I am positive that I looked the picture of shame and guilt. My voice was too shrill. “It wasn’t that way! It wasn’t that way at all! It was you, Linda, running around with Jeff. You shot her, Linda. I saw you shoot her and you shot Jeff too.”
He stared at me.
“Linda
shot her! Linda’s been with me for the last hour and a half. She caught two of those three fish. And you say Linda shot me, Cowley? Where? Show me where I’m shot.”
Linda came up to me. She put her hands on my forearm. Her fingers were cold. She looked into my eyes. Her mouth was sad. I thought I could see little glints of triumph and amusement deep in her eyes. She looked sedate, respectable, in her severe swim suit. “Please, darling,” she said. “You don’t know what you’re saying. Please be calm, dear.”
I hit her across her lying mouth, splitting her lips and knocking her down. They jumped me. They roughed me up and handcuffed me to a man in uniform. They hustled me up to the car. Two men were getting out of a tan ambulance. A man with a black bag glanced at us and walked down toward the beach. They put me in the back seat of one of the official cars. They drove me away from there. They spun the wheels on the sand, and screamed the tires when they were on concrete.
Bosworth, the county seat of Semulla County, was eighteen miles further south. I was officially charged with suspicion of murder, photographed, fingerprinted. I was still, incongruously, in swimming trunks, barefooted. There were no pocket items to be surrendered. They gave me a pair of gray twill coveralls much too large for me. They were clean and stiff and smelled of medicinal disinfectant. I rolled up the cuffs and turned back the sleeves. I gave my age, name, address, height, weight, date and place of birth and told them, when questioned, that I had no prior arrests or convictions. I felt as if it was all taking place behind thick glass. I watched through the glass. I could see lips move, but I could not hear clearly.
They walked me down a long hall with a cold tile floor. I could look through open doors and see girls in light blouses working at oak desks. My bare feet padded on the floor. People in the halls glanced at me with casual, knowing curiosity. They took me into a small room with a big table, five chairs, two barred windows. They pushed me into a chair. Stay there, they said.
They left a fat young man with a red face with me. He wore gray pants, a white mesh sports shirt, a black pistol belt. He sat on the table, swinging his legs, working a kitchen match back and forth from one corner of his mouth to the other.
Now I saw how all the parts went together. Nothing had made sense until the final act, and then it was all clear. I could enumerate all the little pieces which blended so carefully. Obviously, after we had gotten to know the Jeffries, Linda had met him clandestinely. Others too, perhaps. But I did not want to think about that. This was her big chance. What they had stolen had not been enough for them. They had to have everything. Everything in the world.
I remembered her strained silence on the way down. After she had heard the Carbonellis’ description of Verano Key, of how deserted it was out of season, she had decided on it as the perfect scene for the crime to be.
After talking it over with Jeff, she had brought it up casually while we played bridge. Jeff, according to plan, had become enthusiastic. Thus they had trapped the two of us. He had brought the gun. I remembered that it was a new one. They had spent hours alone together on the key while Stella was still alive, planning, practicing, rehearsing. Knowing they had to be alone to plan, they—or Linda—had taken the boldest way. They were confident that their two white mice wouldn’t escape from the trap.
All the parts fitted. His coaching her in the use of the rifle: her aim had to be good to miss him convincingly. She knew I wouldn’t go and examine him. She remembered the cat.
The people in Hooker would remember the times I had come in alone with Stella. They had even made certain of that.
Even the live fish. Sheepshead are durable. They will live overnight on a stringer in the water. Jeff had gone fishing alone, yesterday, on the bay side. I had seen him catching fiddler crabs for bait on the muddy bay beach. I had not seen him return. Obviously he had caught three fish, fastened his stringer to a low mangrove branch, hidden the rod and reel, sauntered back. Three live fish—that was a touch of art, nearly of genius.
They had known I would take the rifle away from her.
I wondered how many times they had gone over their lines. Perhaps the size of the audience surprised them a bit. Their act had not run true—not to me. But it had sounded right to the others. I could see that.
