The Tragedy of Z (12 page)

Dow shifted restlessly in his chair. “Whaddaya wanna know fer?”

“Just interested. Hell, I didn't think Sam would run me down, after what I did for the guy——”

“He didn't!” squealed Dow with a sullen side-glance. “He says you're white, a square dick.”

“Oh, he did, did he?” growled father. “Well, why the hell shouldn't he? Anyway, you know I wouldn't frame a man, don't you? You know I never gave a guy a taste of the pipe, don't you?”

“I—I guess dat's right, Inspector.”

“Fine! Then we understand each other.” Father sat down and crossed his legs comfortably. “Now, Mr. Hume here thinks you bumped Senator Fawcett off, Dow. I'm giving it to you straight from the shoulder. No boloney. You're in a tough spot.” The man's eye filled with fear again; and he rolled it toward Hume, who flushed a little and threw father an angry glance. “Me—I don't think you killed Fawcett. And neither does my daughter—this nice young lady here, Dow. She thinks you're innocent, too.”

“Uh-huh,” muttered Dow, without looking up.

“Now, why don't I think you killed Fawcett—d'ye know, Dow?”

This time the response was positive; the prisoner met father's eyes fairly, his dull face lighting with curiosity and hope. “No, sir, I don't know! All I know is I didn't bump him. Why?”

“I'll tell you why.” Father put his huge first on the old man's bony little knee, and I saw it tremble. “Because I know men. I know killers. Sure, you got into a scrap a dozen years ago and accidentally knocked a drunk over, but a guy like you isn't a killer.”

“Dat's right, Inspector!”

“You wouldn't use a knife, now, would you, even if you did want to knock somebody over?”

“No!” cried Dow, the blue veins on his thin neck standing out. “Not me! Not a sticker!”

“Sure not. So we're all clear there. Now you say you didn't kill Senator Fawcett, and I believe you. But somebody did kill him. Who the hell was it?”

The worn, muscular old left hand clenched. “I don't know, cross my heart, Inspector. I'm framed, I'm framed.”

“Damn' right you're framed. You knew Fawcett, though, didn't you?”

Dow jumped out of his chair. “Sure I knew him, the dirty welcher!” And then, with a horrified expression on his face, perhaps realizing that he had been tricked into a damaging admission, he stopped abruptly, and glared at father with such hatred that I blushed for the name of Thumm.

Father contrived, with his astonishing talent for doing the unexpected, to look hurt. “You've got me wrong, Dow,” he grumbled. “You think I'm finagling you into a confession. Well, I'm not. You don't have to admit you knew Senator Fawcett. The D.A.'s got you dead to rights there—got a letter of yours found on Fawcett's desk. See?”

The old convict subsided, muttering. And this time he examined father's features with painful concentration. I studied the man's face, and shivered a little. That cheap, sharp face with its expression of suspicion and hope and fear was to taunt me in the days to come. I glanced at John Hume; he seemed unimpressed. I learned later that in his first grilling by the police and the district attorney Aaron Dow had stubbornly refused to admit anything, even when confronted by the damning letter. This fact made me appreciate even more the instinctive cunning of father's attack on the man's shell.

“I gotcha,” mumbled Dow. “I gotcha, Inspector.”

“Swell,” said father calmly. “We can't help you, Dow, unless you give us a straight story. How long did you know Senator Fawcett?”

The poor crature licked his dry lips again. “I—I … Hell of a long time ago.”

“Do you dirt, Dow?”

“I ain't sayin', Inspector.”

“All right.” Father instantly shifted to another line of attack, realizing more quickly than I that on certain points Dow would remain unshakably silent. “But you got in touch with him from inside Algonquin?”

Silence. Then—“Yeah. Yes, sir, I did.”

“You sent him that hunk o' sawed-off chest with your letter in the box of toys?”

“Well … I guess so.”

“What did you mean by it—by that piece of chest?”

I think we all saw at once that even under the most favorable conditions it would be useless to expect the whole truth from Dow. Mention of the segment of toy chest seemed to have imbued him with a sudden optimistic thought; for there was actually a smile on his crushed face and the unmistakable glint of cunning in his Cyclopean eye. Father saw it, too, and smothered his disappointment.

“It was a little, well, sign,” squeaked Dow in a cautious tone. “Just so's he'd know me.”

