, as the result of a fall in the bathtub.