The Judge Is Reversed (19 page)

It seemed a side issue. But, at a guess, Latham's anxiety was authentic. (At a guess. Without committing the mind to anything.) If so, a block for the moment in Latham's mind. Clear away the side issues, so far as that was possible. At least, display a sympathetic interest. Bill displayed one.

The Lathams had discovered their daughter's absence when she failed to appear for breakfast. “Don't keep her on a lead, y'know,” Latham said. “Comes and goes as she likes. Responsible sort of kid.” Mrs. Latham had gone to her daughter's room; found that her daughter's bed had not been slept in. She had called the Bensons, and discovered when Hilda had left and that she had left alone, mentioning the dinner engagement. Latham had telephoned the inn at Forest Hills, seeking Doug Mears—and had learned that Mears had checked out the night before.

“The hell he had,” Weigand said. “He was supposed—” He did not finish. Others had also been “supposed,” including the local police to make periodic checks. “Go ahead,” Bill said. “Then?”

Then they had called the State police, and discovered that, while there had been the usual number of motor accidents the night before, there had been none which resulted in death or serious injury, and none involving Hilda Latham, by name or by description.

“So I thought, ‘By God, they've picked her up,'” Latham said. “And caught the next train in. And—you say it wasn't you?”

“No,” Bill said. “You want to report her missing, Mr. Latham? Officially? To the Bureau? By the way, she's of age?”

“Yes. Just. I—she'd be sore as hell if she'd just—oh, decided to drive into town. Spend the night, eh? And we report her missing and the papers—” He stopped, seemed to consider. “Hold it up a bit, eh?” he said.

“Right,” Bill said. “I would, I think. Now—”

“What's this about some chap named Ackerman?” Graham Latham said. “Eh?”

“The late Ackerman,” Bill said. “Hanged himself yesterday afternoon. Or—You say you never knew him?”

“Never.”

“Or heard of him? Blanchard didn't mention him?”

“Blanchard? No.” He partly closed his eyes. “No,” he repeated. “I'm sure he didn't. Blanchard knew him?”

“At least by reputation,” Bill said. “Knew of him. Wrote a letter—you don't read the
Times
, Mr. Latham?”

“Sure I read the
Times
. What about the
Times?
”

“A letter,” Bill said. “Printed Sunday. Written by Mr. Blanchard. Attacking an advertisement run by a group Ackerman headed—an antivivisection group. Annoyed Ackerman.”

“No,” Latham said. “What's this got to do with me, captain?”

He was not belligerent in tone.

“Mr. Latham,” Bill said, “when you were at Blanchard's apartment Saturday night. Playing bridge. Did you get cat hair on your clothes?”

Latham opened his eyes widely; his full lips parted. He said. “Now what the hell?” He blinked his eyes. He said, “I sure as hell did. Always did. Everybody did.”

“Right,” Bill said. “You like cats, Mr. Latham?”

“What the—” Latham said. And shrugged and winced. He'd sprained his back, all right, whatever else he had done. “As a matter of fact,” he said. “I do. Did you bring me in here from Southampton to find out if I like cats? O.K., I like cats.”

“Is that the suit you wore Saturday night? At Blanchard's?”

“Yes.” And Latham looked down at the suit. His right forefinger and thumb snapped at his trouser leg. “You never get them all,” he said. “And that Amantha cat, especially. Siamese cat. Friendly little tike. Sheds all the time. Thought I'd got them all.”

“When? I mean, when did you brush your suit? Think you got all the hair off?”

“Sunday morning. Listen—what
is
this all about?”

“You're sure you brushed your clothes Sunday morning?” Bill said. “Not, say—last night? Or the first thing this morning? Or—”

“Listen,” Latham said. “What's the use of asking me questions if you don't believe the answers? Eh? I told you Sunday. How many times?”

“All right,” Bill said. “This is what it's about, Mr. Latham. Perhaps Ackerman hanged himself. Say, because he was the one who killed Blanchard. But perhaps somebody strung him up to make it look that way. Strung him up because he knew something—maybe had seen somebody in the wrong place.”

“So,” Latham said. “That's where I come in? My daughter inherits a lot of money. You know by now we can use some money. Where else do I come in? And, for God's sake, where do cats come in?”

