“I just need some time alone.”
“Then take it.”
“You won’t grab this man’s car and come after me?”
“Nope.”
“You really won’t?”
“I really won’t.”
“You’re a good man, Sam.”
“Thanks. So are you.”
He looked surprised and then smiled bitterly. “Oh, yeah, that’s me. Just about the nicest killer a man could hope to meet.”
And then he took off running, agile for his size and age. The Edsel whipped out of the station, spewing pebbles.
The station man ran immediately to the phone on the counter and said, “Claudia, get me the sheriff’s department quick.”
There wasn’t any way I could stop him.
Eighteen
“Ok, McCain. Ready?”
She wanted to hear it. There was something unholy about it-her listening in on the extension phone as I informed Cliffie of the real killer-but one does not deny Judge Whitney her petty pleasures.
I was using the phone at Pamela’s desk.
The Judge was waiting to pick up in her chambers. Pamela stood in the chamber doorway, ready to signal the Judge when it was time to pick up.
I dialed. I would’ve taken a lot more pleasure in this if the killer had turned out to be somebody I hated. I’d been keen on David Squires being the murderer, for instance. But with Keys? I couldn’t help it. I liked him. The life he’d led as a booster reminded me of the hunting scene in Sinclair Lewis’s
Babbitt where Babbitt has to take stock of his life-a very successful small-town life-and finds that none of it holds any meaning for him, that it was all a charade. And he wishes he were a little boy again and could start over; how different it would be this time. I imagined Dick Keys was going through something like that now. I imagined he was scared and lonely and remorseful, plus the fact that he’d never been able to love his wife and felt so guilty about it…
“Police station.”
“The Chief, please.”
“Who’s calling?”
“Sam McCain.”
“Oh.” It was not a happy Oh. In fact, it was a downright unhappy Oh. “Hang on.”
A few moments later: “Chief here.”
The beautiful Pamela waving frantically for the Judge to pick up. A teeny, tiny click on the line.
“I just wanted to tell you, I know who the killer is, Chief.”
“So do I. And he’s sitting in jail right now.”
“Wrong man.”
“My ass.”
I could imagine the rapture the Judge was experiencing.
“Dick Keys.”
“Oh, sure.”
“I’m serious.”
“One of our leading businessmen? A deacon of my church? The man who serves hot meals to the needy every Christmas?”
“One and the same.”
“I don’t have time for this, McCain.”
“Just listen to me.” I told him everything. I gave him the name of the Texaco man who could back up my story about Keys’s confession.
“But Chalmers confessed.”
“If he did it’s because you beat him inffconfessing.”
“He fell down those stairs all by himself.”
“Of course he did. Like all the others.”
“What others?”
I sighed. “You’ve got the wrong man, Chief. I’ll call the Texaco guy and have him come in and see you. He’ll give you the details.
In the meantime, if I were you I’d start looking for Keys.”
“You bastard,” he said, and slammed down the phone.
The Judge let out a most undignified yelp and came running from her chambers.
She wore her judicial robes and was in her nyloned feet. She had her brandy and her Gauloise. And she threw her arms around me as if we were old lovers and planted a tasty kiss right on my lips. “Oh, God, McCain!
Did you hear him!”
“I heard him.”
“He’s such a dunce!”
“He certainly is that.”
“Beating a confession out of poor Chalmers! The man’s a Cro-Magnon!”
I noted the “poor” Chalmers. She was even feeling kindly toward the rabble at this exhilarating moment.
And then we sort of waltzed around the open expanse in front of Pamela’s desk.
“Oh, I wish I had a camera!” Pamela said. “What a great picture that would make, you two dancing like that!”
“Yes,” I said. “The Judicial
Quarterly would love it for their next cover.”
“You did it, McCain! You did it!”
And she gave me yet another kiss. This one, more properly, was on the cheek.
She then took a long, deep drag of her Gauloise and announced, “I shall be in my chambers. Gloating.”
I couldn’t help myself. I smiled. She was like a little girl on her birthday. The entire world was hers, at least for this moment.
And with that, she swept magnificently away.
“I’ve never seen her like this,” the beautiful Pamela said. She smiled. “Guess who’s taking me to the Governor’s dinner Saturday night?”
“Spare me,” I said.
She frowned. “I just thought you might be happy for me, McCain. I mean, we’re friends if nothing else.”
“All right. I’m happy for you.”
“You don’t sound happy.”
“Inside I’m happy. Deep inside.”
She looked hurt, and I realized she didn’t understand that it hurt me to know she would now be spending a lot of time with Stu.
I took her hand and held it. I wanted to say something sarcastic, and then I wanted to say something genuinely, profoundly, sickeningly hurtful. But all I said was, quietly, “I hope you have a good time. I’m sure you’ll be the most beautiful girl there.”
“Thanks, McCain. I knew you had it in you.”
And with that, I left.
On the way back to my office, I stopped by the hospital. The weather had changed abruptly, the way it does in Iowa. Gone the blue skies, gone the fiery trees. The sky was a cold gray, the temperature dropping quickly, already below 50 degrees. You could even smell snow. It wouldn’t be long now.
Not even Fats Domino made me feel much better. I kept thinking about Keys and his poor wife. She’d be left alone. The scandal of adultery would be made far worse by the scandal of murder. In a small town like ours, murder is much more than a statistic. It brings down entire families, the way it did in the time of Balzac and Ibsen. I guess that’s the understanding I get from reading. That all people are the same, no matter how far back in history you go.
I skidded into the hospital, my heel catching on the wet rubber rug at the entrance door. A nun watched me stumble head first into the lobby.
“Ed Sullivan booked me for next Sunday night, Sister,” I said. “As the lead dancer.”
She smiled her nun’s smile and said, “She’s doing much better, McCain. Much better.”
“Her memory back?”
“She’s started recognizing people. Most people, anyway.”
A nurse was plumping Mary’s pillow for her when I walked in. “There you go. A nice shower and fresh clothes, and your dinner’ll be along in another hour or so.”
Mary’s smile was a measure of her condition.
It was back to three-quarters power. Which is damned powerful, believe me.
She looked at me. There was just a moment’s hesitation and then she said, “McCain!”
I walked over to her. I’d brought her a Herman Wouk novel and flowers, which the nurse took and put in a vase. The room was an art gallery of Get Well cards and a hothouse of flower-stuffed vases.
Mary said, holding my hands, “The nurse was telling me how you found me. On the highway.”
I nodded. “I owe that to the black Ford.”
“The black Ford?”
I nodded. “I don’t know who she is. But she’s been around town lately in this Ford ragtop just like mine. Except it’s black. I was out on the highway, heading into town, and she suddenly appeared. So we started to drag.”
“Now, that’s mature.” The smile again.
“It’s that clean stretch of road. You can see for a couple of miles. I couldn’t help myself.
And I’m glad I did it. Dragging put me in the right spot to see you come up from that gully.”