“I see. Your letter said you were goin' to telephone the Senator the day you got out of stir. Did you?”

“Yeah, I did dat.”

“You spoke to Fawcett himself?”

“Damn' right I did,” replied Dow with a little snarl, then checked himself. “He answered, all right, all right.”

“You made an appointment for last night?”

Doubt once more began to creep into that staring blue orb. “Well … yeah.”

“What time was the appointment for?”

“Six bells; I mean eleven o'clock.”

“And you kept the date?”

“No, I didn't, Inspector, s'help me!” The words tumbled out. “I been in the pen a round dozen. It ain't like a guy gets an ace. Twelve years is a hell of a long time. So I wants to wet my whistle. Ain't had nothin' but pertater water fer so long I don't know what th' real stuff tastes like.” Father explained to me later that an “ace” was prison jargon for a one-year sentence; and as for “potato water,” Warden Magnus told me subsequently that it was a vicious fermented brew home-made in secret by thirsty inmates out of potato peelings and other vegetable rinds. “So I goes to a speak, Inspector, soon's they give me th' air. Speak on the corner of Chenango an' Smith, right in this here burg. Ask the barkeep, Inspector; he'll alibi me!”

Father frowned. “Is this true, Hume? Have you checked it?”

Hume smiled. “Naturally. I told you, Inspector, I'm not railroading an innocent man. The unfortunate part of it is, that while the proprietor of the speakeasy confirms Dow's story, he also says that Dow left the place at about eight o'clock last night. So it's no alibi at all, since Fawcett was killed at ten-twenty.”

“I was lit,” muttered Dow. “So much rotgut went to my conk after th' lay-off. I don't ‘member much o' what happened after I got outa the speak. Just moseyed round. Anyways, I walked some of it off, an' by 'bout 'leven o'clock I was near sober.” He winced, and licked his lips again and again like a starved cat.

“Go on,” said father gently. “You went to Fawcett's house?”

Dow's eyes flashed anguish as he cried: “Yeah, but I didn't go in, I didn't go in! I sees the glims, an' the bulls an' dicks, an' right away I knew I was framed, right away I knew somethin' screwy'd been pulled off on me. So I makes my getaway, runs like hell an' gets to the woods, an'—an' then they come and get me. But I didn't do it, I swear to God I didn't!”

Father rose and began restlessly to pace the floor. I sighed; it looked bad, as District Attorney Hume's little smile of triumph indicated. Even without a knowledge of law I realized how inextricably this unfortunate man was involved; he had only his unsupported felon's word to refute an overwhelming circumstantial case.

“And you didn't get the fifty grand, hey?”

“Fifty grand?” shrieked the prisoner. “I didn't even see'm, I tell ye!”

“All right, Dow,” growled father. “We'll do what we can for you.”

Hume signaled the two detectives. “Take him back to the county jail.”

They hustled Aaron Dow out of the door before he could say another word.

Our interview with the accused man, from which we had expected so much, had proved unproductive of additional facts. Dow was being held in the Leeds county jail for the grand jury, and there was nothing we could do to stop an indictment. Something Hume said before we left convinced father, who was wise in the ways of politicians, that Dow would make a speedy sacrifice to “justice:” In New York City, with its overcrowded judicial calendars, most criminal actions consume months in the preparation. But here, upstate, where the number of cases was small, and where besides it was to the district attorney's interest, for political reasons, to press the case to quick trial, Aaron Dow might expect to be indicted, tried, convicted, and sentenced within an appallingly short time.

“The People,” said Hume, “want undelayed justice in this case, Inspector.”

“Rats,” said father pleasantly. “The district attorney wants another scalp in his belt, and the Fawcett gang want blood. By the way, where's Dr. Fawcett? Have you got a line on him yet?”

“Look here, Inspector,” snapped Hume, flushing. “I don't care for your tone. I've told you before that I sincerely believe this man guilty; the circumstantial evidence is overpowering. I go on facts, not theories! And your insinuation that I'm making political capital——”

“Keep your shirt on,” said father dryly. “Sure you're honest. But you're also blind and too ready to grab a swell opportunity. Can't say I blame you, from your point of view. But Hume, this whole thing is too damned slick. It isn't often you'll get a case where the evidence points so clearly to the obvious suspect. And the psychology's all wrong. That pitiful little weasel just doesn't fit, that's all.… You didn't answer my question about Dr. Ira Fawcett.”