“There was cat hair on Ackerman's clothing,” Bill said. “Siamese cat hair. His body could not have been handled without considerable physical contact. His suit was rough textured. A rougher texture than, for example, the one you're wearing. Cat hairs might rub off a suit like yours, Mr. Latham. Adhere to a suit like his. If you—”

“So,” Latham said. “So that's it.”

“Right. That's it.”

“I didn't know this Ackerman,” Latham said. “He wouldn't have known me. Wherever he'd seen me. And, he couldn't have seen me Sunday morning at Blanchard's place because I wasn't there. So, I didn't hang him. Or strangle him or whatever, eh? Does that cover it?”

“Right,” Bill said. “You cover the ground. Where were you yesterday afternoon, Mr. Latham?”

“In town. You know that. Called up to—I suppose to tell me to come here. Had lunch with a friend at the Harvard Club. Can't say much for the food, but there you are, eh? Business friend. Partly on business.”

“Right,” Bill said. “At four o'clock yesterday afternoon. Say three thirty to—say four thirty. Still with the friend?”

Latham's eyes narrowed somewhat, presumably in thought.

“You don't have to tell me anything,” Bill said.

“The old song and dance,” Latham said. “Eh? Right to counsel and the rest of it. Nearly as I can remember, I was having a drink at the Commodore bar. Could be, two drinks. I drink scotch. I wasn't with anybody. I didn't see anybody I knew. About five o'clock, I got the car out of the Hippodrome parking garage and started home. I went downtown and took the tunnel. Didn't kill anybody on the way, captain. Must be slipping, eh? Whole—”

“Right,” Bill said. “You've made your point. So, you won't mind dictating a statement? Covering—let's say covering everything, shall we? Starting with Saturday night. When, I gather, the cat named Amantha sat on your lap. Including when you brushed—”

The telephone rang. Bill picked it up and said, “Weigand” and then, after a moment, “All right. He's here,” and held the telephone out to Graham Latham and said, “Your wife, Mr. Latham.” Latham said, “Yes, dear,” and listened and said, “Read it again, will you?” It appeared that she read it again; it appeared to be brief. Latham said he'd be damned and that there wasn't much they could do, was there? Weigand could hear the rustle of the transmitted voice. “Oh,” Latham said, “some silly notion they've got. Nothing to worry about,” and then, after a momentary pause, “No, I don't think it will,” and “Goodbye, then,” and replaced the receiver. Bill waited.

“Wire from Hilda,” Latham said, without being prompted. “Sent from Kansas City. Says she's on her way to California to marry Doug Mears and not to worry and that they barely made the plane. Apparently that's to explain why she didn't call before she—” He shrugged again, and the twitch of his face again made it clear he wished he had not. “So,” he said.

“You don't,” Bill said, “seem particularly surprised.”

Latham said he was not, except by the timing. Both he and his wife had seen it coming—seen marriage coming. “Not this fast, I'll admit,” Latham said. “But, kids move fast now, don't they? Figure they haven't too much time, eh? Could be right, you know. No sense in wasting—”

He stopped, suddenly, as if he had tripped over something. He looked across the desk at Bill and his eyes narrowed. He looked away quickly, but not quickly enough. Bill guessed.

“It's true,” Bill said, “that husbands and wives can't be compelled to testify against each other. Can't be called by the state unless they want to be.”

“Now what?” Latham said.

“I thought that that had—crossed your mind,” Bill said.

“Mears is an all right kid,” Latham said. “A little apt to fly off—” He stopped himself.

“Right,” Bill said. “I gathered that. And, of course, he'll have a rich wife. Unless—”

“You're crazy,” Latham said. “First me. Now—”

“Unless,” Bill said, “he killed to make her rich.”

“You mean—if he killed him—and I'm sure as hell he didn't because—anyway, you mean if he killed Blanchard she doesn't get the money?”

He went to the point Bill had thought he might. Bill Weigand's voice nevertheless held surprise, simulated, when he said that he hadn't really meant that. If Hilda Latham—perhaps by now Hilda Mears—was not a party to the murder, her inheritance would not be stopped.

