Breathe No More My Lady

PART II

The Trial

Never having attended a criminal trial before, much less one involving murder, for me there was a confusing air of unreality in the crowded courtroom. I had the feeling of watching an amateur production of a corny melodrama. Certainly there was nothing in the attitude of the morbid spectators, dressed in their Sunday best, or about Matt himself, to suggest a life was being tried.

By the time I arrived I could find a seat only in the rear of the courtroom. I saw May Fitzgerald and the Hunters sitting up front together. Prof. Brown was in the row behind them. Joel seemed nervous while Wilma was dressed to make an impression in a tight mild blue suit which showed off her good figure and red hair.

Matt Anthony appeared calm and at ease, practically lounging in his chair. He was very much 'the author' in a shaggy, tweed sports coat that made his tremendous shoulders stand out, a plaid dress shirt and a matching tie. There was a thick pad of paper in front of him and several pencils. When he wasn't writing furious notes, Matt casually glanced around the courtroom, as though he was the spectator. Although the judge had ruled against Matt having a tape recorder in court, Matt was going ahead with his 'book' in long hand. Bill Long told me Maggie had already received the first chapter, along with a sealed envelope and some hocus-pocus instructions from Matt that this wasn't to be opened until he had sent in the complete manuscript. Maggie was waiting for more chapters before reaching any decision, of course. Jackson Clair sat next to Matt, also very much at his ease. He was not only wearing his beaded belt, but his tie clasp was in the form of a tiny silver broken arrow from which the Phi Beta Kappa key hung like a neon light.

The prosecutor, Sidney Wagner, looked about 40, a dried-up man with thin features. He wore a very conservative blue serge, a stiff collar and a plain dark tie. He suggested starch and ironing in the kitchen: small time stuff. His pale face was lacking any show of emotion or imagination.

The judge looked the part: plump, gray hair, and a mixture of dignity and self-importance. The jury had been selected the day before, three women and nine men—very average looking locals, and seemingly quite pleased with their roles.

The trial started promptly at 10:30 a.m. when Wagner addressed the jury. I supposed his speech established a brevity record for trial openings. He had a cold, forceful voice and was stingy with words. The second he opened his mouth you knew you were listening to a capable man. And if he looked old fashioned!—so does a rattle snake. He said, “Mr. Foreman, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. The State will prove that on July 25th last, in the presence of witnesses, Mr. Matt Anthony threatened to kill his wife, Francine Anthony. Several hours later, with clear premeditation and intent, Matt Anthony murdered his wife. It is the State's contention that after threatening his wife's life, when he later noticed Fran-cine Anthony out fishing, Matt Anthony saw this as an opportunity to carry out his threat; that he planned to swim out and beat his wife to death, which he did. He further planned, with his considerable knowledge of criminal methods, to make the murder appear to be an accident. He was not successful in this, and later that same day confessed to killing Francine Anthony. The State will prove all this by testimony and facts, and with such proof will ask that you find Matt Anthony guilty of murder.”

Maybe the opening speech took a minute, perhaps longer, yet it had all the power of a short right to the chin. When Wagner finished, Jackson seemed startled—perhaps at the briefness.

Jackson Clair stood up slowly, opened with a show, a carve as I expected. Flashing a practiced and rugged smile at the jury he said slowly, “Ladies and gentlemen, I realize I face you as a stranger. Certainly most of you, being residents of this splendid and booming county, are acquainted with my worthy colleague in one form or another. Of course I know that will not influence your decision in the slightest And as a matter of fact I do not feel a complete stranger, for my ancestors once roamed and worked this very land. Perhaps, less than a hundred years ago, one of my Indian forefathers fished in the nearby waters. If proof should be needed that America is a melting pot, I could be that proof. I tell you this not for any personal reasons, although I am justly proud of my ancestors, but only to remind you our country was founded upon what was then a new concept of justice, upon principles our sons and fathers have since fought and died for time and again. I don't have to tell you the main principle is democracy: from the days of the Indian councils to our time, democracy has been the very life-blood of America. I am stressing this because the ideals of liberty and democracy will play an important role in this trial, as they must in every trial held in our country. These ideals are not only for the courts and the government, they also form the bases of our businesses, our home life, all our relationships.”

Matt was watching him with a slight smile that grew bigger as Jackson began to pace in front of the jury box; slow, deliberate steps featuring the polished moccasins.

“It is in the framework of democracy you sit here, the judges of Matt Anthony. True, you are called jurors, but in a final sense you alone are the judges. Matt Anthony killed his wife. There is no doubt of that, he has confessed it However he has not confessed to murder. On the contrary, as the defense will prove, it was far from a premeditated killing. In a moment of blind rage this giant of a man lost control of his temper, of his reasoning, struck his wife. She, in turn, hit her head on the side of the boat and died. This is a shocking thing, but we will prove it was not murder. There wasn't any gun or knife involved. The only weapon, if we can term it as such, was the weapon we all possess—this.” Clair held up his hand to the jury. “I am sure you all know our hands very often get us into trouble... even accidental trouble. If Matt Anthony and his wife had argued on land, if she hadn't taken a bad fall, she probably would be alive this moment Perhaps by this time, she would have forgiven her husband, forgotten the incident.”

“It is the defense's contention—which we will prove—that Matt Anthony was driven by Francine Anthony's goading to a point where he no longer knew what he was doing, where for a moment he could not tell right from wrong. Look at Matt Anthony, a big man, far above the average, a man who stands out. Anyone walking into this courtroom would notice Matt Anthony first You and I think of ourselves as average persons, in fact, I believe we are proud to be called that. Well, ladies and gentlemen, Matt Anthony is not an average person. As I shall prove, he belongs, figuratively and literally to that tiny tribe of giants we call geniuses. Here is a man who can make people like ourselves come alive on paper, who creates and populates entire cities and countries, who can make weather, homes, airplanes, cars, who can delve into the innermost workings of our brains... with his mind and typewriter. Before you there sits a man of unique talent I tell you this not to praise Matt Anthony, the writer, although he has won international acclaim as an author, but because it is the defense's contention, which we will back with proof, that the mores and conventions which hold for the average person can not be fully applied to those rare humans who are above average. The very definition of convention means a fixed usage sanctioned by general custom. Remember those last two words, general custom. In other words, mores are made for the average people.

“Now I am not so foolish as to claim that a genius is above the rules and laws of society, but I do say where the above-average person is concerned, there must be a certain flexibility. This is not an original idea of mine, it is accepted in law. There are laws to cover average cases, and there are also unwritten laws for cases that are not average. I am not lecturing you on the law. We have a most capable judge here to tell you the law. But I repeat, we are judging a man of genius here. A man whose very genius was being ruined by his wife's constant nagging. I will prove that Francine Anthony also had a talent: she knew how to nag her husband until she drove him to the breaking point where he could no longer think rationally. At that moment, when his mind broke, he struck out at his tormentor in a blind rage with all of his great strength... and when he regained his sanity, he found to his horror and amazement that his beloved wife was dead. Oh, yes, despite her nagging, Matt Anthony loved his wife. Matt Anthony had no more control over Francine Anthony's death than you or I. For a man of his strength to strike a smaller person, a woman, is truly an insane act; something he'd never thought of doing before. The defense shall prove all this and when we do, I know you will bring in a verdict of not guilty by reason of temporary insanity. Thank you.”

Jackson walked slowly to his seat. Matt was still writing intently. Two reporters in the press section were whispering. I glanced around the courtroom, wondering if anybody, including Jackson, knew exactly what the devil he'd said. Wagner looked mildly bored. Several times I thought the judge had been on the brink of cutting Jackson off or of telling Matt to stop writing and pay attention. Now Clair sipped a glass of water, smiled at the world.

The State opened its case by calling the End Harbor cop who had been the first official on the scene. He fixed the time and day, told of pulling the boat in, examining the corpse. A Harbor doctor next testified death had been caused by Francine striking her head on the side of the boat with 'great force.' He went into detail as to the exact position of the body, the approximate time of death ”... about 2 p.m....”

Matt would gaze at each witness with his set, small smile —a kind of sardonic, plastic grin—for a moment, then start scribbling away. Jackson had only a few routine questions.

Joel Hunter was the next witness. His face was flushed, giving him a weird appearance, what with his short light hair. He kept licking his lips, and his tongue seemed as long as a frog's. Wagner quickly established that Joel was a writer, a friend of the Anthonys, and had been a house guest at End Harbor. In voice slightly shrill with nerves, Joel told of Prof. Brown coming back with Matt that morning, how upset Fran-cine had been upon learning Brown had been in the papers as a Fifth Amendment witness. Under Wagner's dry questioning Joel told of Matt threatening Francine when she said she would order Brown to leave the house. Joel seemed absolutely wretched as he repeated the threat, and the judge asked him to raise his voice. Joel glanced at Matt, his eyes almost a plea, as he repeated the threat in a louder voice. Matt was still smiling, and it seemed to me he winked at Joel, although from the angle at which I was watching I couldn't be positive. Wagner quickly covered the finding of the body, how Matt had tricked Joel on the time, and Hunter's 'shock' when Kolcicki took Matt away a few hours later, saying he had confessed.

Jackson arose to point out that the confession had not as yet been placed in evidence, and Wagner said he was merely asking Joel what Kolcicki had told him. Jackson waved his hands, said he didn't want to delay the trial and would withdraw his objection. If this was meant to rattle Wagner, it had as much effect as a baby slapping the side of a battleship. If anything, it annoyed the judge.

Wagner then asked, “Mr. Hunter, during the recent time you spent in the Anthony home, the various other times you were together with Mr. and Mrs. Anthony, did you hear them quarrel often?”

Joel licked his lips, fondled his thick glasses. One could almost see his brain working, trying to figure what sort of answer would benefit Matt Wagner said softly, “Come, Mr. Hunter, it's a simple question: did they often quarrel, make cutting remarks at each other?”

“I would say they often teased each other.”

Teased? Before July 25th did you ever hear Mr. Anthony shout at his wife in anger? Or Francine Anthony shout in anger at him?”

“Yes sir.”

“Have you heard either of them shout at the other in anger a few times?”

“Quite a few times.”

“Did you ever hear Mr. Anthony quarrel with his wife while under the influence of liquor?”

Matt's smile grew larger as he made a fast note.

“I'm not an expert, can not say whether he was ever drunk or—”

Wagner broke in impatiently, “Come, now, Mr. Hunter, I didn't ask if he was drunk. Have you ever heard Mr. Anthony argue with his wife after you had seen him take one drink or more?”

“Well... yes, sir.”

“Have you ever heard Francine Anthony argue with her husband after she had one or more drinks?”

“Yes.”

Matt whispered something to Jackson who made a motion as if telling him to shut up. Matt grinned happily.

“Am I correct in stating that over a period of time you have witnessed the Anthonys in argument over various matters, sometimes when either or both of them had been drinking?”

“Yes, sir—petty family quarrels.”

“I see, family arguments. Now, think carefully, Mr. Hunter. At any time while they were exchanging words, arguing, at any time except on July 25th, did you ever hear Mr. Anthony threaten to kill his wife?”

“Oh, no, sir.”

“No matter how angry Mr. Anthony was?”

Joel said, “Indeed not,” before Jackson could spring to his feet and object that the degree of anger had never been established. Wagner said something I didn't catch and the judge upheld the objection. Wagner bowed slightly—toward nobody —asked, “Mr. Hunter, at any time except on July 25th did you ever hear Matt Anthony threaten to kill Francine Anthony?”

“No, sir.”

Wagner said, “That will be all, Mr. Hunter.”

Wagner sat down and as Joel started to leave the stand, Jackson climbed to his feet slowly—a deliberate movement emphasizing his gawky, Lincolnesque height. “One moment, Mr. Hunter, I have a few questions.”

For some reason this caused faint laughter in the courtroom, even the jurors grinned. Jackson stood beside the witness chair, but facing the court, as he asked, “Mr. Hunter, do you believe in the United States Constitution?”

“Of course I do.”

“Do you believe in all of the Constitution?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you think Prof. Brown invented the Fifth Amendment?”

Joel's large face was utterly confused. As Wagner got to his feet the judge said sternly, “Mr. Clair, I will not tolerate sarcasm in this court. I trust I shall not have to warn you again about this.”

Jackson turned toward the judge, his booming voice actually ringing with sincerity. “Your Honor, being a lawyer I respect the court and the law. I was not being sarcastic. This witness has stated the late Mrs. Anthony wanted Prof. Brown to leave the Anthony house because he had taken the Fifth Amendment, as if it was a criminal act. I am merely trying to show that the Fifth Amendment is a part of the Bill of Rights, put into the Constitution for the purpose of—”

“Are you making a speech, Mr. Clair?” the judge asked.

“Sir,” Jackson projected his voice so it filled the courtroom, “I am only establishing that it is neither a criminal act nor a sign of guilt to use the Fifth Amendment This is of the utmost importance to the defense of my client.”

“Proceed with your cross-examination, Mr. Clair, but bear in mind I will not tolerate this court becoming a stage or a soap box.”

Jackson dropped his voice. “I certainly apologize, your Honor, if I have done either.”

Brown was sitting hunched up in his seat From the side his broken nose actually made him resemble an old fighter. I knew what he was thinking: If he became the object of the trial publicity he would have little chance of keeping a job— if he'd found one.

Jackson turned abruptly to Joel, who was trying to vanish into a crack in the chair. “Now, Mr. Hunter, you have stated you heard Mr. Anthony allegedly threaten his wife. Will you—”

Wagner objected to the word “allegedly,” and there was some quibbling between the lawyers as to what constituted a threat. When the judge quieted them, Clair asked, “Mr. Hunter, will you kindly repeat the exact words Mr. Anthony said to his wife?”

Joel stammered, “Well, he—he said, 'Francine, some things I'll take from you because it's a kind of game between us. But Hank Brown is one of the few real things in my life. If you ever say a single out-of-the-way word to Hank, I'll k-kill you. I mean that.' That's what Matt said... I believe.”

“Believe? Did he say it, or not?”

“Yes, sir, he said that. I meant those were the exact words, to the best of my recollection.”

“When Matt Anthony said it was a kind of game between them, did you think... I withdraw the question. Mr. Hunter, after hearing Mr. Anthony say this to his wife, what did you do?”

“Me?” Joel asked, bewildered. “I went upstairs with my wife, to our room. Talked over a book idea with her.”

“And after that?”

“We came down and went outside to sun ourselves, play with the dog.”

“Didn't you call the police, Mr. Hunter?”

“The police?” Poor Joel wiped some sweat from his upper lip with his tongue. “Why should I call the police?”

“Mr. Hunter, if you heard a person threaten to kill another, wouldn't you call the police, do something about it?”

Joel waved his hands, mixing air. “Oh, I knew it was just talk.”

Jackson looked astonished. “Then you didn't consider it a threat?”

“No, sir, I did not.”

“That will be all. Thank you, Mr. Hunter.”

As Jackson walked away, Wagner got up. “One moment, Mr. Hunter. Did you hear Mr. Anthony say to his wife, 'I'll kill you'?”

“Yes, sir,” Joel whispered.

