“Your daughter murdered her husband,” I said. It was the hardest speech I ever uttered. “The only question is, what are you going to do about it? Do you have any money?”
“A little. About two hundred dollars. You are quite mistaken about Galley’s guilt, however. I realize that things look black for my girl. But as her mother I know that she is absolutely incapable of murder.”
“We won’t argue. Two hundred dollars isn’t enough. Even with twenty thousand, and the best defenders in southern California, she wouldn’t get off with less than second-degree murder. She’s going to spend years in prison anyway. Whether she spends the rest of her life there depends on just one thing: her defense in Superior Court.”
“I can raise some money on this house, I believe.”
“It’s mortgaged, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but I do have an equity–”
“I have some money here.” I took Dowser’s folded bill from my watch pocket and scaled it into her lap. “It’s money I have no use for.”
Her mouth opened and shut. “Why?”
“She needs a break. I’m going to have to testify against her.”
“You are kind. You can’t afford this.” Tears came into her eyes like water wrung from stone. “You must believe that Galatea is innocent, to do this.”
“No. I was police-trained and the harness left its marks on me. I know she’s guilty, and I can’t pretend I don’t. But I feel responsible in a way. For you, if not for her.”
She understood me. The tears made tracks on her cheeks. “If only you’d believe she’s innocent. If only someone would believe me.”
“She’ll need twelve and she won’t get them. Did you see the papers this morning?”
“Yes, I saw them.” She leaned forward, crumpling the bill in her lap. “Mr. Archer.”
“Is there something I can do?”
“No, nothing more. You are being so good, I really feel I can trust you. I must tell you–” She rose abruptly and went to the sewing machine beside the window. Raising the lid, she reached far inside and brought out an oblong packet wrapped in brown paper. “Galley gave me this to keep for her Tuesday morning. She made me promise not to tell anyone, but things are different now, aren’t they? It may be evidence in her favor. I haven’t opened it.”
I broke the tape that sealed one end, and saw the hundred-dollar bills. It was Galley’s thirty thousand. Speed’s thirty thousand. Marjorie’s thirty thousand. Thirty thousand dollars than had lain hidden in an old lady’s sewing machine while men were dying for it.
I handed it back to her. “It’s evidence, all right: the money she killed her husband for.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Impossible things are happening all the time.”
She looked down at the money in her hand. “Galley really killed him?” she whispered. “What shall I do with this?”
“Burn it.”
“When we need the money so badly?”
“Either burn it, or take it to a lawyer and let him contact the police. You may be able to make a deal of some kind. It’s worth trying.”
“No,” she said. “I will not. My girl is innocent, and Providence is watching over her. I know that now. God has provided for her in her hour of greatest need.”
I stood up and moved to the door. “Do as you like. If the police discover the source of the money, it will wreck your daughter’s defense.”
She followed me down the hallway.
“They shan’t know a thing about it. And you won’t tell them, Mr. Archer. You believe that my daughter is innocent, even though you won’t admit it.”
I knew that Galley Lawrence was guilty as hell.
The colored fanlight over the door washed her mother in sorrowful purple. She opened the door, and noon glared in on her face. The tear-tracks resembled the marks of sparse rain on a dusty road.
“You won’t tell them?” Her voice was broken.
“No.”
I looked back from the sidewalk. She was standing on the steps, using the brown paper package to shield her eyes from the cruel light. Her other hand rose in farewell, and dropped to her side.
The End