“The subject, Mr. Paquette, is pistols,” I said. “Was Barney Quill an expert pistol shot?”
“Objection, Your Honor,” spouted Mr. Dancer, like the Old Faithful geyser in my fifth-grade reader. “The court has already ruled on that. Irrelevant and immaterial. Absolutely beside the point.”
“But the People's own witness, Detective Sergeant Durgo, has now made the deceased an expert pistol shot,” I said. “We seek only to develop that interesting subject.”
The Judge stared out at the clock. “Strictly speaking you may have a point, Mr. Dancer,” he said. “But the subject is now in the case, and this witness is now on the stand. Moreover he has been in attendance here at public expense since the start of the trial. And I presume that he, like most of us, has occasionally to work for a living. The witness may answer.”
I held my breath for the answer.
“I would say he was an expert, sir,” the witness answered.
“Objection, objection. Witness not shown to be qualified to pass expert opinion.”
“I'll get to that, Your Honor,” I said, “âMr. Dancer please kindly permitting.”
“Proceed, proceed. I'll reserve my ruling,” the Judge said.
“Upon what do you base your conclusion, Mr. Paquette, that Barney was an expert pistol shot?” I asked.
This witness was a sensitive soul, I discovered; he was now getting a little annoyed with Claude Dancer, too. “Because I've seen him shoot against the best and beat 'em,” he said. “He's won dozens and scores of first prizes at shoots all over the Peninsula. The man was deadly.”
“Anything else?”
“I've seen Barney bring down partridge on the wing with a pistolâin fact it's the only way he hunted them.”
“Anything else?”
“Barney and I used to go out to the garbage dump with an accumulation of empty bottles from the bar. My job was to toss them up in the air. Barney'd shoot them as fast as I threw them and holler for more. He rarely missed.”
“And was Barney's prowess with pistols generally known around Thunder Bay?”
“It was.” The witness paused. “Mr. Quill was never one to hide his light under a bushel. He kept his medals on the back-bar.”
I looked over at Claude Dancer. “Do the People still press their objection?”
“Ruling, Your Honor,” Claude Dancer said, fighting gamely to the end.
“I'm afraid the People's objection is overruled,” the Judge said dryly.
I thought I detected a slight smile flit across the face of the witness. “Passing now to any pistols possessed by Mr. Quill,” I said. “Did he own any?”
“He has owned many pistolsâsometimes as high as fifteen or twenty at a time. I suppose he could have been called an amateur collector. He kept buying and selling and trading them. At the time of the”âthe witness pausedâ“during this past summer he was down to six of his favorites.”
“The witness is coming, the witness is coming,” I thought. “And where did he keep these pistols?” I pressed exultantly.
The witness hesitated for a moment. “He kept two in his quarters upstairs in the hotel,” he said.
“And the other four?” I said, asking the inevitable question.
The witness grew silent and looked up at the skylight. About then I would have given my best fly rod to have been able to peek into his darting mind. The courtroom grew hushed; even the whispering women now seemed to sense that this was a pregnant occasion.
“He kept them down in the barroom,” the witness answered in a low voice.
“Loaded?”
“Invariably.”
I glanced quickly at Parnell, who sat stoic as a Buddha; then I was back at the witness. “And where in the barroom?” I said.
“Behind the bar.”
“And where behind the bar?” I dug away.
“He kept two on a little shelf he'd built in the middleâand one each at either end.”
“Were they visible to persons standing in front?”
“They were not.”
“And what was the purpose of these pistols?”
The eyes of the witness flickered ever so little and I was afraid I had pressed him too far. “Protection,” he said. “Protection against trouble.”
“Trouble?” I said.
“Holdups.”
This opened up sylvan vistas but I did not follow them; I could not risk drying up this witness now. There was irony here: I had once promised faithfully to clobber this little man; now I sought only ways not to ruffle him. “And were these four pistols behind the bar the night of the shooting?” I asked, trying to keep the glee out of my voice.
“They were not,” the witness replied. My heart sank. Was all this a clever trap the witness and Dancer had worked out? And why, oh why, had I asked that one fatal question too much? But if I hadn't Dancer surely would have ⦠.
“Where were they?”
“I had locked them up.”
“Why?”
“Because of Mr. Quill's drinking and general behavior.”
Up, down; up, down ⦠. “Did Mr. Quill consent to this?”
“He did not.”
I hated to ask the next question, but I had to. If I didn't ⦠“Was it these four bar pistols you locked up or all of them?” I asked, and held my breath.
“Only the four. Mr. Quill wouldn't give up the others. We didn't press the point after he promised to keep them up in his rooms.”
“We?”
“After he promised Miss Mary Pilant and me. She was the hostess upstairs.”
We were getting on delicate territory, and I veered away. I felt like a man walking barefoot on broken glassâwith the ghostly Barney on hand shooting up more empty bottles. “Was the fact that you'd locked up these four guns general knowledge?”
“It was known only to Mr. Quill and Miss Pilant and me.”
“And can you tell us more about why you felt obliged to lock up the four bar guns?” I said, cautiously feeding out more rope, reluctantly forsaking the role of the probing cross-examiner. I sensed I now had to allow this man room for retreat if I inadvertently pressed too far upon sensitive territory. The position was unique; I'd never before confronted it in a courtroom.