As Joel left the stand, Matt sat tilted back in his chair, studying Joel as if he was a painting. Then he smiled and started writing. Jackson made a few notes, glancing at the jury. He whispered something to Matt, who shrugged and pointed to the pile of papers in front of him, went on writing.

May Fitzgerald was the next witness. Matt stared at her for a long time before he went back to his writing. His hand was tired and several times he dropped his pencil, seemed to shake the fatigue out of his right hand. Wagner established— again—that although May had often heard the Anthonys argue she had never heard Matt threaten to kill Francine, or even to strike her. Jackson gave her a friendly smile as he asked, “Miss Fitzgerald, as far as you know, did Mrs. Anthony ever work?”

“Do you mean did she hold a job?” May asked with her slightly clipped accent.

“Yes, did she hold down a job?”

“Not so far as I know.”

Jackson took a few strides in front of the witness stand. “Did the Anthonys entertain often? Did they often have guests for the weekends, for dinner?”

“Very often. On some weekends we had as many as 20 people out.”

“You were the only maid?”

“Yes.”

“Seems you had quite a lot of work. Did Mrs. Anthony often help you with the cooking or serving?”

“No.”

“Did you do the shopping, too?”

“I did.”

“Did you see Mr. Anthony drink much?”

“I saw him take a drink only now and then, especially when guests were drinking.”

“Miss Fitzgerald, you have stated that you often heard the Anthonys argue. Do you mean Mrs. Anthony nagged him?”

“Yes.”

“Over what?”

“Over everything. Money, his drinking and his swimming —not watching his heart. She had a sharp tongue.”

Jackson stopped his walking. “Did you say she had a sharp tongue?”

“I did.”

Wagner seemed undecided whether to object or not, let it go.

“What does a sharp tongue mean, Miss Fitzgerald?”

“Well, she was not gentle in her comments, she was a blunt woman.”

Jackson solemnly nodded, as if in agreement that this was a horror. Then he asked, “Did Mr. Anthony use his house for both a home and an office?”

“He wrote every day.”

“In the house?”

“Yes.”

“Did he have any other office, any other place where he worked?”

“Not that I know of. Every day he went to his den and worked.”

“Would you say Mrs. Anthony nagged him every day, every other day, or every week?”

“Oh, I'd say every day.”

Jackson said that would be all. Wagner stood up and asked, “Miss Fitzgerald, did Mr. Anthony nag his wife every day, too?”

“Well... it takes two to tango,” May said to faint laughter in the courtroom.

When May stepped out of the witness box the judge announced the court was recessed for lunch. I waited for the others to come out. I shook hands with Brown and asked how things were. He said, “I have a good job as a mathematician with a manufacturer out West—non-defense production. At least I had it before the trial started.”

“Have lunch with me,” I said, keeping an eye out for the Hunters.

“No, I think it best I duck reporters and people.”

“Where are you staying?”

“I haven't been able to locate a room yet. Most places are filled.

“I'm at the motel up on the hill. Twin beds in the room if you want one.”

“Young man, I keep telling you it's risky to be seen with me if—”

“Nonsense, Hank.”

“Thank you for the kind offer. I may take it. I'll see you later, Norman.”

Joel came out with May and Wilma. Joel said, “Come with as, I need a drink something awful.”

I nodded at the women and we headed for a restaurant across the street. A photographer begged us—or rather Joel and May—to pose for a picture but Joel refused, practically ran across the street and into the restaurant. Wilma squeezed my arm, asked, “I thought you were going to call us?”

“I did one Saturday afternoon, but no answer,” I lied. “We've been busy—fixing up a house in the country. Soon as it's presentable, I intend to ask you and Joel up.”

“Careful, you know what happened the last time we were house guests.”

We found a corner table and several people stared at us. We ordered cocktails and lunch. Joel said bitterly, “Oh, that Wagner, that cool sonofabitch, why did he have to make me the star witness?”

“Well, you should have stood up to him instead of acting so mealy-mouthed,” Wilma said.

“Oh, that would have been dandy, get me reams of publicity, all lousy! 'Joel Hunter, writer of juveniles, balks D.A.' The libraries would love that! Oh my God, what will my editor say when she sees me on the front pages tonight.”

Wilma reached across the table and patted his hand, a motherly gesture. “Honey, you did fine. Say, isn't that Clair an odd one? What a homely face, and so attractive.”

“Norm, you know about these things, will this hurt my sales?”

“I hardly think so. You know the old saw: nothing as old as yesterday's headlines.”

“You were only a witness, not involved,” May said.

The waiter brought the drinks and Joel took his down in a gulp, ordered a second. “Well, it's almost over. They'll probably be done with Wilma this afternoon. I wish it was Wednesday already and we're on the plane.”

“Going away?” I asked, like a polite idiot.

“Barbados. I got a break and—” Joel turned to May. “You know anybody on that island? We want a cheap room, way from all the usual tourist slop.”

“No, I don't. But if you look around, after a few days you'll find something.”

“They're using the characters in one of his Joe and Eddie, the Bunny Boys books for a kid TV series,” Wilma said. “I tried to egg Joel into asking for the scripting job, too, but he was so blinded by the few bucks, his tongue got tied.”

Joel winked happily at me. “I want to get away fast. Even the option money should keep us down there for a few months. A hell of a fine break, and so unexpected.”

Wilma said, “I liked the simplicity of your ads, and of course the items in the columns. Is the book selling well?”

“About better than we expected.”

The food came and we all ate in silence. Then I asked May about the house and she said as far as she knew it was still unsold. A neighbor was taking care of the poodle. May had received most of her back wages and was now going to NYU, working in a phone answering service nights.

Wilma lit a cigarette, said, “Who else can the State call except me, Brown, and that horrible detective? I don't see how Wagner has a case for murder. Did you dig that hick suit he's sporting?”

“He frightens me,” May said. “He's so sure of himself, so cool.”

“Matt doesn't seem concerned,” Joel said. “I almost think he's enjoying the circus. I hope he understands I did my best for him.”

“Is it true he's writing a book while in court?” Wilma asked me.

“Yes. I haven't read the first few chapters, but I understand they're in the house. Novel idea, the suspect's view of his own trial. Matt insists the last chapter will be sensational. What that means, I don't know.”

“Damn, you have to hand it to the big boy,” Joel said happily, “He's a true pro.”

“I bet he'd never pass up a TV scripting job,” Wilma put in.

“Oh, stop it I don't know a damn thing about it, never tried TV. After all, they didn't even ask for me and I hate begging. You're greedy, Wilma.”

“Greedy is being a pro, dear. Let me go to the John, I don't want to wet up the witness chair. Coming, May?”

I insisted upon paying the check, told Joel it would go on my expense account. When we reached the courtroom it was pretty well filled up. I suppose most people hadn't left their seats to eat Joel and Wilma found seats down front, while May and I found singles on opposite sides of the room. Brown was in the second row, reading a book.

It was nearly an hour later before the judge returned and I had a rough time keeping awake in the stuffy courtroom. To my surprise, Wilma was the next witness. Somehow I had expected Wagner to call Brown. Matt still had the tiny smile on his big face, as if enjoying a private joke. He was writing rapidly once more but he seemed to be suffering from indigestion, patting his stomach now and then, throwing pills into his mouth.

Wagner quickly placed Wilma at the Anthony house. Wilma's answers were abrupt, her pop eyes staring boldly at Wagner as he concentrated on the threat. She repeated exactly what Joel had said. The prosecutor asked, “Now, Mrs. Hunter, when Mr. Anthony shouted, 'I'll kill you!' was there anger in his voice?”

“They were both shouting angrily.”

“Mrs. Hunter, please answer the question. Was Matt Anthony shouting in anger?”

“He was shouting. I can't say if he was angry or not.”

“Mrs. Hunter, a second ago you said they were both shouting angrily. I ask you again: When Matt Anthony shouted at his wife, 'I'll kill you!' was there anger in his voice?”

“All I know is he was shouting!” Wilma snapped.

“Mrs. Hunter, have you ever heard people shout at a baseball game?”

“I think so.”

“Was Mr. Anthony's shouting of the same tone and intent as that of a person shouting at a ball game?”

“I am not an expert on shouting!”

Wagner stared at her for a moment, then smiled coolly, said, “No further questions.”

Jackson strode up to the witness stand, left hand hooked onto his beaded belt. “Mrs. Hunter, you are a redhead and there is a saying redheaded women have a big temper. Perhaps Mr. Wagner will agree with that. [Jackson actually paused, waiting for the inane giggles from the audience.] Mrs. Hunter, have you a temper?”

“Yes.”

“In the heat of an argument have you ever said, 'I'll kill you!' to anybody?”

“Probably.”

“I'm afraid I have to have a yes or no answer, Mrs. Hunter,” Jackson said, his voice almost a caress.

“Yes.”

“Have you ever wanted to actually kill anybody?”

“No.”

“Mrs. Hunter, according to your husband's testimony, and your statements to the police, after you heard Mr. Anthony threaten his wife, you went upstairs to do some work. Later you were on the lawn, sunning yourself. In view of the threat, didn't you think of calling the police, or at least being with Mrs. Anthony to protect her?”

“No. I didn't think of it as a threat, but rather as just talk.”

“That will be all, Mrs. Hunter.”

Wagner stood up, asked, “Mrs. Hunter, on the afternoon of July 25th, did you hear Mr. Anthony tell the deceased, 'I'll kill you!' Answer yes or no.”

“Yes.”

Wagner called Detective Kolcicki, who looked comical in a new suit far too tight for his pudgy frame. The collar of his white shirt seemed to be cutting the bull neck in half. He went through the routine of establishing his official title and duties, said he became suspicious of the 'accident' report when he came across the threat. Matt didn't even glance at Kolcicki, kept writing away and when he stopped, he merely stared down at the table.

In a self-important, clear voice, Kolcicki went on to say he decided to 'interrogate' Matt, had told him flatly he didn't believe it was an accident. That at first Matt insisted it was an accident and at this point Kolcicki had said, “'Mr. Anthony, as a mystery writer, would you expect any of your readers to believe this bunch of lies you're handing me, if one of your characters said it?” Mr. Anthony sat there for awhile, then he said, 'You're right, it does sound bad. It is a lie. I hit her in the boat and then she was dead. I tried to make it look like an accident. I confess it.' He had this typewriter on his desk and I typed while he dictated the confession. Then he read it and signed it. Whole thing took less than an hour.”

The confession was put into evidence and read aloud to the jury. Kolcicki volunteered: “Soon as I knew he was lying, I knew he'd done it An innocent man don't have to lie. That's been my experience in investigations.”

Jackson started his cross-examination with, “Detective Kolcicki, have you ever lied?”

“No, sir.”

“Are you telling this court that you have never once in your life told a lie?”

“Not that I know of.”

“You're not lying now, under oath?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you ever tell your wife a lie?”

“I'm not married.”

“Have you ever been married?”

“Yes, sir, but we divorced.”

“On what grounds did your wife divorce you, Detective?”

“Why... we didn't get along.”

“Aren't you lying, now? Wasn't the actual grounds for the divorce the fact that you beat her?” Jackson snapped.

Wagner stood up to ask the purpose of the questioning as Kolcicki wiped his sweaty face with his sleeve. Jackson said he wanted to establish, since the witness had stressed Matt had lied, that lying is an everyday occurrence, and it would be natural for a man to attempt to lie his way out of a tight spot. The judge told Jackson he wasn't aware lying was such a commonplace thing and he thought it was all irrelevant to the case. Jackson turned to Kolcicki, asked, “You have read and just heard Mr. Anthony's confession?”

“Yeah.”

“That's exactly what Mr. Anthony confessed to you?”

“Sure, it's the confession he signed.”

“Detective Kolcicki, I understand you have been a police officer for many years. During that time, have you secured other confessions?”

“I have, lots of them.”

“In other words, you are an experienced detective, an old hand at police work?”

“I am.”

Jackson said that was all.

As Kolcicki left the stand, walking with surprising grace, Wagner stood up and told the judge, “Your Honor, the State rests.”

There was a rush of small talk in the courtroom. I glanced at Brown: he didn't show any emotion at being off the hook. I was a trifle bewildered, somehow I had expected much more depth to the State's case.

Jackson stood up and said he wanted to make a motion. The judge had the jury sent out and Jackson asked that the case be dismissed for lack of evidence. The judge simply said, “Motion denied,” and asked if he was ready to open the defense's case. Jackson looked at the clock; it was a few minute after three—said he was ready.

The jury trooped back to their box and Jackson took several books out of his attache case, asked they be entered into evidence as exhibits for the defense. He and the judge had some sort of argument, of which I only caught part. The books were the writings of old Ben Jonson, Maugham, Anderson, Dreiser and others. Jackson claimed he wanted to quote a few lines from each of these famous writers, ”... who certainly can qualify as experts on their profession...” in order to establish the special conditions necessary for ”... a creative artist to work....” Jackson and the judge talked for several minutes. Wagner had not even risen from his chair. Finally the judge asked impatiently, “What has the prosecutor to say?”

“I have no objection, your Honor,” Wagner said.

The judge fussed some more, had Jackson mark the passages he wanted to read. The judge glanced through them and all this took a great deal of time. I was restless for a smoke. Matt was writing away at his table as though he was in his den and couldn't care less about the proceedings.

Wilma and Joel were whispering, their red and white heads together like a clumsy nosegay. I stared at her without any feeling and wondered why I didn't feel some damn thing. I'd certainly made the most asinine spectacle of myself possible before her. Also, I hadn't slept with more than a half a dozen women in my life, if that many. Yet seeing Wilma didn't remind me of a thing. All I could think of was—she wasn't wearing those awkward health shoes but regular high heeled ones.

The judge finally gave Jackson the go-ahead signal as the court attendants told people to stop talking. Jackson brought the books back to his table, then addressing the jury, he said, “As I stated in my opening address, it is the defense's contention—which I am about to prove—that a creative person, such as a writer, is a genius and not an ordinary person. Nor can the creative person, the writer, be expected to live by ordinary customs and conventions. I am about to read what several world-famous writers, experts, have said about the living and working habits of authors. Obviously they did not write this for Matt Anthony's trial. In each case I will give you the copyright date, and you will note that most of these observations were written many years ago and cover all writers.”

I left the court as Jackson began to read in a clear, elocution-teacher's voice. In the corridor I lit my pipe, enjoying the taste of the smoke. I could hear Jackson quoting somebody who said a writer should not be tied to one woman since the tool of his trade was curiosity. That sounded like pure bunk. Sinclair Lewis, I think, came in for some statement about writers needing to travel, a constant change. Jackson quoted Ben Jonson's “Who casts to write a living line must sweat,” followed by a long bit from Maugham about an author does not write only when at his desk, but all day long as he is thinking and experiencing many things. And a writer can not give his undivided attention to any other calling.

I waited until four, phoned our apartment. Michele said she was going to take the late afternoon Friday train. Liz Kuhn bad asked her to a dress rehearsal of a new musical—Michele was beat but hadn't been able to get out of it. She asked how the trial was going and I said the State hadn't presented much of a case.

Michele went into detail about an idea for decorating the fireplace in our 'country home.' Court was over, I watched people streaming out into the hallway. Brown went by, didn't hear my tapping on the booth door. When I finally hung up, the courthouse already had that deserted feeling.