Linda had not rehearsed being sick. Perhaps that is the single thing in all of it that truly came as a surprise to her. How carefully she must have searched the beach, before turning the gun on Stella. Through the telescopic sight the hair lines would cross on that fair hair. How long did she hesitate before she pulled the trigger? Or did she hesitate not at all, while Jeff, jaw muscles bulging, body tense, sat and looked out into the Gulf, awaiting the snapping sound of the shot which would eliminate this wife who liked to live simply. Which would release him into a new world where the money was his own and the cat’s-paw woman he had used to obtain the money would also be his.
It had been easy to anticipate what the Cowley fool would do. As soon as the car went down the road they would hurry down the beach and cross over to the bay side where Jeff had concealed the fish and equipment. Perhaps he came, unseen, to a place where he could watch the beach so that their timing would be perfect—as perfect as it was. His attack on me had been planned, and wholeheartedly murderous. It was a release for his tension, and a chance to look good in the eyes of the law, so he had been enthusiastic.
I wondered what he thought as he looked at the dead face of his wife. Triumph? Sadness? A gnawing premonition that maybe it would all go wrong?
There was no point in thinking about it. The red-faced man glanced at me. His eyes were mild, good-tempered, speculative. “A nice mess,” he said softly.
“Can I have a cigarette, please?”
He slid a pack of matches along the table to me. “Keep the deck,” he said.
I lit a cigarette gratefully. “I should have a lawyer,” I said. I was surprised that my voice was so calm.
“It might help,” he said. Help was pronounced he’p.
“You live here. Could you recommend somebody?”
“Lots of times for bad trouble they get somebody all the way out from Tampa. Some good criminal boys up there. Me, I say Journeyman right here at home is good as any imports. A fighter, that boy.”
“Could I phone him?”
“They’ll let you know as to when you can use a phone, mister.”
“What’s going to happen next?”
“Well, I sort of imagine Vernon will get the reports together and get hold of Carl Shepp—he’s the county prosecutor—and then they’ll take statements from your wife and the Jeffries fellow, and then they’ll likely as not drop in here and have a chat with you.”
“I don’t have to talk without a lawyer, do I?”
“You don’t rightly
have
to.”
At two-thirty they brought me a fried egg sandwich and a coke. I was able to eat only half the sandwich. My red-faced guard ate the other half. At three they came trooping solemnly in, Vernon, a pimply female stenographer, a tall white-haired man who looked like a political poster, and a young man in a pink sports shirt with tanned powerful forearms, a face like a block of carved wood, alert eyes. Vernon glanced at me with bored professional distaste. The pimply girl stared with avid awe. The politico looked at me from stern and lofty heights of great principle. The husky young man looked at me with an alive, interested curiosity in his deep-set gray eyes.
They took chairs and Vernon said, “Cowley, this is Mr. Carl Shepp, the county prosecutor, and this is his assistant, Mr. David Hill,” Vernon opened a folder in front of him and said, “Now we got to ask you some questions for the record. Anything you say may be used in evidence against you.”
“May I have an attorney present, please?”
“That’s your right,” he said reluctantly. “Well adjourn this session until you can locate an attorney and confer with him, Cowley.”
“I don’t want to confer with him in advance. I’d just as soon answer anything you ask. I just want him to be here so he can hear what’s said.”
“Roose,” he said to my red-faced guard, who was standing by the door. “There’s a list in my office of all the lawyers practicing in this area. Get it and—”
“I’d prefer a man named Journeyman,” I said.
Vernon gave Roose a look of disgusted malice. “All mouth, eh? Well, phone your pal Journeyman and get him over here.”
While we waited, Vernon and Shepp sat close together and looked at the folder. Vernon turned the pages. From time to time they would whisper to each other.
His name was Calvin Journeyman, and he came into the room at a full lope. The other men wore sports shirts in concession to the thick heat. Journeyman wore a rusty black suit and a pale yellow bow tie. The suit did not fit him well. Perhaps no suit could have fit him well. He had a small torso and great long spidery arms and legs. He had black hair combed straight back, a knobbly red face, and at least a full inch of sloping forehead. His eyes were the milky blue of skim milk. They flicked from face to face, came to rest on me.
“Don’t let ’em lean on you, Paul,” he said. “Why’nt you folks clear out in the hall a minute, let me talk to my client?”