The witness grew thoughtful. “Well,” he said slowly, “about two weeks before the shooting Mr. Quill began drinking more than usual. He grew irritable and quarrelsome and dimcultâand we decided it was best to remove the guns from the bar.”
“When did you lock them up?”
“Just about a week before the shooting.”
There were dozens of questions I longed to ask: Had Barney asked for his guns back? Where were they then and now? These and many more questions shuttered crazily across my mind. But no, I couldn't risk itâwe didn't need two coats of frosting on our cake.
“Could you venture to tell us the reason why Mr. Quill seemed upset and drank more than usual?” I said. The question was purely rhetorical; I had to ask it because the jury would expect me to. The shrewd witness evidently saw the point.
“No, sir,” he said, and he must also have seen my look of relief.
“Could you tell us this, Mr. Paquette?âwhatever the reasons, did they appear to have anything to do with the Manions?”
“I would say definitely not, sir. None whatever.”
I glanced over at Claude Dancer who sat staring stonily at the far wall, his arms folded like Napoleon at Elba, and I also longed to peek into his darting otter brain.
After that I brought out that Barney Quill had been at the bar earlier that night; that he'd played pinball with Laura, as she claimed; that he'd left about the same time as she had, around 11:00; that he'd returned to the bar shortly after midnight; that he'd relieved the bartender so he could “rest,” and pretty much all that the bartender had told me on my earlier visit to Thunder Bay. I carefully avoided the subject of his possibly being a “lookout” (the conversion of hostile witnesses had its disadvantages, too, I saw) and I resolutely stayed away from the subject of Barney's will and the rest. I could always argue the “lookout” business to the jury.
“When Mr. Quill reappeared at the bar,” I went on, “did he come in the street door or from upstairs?”
“Upstairs, sir.”
“Had he changed his clothing?”
The witness blinked. “My best recollection is that he had,” he finally replied. “I recall that he was wearing a loose sweat shirt after, and he'd worn a white shirt before.”
“Had it been a warm evening?”
“It was.”
“Was it still warm in the bar after midnight?”
“It was. Quite stuffy and warm.”
“Ah, truth,” I thought, “your spell is irresistible.” I paused, and dared not look at Parnell. On a hot night Barney had seen fit to change from a white shirt (dirt, lipstick?) to a hot
loose
sweat shirt
(freedom of motion, room to smuggle down his pistols?). “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury ⦔ I could almost hear myself saying.
“Mr. Paquette,” I said, “the other day when I was questioning you”âI glanced back at Claude Dancerâ“and we were so rudely interrupted, we were talking about Barney's drinking. Now was he drinking more than usual that day?”
I crouched waiting for the booming objection, and was almost disappointed when it did not roll forth. Evidently Mr. Dancer was in a pout and was going to stay mad.
“I wouldn't say that day,” he replied, and my spirits sank. “I now recall he'd been drinking more than usual for about two weeks.” My spirits rose. Up, down, up, down ⦠.
“And what was his daily intake during more normal times?”
“Barney could easily drink eight to ten double shots a day.”
“And how much was a double shot?”
“Two ounces.”
That was eighteen to twenty ounces of whisky a day, I calculated, and I mentally gagged at the thought. “And was that whisky?”
“Yes, bonded âwhite-vest' bourbon, as I call it. Mr. Quill drank only the best.”
“Now how about during this two weeks before the shootingâhow much was he drinking then?”
The witness shook his head. “It must have been easily a fifth. It got so I couldn't keep track.”
“That was what you yourself saw?”
“Yes.”
“And that didn't take into account what he might take in his rooms or elsewhere?”
“It did not, sir.”
Barney had had at least four drinks with Laura and five more at the bar after the rape. That made nine, let's see, eighteen ounces he'd had since 9:00 that night besides whatever else he'd sneaked. It was faintly incredible. Lord, if I kept on at this rate I'd have the man blind drunk, and I didn't want that either.
“Could Barney carry quite a load without showing it?”
“Without showing it to strangers. We who knew him well could tell.”
“He was not one to swagger and stagger and talk loud when he was loaded, then?”
“If anything he appeared more gentlemanly than usual. It was a way he had.”
The time had come to put on a little more pressure. “About the guns being kept behind the bar against holdups, could you tell us how many holdups you had at the bar of the Thunder Bay Inn this past summer?”
Frowning: “None.”
“Any attempts?”
“No.”
“Had there been any such attempts during all the time you have worked there?”
“None.”
“Have you ever heard of any holdups or attempts made before you came?”
“None.”
“But the loaded guns were kept there for holdups?”
Smiling slightly: “For holdups, sir.”
I could have gone on to the subject of whether Barney had had his own two guns behind the bar that night, and all the interesting questions that subject suggested, but I dared not. I was afraid to risk it. The jury now plainly knew there were two pistols unaccounted for and the witness might get in a jam with the police if I now made him admit there were guns he had hidden or not told them about. Why drive him to say that there weren't any?
I abruptly abandoned Barney and his guns and drinking. The “white-vest” bourbon had reminded me of something else. I saw I'd have to lower the boom still a little more.
“Did you drive Laura Manion to the jail at Iron Bay to see her husband the Sunday after the shooting?”