Heading for the street, I found Joel inside the door, almost hiding. Asking me for tobacco, he got a new corncob going as he said nervously, “All this lousy publicity for nothing. For Christsakes, Wagner couldn't convict a fly on his evidence. The judge should have tossed the case out. For the life of me, I don't know why they couldn't have called it manslaughter, fined Matt and prevented this ridiculous spectacle. Anyway, it's over.”

“Over?”

“For us. Wilma is checking with Wagner if we're free to return to town now. My God, I'm a wreck, really need a vacation.”

“Going to your musical flying saucer, out of this world?”

“Told you we're heading for the West—” He smiled. “Oh, my, you're pulling my leg about my den. I may retire there for a few hours relaxation at that. I rarely spend a night there but... that time. It wasn't just Matt and the case, things had been rather nasty between Wilma and myself. That's over, we're like rabbits now.”

“Good for you two. I'll send you Easter cards.”

Joel puffed hard on the pipe. “Odd taste to this tobacco. I got a break with Wilma.”

“You did?”

“You see, I understand Wilma, she has a great sexual curiosity. Most of the time I'm grateful for that, but it can also be quite... demanding. Of course we're both broad-minded and... oh, I'm pretty sure she had an affair a month or two ago.”

There wasn't anything for me to say, but my insides coiled.

“Hell, we're sophisticated people—I've strayed myself a few times—but, and this proves it's a healthy thing. She must have gone with a kid. Very immature, I mean, he must have been a lousy lay. Ever since she—we—we've been wonderful in bed.”

He wasn't looking at me as he said this. He wasn't smiling. If he'd done either I would have hit him, busted his goddamn queer face. I said, “The silver lining. Look, give me a ring when you get back from the islands. I want you both to meet my wife.”

He said he would and I walked out. It was only when I reached the car, drove to the motel that my anger—or was it shame?—left me and I could grin about it. Knowing the Hunters had been something.

I washed up and wondered what the devil to do with myself. Michele and I had been so close these last months, I felt strange being alone. The window looked out upon a bay and I wondered if we could get in some fishing over the weekend. If it would turn just a little warmer we might even do some swimming or—

The phone rang. “Mr. Connor?”

“Yeah.” It was a man's voice.

“Norm, this is Henry Brown. I can't find a place to sleep. Is that invitation to share your room still open?”

“Certainly. Look, how about supper together? All goes on the swindle sheet.”

He hesitated, then said all right and I drove into town, picked him up in front of a drugstore. It wasn't five yet and we rode out to the canal, sat in the car and watched the fishermen going after tiny snappers. Brown said he had decided to stay for the duration of the trial, that he thought Matt needed his friends in the courtroom. I told him, “Looks like you won't be called at all. Matter of fact, the case may be over tomorrow. Clair hasn't any witnesses except Matt.”

“I imagine he'll put on a psychiatrist, or several of them. He's pleading temporary insanity. Then the State will put their own experts on the stand, and when all the smoke has cleared, nothing will have been proved.”

“la any event, Wagner hasn't proved murder.”

Brown nodded. “If I was Clair I'd rest my case without patting Matt on the stand, merely let the psychiatrists say it was possible Matt was insane for the moment. But I think Clair wants to make a show of it.”

“What has he got to lose? The D.A. hasn't made it murder.”

“That Wagner is shrewd. I have a feeling he's waiting for Matt to take the stand. Wagner has something up his sleeve.”

“And you still believe Matt didn't kill Francine, even accidentally?”

“Yes. Aside from the reasons I gave you before, Matt's courtroom behavior convinces me. I don't see him acting so nonchalant if he had anything to do with her death. The way he sits there and grins smugly, keeps writing away—what in God's name is he writing? One would think this is all a big joke to him. Another thing that doesn't make sense: I see Matt for the first time in years, and in an argument over me, he threatens to kill his wife. Does that make sense? Or did I point that out when we first talked?”

“Couldn't that be in keeping with your picture of him as an intellectual phony?” I asked. “Matt might not have the courage to openly help you, but in an argument with his wife he goes all out. To make a horrible pun, he went overboard.”

“Perhaps, but I don't believe it. I can hardly believe the trial, most times it seems like a dream, that it can't be real.”

“I know, I had the same feeling.”

We talked some more, then had a few drinks and a leisurely fish dinner. I liked talking to Brown, although the old guy was so dogmatic he infuriated me at times. Like I said something about 'professional' men and he claimed that was a snobbish term; it took as much knowledge and time to be a good bricklayer as to be a lawyer. Still, it was all a way of passing time.

We drove back to the motel, picking up the evening papers on the way. It didn't make most front pages—nothing sensational had come out of the court. One paper had a picture of Jackson in action and another of Matt grinning—and looking positively huge sitting at the defense table—all shoulders. Except for a line in one paper, Brown wasn't mentioned at all. I stretched out on the bed, read the papers, feeling very good—remembering how wretched I'd been the last time I'd spent the night out here, worrying about Wilma and... that Joel was a snide bastard. A lousy lay, a kid!

Brown undressed and went to sleep by nine-thirty. I was amazed at how hard and lean he looked for a man his age. I was far from sleepy and I took a walk in the darkness, then returned to smoke a pipe in the motel driveway, listen to the sound of the waves. A few cabins away I saw Jackson Clair pacing up and down with long, energetic steps. Maybe it wasn't an act, he couldn't know anybody was watching. I walked over and said hello. We shook hands and his bony face was full of a dozen different shadows as he boomed, “Ah, the publisher!”

“No. Longson's advertising manager.”

“Yes, yes, I saw the ads. Simple and pleasing. Is the book selling well?”

“About what we expected.”

“I trust you fellows are going to give Matt an advance on the book he's writing in court. I'm gambling my fee on that.”

“Depends on the book. We only have a few chapters so far and nobody's read them yet. How is the trial going?”

“Splendid. I was afraid the judge wouldn't allow the books, but when he did that was a major victory. Yes, indeed.”

“Do you plan to put Matt on the stand tomorrow?”

“Yes. After all, he's my star witness—and the only witness to the actual incident. I feel very confident Matt will walk out a free man.”

“Wagner certainly hasn't proved murder. Prof. Brown thinks he's waiting in the bushes for Matt to take the stand.” Jackson sighed. “Care to walk with me? Exercise soothes my nerves, relaxes my mind. One reason for the tension of our times, too many cars.” As we walked up and down the driveway, Jackson said, “That Brown—a real thorn in the case. If only he weren't a radical! Make the case much easier if he had been kicked out of college for stealing or murder, but... you noticed, I'm sure, how I laid the groundwork for a defense if Wagner tried to redbait. Wagner is a square shooter, kept the case clean of red herrings. He's a very puzzling opponent.”

“You think he's competent?” I asked. “Oh, yes, he's clever. The trouble is, stupidity can often be mistaken for cleverness. I don't mean he's stupid, but after all he's a hick town D.A. For example, I don't understand why he didn't object to my introduction of the books as evidence. Another thing, he hasn't tried to bargain, offer us murder 'two' if Matt pleads guilty. Very odd.”

“You think he's getting a Sunday punch ready?”

“He has to. Obviously he hasn't proved the slightest intent or premeditation. However, I am not worried, a wild punch is the easiest to duck, as I believe your Prof. Brown will tell you. However, one thing I admire Wagner for, he's a gentleman through and through. He could have had the Hunters give the entire conversation between Matt and Francine Anthony, brought out Matt was a bit of a radical himself in his teaching days. Did you know he was bounced from Brooks for leading the students in an anti-ROTC demonstration? That one of the things he told Francine in that fateful conversation, was she should be damn glad Brown clammed up... he could have named Matt? Of course it's all silly, but you realize how easy it would be, or have been, for Wagner to have played up the Professor, then smeared Matt. Yes, Wagner is a fair fighter.”

“What reason would Wagner have for not bargaining?”

“Frankly, I don't know. Perhaps he knew I wouldn't even consider anything less than a manslaughter charge. Then again, he may be a gambler, playing the long shot. One thing you can be sure of, I don't underestimate him.” Jackson suddenly changed the subject, asking if I knew this area had once been the headquarters for most of the Atlantic Coast Indian tribes? Had I ever visited the reservation nearby? He was full of Indian lore. I was almost trotting to keep up with his long legs. About a half hour later, as he was earnestly explaining how the various tribes regulated the fishing rights, I was getting damn tired. I suspected Jackson was, too—I was far younger and in better shape—but he was trying to outlast me; as if we were a couple of kids. Finally I thought the hell with it and when he paused I said, “We'll have to talk again about the Indians. Right now I need to hit the sack.”

“Of course. We may talk sooner than you expect. I plan to do a book on it. I'll be knocking on your office door any month now.”

I said I was sure Longson would be glad to consider it and we said good night. I took a shower and dropped off into a good sleep, listening to Brown snoring lightly in the next bed.

Friday was a sunny, mild Fall day. After breakfast Brown insisted it was better we part in the courtroom. The court was really packed and if Brown hadn't been such an early riser we probably wouldn't have found seats. I didn't see the Hunters, but May Fitzgerald was still around. Wearing a worn houndstooth sports jacket, slacks, a plain shirt and tie, Matt was the picture of casual high fashion as he took the stand, his big frame cramped in the witness chair.

After Jackson established Matt had been a professional writer for over 20 years, that he had been a war correspondent and employed by a Hollywood studio as a writer—for a few months—Jackson asked, “Mr. Anthony, as a self-employed writer, will you please tell the court your work schedule?

“I dictate every day, including Sundays, for at least two hours. This is typed up by a secretary in New York City, returned to me for further revision.”

Jackson's eyebrows shot up in hammy surprise. “You mean you only work two hours a day?”

“That's actual dictation, answering letters. This is rather difficult to explain,”. Matt said, his voice low and strong. “But since a writer deals with ideas there isn't any time limit on his work day. He can't put in an 8 hour day and forget his job. For instance, suppose I get an idea for a story: although I may only spend an hour putting the rough on tape, I let the idea cook in my mind for many hours, often for days and months, working out the characters, the plot. In reality I would say I am working every minute—thinking about the story—even though I may be fishing, swimming, talking or watching TV.”

“Do you work while you sleep?” Jackson asked lightly.

Matt slipped him that little smile—which was beginning to annoy me. “In a sense I do. I keep a pad and pencil near my bed, to jot down ideas that come to me either before sleeping or even in a dream.”

“Would I be correct in saying, Mr. Anthony, that you— or any professional writer—is either using his typewriter, pencil, dictation machine, or his brain, 24 hours a day?”

“I'd say he has to be ready to use them 24 hours a day. To cite another example, I may hear a bit of conversation during a dinner that would fit in with the story. In other words, I have to constantly keep my work in mind. For that reason I make it a point to keep pencil and paper in all my suits, beach robes, on my boat.”

“Have you a pencil and paper handy now?”

Matt pulled a small pad and a pencil from his pocket. “I've been making many notes about this trial. I'm writing a book about it, and my experiences while in jail.”

“You're working now?” Jackson asked, as if it was all a complete surprise to him.

“I am. I think it will be the first book showing the inside of a trial, as seen by the defendant. My publishers like the idea. As I told yon, I work seven days a week, 365 days a year.”

“Even when on trial for your life?”

“Of course,” Matt said, and for a moment his face clouded as if realizing he was on trial for his life.

Jackson stood in thought for a second, then he said, “In my quote from Mr. W. Somerset Maugham yesterday, he said something about the writer writing all day long, too, consciously or unconsciously forever sorting and making over his impressions. You said you're actually thinking, or letting an idea 'cook' in the back of your mind, even while fishing, driving your car, etc. How can you concentrate on two things at the same time, Mr. Anthony?”

“After a time I suppose it comes naturally. Foremost, I am constantly concentrating on my work. The other things are merely normal actions and reactions I do without thinking. Just as a person may drive a car and carry on a conversation at the same time.”

“Do you mean you can fish, have a swim, talk to people without giving it a second thought?”

“Yes.”

“You used the word 'normal' a moment ago. Suppose something that isn't normal happens—let us say your car breaks down, or you have a flat tire, would that disturb your working thoughts, your writing thoughts?”

“Yes.”

“Would you say that in your profession you need complete freedom of thought?”

“I would.”

“Would an argument upset or spoil such freedom?”

“A true argument would. I mean, arguing over the merits of a baseball team, for example, wouldn't disturb my thinking.”

“We have heard testimony that your wife nagged you a great deal. Is that true?”

“Yes.”

“Did her nagging ever interfere with your creative thinking?”

“Well, when it was intense I'd say it did.”

“Was it often intense?”

“Yes.”

“Did you also nag your wife?”

Wagner, who had been toying with a pencil, his face emotionless, started to rise, then sat back.

“I suppose every husband nags at some time or other,” Matt was grinning again.

“Mr. Anthony, we are not talking about every husband. Did you ever nag your wife?”

“Yes, at times.”

“The State's witnesses have testified that Francine Anthony nagged about your exercising, your drinking, your choice of friends. Why didn't you give in to her demands, end the arguments?”

Matt shrugged his thick shoulders. “I felt I not only had a right to live my own life, but that it also had to be an active life. To spur my thinking, I couldn't live in a mental cage. Also, since we were living pretty high, I had to keep jabbing my mind to turn out enough work to meet our expenses.”

“Are you in debt?”

“Yes. We went into debt to buy our house, the boats, other items. I haven't any set income I can count on. Some years I've made over $20,000... and there have been years when I didn't average fifty bucks a week.”

“Miss Fitzgerald has testified you and your wife entertained often. Was that Mrs. Anthony's idea?”

“No. We both liked to live comfortably, entertain, travel.”

“Did you give your wife a weekly allowance for household expenses?”

“We had a joint checking account. She took out about two hundred dollars each week for food, help, whatever household expenses arose.”

“Was Mrs. Anthony a wealthy woman before you married her?”

Matt shook his head. “No.”

“Was she working then?'

“She was a cashier in a store.”

“Do you know if she was supporting her former husband?”

“Yes. She was.”

“Do you know who paid the legal expenses for her divorce?”

“I did.”

“Did you ever buy Francine Anthony a mink coat?”

“Yes, twice, that I can recall.”

“Did you ever buy her a car for her own use?”

“We've had many cars, we both used them.”

“Mr. Anthony, do you play golf?”

“No.”

“Did Mrs. Anthony?”

“Sometimes. Not very often during the last few years.”

“Did she have a set of golf clubs?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know what her golf clubs cost?”

“About $300.”

“Did you ever buy Francine Anthony any jewelry?”

“Only a wedding ring. She never cared for jewels.”

“Did Mrs. Anthony have charge accounts at most New York City department stores?”

“Yes.”

“Was she fond of fishing?”

“Very.”

“Did she have her own fishing gear?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know what her rods and reels cost?”

Matt shrugged again. “About $2000. I know her tuna reel cost $650.”

“Mr. Anthony, since your marriage to Francine Anthony, have you traveled often?”

“Almost every year. We've been to Europe three times, to the West Indies, to Canada and various parts of the United States.”

“Mrs. Anthony accompanied you on all these trips?”

“Certainly.”

“Now, Mr. Anthony, let us come to July 25th. Will you tell the court exactly what happened on that day, starting from the time you arose.”