“I’m willing to answer anything they want to ask without any previous instructions,” I said.
“Go rassle another chair in here, Roose,” he said to the guard. He frowned at me. “Don’t like anybody to start off not taking legal advice. Anyway, we’ve got nothing to hide, like you say, so let it roll, Vern.”
The chair was brought and he leaned back, lean fists under his chin, eyes busy. First they had me tell the story in my own words. Then Vernon took me back over it, point by point
“You saw the shadow of the gun barrel?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What did you see when you looked back?”
“I saw Linda aiming the rifle at Stella’s head.”
“Did the dead woman have her eyes shut?”
“Yes. She was on her back. The sun was bright.”
“How far was the muzzle from the dead woman’s head?”
“Five feet, perhaps. Maybe a little less.”
“Did you give her cause—jealousy—to kill Mrs. Jeffries?”
“No. I told you that it was Jeff and Linda who—”
“All right. Are you familiar with that rifle?”
“Yes, sir. I’ve fired it at cans. I’m not a good shot.”
“How many times have you driven to Hooker with Mrs. Jeffries?”
“Five or six times.”
“Ever go into a place called the Crow’s Nest with her?”
“Yes, sir. To kill time while the car was being greased.”
“Did she cry while she was in there with you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What made her cry?”
“Well, she was upset about the way Jeff and Linda were carrying on. It was spoiling our—”
“All right. Did you on the night of October thirtieth see Mrs. Jeffries walking alone on the beach and leave the porch of your cottage and go and catch up with her and make improper advances to her?”
“No, sir.”
“Did you not insist that the Jeffries take their vacation at the same time and in the same place, and do all the planning therefore?”
“No, sir. Jeffries wrote to Mr. Dooley and sent him the check and all.”
“Did he not do that at your request?”
“No, sir.”
The questions went on in that vein, on and on. And at last they ended. Vernon looked at me. He looked at the stenographer. “Don’t take this down, honey. Cowley, you look bright enough. Just how in the hell do you expect to sell intelligent people a yarn like you dreamed up? I was there. I saw Jeffries’ reaction. I saw your wife’s reaction. I saw the way you looked. I know the way you acted when you went into the market there at Hooker. I’ve talked to your wife. She’s a fine girl and you’ve broken her heart. I talked to Jeffries. He’s just plain stunned by what you did. And you can still sit there and lie to us the way you do and keep a straight face. It isn’t even a good lie. God help you.”
Journeyman drawled, “You’re yappin’ at my client, Vern. Beats me the way you think you can tell people are lying. I remember three weeks ago Saturday you folding three eights because you thought I wasn’t lying about my flush. It’s as plain as the nose on your face those two smart operators have set my client up in a bind. Jeffries gets the money and gets this boy’s wife too. Know any stronger motives than that? Lord, a man doesn’t kill off a little honeybear just ’cause he can’t get aholt of it does he?”
“Gentlemen, I hardly think we’re trying this case here,” Carl Shepp said ponderously. He stood up. “Vern, I’d appreciate your cleaning up those other details we mentioned and bringing the file over to my office in the morning. Dave and I will go over it and make a recommendation as to the specific charge.”
They moved me to a cell. It was surprisingly large and clean, with heavy steel casement windows, a bed and chair bolted to the floor, a sink and toilet, a steel shelf for personal possessions. Journeyman followed me in. The door was slammed shut and locked and Journeyman was told to sing out when he wanted out
I lay on the bed. I don’t think I’ve ever been so tired. It felt good to get my bare feet off the cold floors. Journeyman went over and looked out the window, hands in his hip pockets, black suit jacket hiked up.
“If you got two dollars or two million, you get the same effort from Journeyman,” he said. “But it’s nice to know. What have you got?”
“I make eight thousand. I’ve got at least seven thousand equity in a house, a car worth about five hundred and about twenty-one hundred savings.”
He came over and stood by the bed and looked down at me. “Paul, did you kill that woman? Now don’t answer right away. What would happen if lawyers in this country didn’t defend guilty folk? Whole judicial system would go to smash. I’ve seen a hell of a lot. If you killed her, it won’t prejudice me against you, boy.”