“In the first place, you’re not going to be convicted,” he said firmly. “In the second place, Bud’s father wasn’t a murderer, his grandfather was. People may be little enough to condemn you for what your parents do, but they don’t go clear back to your grandparents. My grandfather was once jailed for horsewhipping a preacher who called him a Godless man from the pulpit after Grandpa published an editorial calling the preacher an ignorant bigot who had never read any book but the Bible in his life. I suppose Dad was taunted by the kids for that, but none of my childhood friends ever mentioned it.”
“It isn’t the same thing,” she said. “That has been forgotten. My grandparents must have known your grandparents, but I never before heard the story mentioned. If it had been revived when you were ten, you would have suffered.”
“I doubt it,” he said with a grin. “I was always secretly proud of the old man for his outrageous act. I’ve had the urge to horsewhip a few people myself. In any event, if publishing the story can possibly help you, even in convincing just one juror that you must have had a hard married life, Bud can stand a few taunts.”
“No. Please don’t print it.”
He studied her pleading expression curiously. He hadn’t realized she was so protective of her son that she would risk life imprisonment, or even death, to prevent his being hurt. It struck him as such an exaggerated sort of protectiveness that an incredible thought suddenly occurred to him.
Bud’s room at home was directly across the hall from hers. The blast of the pistol shot indoors must have made a terrific noise. Why hadn’t the boy awakened? Also, why hadn’t Betty immediately called Dr. Derring, who lived only two doors away, instead of merely phoning the police and leaving the cryptic message that someone had been shot? Could it have been to give her time to set the scene, not to cover herself, but to cover young Bud?
If that was what had actually happened, it would explain every perplexing angle of the case: the planted evidence of the cat burglar’s presence, Bud’s strange lack of resentment toward his mother for killing his father. Thinking back to the way Bud had clung to his mother the next day, he wondered if the boy hadn’t been seeking protection rather than solace.
He tried to visualize how it might have happened. According to Betty’s testimony at the preliminary hearing, she had known of Bruce’s infidelity for months, so the boy must have known there was trouble between his parents. Perhaps, siding with his mother, he had gradually developed hate for his father. Suppose the boy had been awakened by a loud argument that night and looked out of his room to see his father berating his mother — perhaps even threatening her with violence.
No, he thought, bringing himself up short, the gun was under Betty’s pillow. She had told him she was keeping one there, hours before the shooting. But the boy could have been sleeping with his mother. In fact, if she had been worried enough about the cat burglar to keep a gun under her pillow, it was unlikely that she would leave Bud alone in his room. He could almost imagine the scene: Bruce coming to the bedroom door, flicking on the light and starting to berate his wife; Betty sitting up in bed, requesting him to leave so that Bud wouldn’t be subjected to the spectacle of his parents fighting; Bud, snaking his hand beneath his mother’s pillow, where he knew she kept the gun, bringing it out and firing before either Betty or Bruce knew what was happening.
He said quietly, “I know you’re innocent of murder, Betty. But is there something in this affair you’re covering up?”
Her eyes widened and her already pale face whitened even more. “I don’t know what you mean.”
She did know, he thought. Perhaps his wild guess wasn’t the answer, but she had held something back about the events of that night and was terrified that someone would discover it.
He said, “Are you in some way trying to protect Bud by not telling the complete story of how Bruce was shot?”
He expected her expression to tell him he had struck home, but she had gained full control of herself again. In a tone of puzzlement he was almost certain was assumed, she said, “I haven’t the faintest idea of what you’re trying to get at, Kirk.”
He saw that even if he had guessed right, nothing was ever going to make her admit it. He had no intention of allowing her to sacrifice herself to protect her son, though. There wasn’t the slightest possibility that at his age Bud would be punished for murder, particularly if he thought he was protecting his mother. If that was the answer, he intended to bring it to light, even if it caused Betty to reject him forever. He resolved to have a heart-to-heart talk with young Bud.
Meantime, there was no point in making her uncomfortable by pursuing the subject.
He said, “Getting back to Bruce — if it’s really that important to you I’ll sit on the story, for the moment at least. But I’m not going to be scooped on it. I think I can arrange to find out the moment any other reporter gets hold of it, and if that happens, I’m going to print it. If the story hits print, it will be in the News, but we’ll only break it just before it would have been printed anyway.”
“That’s fair enough,” she said in a tone of relief. “We’ll hope no other reporter gets hold of it.”
He got back to the newspaper at five of twelve. Just as he started into the city room his father emerged from his office. Marshall paused and the editor gave him an inquiring look.
“I have to make a phone call, Dad,” the reporter said. “I want to try to catch my party before he goes to lunch. Can you wait a minute?”
“Sure,” Jonas said.
Marshall continued on to his desk. The editor followed along and stood waiting as his son dialed the operator.
“I want a person-to-person call to Mr. Wesson of the Wesson, Wesson and Masters law firm in Philadelphia,” Marshall said into the phone. “I don’t know the number.”
He heard the operator call Philadelphia information and get the number. A few moments later he was connected with the elderly lawyer.
“This is Kirk Marshall, Mr. Wesson,” he said. “I wonder if you’d do me a favor?”
“Why certainly, if I can, Mr. Marshall,” Wesson said courteously.
“For certain ethical reasons we’ve decided to sit on the story you gave me. But we would hate to be scooped on it by some other paper. Eventually some other reporter may get to you. I’m not going to ask you not to reveal the story to anyone else, because that would be presumptuous. But I would appreciate it if you would phone me collect in the event another reporter interviews you on the subject.”
“I see. If I called you, you’d have a chance to release the story first. Is that it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That seems fair, since you got it first. I’ll be glad to go along, Mr. Marshall. What’s your number?”
When Marshall had given it to him and had hung up, he looked up at his father.
“I guess that takes care of the conference I suggested,” Jonas growled. “What’s your reason?”
“Betty thinks it would hurt young Bud. She practically begged me not to print it. I finally promised her I’d handle it this way.”
Jonas glowered down at him for a moment, then said, “All right. A promise is a promise. But if we get scooped on this, I’ll dock you a week’s pay. You going to lunch with Lydia?”
“Not today.”
“Then you can take me. I forgot to bring any money with me this morning.”