“Fran and I got up at about nine, had a swim. Then the Hunters came down and we all had breakfast I had secretly ordered a skin diving outfit sent to the Hampton post office— under one of my pen names. About ten-fifteen I took the car and drove over to see if it had arrived. It had and I hid it in the trunk of the car. I was amazed to see Hank Brown walking towards the Hampton railroad station. We had taught together at Brooks University many years ago. I stopped Hank and we talked for...”

Jackson held up his hand. “One second, Mr. Anthony. You said you had 'secretly' ordered this skin diving outfit. Why in secret?”

“Fran was against it. She felt underwater swimming might be a strain on my heart.”

“Mr. Anthony, do you carry a large insurance policy?”

“Not at present. At one time I held policies totaling $50,000. However, due to the expense of buying our estate, building the house, I was not able to meet some premiums and a few of the policies have lapsed. At present I only carry about $6000 worth of insurance.”

“How much insurance did you carry on July 25th?”

“About $6000.”

“Did Mrs. Anthony ever tell you she was afraid you might die before your larger policies could be renewed?”

Matt grinned. “Many times. She claimed I had let the insurance lapse merely to annoy her. I kept reminding her the insurance money went into the house.”

I—and everybody else—glanced at Wagner, expecting him to make an objection. Even the judge looked his way. But Wagner sat there calmly, making notes.

“So you had to sneak over to Hampton to get this skin diving outfit, Mr. Anthony. Did you think skin diving might be a strain on your heart?”

“Mr. Clair, if I thought I was dying I would have shot myself. I don't believe in being a living corpse. I realized I had to take moderate care of my heart, we all do as we grow older. I cut down on my drinking, on exercise, avoided fatty foods. At the same time I swam, I walked, I fished. Skin diving requires even less energy than swimming. I felt exploring the bottom of the bay, perhaps finding the remains of old ships, might give me material for a book. I looked forward to it as a new experience.”

“Now, Mr. Anthony, let us continue with the day of July 25th. You said you met Professor Brown in Hampton— what happened after that?”

“I'd read a little of Hank's troubles in the papers. Naturally, we talked about that, and other things, for a while. He kept saying he had to make a train. I urged him to come over to the house and either take a later train, or stay the weekend. As I said, we hadn't seen each other in years, had much to talk over. He told me he was out of work and stony. I thought I might be able to help him find something. We arrived at the house before noon. Hank met Fran and the Hunters. Fran kept repeating his name, trying to remember where she had heard or read about him. Finally, while I was getting everybody a drink, Fran asked him pointblank— she was always outspoken—and he told her about losing his job. Although she didn't say a word, everybody could see how furious she was and I knew Hank was uncomfortable. Fran and the Hunters went out on the veranda. When I passed there, Fran bawled me out. I told her Hank and his wife had been very kind to me when I was a young instructor at Brooks, that I was very fond of him, both as a man and as a friend, and might have him out for a weekend. She was afraid I was going to lend him some money. Then Fran said she wanted him to leave at once and if I didn't tell Hank to get out, she would. It was then I told her I'd kill... her... if... if she ever said a rude word... to him.” Matt's voice ended in a nervous whisper. Under his tan I thought he looked pale.

“Would you like a glass of water, Mr. Anthony?”' Jackson asked.

Matt shook his head, sat up straight and smiled again—a brave little smile this time. He certainly was acting again. He said, “I am perfectly all right, Mr. Clair, thank you.”

Jackson rubbed his chin slowly, asked, “What was your state of mind when you told your wife you would 'kill' her if she was rude to your old friend?”

“I was quite angry, upset. I knew most people were avoiding Hank and... well, a crisis is the test of any friendship.”

“Had Mrs. Anthony ever met Prof. Brown before?”

“No.”

“Have you any idea as to why she wanted him out of your house? Did she find him loud, obnoxious, or—”

“Of course not. She barely had a chance to talk to him. She made the reason very clear—it was a matter of money. Fran felt if my name was linked in any way to his, it might hurt some movie sales I had in the works.”

“Matt Anthony, when you told your wife you would 'kill' her if she ordered your friend out of your house, did you mean that as a threat?”

“I did not! It was merely words—a phrase—one uses in the heat of anger.”

“Have you ever used that same phrase before?”

“Hundreds of times—ever since I could talk. It was said in the same sense as saying, if you don't pass the bread I'll break your arm. Or, get off the phone before I wring your neck. Merely words.”

“Then, am I correct in stating that in your own mind, at least, you were not threatening to actually kill your wife?”

“Absolutely correct!” Matt half rose from the witness chair. “I loved Fran.”

“Witnesses have testified that your wife nagged you, that the both of you often argued. Were you and Mrs. Anthony happy?”

“Yes. As a writer all people interest me, but few excite me. Fran was an exciting person. We had both been married and divorced before. If we hadn't been hitting it off, we would have separated. We were in love, happy, suited each other.”

“Mr. Anthony, have you ever in your life actually wanted to kill a person?

“I have—once.”

Jackson looked startled, even Wagner came to attention.

That smile—as if it was the key to a great secret—formed on Mart's face. “During the war a Nazi officer wounded me and killed several of my G.I. buddies. I tried to kill him with my bare hands.”

Jackson gave the court a big understanding grin. “We all know during the war thousands of Americans killed. Except for that one war experience, have you ever wanted to kill anyone?”

“No. Or hurt anybody, either.”

“Now, Mr. Anthony, let us continue with the events of July 25th. What happened after you talked to your wife on the veranda?”

“I went back to Hank. As I said, he couldn't help but sense Fran's hostility. He said he wanted to take the next train back to New York, that he had to see somebody about a job that afternoon....”

One of Wagner's assistants whispered something and they both turned to search out Brown in the crowd, then Wagner shrugged and shook his head. I wondered if be could still call Brown to the stand.

“... I drove Hank to the railway station, said I'd get in touch with him in a week or two. I saw Hank off and returned to the house—”

“One second, Mr. Anthony,” Jackson cut in. “Did your wife see Mr. Brown before he left the house? Did she speak to him?”

“No.”

“Now, both you and the Hunters have testified that you told your wife, '... if you ever say a single-out-of-the-way word to Hank, I'll kill you.' Those are your exact words?”

“Yes.”

“You said, '... if...' Francine ever said anything to Mr. Brown. After you... eh... talked to your wife on the veranda, said the words, did she ever see or talk to Mr. Brown again?”

“No. I told you, I drove Hank to the station.”

“Yes. Now when you returned to the house, what happened?”

“I found the Hunters sleeping on the lawn. Fran wasn't around. It was early afternoon, I thought it would be a good opportunity to try out my aqua-lung. I took the package from the car to the boat house, undressed. I saw Fran fishing a few hundred yards out in the bay, her back to me. I thought it would be a great joke to walk on the bottom of the bay, yank at her line. Unfortunately, the joke backfired. Since I had only used the lung once before—at a friend's place—I didn't know how to work it and somehow cut off my air supply. I had to surface.”

“Where did you come up?'

“A few feet from the boat. Of course Fran saw me. I swam over and climbed into the boat. She was beside herself with rage that I had purchased the diving outfit. I tried to explain it might give me material for a book. She called me a childish fool, and other names. I—”

“Exactly what other names, Mr. Anthony?”

“I don't see the importance of telling... She called me a dumb bastard and a stupid... Mr. Clair, there's no point in repeating the names. It might shock some people. Fran and I, being pretty worldly, used language that... again, her names were merely words said in anger.”

“What did you do after she called you the names?”

“I told her to take it easy, I knew what I was doing. I stood up to dive, swim back to shore and see what was wrong with the air valve. Fran got to her feet and tried to jerk the lung from my back. I pushed her away as I told her she would break the tubes. She came at me; grabbed the lines, cursing me. I said to stop it, said we'd talk it over later. She kept trying to break the lung. I got mad, pushed her away, screamed at her to stop. She came at me again, nearly upsetting the rowboat. I got so mad I... lost my head and struck out at her.” Again his voice sank to a nervous whisper.

“You said you struck out at her. You've done a lot of boxing, Mr. Anthony, did you hit her with your left hand or right? Was it a punch, a jab, a...?”

“I don't know! All I know is I was fed up with her carping about the damn aqua-lung! I know I struck out at her. All I remember is—the next thing I knew I was standing in the boat and Fran was... Oh, God, I keep seeing this over and over in my mind... poor Fran was hanging over the side of the boat, bleeding... her blood so dark on the green water.” Matt held a big hand in front of his face, bowed his head. I knew he wasn't acting now, that I was watching sincere sorrow.

In a voice syrupy with understanding, Jackson said, “I realize how painful this must be for you, but this is a court and I must ask you to tell us exactly what you did next.”

Matt took his hand away, wiped his lips. “I thought she was hurt. I knelt over her, was stunned to realize she was dead. It seemed impossible.”

“You were positive she was dead?” Matt nodded. “She didn't have a pulse. I took a silver spoon from her tackle box and held it to her mouth; she wasn't breathing. I started to pull her back into the boat, raise the anchor. Then I remembered the police wouldn't want me to touch a thing. I dived over and raced ashore. I dressed quickly, hid the diving outfit, and—”

“Why did you bother dressing, hiding the aqua-lung?” Jackson cut in.

Matt spread his hands on the air. “Frankly, I don't know. I was in a state of shock. I imagine I dressed because I thought I'd have to go for the police. I simply didn't remember about the phone. I was dazed. I kept drying my face and it was still wet... I was crying. As I started running toward tile house I kept thinking of the mess, the headlines. My aching head seemed to be in two parts: one dazed, the other full of racing thoughts. When I reached the house I saw the Hunters still dozing on the lawn. It came to me that I could avoid a scandal by calling it an accident. Frankly, I don't know now if I was thinking of myself then, or trying to avoid messy headlines for the sake of Fran's memory. Seeing the Hunters dozing, I knew it would be simple to use a gimmick I had once written into a story. A time gimmick that would establish an alibi for myself. As I said, I was thinking very fast and clearly—and at the same time I was confused, shocked. The dazed part of ray mind didn't give a damn what happened.” Matt stopped talking, stared at the crowded courtroom without seeing it.

Jackson said, “Exactly what do you mean by a 'time gimmick,' Mr. Anthony?”

Matt shook himself, as if he'd been lost in a day dream. “Joel Hunter was sleeping in his swimming trunks, wasn't wearing a watch. I played with the poodle for a moment, making him bark. The noise awoke Joel, but fortunately not Wilma, who was sleeping several yards away. Joel, mumbling, asked if I wanted to take a swim. I held up my wrist watch—but he was too far away to see it. It was 3:27 p.m. but I told him it was only a quarter to three, why not wait until Fran returned from fishing before we went swimming.”

“In other words, Mr. Anthony, you misled him about the time—a mistake of about three quarters of an hour?”

“That's correct. He went back to sleep, as I expected. I waited a moment, then tossed a pebble at Wilma. When she awoke I said, 'It's three-thirty, going to sleep the afternoon away?' She then awoke Joel, and I told him I'd just finished reading an article in a magazine lying on the table, that my eyes hurt. The implication was I'd read it during the supposedly three quarters of an hour Joel had been sleeping. I then sent May down to the dock to tell Fran to come back and join us in a swim. Naturally, she screamed upon seeing Fran hanging over the side of lie boat. I told her to call a doctor and the police as I swam out. Although I was still dazed, still terribly upset, I knew I was putting on a good act, that I could avoid a scandal. As it turned out, luck was with me—at first.”

“In what way, Mr. Anthony?”

Matt shook himself again. He was no longer smiling, had a far away look in his eyes. “What? Oh, the luck—the lousy luck. Fran must have caught a shoe lace on the duckboards of the rowboat, broke the lace when she fell. Well, the medical examiner decided, in view of that and the 'fact' we were all on the lawn while she was fishing, that she had stood up to cast, lost her balance or tripped over the lace, and fell. He called her death accidental.”

“Were you pleased with your cleverness, Mr. Anthony?”

“No. The full impact of losing Fran had hit me, I was sick. Just before supper, while I was dictating, May brought in—”

“You worked the same day?”

“Yes. Work is not only a habit, but also an escape for me. I had to think of something else, get my mind off Fran. Well, May brought Detective Kolcicki into my study. He told me flatly he didn't believe it was an accident, kept stressing that I'd threatened Fran. I... I tried to explain it really wasn't a threat. Then... the cobra struck up.” Matt was staring at the floor, his voice low but clear.

Jackson asked quickly, “Are you feeling well, Mr. Anthony?”

Matt nodded.

“Did you say something about a cobra?”

Matt stared at Jackson for a moment, as if seeing a stranger. “Did I? It's an expression of mine, meaning the fat's in the fire. You see, the fact is a cobra can't strike up.”

“Let us get back to what happened between you and Detective Kolcicki.”

Matt rubbed his hands together, then looked at the palms. “Of course. Well, I realized how silly my story sounded, that if I stuck to it, things would only be more involved. So I told him the truth. It was a relief, a great load off my mind. He typed it up and I signed the confession. Yes, I signed it!” Matt rose in the chair and then fell back, a cockeyed grin on his big mouth. He looked very sickly.

An attendant rushed over with a glass of water. Matt thanked him in a small voice, drank some. The judge asked if he wanted a recess. Matt shook his head gamely, whispered, “I want to get this ordeal over with, your Honor.”

Clair said, “Matt, perhaps a rest...?”

“No. I'm able to continue. Let's go.”

Jackson played with his beaded belt. “I have only one more question, Mr. Anthony. You have told us in great detail exactly what happened—except for the moment when you struck your wife. You obviously have a mind trained for detail, why are you vague about that all-important moment? Can't you recall if you struck her with your left hand, or your right...

“I don't know!” Matt shouted hoarsely. “She came at me and in a blind rage I struck out. That's all I know! Perhaps I blacked out. The next thing I knew she was hanging over the side of the boat... That's all I know.”

“Did you ever strike your wife before?”

“Never.”

Jackson said, “That will be all, Mr. Anthony.”

As Wagner stood up the judge recessed the court for 15 minutes. A guard led Matt away. I noticed Mart's shirt front was wet with sweat.

Leaving my hat on my seat, I took out my pipe and headed for the hall. May Fitzgerald was already there, blowing her smoke rings. She said, “I feel sorry for him. Several times I thought he was about to faint.”

I nodded. “At times I thought he was acting but—”

“That's a bloody thing to say.”

I grinned at her. “I was about to add but at the end I knew he wasn't.”

“Seems strange their final argument should be over something as trivial as a diving toy.”

I was about to say something trite, like, “That's life,” but didn't. May said it.

I said, “I suppose the case will go to the jury on Monday. Are you staying over?”

“I expect to. Missing a few classes won't hurt me.”

“Where are you staying?”

“With a colored family I know. Where else could I stay?”

There wasn't any comment to make and I smoked my pipe.

When Matt was brought back to the stand he seemed his old self, grinning at Wagner like a pug looking across the ring at his opponent.

Wagner stood beside the witness chair for a moment, then asked in his hard, emotionless voice, “Mr. Anthony, you have testified under oath you think about your work—your writing—practically 24 hours a day: is that what you said?”

“A part of my mind is thinking about my work all the time.”

“You let the plots 'cook' is the exact word you used. In other words, some part of your mind is concerned with your writing 24 hours a day.”