“All I meant,” Bill said, “was that their married life might be—call it shortened, shall we? Of course, if she
was
in it—”

Graham Latham stood up at that; stood up too quickly and for a moment held on to the chair, steadying himself, pain in his face. A sprained back can hurt like hell, Bill thought. However one sprains it. But it was not pain that made Latham flush red under his tan.

“If you try to lay it on my kid—”
Latham said, and his voice was suddenly hoarse.
“If you—”

“Right,” Bill said. “Take it easy. You'll what?”

He waited, and Latham looked down at him, glare in his eyes. But the glare faded slowly.

“See that you don't get away with it,” Latham said.

“How?”

“In any way necessary,” Latham said. “You want that statement you were talking about?”

For answer, Bill picked up the telephone, said that Mr. Latham wished to dictate a formal statement, suggested a room and a stenographer be found, waited briefly, said, “Right,” and put the receiver back. “Sergeant Mullins will fix you up,” he said.

“After I've finished?”

“I'll decide that,” Bill said, “after I've had a look at the statement. Right?”

Mullins opened the door, and Latham went with him. Latham walked stiffly, with elaborate care.

He might, Bill thought, go a good way to clear his daughter—if he decided she needed clearing. On one hand, he might lie for her. On the other, of course—on the other he might tell the truth for her. It would be interesting to read the statement, Bill thought. More interesting than to continue through the papers taken from Blanchard's file cabinet—an unlocked cabinet, as it had turned out. One does not expect too much from unlocked file cabinets. Still—

Odds and ends. Surprisingly little to do with anything of any apparent importance. If there were documents which would shed light where light still was needed, they were not, it began to appear, in the files in Blanchard's apartment. Bill shuffled papers. It was difficult to understand on what basis the men at the apartment had made their selection. Presumably, on the assumption that the most perilous sin is that of omission—that it is safer to pile high than to overlook; best to buck decision to superiors.

Why, for example, had they thought the brief letter Bill now held in his hand had conceivable bearing? A letterhead—stark, a name merely. “Paul M. Flagler.” A date—the previous Friday. A letter, to John Blanchard.

“Dear Mr. Blanchard: You are quite right in your suspicion and proof should offer no difficulty. Actually, there are more discrepancies than resemblances, and I will so testify if necessary.”

It was signed in a swirl in which, it was to be assumed, Mr. Flagler's name was somewhere hidden.

He would have saved himself time, Bill thought, if he had kept Nate Shapiro on at the apartment. Nate, with his customary gloominess, his unlimited capacity for self-doubt, nevertheless had the courage to decide. Nate would not have sent along this meaningless letter merely—well, presumably, merely because it
was
meaningless and so—

And Bill Weigand felt his mind caught as if in a noose, a choke collar. Paul M. Flagler.
Flagler. Of course!
The handwriting man. The consultant on disputed documents. The expert witness in courts of law.

Bill read again the brief letter from Flagler, who had obviously been consulted, to John Blanchard, who had asked a question. And, presumably, submitted a questioned document—and got his answer. The letter told him no more on second reading than on first. Bill put it down, and looked at the wall opposite and drummed on desk top with quick fingers.

It came to him slowly; he checked it slowly. There was not a great deal to go on, certainly; not much to build with. In the nature of things, there wouldn't be. The nature of things arranged. He went quickly through the papers, seeking something he did not expect to find—making sure he had not overlooked. He made sure.

He picked up the telephone, then. He dictated a message, urgent, to the police department of the City of Los Angeles.

When he had finished with that, he got an outside line and dialed a familiar number. He waited some time—some time after he had realized that a telephone was ringing in an empty apartment.

There was no reason, Bill Weigand told himself firmly, why he should find that fact disquieting. No reason at all.

He looked at his watch. The time was ten thirty-five.

15

At breakfast, Jerry had said that it was out of the question—entirely out of the question. What with one thing and another, including time out to find a man hanging, he had, on the day before, got practically nothing done. He said that there was a great deal to do—people to see, letters to write; if possible, even manuscripts to read. He said that Simpson was, again, making noises about his contract, as he always did when an option ran out, and had even spoken dourly about Doubleday.