“Who says so?”
“She does, damn it!”
“Now, Lem, be reasonable.” Phelan upturned a pleading palm. “We’re not holding court, we’re just having a talk. What would you expect her to say? She had to say something or nothing, didn’t she? Of course it would have been better for her if she had made it nothing, even before Anson got there. That story about the bag being snitched from her car simply stinks and you know darned well it does. Picture how it will sound to a jury if she gets on the stand and tells it, without any corroboration, and she’ll have to tell it because no one else can, and if she’s put on the stand picture how she’s going to answer—”
“She won’t get on the stand! She won’t go to court! I say she won’t!”
“All right, Lem.” Phelan slowly shook his head. “I’ve seen you do everything to this town except hang it on the line to dry, and I’ve wore out three hats taking them off to you, but if you keep that Brand girl out of a courtroom I’ll just go bareheaded!”
Bill Tuttle, Sheriff of Park County, sat in his office in the courthouse, which was on the basement floor, at the near end of the corridor leading to the warden’s office and the jail at the rear. In appearance he was not a frontier-style western sheriff, but neither was he streamlined. His visible apparel, from across the desk, consisted of a pink shirt, a purple tie and a black alpaca coat; and the most striking fact about his face was that someone had at some time or other hurled a boulder at his nose and hit it square. Hardly less would have accounted for its being so grotesque a slab.
He was wishing he was somewhere else. There would be no profit and no glory from the Dan Jackson murder case; quite the contrary. The Brand girl had been caught flat-footed and there was nothing to it; but it was dynamite. He knew Art Gleason had been fired by the owners of the Times-Star and he knew why. Art Gleason booted into the alley! When Tuttle had made a long distance call, around dawn, to Senator Carlson (called, by some, the squarehead) in Washington, he knew what Carlson meant when he said that all good citizens would demand that justice be done without fear or favor; he meant that this might possibly be the long-awaited opportunity to put old Lem Sammis on the ropes; and though Carlson was unquestionably the coming man, it was too early to say that Sammis was even going, let alone gone.
In the meantime, in conjunction with the county attorney and the chief of police, he was proceeding with his duty, the collection of evidence, already overwhelming. He didn’t know that at that moment the chief of police was in friendly conference with Lem Sammis and the defense attorney, but he wouldn’t have been surprised if he had.
The phone buzzed and he picked up the instrument and asked it testily, “Well?”
“Dr. Rufus Toale again. Wants to speak to you.”
“Put him on.”
He made a face at a corner of the desk, which with his nose was scarcely necessary, and in a moment said with great amiability, “Yes, Dr. Toale? This is Sheriff Tuttle.”
“God bless you and keep you, Brother Tuttle. I am anxious about Delia — Miss Brand. Is she still asleep?”
“Yes, she is. She was ten minutes ago.”
“Praise God. The precious child. The precious soul. You won’t forget to let me know when she awakens?”
“I’ll notify you at once, Dr. Toale.”
“God bless you. And tell her, please, that I am coming to see her. As I warned you, she will say no, but we must trust to His grace and goodness and I must see her.”
“I understand. I’ll tell her. Er — Mrs. Welch will tell her.”
“That fine woman! She’s a fine woman, Brother Tuttle!”
“She sure is. Thank you for calling.” The sheriff hung up and shoved the phone from him as if it with its own tongue had Brother Tuttled him. Not that he was irreligious, but he was then feeling that no man was his brother. After glaring at the phone a little he pulled it back and spoke into it. “Is that reporter out there, the one that flew from San Francisco? Send him in here.”
That interview lasted half an hour, partly because it was interrupted four or five times by phone calls. The door was closing behind the reporter when the phone rang again to say that Tyler Dillon was outside, accompanied by Clara Brand. They were ushered in and they both took chairs.
Tuttle glanced at Clara’s strained face, at her hands twisted in her lap. “Is there something I can do for you, Miss Brand? I told Mr. Sammis I wouldn’t need you any more, at least for the present. Didn’t he tell you?”
“She’s with me,” Dillon put in.
“I don’t need her with you. I’d like to see you alone. What’s the idea, anyway? Didn’t you say you’d wait outside till I could see you?”
“I got tired waiting. I had an appointment with Miss Brand and I wanted to keep it. For a consultation in the interest of my client.”
“Who’s your client?”
“Her sister, Delia Brand.”
“Your client?”
“Yes. She was my client even before this ridiculous charge was brought against her. On another matter, of course.”
“She was?”
“Yes. She called at my office yesterday morning to consult me.”
“She did? You admit that?”
“Admit it? I state it as a fact.”
“Was it on that occasion that she asked you a certain question which she had written down on a piece of paper?”
“Now, Sheriff. Really! Surely you know that you can’t question counsel about interviews with his client.”
“No?”
“Certainly not. That’s elementary.”
Tuttle frowned. “I can’t ask you about a piece of paper with your name on it and a question about how to do a murder?”
“Not if it has any connection, or is supposed to have any connection, with my client.”
“You refuse to answer?”
“Under the circumstances, of course.”
The sheriff’s frown deepened. He stood up abruptly, said, “Wait here a minute,” and left the room.
There was a silence. They looked at each other and Clara said, “This may be a terrible mistake. I should have talked to Mr. Sammis first. I... I’m scared.”
“Buck up, Clara.” He tried to smile encouragingly. “I haven’t involved you yet, anyhow. I’ll push ahead as far as I can without you, but you stick. Huh?”
She nodded wretchedly.
Ten minutes passed before the sheriff returned, and when he came he was accompanied by a plump competent-looking man in a natty tropical worsted suit with a cornflower in the lapel. He exchanged greetings with Dillon and crossed to shake hands with Clara, replying to a question from Tuttle:
“Sure I know Miss Brand, we’re old Cody folks. I knew her when she wore a braid down her back, before I ever thought I’d be county attorney. I hope you realize, Clara...” He stopped, gave that up, and turned to the young lawyer. “What’s this the sheriff tells me, Dillon? About Delia Brand being your client?”
“That’s right. She is. And I want to see her.”
“She hasn’t made any mention of it.”
“Maybe she hasn’t had a chance, with a stampede rushing her.”
Ed Baker, Park County Attorney, smiled tolerantly. “She’s had plenty of chance to say anything she wants to. You’re not her counsel of record. Harvey Anson is.”
“I’m her counsel.”
“On this case? This murder charge?”
“I’m her counsel. She came to my office just yesterday morning to consult me.”
“So I understand. Was that when she asked you a question she had written on a piece of paper?”
Dillon shook his head. “Privileged communication, Mr. Baker.”
The county attorney shrugged. It might have ended there, with nothing more violent than a shrug, but for the interruption that suddenly interposed. The door was flung open and Lem Sammis entered on the charge. Behind him was Frank Phelan, chief of police, panting a little, and bringing up the rear was Harvey Anson, somehow keeping up with no appearance of precipitancy.