“That's right.”

“And you write seven days a week?”

“I do.”

“What part of your writing is fiction?”

Matt smiled. “It's entirely fiction.”

“Would I be correct in saying that since your writing is entirely fiction, all the characters, incidents and details in your books are a product of your own mind, Mr. Anthony?”

“You would be correct, Mr. Wagner.”

Jackson, was leaning forward, his long frame ready to leap to his feet his rugged face listening intently.

“In brief, the subject matter of your books is part of your mind, your thoughts, day after day?”

Matt nodded and the judge told him to speak up. Matt said, “That's correct.”

Wagner returned to his table where an assistant handed him a bulky briefcase. Wagner dumped about a dozen books, mostly paperbacks, and a mimeographed paper out on the table. The striking cover of the book we had recently reissued stood out. Wagner turned toward the judge. “Your Honor, these books represent the writings—the work—of Matt Anthony for the last 10 years. I wish to enter them into evidence as the State's exhibits, C, D, E...”

Jackson made his leap. “I object, your Honor. These books are works of fiction, therefore can not be considered as evidence!”

The judge held up his hands, called both lawyers to the bench. For a few minutes the three of them talked in low voices, both Jackson and the D.A. arguing vehemently. Finally they returned to their tables and the judge said, “The witness will step down. The jury will retire until I settle a point of law.”

When the jury left, Wagner stood up, said, “Your Honor, the witness has said that all day long, seven days a week, he thinks about his work. These books represent Matt Anthony's published writings for the past 10 years. In order to prove intent and premeditation, I strongly urge that it is entirely relevant to the State's case to show exactly what the defendant was thinking these last 10 years. His own writings will prove he was constantly thinking about physical violence, promiscuous sex, crime, murder and rape.”

“This is ridiculous, your Honor,” Jackson said. “The very nature of fiction means it is imaginary, therefore cannot be considered on a factual basis, nor as evidence.”

“I do not claim the contents of these books are factual, but it is a fact, according to the testimony, that these books constitute the major part of Mr. Anthony's thinking during the last 10 years. This is not my statement, but his own.”

“Your Honor,” Jackson said, “These books are a commodity manufactured by my client for a certain type market. He has to slant these books to the demands of that market, therefore—”

“They still represent his thinking, according to his own testimony,” Wagner cut in.

“I submit this is merely a cheap bit for sensationalism on the part of the prosecutor to influence the jury. I object to fiction being—”

“I will be the judge of that, Mr. Clair,” the judge told Jackson. He turned to Wagner. “Do you plan to read all these books to the jury, Mr. Wagner?”

“No, sir. I will merely read a few sentences and sum up the contents of each book. These books give us a unique opportunity to look into the mind of the defendant, for in the printed form we have his thoughts before us.”

“To put these novels into evidence will make this court the laughing stock of the bar, would be a mockery of justice and—”

“Mr. Clair, I am the judge in this court and perfectly capable of performing my duties.”

“I object to these novels as immaterial and irrelevant!” Jackson said, his face flushed with anger.

“Overruled.”

“Exception!” Jackson snapped, returning to the defense table, where Matt was busy writing. Jackson sat down and began whispering to Matt, gesturing with his hands—as if Matt were the judge.

The jury was recalled and Matt returned to the stand. Wagner picked up the mimeographed papers, asked, “Mr. Anthony, are you a member of the Mystery Writers of America?”

“Yes, although I doubt if my dues are paid up.”

“Do they publish a monthly newsletter called, The Third Degree?”

“Yes.”

“I now show you a copy of The Third Degree for January of last year. I show you an article on page 3 titled, 'The .45 Typewriter' by Matt Anthony. Did you write this article, Mr. Anthony?”

“I did.”

“This is not fiction; this is an article, a piece of non-fiction, is it not, Mr. Anthony?”

“Well, yes. It's a puff, sort of an inside bit.”

“What does that mean?”

“It's the sort of piece that would only be understood by other writers, mystery story writers.”

Wagner handed it to the court clerk to be marked as an exhibit for the State. The clerk handed it up to the judge. The judge glanced at it—and he must have been a hell of a fast reader—then gave it to Jackson. Clair sat down and read it carefully. Matt watched him with an absolute bored expression and the whole courtroom moved restlessly. It was almost noon. Jackson sure took his time. Finally he got to his feet and boomed—jarring everybody—“I object, your Honor, on the grounds this has no relation to fact. Mr. Anthony has already stated this is inside information, written for a select group. This could easily have been written as a joke, a bit of sarcasm or mere boasting before other professional writers.”

The judge asked Matt, “Is this Mystery Writers something like a trade union, Mr. Anthony?”

“I wish it were. Perhaps you might call it that, loosely, in the same sense that one might call the American Medical Association a union.”

“Is this... eh... paper tee official organ of the organisation?”

“I believe so.”

“Objection overruled.”

Jackson barked, “Exception!” and handed the paper to the stenographer for marking. Then Wagner took the mimeographed sheets and told the jury, “Ladies and gentlemen, I will now read from State's Exhibit 'C' an article written by the defendant and titled, “The .45 Typewriter.' Quote: 'In no other writing medium have I found so much technical background data necessary as in the field of the mystery novel. With or without due modesty I can safely say I know more about poisons, knife wounds and ballistics than the average police official, and know more ways to commit murder than any killer. Indeed, I can qualify as an expert in any criminal endeavor.' Unquote. Did you write that, Mr. Anthony?”

“I did.”

“And do you know more ways to commit murder than any killer, Mr. Anthony?”

“probably—and so does any professor of criminology in a college.” Wagner went to his table, picked up a paperback book, glanced at some notes, then asked that Death in Spades by Matt Anthony be entered into evidence. Jackson went through the routine of objecting that the book was immaterial and the judge overruled him. Jackson thumbed through the book, said, “Your Honor, it is impossible for me to read this, study it, in a short time.”

“Do you wish time to read these books, Mr. Clair?” the judge asked.

“Your Honor, that would delay the trial for a number of days, add to the cost of the defense and my client has very little money. I do not wish to delay this trial.” Jackson handed the book back to be marked.

Holding the book up before Matt, Wagner asked, “Did you write this book, Mr. Anthony?”

“I did.”

“Do you know that in these 152 pages there are nine brutal beatings, six murders, four fornications and a rape?”

Matt said calmly, “I never counted them, but I will take your word for it.”

Wagner picked up another book. “Mr. Anthony, do you write under the pen name of Daisy Action?”

“I have used that name. I use quite a few names.”

Wagner had the gaudy-covered paperback titled, The Corpse in Her Life by Daisy Action put into evidence over Jackson's objections and said, “I will read from page 97. Quote: 'Please, please, she moaned as Ad Hardy staggered toward her, bloody hands out.

“'You lying little bitch, playing me for a patsy!' he said, the words tumbling from his mouth like a harsh explosion.

“'Please, Ad... please. I know what you want... take me.' She backed against the wall, eyes closed, her words almost a moan of pleasure.

“One bloody claw of a hand suddenly ripped her silk blouse down the front: her firm breasts stood out. Cursing, Ad began slapping her breasts until she collapsed, screaming with pain. Did you write that, Mr. Anthony?”

Jackson shouted, “Your Honor, I object to this form of questioning. Mr. Wagner is being deliberately sensational, influencing the jury. The defendant has said he authored the book, to keep asking him over and over if he wrote it serves no purpose.”

“I'm merely showing some of Mr. Anthony's thoughts, the things that 'cook' in his mind,” Wagner answered.

The judge told Wagner not to drag out the evidence.

Wagner next introduced into evidence five more novels, asked, “Mr. Anthony, do you know that in these five books there are exactly 22 killings, including the murder of two children?”

“I've never counted them. I don't write with an adding machine, Mr. Wagner.”

“Do you wish me to itemize them, Mr. Anthony?”

“If it gives you any pleasure, go right ahead.”

Wagner turned to the judge, who ordered Mart's answer stricken from the record. Jackson half-stood, as if ready to jump into a fight. When the judge warned Matt about being sarcastic, Matt told him, “I'm not being sarcastic, your Honor. Mr. Wagner has cited me as a criminal expert. As a D.A. he is also undoubtedly an expert on crime, or should be. I merely thought, as one expert to another, he wished to compare notes.”

This was also ordered out of the record. Jackson sat down, shaking his head. He started to make a note, then loudly snapped the pencil between his fingers. The judge glanced at him but didn't say anything.

Picking up another book, Wagner went through the routine of placing it in evidence, then read: “'Well honey, I tried my best to make something out of you, but once a lousy whore always a lousy whore. You could of made us both a pile of folding money, but... this is good-bye. I'll never again put time in a dumb slut.'

“As Martin picked up his hat, she slid off the dirty cot, looking thin and child-like as the sunlight painted her nude body. She stared at him with sad eyes. As he reached the door of the shack, with a motion as fast as a striking snake, she pulled a 38 from under the stained pillow, fired.

Martin tumbled to the floor, holding his left knee. Through his torn and bloody pants, part of a bone stuck out: a gruesome white monument to nothing. She walked over, a delicate sway to her thin hips, took deliberate aim and shot his other knee-cap away. Then she drawled in a tiny voice, 'Ya see, Marty, you ain't never going to leave me. Not even crawl away from me. A hill gal only loves one man. Didn't ya know that, darling?” Unquote. Mr. Anthony, can children buy this book?”

Jackson was on his feet before Matt could answer. “Your Honor, I object to that last line, about children. And I move for a mistrial on the grounds the prosecutor has influenced the jury by this cheap—”

“I didn't write these books, your rare genius did!” Wagner shouted.

The judge banged away with his gavel and in the silence that followed Jackson said, “Your Honor, the defense is willing to concede Mr. Anthony wrote hardboiled crime novels, which by their very nature deal with the seamy side of life, have to be realistic. However, Mr. Anthony did not invent or start this... eh... this school of writing. There are hundreds of such books on sale this minute, and over the years thousands of these books have been written. Therefore, I move for a mistrial on the grounds that by taking passages out of context the prosecutor has not only influenced the jury, but also deliberately misled them with the implication Matt Anthony is responsible for the literary tastes of our country. Obviously the defendant, as a self-employed writer, must write for an established market—he does not create that market.”

The judge quickly denied the motion but ordered Wagner's question about whether children could buy the book stricken from the record. Glancing at the wall clock he asked Wagner, “How many more books do you plan to offer as evidence?”

Wagner eyed the pile of novels on his table, then turned toward the judge. “I should like to read from two more, your Honor.”

“I think you've made your point, Mr. Wagner. You may enter one more book into evidence. Only one. Continue.”

Wagner picked over the books, held up The Last Supper. While Clair was booming his usual objections and being overruled, all I could think was: Would selecting the book help our sales?

Facing the jury Wagner said, “I will now read from page 19. Quote: 'Walking across the bridge they stopped to stare at the brightly lit skyscraper windows—jeweled lace against the dark night. Placing his hands on her shoulders, Walt said, “How lonely it is here. A perfect place for a murder.” Helen moved out from under his hands. He held her shoulders once more. “Must you always avoid me?”

“'She stared up at him boldly. “You want me but what have you to offer in return? You know what I want of you, but you are a weakling.

“'Walt said gently, “You shouldn't push me so hard.”

“'She laughed, the very coolness of her voice infuriating him. “Do what you do so well—talk. You don't frighten me.”

“'Walt said softly, “I never wanted to frighten you. But we all have the will to murder—it is only the opportunity we lack. I have the desire—and this is the opportunity!” His powerful hands raised her to the bridge railing. Helen made only one movement—she kicked him savagely in the groin. His lean face frozen with horror and surprise, Walt did a drunken dance for a moment, then collapsed, both hands urgently pressing what he had always been so proud of. Her cute face showing no emotion, Helen stooped, carefully removed his hands from the apex of his legs, kicked him in the groin again. Watching him groveling in helpless pain, Helen drew back her shapely leg to kick the bloody spot again, then hurriedly walked away. She knew Walt was right, we all have the will to murder.'”

Wagner shut the book. “Mr. Anthony, in the last ten years have you written any other kind of book except what your counsel has termed 'hardboiled crime books'?”

“No.”

“That is all.”

As Jackson got to his feet the judge looked at the clock. It was after one; he said the court would recess for lunch. Jackson stepped toward the bench, said loudly, “If your Honor pleases, I have but a few questions. I would then request the court adjourn until Monday. As this is Friday and since I expected the State's cross-examination to last longer, the defense's last two witnesses, doctors, are not in court.”

The judge motioned both lawyers to the bench. There was a whispered conference—except once—Jackson's deep voice boomed ”... to have them travel back and forth to Riverside... fees are very high and the defendant is broke....” There was more low talk with all of them turning to look at the wall clock—as if doubting it was still there.

Matt sat hunched over in the witness chair, staring out at the courtroom, studying us. Once he stood up and waved his arms around like a pitcher loosening his muscles. He was a frightfully big man.

The lawyers returned to their tables and the judge told the jury, “The court realizes it is well past your lunchtime. However, since Mr. Clair says he has only a few more questions to ask the defendant, we will continue. When Mr. Clair is finished the court will adjourn until ten o'clock, Monday morning.” The jury looked rather relieved.

Jackson stepped forward, giving Matt his best man-to-man grin, as he asked, “Mr. Anthony, have you ever written any type story except mysteries?”

“Oh, yes. I have written slick love stories, and what is known as quality yarns. In fact when I first started I had a story on O'Brien's honor roll. This was an anneal anthology of the best short stories of the year.”

Jackson nodded. “Then, as a professional writer, do you consider yourself capable of turning out any type of fiction?”

“Yes.”

“Then why is it, Mr. Anthony, that in the last 10 years you have confined your writing to crime stories?”

“They sell.”

“Can you give us a rough idea of how many people read your books?”

“Oh, on the average, taking in both hardcover and paperback sales, I would say about 300,000 people buy a copy of each book, which means the book is probably read by at least a million people.”

“How many books have you written during the last decade?”

“I turn out about three a year.”

“Roughly, then, some 30 million people hare read your novels—almost one-sixth of our entire population.”

Matt smiled. “Not quite that many. The same person may keep buying each new book as it's published.”

“In your opinion, as a professional writer, would romantic... eh... sweet, love stories sell as well as hardboiled action?”

“Indeed, no. There's little, if any, chance of a paperback reprint of the sugary love yarn.”

“Then you turned to crime stories solely because they sell well?”

“Yes.”

“If next year you found love stories selling better than crime novels, would you then write love novels?”

“Certainly. I write for a living, therefore I must always aim at the best paying market.”

“That's all.”

The judge glanced at Wagner who said, “No further questions, your Honor.” After the usual warning to the jury not to discuss the case, court was dismissed for the day. I waited outside until Brown came by, asked, “Where do you want to eat?”

“At the moment all I want is a drink. Let's drive to some place outside town. Wagner crucified Matt.”

“You think it was that bad?” I asked, as we went down the steps.

“The worst part was the fact it was true—Matt did write all that terrible trash. I told you Wagner was a clever fellow.”

“Actually, what did he prove, that Matt writes tripe? This is a courtroom, not a critics' group. I still don't see any proof of murder.”