“Haven't found him yet,” said Hume in a low voice. “I'm sorry you feel that way, Inspector, about Dow. Why look for an intricate explanation when the truth stares you in the face? Except for the explanation of that little piece of chest—which can't be important aside from its historical significance—there are only a handful of loose ends to tie up.”

“Hrrumph,” said father. “Is that so? Then we'll bid you a good day.”

And we returned to the Clay house on the hill in a state of profound dejection.

Father spent Sunday with Elihu Clay at the quarries, engaged in another futile raid on the books and records. As for me, I shut myself up in my room, to the open displeasure of Jeremy, and consumed a package of cigarettes while I mulled over the case. The sun warmed my bare ankles as I lay sprawled, in pajamas, on my bed, but it failed to warm my heart; I was cold and sick with a realization of the horror of Dow's position, and of my own helplessness. Link by link I went over my theory, and while the chain was strong logically, nowhere could I find a material hook on which I might hang legal proof of Dow's innocence. They'd never believe.…

Jeremy knocked on my bedroom door. “Have a heart, Pat. Come riding with me.”

“Go away, little boy.”

“It's a corking day, Patty. Sun and leaves and things. Let me in.”

“What! Entertain a young man while in pajamas?”

“Be a sport. I want to talk to you.”

“Do you promise not to be amorous?”

“I don't promise a damned thing. Let me in.”

“Well,” I sighed, “the door isn't locked, Jeremy, and if you insist on taking advantage of a weak woman,
I
can't stop you.”

He came in and sat on the edge of my bed. The sun was very pleasant on his curly hair.

“Did father's little man have his vegetables today?”

“Nerts! Listen, Pat, be serious. I want to talk to you.”

“By all means proceed. Your tonsils seem to be in their customary state of good health.”

He seized my hand. “Why don't you quit playing around with this dirty business?”

I puffed thoughtfully at the ceiling. “Now you're getting personal. I can't understand you, Jeremy. Don't you realize that an innocent man is in danger of being electrocuted?”

“Leave those things to the people best qualified to handle them.”

“Jeremy Clay,” I said bitterly, “that's the most fatuous remark I've ever heard. Who's best qualified? Hume? A nice young man with pronounced delusions of grandeur; he can't see two inches beyond the dignity of his own nose. Kenyon? A stupid clod, and vicious to boot. There's the law of Leeds, young man; and between 'em poor Aaron Dow hasn't the ghost of a chance.”

“How about your father?” he asked maliciously.

“Oh, father's on the right track, but a little assistance never hurt anyone.… And please don't massage my hand, Mr. Clay. You'll wear the poor thing down.”

He leaned closer. “Patience, darling, I——”

“That,” I said, sitting up in bed, “is your cue to exit. When a young man with abnormal temperature and the lust-light in his eye says a thing like that …”

I sighed as he left. Jeremy was a most personable young man, but he would be of little help in salvaging Aaron Dow from the sea of circumstantial evidence.

Then I thought of old Drury Lane, and felt better. If everything else failed …

8. DEUS EX MACHINA

In going over the case mentally one factor had assumed inordinate proportions in my mind, and that was the mysterious absence of the victim's brother. It seemed to me that Hume, among the rest of his sins of omission, had made far too little of the coy elusiveness of Dr. Fawcett. I had already resolved on my plan of action regarding this slippery gentleman, and his continued truancy interested and piqued me both.

Perhaps I thought too much about it. Certainly when Dr. Fawcett did finally appear upon the scene, the district attorney's diffidence regarding his whereabouts seemed justified. And yet I felt that this was no man to be judged lightly; and after a short time in his presence I thoroughly agreed with father that Elihu Clay's suspicions probably had a basis in fact.

It was on Monday night, two days after our disappointing examination of Aaron Dow, that Dr. Fawcett turned up. Monday had passed uneventfully, and father had informed the elder Clay despondently that he was about ready to give up the case. All leads had led to blind alleys. There was not a document or a record of any kind which proved Dr. Fawcett's alleged culpability; and while father had made some canny guesses which seemed to promise results, investigation invariably found him balked at the end.