“I think he influenced the jury, at least shocked them. But the legal aspect aside, Wagner stripped Matt naked in public, exposed him as a pitiful... literary pimp. Clair was a fool to place Matt on the stand. And he didn't fight back enough—I thought he was on the right track when he started talking about Matt not inventing the sex and violence books. But he didn't go far enough, he should have shown that so-called literary tastes boil down to the publishers trying for the fast buck.”

“Oh, hell, Hank, that's pure bunk. I'm not trying to gild the publishing industry, God knows, but you're putting the cart before the horse. Books go in cycles, fads, and right now the public is demanding the fast-paced story that reflects the tensions of our time. If you see a dirty face in a mirror— don't call the mirror dirty.”

“That's more bunk, Norm. Big business under the slogan it's good for business always gives the public an inferior product. And that goes for publishing, of course. Don't you know they can make a nylon stocking that will wear for years? That they could seal the lubrication of an auto so that one would never need a change of oil? But think what that would do to the stocking industry, or the oil business!”

As I opened the car door, Brown was lecturing on what the auto industry supposedly did to a Mr. Tucker who was ready to build a better car. I wasn't in the mood for a lecture, nor did I believe his line. As we started to drive I managed to change the subject with: “After hearing him testify, do you still think Matt never killed Francine?”

“I don't know, it all has an unreal quality. Yes, listening to him, I still can't believe he struck her. How easy it would have been for him to simply dive over the side of the boat when Francine tried to take the diving lung from him. And these diving things are hardly flimsy, I doubt if she could have damaged it much. It's all Alice in Wonderland. Why Wagner had the first of Matt's books marked exhibit C— meaning that State had only introduced two other exhibits thus far—and they had already stated their case. In most murder trials there's dozens of exhibits.”

“Proving?”

“Nothing, except I have this feeling it's all a play, not a trial. Jackson's strutting, Wagner the villain. Matt with his crazy smile, as if he already knows what the third act will be.”

“Yeah. That grin must be annoying the devil out of the jury. What was that cobra thing?”

Brown shrugged. “Some story idea Matt's had for a long time. He told me something about it. Somehow, I smell a frame-up here.”

“Oh, Hank. How can Wagner possibly be framing Matt?”

“I don't know, but I smell it. Perhaps Matt is framing himself. Maybe he's in love with the picture of Matt Anthony, harassed genius, Jackson gave the court. The genius writing all that dung—the poor dope. All very confusing, makes me uneasy.”

“You didn't come out too badly.”

“I'm going to phone Ruth tonight, after six, to see if I'm still among the employed. And that's part of the shocking lack of reality to the whole thing: actually myself, my job, are such a very minor part of Matt's life... and suddenly it's been blown up out of all proportion. I feel as though I've stepped through the looking glass.”

“It has a never-never-land air, all right. I suppose Monday we'll be bored by Jackson's head hunters stating Matt was nuts while Wagner's lads say Matt passed his tests with colors flying. Think the jury will get the case by Monday afternoon?”

“They've exhausted all possible witnesses except me. This must set a record for speed in a murder case.”

We passed an old looking inn and parked. The restaurant was empty and we took a table with a view of the water. After we ordered, I went to phone Michele, to be sure she was taking the afternoon train. Then I called Miss Park. She had a few things I had to okay, messages from Bill and Marty Kelly. Two large midtown book stores had a big window display of Mart's book and were happily reporting brisk sales.

When I returned to the table the professor had finished his second double rye, which reassured me he was human after all. But the liquor didn't seem to loosen him up any. When I told him about Michele coming out for the weekend and that he could keep the motel, as we wanted to drive around, he took off again, asking, “You said your wife is French. Has she become a U.S. citizen yet?”

“No. We were too late for the war bride deal, but she's taken out her papers.”

“Then I shall certainly move out, not even meet her, although I would like to. Knowing me could cause her deportation.”

“Hank, relax. Don't worry about the motel. We like to bum around, perhaps spend the night some place out at the point and...”

“Norman, if you don't realize the danger, I do. Thank you, but I will find other lodgings. Town shouldn't be crowded for the weekend.”

“Do what you wish, but we still aren't going to use the motel room.”

We had a light lunch and a few more drinks. It was a lovely day, almost like summer. We drove along the waterfront to the canal, looking at the big yachts, watching people fishing from the canal banks for fluke, or maybe they were flounders. At four I drove back to Riverside and couldn't talk the old man out of moving. He found a room in a small tourist house on the edge of town. At five I was waiting at the railroad station. When Michele stepped off the train she was so chic and feminine, so continental and warm, I felt like I was seeing her for the first time. It gave me a tremendous lift to watch her glancing around anxiously, knowing she was looking only for me.

We drove to the motel to wash up, and I asked what the wanted to do first. Michele asked, “But where is this wonderful professor with the broken nose, Norm?”

I tried to explain why Hank didn't want to see her, but certain aspects of our political climate can hardly be explained to an outsider, a new American—or even to most of us old ones.

Michele placed her arms around my neck, rubbing her nose against my ear lobe as she said, “This is childish talk, Norm. Indeed, we shall drive around and sleep where we wish, perhaps out on a wind-swept beach. All the way on the dull train ride I have been thinking of but two things: the biggest lobster in the world... and you.”

“I'm glad you had us in that order.”

She said something in soft French, nibbled at my ear. I think she was saying she wouldn't mind eating me.

My very possessive hands ran over her dress as I said, “Such talk will only delay eating that lobster. Hungry?”

“For both you and the lobster I am very hungry. But almost famished for food. Norm, let us call on the silly, frightened professor, take him out to supper.”

“I don't know, honey. If he wants to be alone, I think we should let him be. After all, he isn't a child,” I said, wondering if there was a chance being with him could hurt Michele. Lord, what if she were deported as a result? It could happen, I suppose. Was there an opening for a slow-French-speaking ad manager in the Paris publishing houses?

Michele kissed me, pulled out of my arms. “Perhaps we should respect his request for privacy. Let us go, be moving... ever since you left me I have felt I am standing still. You must tell me all about Monsieur Matt on the stand today.”

“Okay. But I'm afraid the big monsieur had a rough time,” I said, packing a few things into her overnight bag.

It was still light by the time we reached Montauk but we were too late for the fishing boats. Michele thought the country quite desolate and dreary looking. She also thought Matt's wife must have been an awful woman and that his books were also awful. But she was very much in favor of the lobster dinner we had. We stopped for the night at a rather fancy motel within the sound of the ocean waves. Although we had only been apart one night, we made love with all the passion of honeymooners and when she finally let go of me I stared up at the darkness and smiled—feeling very certain I wasn't a “lousy lay.”

I had done nothing but sit around the courtroom all day and I wasn't tired enough to sleep. I thought again, with the same warm amazement, of the odd crew of characters my life had been tied up with the past months. I'd be glad to be rid of them. Sometimes when watching a TV commercial, I'd have the feeling I was looking through the wrong end of a telescope. I'd think of the thousands of dollars, the talent, and all of it for the sale of a little dime can of cleanser. It was the same way with Matt: his big house, his 'literary' life, even Francine's death, Wagner and Jackson's skills, the whole operation at Longson—all went in to producing a book about a girl kicking a guy in the groin or getting beaten on the breasts. Perhaps I was over-simplifying things, but I ran my hand over Michele's shoulders, as if she were the only real thing in the world. Yet, in a sense, our being together in this motel was dependent—to some degree—upon that kick in the groin. Maybe Michele was right about the lack of dignity in life here. But hell, the same thing was true in France; I understood Mart's books sold very well there in translation. It was all quite confusing... and embarrassing.

Saturday was another mild Fall day, but cloudy. After a walk along the beach searching for shells—and not knowing what to do with them—we had breakfast. Michele kept talking about the various things to be done around 'the house,' including looking at a boat. So we made our way over several charming and old fashioned little ferries, and finally we were on an old Navy craft and the three hour trip across the Sound was windy but relaxing. We were 'home' an hour after we hit the Connecticut shore.

In the afternoon we went to see our boat and fell in love with a wide, tubby, 21-foot cat boat. It had a tiny little cabin you had to practically crawl into, with an open 'head' at one end that didn't work. But the boat yard owner assured us a fine, safe boat with a decent motor. The boat was already up on land and the owner was asking $1500, but as the yard owner explained, “It ain't a firm $1500. I don't want you to get in over your heads, you understand, so I'll give it to you straight—this boat is worth at least double the money. She may look the devil but the wood is good and she's only six years old, engine overhauled this season—I did the job myself. Buy her now and next season you should expect to put about another few hundred bucks in her. Needs new sail, mattresses, anchor, things like that. Let me call the owner, tell him you'll pay cash, see what gives.”

By the end of the day we were minus $850 and the sudden owners of a boat. The yard man advised us that for the winter all we had to do was drain and grease the motor, slap a coat of paint on the hull and decks, then... “cover her with canvas and she'll be snug all winter. Along about April, you'll take care of the seams, give her a real paint job, restep the mast... but don't worry about that now. By the by, I just happened to remember, I got an old canvas cover that will fit your boat and I'll let you steal it for thirty bucks.”

We purchased several tremendous cans of white paint, brushes and early Sunday morning we were busy as kids painting our 'yacht'. You'd think a 21-foot boat could be painted in about 21 minutes. By noon we hadn't half-finished the job, although we had used up enough paint to do a house. We were tired, dirty and splattered. Michele went off and came back with two giant hero sandwiches and beer and found a fairly clean patch of beach to eat on, and then we stretched out for a rest.

Staring up at the clean sky I thought: “I'm happy. I have everything I want, really want. And if I have to plug Matt Anthony's pedestrian novels in payment, well, so be it. After all, what harm do they do, how much of the violent bit does the reader believe? What difference would it make if I earned my living plugging cigarettes, or turning out cars or shoes? I—”

Michele turned on the sand beside me, asked, “What are you mumbling about?”

I faced her, poked at a speck of paint on her face, took in the trim fit of the dungarees over her hips. “Was I mumbling? Must have been thinking aloud. I just decided I'm a very happy man and I was trying to find out why. I mean, Mart's trial... well, in a sense they are somehow trying to convict him for the books he wrote. God knows they sounded pretty horrible. But those books aren't just Matt's—I help produce them, so does Bill Long and Marty Kelly and every clerk in the book stores and the newspapers and paperback editors and newsstand dealers and... hey, do you want to hear any of this?”

“I don't understand it. Perhaps I should try to. Norm-man, if you are happy, be glad, as I am. Why must you worry about the know-how behind your happiness? Or do you think you can manufacture it?”

“Probably wouldn't sell, anyway,” I said, thinking how right she was. A second ago I'd sounded like the would-be Madison Avenue personality slob I'd forgotten about I reached over and tapped her backside. “Okay, matey, back to work. Please note the sudden appearance of nautical words in my speech. We have to be careful not to bore our friends talking about the darn boat.”

Ws finished at four, got the canvas cleaned and ready to go on the following weekend. Michele was pooped and after we cleaned up she slept soundly. It was past ten when she awoke and I said it would be silly to go back to New York tonight: if I missed part of the trial Monday it would only be the dull testimony of the couch doctors.

Michele didn't have a class until eleven, so after a big breakfast we took our time driving to the city. I stopped at the office and took care of a few things, had galley proofs sent to Frank Kuhn, mixed some tobacco, lunched with Marty Kelly. It was 5 p.m. when I reached Riverside and, of course, court was adjourned for the day. I tried to find Hank, without success, finally ate supper alone and took the evening papers back to the motel.

There wasn't much in the papers. Jackson had a well-known psychiatrist testify that certain tests proved Matt unstable during emotional stress. The very fact Matt could plot an alibi and a phony crime immediately after his wife's death proved, according to this doctor, that his thinking was not normal, that he didn't know right from wrong, that he was temporarily insane at the time he struck Francine. I didn't get it but that's what the eminent doctor claimed.

Wagner had then put a State psychiatrist on the stand to testify other tests proved Matt absolutely sane, normal and under stress he would know the difference between right and wrong, that he was sane enough to form a criminal intent. The fact he set up an alibi proved that far from being insane, his mind was working at normal speed and he was thinking of self-preservation. This doctor also claimed that Mart's books proved he had an “addiction for violence.” Under a sharp cross-examination by Jackson the doctor had agreed that a capable writer could write about violence without being of a violent mind. I was very happy I had skipped the day.

After a good night's sleep, I shaved and dressed with nothing more important on my mind than trying to think up a clever name for our boat I had breakfast and was at court early, smoking my pipe outside. I didn't see May Fitzgerald, nor did there seem to be as many spectators going into the court.

Prof. Brown came along and told me he thought both sides would begin summing up today. When I asked about Monday, he said, “The usual stupid hassle, trying to make an exact science out of one that isn't Mart's doctor seemed the more intelligent, but then Wagner had the easier task, merely to establish any doubt that Matt had been crazy when he hit his wife. So....”

“Then you finally believe he at least did strike her?” I cut in.

“Norman, you asked me what happened in court. I'm telling you. I still can't believe he did it; what's more, he doesn't even seem to be putting up a real defense. Of course, Jackson is, but yesterday Matt was back to his cat smile and working all day. He kept writing away, barely paying attention to the proceedings, morning and afternoon.”

“I suppose they didn't let him write in jail and he had to catch up for Saturday and Sunday. The main thing is, Wagner hasn't proved murder.”

Brown nodded. “Nobody has proved anything. Let's go in.”

“How are you doing?”

“My wife reports all is still quiet. Of course when I return, I may get the bad news then.”

“You're a pessimist,” I said, knocking the ashes from my pipe. Brown didn't bother answering as he held the door open for me. The courtroom was filling up rapidly but we had our choice of seats. However, Brown suddenly whispered, “It isn't good for us to be seen together in public so often, Norm,” and sat in an empty single seat between two couples.

I felt like kicking the old guy smack in the behind, but then, he was supposedly doing it all for my own good, or something. I found a seat up near the front. Jackson was wearing a change of pace suit—a conservative blue serge, white shirt, blue knitted tie. But he hadn't forgotten his key, beaded belt or moccasins. He sat at his table and looked over some notes, his face very solemn—at one time I almost thought he was praying. Matt, dressed in his casual sports-coat-and-slacks deal, looked very fit and confident. He carefully piled a ream of paper in front of him, spread out a number of pens and pencils. He ran his eyes over the jury faces, making notes after each. Wagner looked his usual cold fish as he whispered to an assistant. Kolcicki was a spectator on the other side of the court, happily chewing gum.

After we stood up for the judge, the court got down to business. When Jackson was asked if he was ready to sum up, he said he was, his great voice sounding very grave. Matt was writing away as Jackson walked slowly to the jury box. Leaning on the rail for a moment he said nothing. He had his man-to-man smile on, but his eyes seemed to burn into each juror, forcing most of them to turn away. “Mr. Foreman, ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” he began softly, “you will shortly face a great responsibility—probably the greatest you will ever have to face in your lives: a man's life will be in your hands for judgment. You may recall I said in my opening address that you and you alone are the true judges in this trial. It is a solemn duty and a most important one, for trial by jury is indeed the very spine of our democracy. For my client's sake I am pleased that you are to judge him, for I know you to be honest and decent people.”

Jackson stood up, tall and straight, began walking slowly back and forth before the jury box, his voice projecting now. “A case like this is embarrassing to all of us, for we have to look into the very heart of a person's private life, beyond the personal walls of a marriage. It's like the fabled Pandora's box, one never knows what will come out—and some of it is far from pretty. Matt Anthony's wife is dead. That's a fact, and not a pretty one. The Grand Jury indicted Mr. Anthony for first degree murder. His Honor has denied my motion to dismiss both the first and second degree murder counts of the indictment. Now his Honor will give you the law in his charge, but let me point out that a man is innocent until proven guilty. Proven! Neither the indictment or his Honor's decision not to dismiss the charges can be taken as proof. The fact is, not once in this trial has Mr. Wagner offered the smallest shred of proof that Matt Anthony ever planned to murder his wife. There has not been a single bit of evidence of intent or premeditation. Mr. Wagner's entire charge of murder is actually based on three words, that Matt Anthony in the heart of argument told his wife, 'I'll kill you!' Mr. Wagner has taken upon himself, although he was not present at the scene, to interpret these words as a real threat. Yet you will recall that Mr. and Mrs. Hunter, who were witness to the scene, stated they did not consider the words a threat at all, but merely a figure of speech. Ask yourselves how many times in either jest, or anger, you have told someone, perhaps even your wife or husband, or your child, something like, 'If you don't bring me the paper this minute I'll wring your neck!' It is obvious that to gather the true meaning of words we must recognize the intent behind the word,. Certainly when you tell a person to 'go to the devil,' you actually don't mean for them to die and be sent to Hell. Yet that it what the prosecuting attorney would have you believe. If you told somebody, 'Oh, go jump in the lake!' and hours later that person did fall into a lake, on the basis of his logic, Mr. Wagner would claim you must have pushed him, therefore you are guilty of assault.”

Jackson smiled. Most of the jury grinned.

“Actually, the State's entire case is based on Matt Anthony's alleged 'threat' to his wife, his saying, 'I'll kill you.' But there really wasn't any such threat. If you recall the exact words he said, they were, 'If you ever say a single out-of-the-way word to Hank, I'll kill you.' Let us concentrate on that first word, IF. The fact is that Francine Anthony never saw Prof. Brown again, never had a chance to say a word to him! So no matter what interpretation one gives Matt Anthony's words, the fact remains there was no reason for him to carry out such a threat—and I do not consider it a threat. Two letters, i... f, wipe out the entire basis of the State's case!

“Let us forget interpretations and come down to the known facts of the case. You have heard the only—I repeat, the only witness to Francine Anthony's death, her husband, state under oath that in the boat they got into an argument about skin-diving, that in a moment of blind, insane rage, he struck her. The subject of their earlier argument, a friend of Matt Anthony's, had left the house, so that family spat was over, finished; probably forgotten. Matt Anthony was out to play a practical joke on his wife, yank at her fishing line. His oxygen tank failed and he surfaced, causing a new argument. If the tank hadn't failed Matt would have returned to shore and later Francine Anthony would have returned with stories about the one that got away. Obviously there wasn't, there couldn't have possibly been under those circumstances, any premeditation or intent.

“As to second degree murder, which—as his Honor will tell you, means killing with design to effect death but without premeditation, Matt Anthony didn't pick up a weapon that would have caused death. He didn't even pick up an oar and strike his wife while he was in a fit of blind rage. No, indeed, he hit her with his hand. Certainly the hand can not be considered as a 'design to effect death.' Actually, the cause of Mrs. Anthony's death was an accidental fall.

“Let us consider the testimony of Detective Kolcicki, a trained and veteran police officer. Certainly the possibility of first degree murder must have entered Detective Kolcicki's trained mind. Remember, he has stated that he had secured hundreds of confessions. Yet nowhere in the confession did you hear any mention of planning on Matt Anthony's part, any hint of intent or deliberation. Obviously, if Detective Kolcicki had the slightest suspicion of murder, he would not have accepted the confession, hammered away until he secured one of murder. But to Detective Kolcicki's trained mind, the confession sounded truthful. Premeditation and intent must not only be proven, but proven beyond any reasonable doubt!” Jackson's voice hit me with force, it must have stunned the jury. Even Matt looked up from his writing. Clair thundered, “Where has a single iota of such proof been offered during this trial? When? The answer is simple: there has been none!

“Mr. Wagner read some lively sentences from Mr. Anthony's works. We each have our own tastes in literature. Frankly, I don't understand his purpose in reading excerpts from these books to the court. Although I must admit Mr. Wagner reads well, and that's about all he proved. As Mr. Anthony said, he wrote detective books only because they made more money than any other kind of book. I take it Mr. Wagner would have you believe that a man writing about crime must have a practical knowledge of crime. This is nonsense. How many writers of westerns can win a rodeo, as their fictional heroes do? In fact how many writers of cowboy stories have ever ridden anything but a library chair as they did their research? Millions upon millions of Americans read Matt Anthony's books for relaxation and enjoyment. Nobody forces them to, they do it out of free choice. Mr. Wagner would have us believe that America reflects Matt Anthony's books. In reality, it's the other way around, his books merely reflect America. We are a rather violent nation, quick to fight and anger. This is the reason we make such good soldiers in time of war, that our athletes are among the world's best.”

Jackson hesitated, as if about to add something and changing his mind abruptly. He hooked his thumbs in his belt, doing it in slow motion, collecting his thoughts. I had the feeling either he had been about to say violence had won the West, but that would bring him in: the Indian bit. Or was he about to give them the old chestnut about the Bible being full of sex and violence, and afraid it might offend a juror?

Matt was resting his chin on his left hand, looking like those horrible author-portraits on old fashioned jackets. Kolcicki was chewing away—undoubtedly Jackson had joined his personal list of “bastards.” Or did any defense lawyer automatically get that title?

Is a normal voice Jackson said, “Now let us open the Pandora's Box that was the private life of Mr. and Mrs. Matt Anthony. They had a sophisticated life, different from ours. For example, few of us have either the time or imagination to play a joke on our wife by swimming underwater and pulling at her fishing line. Nor do we wake up one morning and suddenly decide to go to Europe. They were happy—at least Matt Anthony was. He has not only testified to that, but you hare seen photos of Francine Anthony. She was neither a young woman when she married Matt Anthony, nor a beautiful woman. Since...”

Matt sat up, a scowl on his face. I expected him to jump up and say he didn't want his wife talked about. He began writing.

“... they had both been divorced before, there weren't any religious or ethical grounds on which they were against divorce. Therefore, if they hadn't been happy they would have separated years ago. What sort of a woman was Francine Anthony? The State's witnesses, the Hunters, Miss Fitzgerald, have given us a clear picture—she was a carping woman, constantly nagging her husband. Unfortunately that is not an uncommon practice, at one time or another we have all been nagged by our wives or husbands. But as I have proved, writing is a special kind of occupation. You and I, if we have a little family quarrel at night, or during breakfast, we go to our offices, our jobs, and there is a cooling off period for eight or more hours. But suppose your wife followed you to your job, kept nagging you there? It's a strange picture but the picture you must see: you're a grocery clerk and your wife enters the store a few minutes after you start work and keeps carping about some petty family matter all day long. Obviously you would be unable to work. You would either have to get her out of the store or lose your job. Probably if she did that, you would have her sent to a mental institution for observation.

“A strange picture? But an everyday one in the Anthony home! For Matt Anthony's office, his store, was his home. You have heard him testify he thought about his work, his creative work, all day long. And all day long Francine Anthony nagged about his friends, his swimming, an aqua-lung. Obviously this put Matt Anthony under a terrible strain, and not merely for a day, but from the evidence of the State's witnesses, and from Mr. Anthony, this went on constantly. Why did she do this? Was Matt Anthony a bad husband, stingy and unkind, narrow and demanding? Or didn't Francine Anthony understand the nature of his work, his urgent need for inner peace?

“Let us look at the facts. Francine Anthony has previously been married to a writer—a not successful one. At the time she married Matt Anthony he was already an established and well-known author. In other words—she knew from her own experience exactly what it meant to be a writer's wife. Also, if she had read the papers and magazines she certainly knew of Matt's dynamic way of living—a way of living which several famous writers have said is of vital importance to spur the brain juices from which a writer's creative skill flows. In short, Mrs. Anthony was not a sheltered school girl suddenly thrown into a life too exciting and different for her. On the contrary, she was a mature woman well acquainted with writers and their working methods.

“Then perhaps she was doing this out of spite because she thought her husband was mean, a man squeezing every cent? Let us again consider the facts. Before she married Matt Anthony, Francine was supporting herself and her husband by working as a cashier. What could she have been earning then, certainly not much more than $50 a week. Her husband was a failure, their marriage was one of these on and off affairs— is this not a picture of a lonely, bitter and frustrated woman?

“Matt Anthony comes into her life. They fall in love. He pays for her divorce, they marry. Practically overnight this woman—neither pretty or young—is suddenly raised from a dreary life of frustration to a dream of luxury. She traveled about the country, in Europe, the West Indies. She had a fabulous house not far from here, boats, a maid, charge accounts and good clothes, mink coats. Through her husband she met famous people, had expensive fishing and golf equipment, hundreds of dollars a week, for household expenses— she was Mrs. Matt Anthony. You heard Miss Fitzgerald, the maid, testify that at no time did Francine Anthony do a bit of work around the house, not even the shopping. She didn't have to, she was the wife of a successful man. She and Mr. Anthony lived big. True, Mr. Anthony was not a millionaire, nor was his income in the upper brackets, but the Anthonys lived better than most millionaires do! From the testimony it is obvious Francine Anthony also enjoyed this luxury living. Sometimes, we have been told, she complained that Matt was spending too much money—but wasn't that sheer hypocrisy when she spent thousands of dollars on her fishing equipment? I have yet to hear of a $350 set of golf clubs or a $650 fishing reel being considered a family necessity! And if they were spending too much money—mind you, I said they, for they spent it together—what perverse mental quirk made Francine Anthony literally bite the hand that fed her so well? For every cent of their income came from Matt Anthony's brains, from his wits and creative imagination—and these she tried to strangle with her nagging. Was she jealous of his success? Did this neurotic woman envy her husband's ability? Indeed, our Pandora's Box reveals an odd and twisted relationship, twisted by a woman so used to failure she couldn't stand success, thus had to destroy it!” Jackson hung out his hands in appeal. Then he held on to the jury box rail, his rugged face full of tragic sadness: the silence in the courtroom was absolute.

Suddenly he slapped the rail, a hard slapping sound, as he boomed, “What other fact can explain this except that some part of Francine Anthony's mind had cracked? Was Matt Anthony doing anything that would upset his wife? Was he running with other women? Was he drinking to excess? Was he lazy? Did he deny her anything? Did he beat her? No! You have heard the testimony of the Hunters, long-time friends of the Anthonys—they said nothing about women or his being a drunkard. Then, coming to the fateful day of July 25th, let us see why she was nagging her husband on that day. She was annoyed because Matt had brought an old friend to the Anthony home! A friend Matt had not seen in many years, a buddy in trouble, and because Matt Anthony asked this man into his own home for a drink, showed him ordinary hospitality, Francine Anthony threatened to make a scene! In the name of common sense, I ask you, ladies and gentlemen, was Francine Anthony a rational woman? A wife isn't expected to like all of her husband's friends, but she most certainly is expected to have sufficient manners not to insult them! Certainly a man has the right to choose his friends—but not Matt Anthony, his wife set herself up as the supreme judge of who should be Mart's friends and who should not! Mind you, all this despite the fact she had never met the friend in question before, that Matt Anthony's friendship with this man dated back to Mart's days as a college instructor—long before he ever knew of Francine. She didn't even have the decency to upbraid her husband in private but nagged him openly—before their houseguests. If your husband or wife tried to make a fool of you before friends, wouldn't that put your nerves on edge? Was this the act of a loving and considerate wife? Indeed not, it was the work of a shrew, a woman perhaps mentally upset by a change of life process, a mental midget who tried to henpeck a giant of a man—her loving and tolerant husband!”

Jackson slapped the jury rail again, lightly this time, as if in disgust. When he mentioned change of life I saw two of the women jurors actually blush. In fact Matt had looked a bit startled, then started scribbling away like mad.

“Now, let us examine the scene in the rowboat. I want you to keep in mind that there were only two people in that boat, therefore the only true story of what happened, the only actual facts we can possibly know, is what Matt Anthony has told us under oath. Well then, what exactly did happen? Matt Anthony bought himself a skin-diving outfit. A trivial matter? Normally, yes, but in the eyes of Francine Anthony, Matt had done a monstrous thing—because she didn't approve of the idea. Obviously, she also set herself up as the judge of his hobbies, as well of his friends. Is this not the picture of a tyrant wife? However, as Matt has testified, he purchased the outfit not only for enjoyment but also because he thought it might give him ideas for stories. He tries out the aqua-lung and has to surface. His wife sees him. Remember his frame of mind when he entered the water, as he has testified under oath; he was about to play a mild practical joke on his wife—play with her fishing line. A joke... certainly not the frame of mind of a murderer!

“At two in the afternoon when most wives are either finishing their household chores or perhaps thinking about the evening meal, Mrs. Francine Anthony was busy, too—at her favorite sport, fishing. Fishing with her expensive rod in her own boat in her own private bay! She sees her husband surface and when he comes aboard she immediately upbraids him savagely—the second time in almost as many hours. Matt has a heart condition, but was she really worried about that? Did she think of his heart when she upset him by insulting his friend? Did she consider his heart when from the second he got into the boat—before he could rest—she started nagging again? I say in plain language she didn't give a damn about her husband's health! I say the only thing truly worrying her was that Mart's insurance policies were not fully paid up! What more telling picture of a heartless, selfish woman!

“Naturally, Matt resents her bickering, but he agrees to swim to shore and take off the aqua-lung. The fact is he stood up, ready to dive in, but that wasn't enough for his dictatorial wife—she must attack him, try to tear the lung from his back. And this woman was allegedly worried about his heart!

“As Dr. Strong, the noted and respected psychiatrist, has told us, we all have a breaking point, a mental loss of control. As Dr. Strong also testified, this breaking point depends upon a number of factors—a person's general health, his emotional stability, and of course all of these are conditioned by the tensions the person is under. I shall not go into a general discussion of psychology. I not only am unqualified to do that, but the very capable doctor testified on the subject and how it related to the defendant. However, I would like to dwell for moment on a few points, namely the tensions Matt Anthony was under.

“First, we have an active man, an athlete, suddenly restricted somewhat by a slight heart trouble, and certainly worried about it. He is a creative man harassed by a carping wife. He is a man under constant pressure—every cent he earns comes from his imagination. He enjoys living and is raider great expense. He hasn't a salary or income he can rely upon each week—so he must keep producing original ideas and novel characters. He must put his mind to his work yet his wife's constant nagging cuts into his thoughts, makes his work all the more difficult. These are the tensions he has been under without let-up for years. On the day in question, his wife makes a scene over an old friend, makes a fool out of Matt. He is then trying to relax, calm down, by trying out an underwater swimming device. This, too, she tries to spoil. And he reaches his breaking point, this mental loss of control, as Dr. Strong called it. Skin-diving is a petty matter, but is it not the little things which throw us into a rage? Your wife tosses out that old pipe, your husband wisecracks about a hat... and we have our most bitter quarrels.

“Ladies and gentlemen, you heard Mr. Anthony testify as to his resentment at his wife's constant nagging, how when Francine Anthony came at him as he was about to leave her, attacked him by trying to rip the lung from his back... how at that precise second Matt Anthony lost control of his mind, blind crazy rage took over. His mind blacked out, Matt Anthony didn't know what he was doing. Yet I want you to note that even in his blind rage he didn't strike her with an oar, with any weapon, but with his fist... almost in self-defense. If Matt Anthony was a smaller man, the blow would have stunned his wife. She would either have sat down and cried, or perhaps Francine Anthony might have swung at him with an oar and be on trial herself. Matt Anthony is not a little man—look at him. He's a big man, no doubt he packs a punch. The force of the blow sent Francine Anthony against the side of the little boat, crushing her head. This is not murder, this is not manslaughter—Francine Anthony died an accidental death after being punched by her husband in a moment of blind, insane rage! It was a moment of blind revolt against her years of henpecking, her constant interference with his work. Matt Anthony came out to play a joke, he certainly had no thought of harming his wife, much less of killing her, but she forced his mind to break, to a point where he had no control over his hands. Mind you, he didn't attack her, she came at him, clawing and cursing, trying to grab the lung on his back.

“When Matt Anthony came to, when his mental blackout lifted, he swam ashore. He realized nothing he did could ever bring Francine back to life, just as nothing this court can do will bring her back to life. His blind rage was over, he could think clearly. He wanted to avoid a scandal, he made up a white lie of a story on the spur of the moment. Mr. Wagner has called Matt Anthony an expert on criminal methods. This doesn't make him a criminal any more than a cancer expert must have cancer. But I say to you, the State has exposed the very lack of logic in its own arguments, for certainly if Matt Anthony had murder in mind, he would have made up a much better story than the feeble yarn he did. And if Francine Anthony had even the slightest doubt her life was in danger, she had plenty of time after their first argument to leave the house, to seek the police. Instead, she went fishing; obviously she knew there wasn't any danger.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, every man is liable for the natural consequences of his acts—when he knows what he is doing, when he knows the difference between right and wrong. At the time he struck his wife, Matt Anthony didn't know right or wrong, he didn't know anything but a blinding insane rage. There was an accidental death and I say he has already been punished enough by the loss of his wife, the ordeal of jail and publicity—a punishment that will forever sear his soul. With all honesty I ask you to look into your own souls, find compassion for Matt Anthony. In the name of justice I ask you to bring in the only verdict possible in the face of the testimony and medical evidence... I ask you to find Matt Anthony not guilty by reason of temporary insanity. Thank you.”

Jackson had finished with his voice in a low key, throbbing like an old fashioned preacher's. He sat down beside Matt, his face very solemn and full of tired lines—more Lincolnesque than ever. Matt shook his hand, that tiny smile on Matt's face... and for me there was an air of cheap sarcasm in the handshake.

The judge nodded toward Wagner who started walking towards the jury box. I don't know what I expected, a lull, a recess, but somehow it shocked me... sort of a belt line production form of justice. Before Wagner addressed the court and jury he did something out of character, something funny: he ran his hand over the part of the jury railing Jackson had been slapping, as if examining it. The jurors grinned, there were enough giggles in the courtroom for the judge to pound once with his gavel.

In his dry, level voice, Wagner said, “I had looked forward to Mr. Clair's summing up. Not only in my position as prosecutor, but also out of a professional and personal curiosity. Mr. Clair is a big city lawyer, a top trial man, and I was anxious to see him work, thinking a country boy like myself could learn something. I was impressed by his dramatics, by his oratory, which I will not attempt to match. But I was puzzled. Judging from Mr. Clair's remarks one would think Francine Anthony was on trial here for killing her husband. Francine Anthony is dead, struck down and killed by this man!” Wagner made a mildly sweeping gesture toward Matt.

For a second the two men stared at each other, then Matt started writing slowly. I noticed that he was sweating a little.

Wagner turned back toward the jury, standing stiffly, and said, “There has been a lot of loose talk in this trial. Justice is determined by facts, not general words. However, since this talk has been a part of the trial, let us go over that before presenting the facts of the case. The defense has read a number of statements attesting that writers are different from shoemakers. We can dismiss all these learned statements by pointing out that although famous writers went off on erratic and erotic tangents, none of them ever claimed a writer had the right to murder his wife! And under the law, which protects us all, a person has not the right to take another person's life—no matter how much they are supposedly 'nagged.' We have heard Mrs. Anthony called a shrew, a mental midget, who didn't appreciate this 'giant,' Matt Anthony. Just remember that picture came from Mr. Clair's nimble brain. Certainly not from the testimony. The fact is, the testimony states that Mr. Anthony often nagged his wife, 'teased' was the word used. Mrs. Anthony has been presented as a terrible wife, yet if we sift all the words, exactly what did she do? Her husband has heart trouble and she wanted him to stop drinking, stop exercising. Does that sound like a shrew or a woman with her husband's best interests at heart? Even assuming she was a nag —and I repeat, assuming, she was a nag, that didn't give Matt Anthony the right to kill her. Mr. Clair would have the court believe nagging violates the law, is a crime punishable by death.”

Jackson started to rise, but didn't. Instead, he muttered something to Matt, who was watching Wagner as if he were some exciting character he'd never seen before.

“Now let us get to the facts,” Wagner went on, “to the testimony of the witnesses. Mr. and Mrs. Hunter stated that although the Anthonys frequently quarreled, and the Hunters had witnessed these quarrels over several years, they had never heard Matt Anthony threaten to kill his wife except on the day of her death. Miss Fitzgerald, who was not present at the time of the death threat, but who—as their maid—was with the Anthonys every day for about two months and often heard them fight, also stated under oath she had never heard Mr. Anthony threaten to kill his wife. On the morning of July 25th Matt Anthony said to his wife, in the presence of witnesses, 'I'll kill you!' Now these witnesses, Mr. and Mrs. Hunter, have also said that at the time they did not believe his threat, that they thought it was only a phrase, a manner of speech. It seems fairly obvious to me that when you have heard a man and his wife have numerous arguments over a period of years and never hear him threaten her with physical violence, and that man suddenly says, 'I'll kill you!' that's a threat, not a manner of speech! But evidently the Hunters did nothing about this threat, they didn't believe it because it was said in a moment of anger. But when is a real threat made except in anger? Certainly a killer doesn't walk up to his victim and make small talk with, 'I'll kill you!' In this ease, whether the Hunters thought or didn't think Matt Anthony was actually threatening his wife, can we doubt it wasn't a threat when a few hours after he said, 'I'll kill you!' he actually did kill her?

“What sort of man told Francine. Anthony, 'I'll kill you!'? Mr. Clair has stressed that Matt Anthony is no ordinary man. I agree. By his own admission Matt Anthony is an expert on ways and means of murder. He has stated he knows more about murder than most police officials. He is a man who, by his own admission, said under oath, plots and thinks about his writing 24 hours a day, and for the past 10 years he has written only about sex and violence. One only has to look at him to realize he is physically capable of violence. There are various kinds of violence. A war novel might be full of violence, for example, but remember this: for the past 10 years Matt Anthony has only written and thought about criminal violence! This was the type of man who told his wife, 'I'll kill you!' Can we even doubt that he meant it, that this was not a clear, outspoken threat?

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, it is the State's contention that Matt Anthony with his vast knowledge of murder, would not and did not make an idle threat. He was sick and tired of Francine Anthony's objecting to his wild spending and wild living. She had shown him up in front of an old friend by asking him to tell the friend to leave. Why did she do this? It wasn't anything personal, she never knew the college professor; she wasn't trying to pick and choose her husband's friends. No, indeed, she merely felt the man's presence in the Anthony home would jeopardize Matt Anthony's future.

“So it is the State's contention, and one we have proved, that when an expert on ways of murder threatens to kill a person, he means to kill. We believe from the time Matt Anthony shouted at his wife, 'I'll kill you!' he was thinking of ways and means to kill her. Mr. Clair has stated that since Mr. Anthony is the only actual witness to the killing, we must take his word. On the contrary, that is all the more reason to doubt his word. A man on trial for murder is not worrying about perjury.

“Then what is the true story of what happened in the boat? The State contends that Matt Anthony, having decided beforehand to murder his wife, deliberately put on the underwater apparatus and swam out to the boat, knowing he was doubly safe—he was swimming underwater so his wife couldn't see him, and since he owned all the land surrounding the bay, there wouldn't be any witnesses to the crime. That he suddenly climbed into the rowboat and deliberately struck this frail woman with all his might, knowing full well his fist had sufficient power to kill her. Francine Anthony may have been dead before her head ever hit the side of the boat—it is medically impossible to pinpoint death time down to a matter of seconds. Then Matt Anthony deliberately tied his dead wife's shoe lace around a duck board and broke the lace—to make it all look like an accident. Matt Anthony then swam back to shore, underwater, dressed, and fooled the Hunters, sleeping on the lawn, about a difference of three quarters of an hour in the time—to establish an alibi for himself. All this was child's play for an expert in criminal tactics, a man who as the defense has said, created people and whole cities out of his typewriter—and who also killed and murdered and maimed people with this same typewriter.

“Matt Anthony knows the law, that's part of his business. He felt he was playing it safe. If his wife's death was called an accident, fine. If the police were suspicious of his yarn, as in this case where Detective Kolcicki saw through the lie, why then Matt Anthony would sign a confession full of a cock and bull story that he and his wife argued over an aqua-lung and he struck her. He thought the most he would get would be manslaughter—a few years in prison. Since we have been told he works so hard at writing, perhaps Mr. Anthony even considered a few years in prison a wonderful investment, give him material for a dozen or more books.

“Members of the jury, it didn't work! Despite his being an expert, when Matt Anthony went up against Detective Kolcicki, it was the old story of an amateur against a professional. In less than an hour Detective Kolcicki had his confession. The defense has asked why it wasn't a confession of first degree murder. I'd like to ask, who says it prove and cry out— isn't a confession of first degree murder! This wasn't a full confession. Matt Anthony admitted he killed his wife, it was then up to the District Attorney to prove premeditation, and I think we have. Granted that since there were only two people involved and one of them is now dead, there is no way we can take Mr. Anthony's mind apart and give you the actual thoughts. But there are other circumstances involved and these allmurder!

“Can anyone believe a man would kill his wife over an aqua-lung? Especially a man of Matt Anthony's size—he could have pinned his wife's arm with one hand. Can anyone honestly believe—according to the defense's story—a man would strike his wife merely because she protested skin diving might strain his heart? Even if we accept the defense's claim that Francine Anthony's death was an accident, why would Matt Anthony have lied about it at first, immediately establishing an alibi? An accident—I would insult your intelligence if I asked you to believe that! A man thinks of alibis only when he knows he's guilty. In the course of my job I have come into contact with murderers. No man would kill if he thought he would be caught. But a murderer is arrogant, certain he can outwit the police. I'm talking now of an ordinary murderer—consider the arrogance of an expert, a man who has out-witted the police hundreds of times— on paper. Here was the big time crime writer about to pull the wool over the eyes of some 'hick' cops, sure he could hoodwink a 'yokel' court and—”

“Your Honor,” Jackson roared, springing to his feet, “I have never interrupted a summing up before in my life, but I must object to Mr. Wagner's hitting below the belt. He has made one unfair generalization after another. He has put words into my mouth I've never said or thought of. Now he's off into a dream fantasy of what went on in the defendant's head. At no time in this trial has the words 'hick' or 'yokel' been uttered except by Mr. Wagner.”

Wagner still stood with his back to Jackson. He looked annoyed. So did the jury. Matt shook his head slowly, as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing, then Matt started writing.

Wagner slowly turned and faced the judge, who said, “Mr. Clair, in summing up a lawyer has the right to interpret the evidence. You did that in your summing up. The court is perfectly capable of reprimanding anyone violating courtroom procedures. Continue, Mr. Wagner.”

Jackson made a slight bow toward the judge, sat down. Wagner turned back to the jury—I don't think he'd moved a step since he started summing up.

“Let us examine the claim that the defendant was 'temporarily insane' at the second he struck his wife. What a convenient form of insanity! We have not heard any testimony that Matt Anthony was ever mentally unstable before is his life—although he has lived an adventurous life and been in trying situations. You have heard noted doctors state he was insane at the moment of striking his wife, and that he wasn't. The State's psychiatrists have proved he knew the difference between right and wrong. Now the science of the mind is not as exact as the science of mathematics. For one thing, the science of the mind is relatively new. In mathematics we can state positively two and two equal four. We can't be that positive about the mind, and that will be up to you to decide. However, it seems to me any man who can write a book while in court on trial for his life is far from emotionally unstable—under any circumstances!

“I say to you that from the moment Matt Anthony shouted, 'I'll kill you!,' at his wife he fully intended to murder her and carefully planned the murder. She was fishing, alone in the bay, as she did almost every day. That Matt Anthony had this underwater outfit she didn't know about. He deliberately and with intent to kill, swam out, killed her, tried to give it the appearance of an accident, returned to his guests and set up a false alibi. Francine Anthony's death wasn't an accident nor was it manslaughter. It was a cold-blooded planned murder by a man who thought his cheap mysteries put him above the law. Far from being blind with rage, or blacking out, Matt Anthony knew exactly what he was doing from the second he threatened his wife until he lied to his guests in order to establish an alibi.

“Francine Anthony is dead, her head crushed, and her killer must be punished. The law must be upheld, we do not live in a jungle. On the basis of the facts brought out in the testimony, I ask you to punish Matt Anthony for the killing of his wife by bringing in a verdict of first degree murder. Mr. Clair asked that you have compassion for Matt Anthony, I ask you to have compassion for a dead woman. Thank you.”

As Wagner sat down an old lady two seats away from me whispered loudly to a young woman sitting next to me, “What did he say? My hearing is poor on the left side and I got a stiff neck.”

“He said he thought Mr. Anthony killed his wife.”

“Well, I think so, too,” the old biddy grunted.

It was a quarter to twelve. The judge told the jury, “I know you have had a tiring morning. You may return to the jury room and rest for 15 minutes. At noon I shall start explaining the various points of law, the charges involved. It will take about an hour. I want to get this over before lunch, so you can immediately start your deliberations. Also, once I have finished my charge you will be locked up and the lunch will be on the court.” He gave them a yock-yock grin and like faithful citizens about to save two-bits, most of the jurors beamed their gratitude.

I was too restless for a smoke to listen to the finer points of law. I went outside and lit my pipe, waited for the court to recess so I could have lunch with Brown. But when I finished the pipe a half-hour later the judge was still charging the jury, so I had lunch alone, walked down to the inlet and as a nouveau yachtsman bulled with an owner of a work boat and found out I might easily have put in another four or five hundred bucks into my boat before I put it 'over' next summer. This character must have been looking for a listener and soon had me dizzy with all the things that can go wrong with a boat. When I finally begged off, saying I had to get back to the trial, he said, “I hope they give that murdering slob the works.”

A lot of people were talking and getting the sun in front of the courthouse. I saw Jackson holding up the building and talking to a pot-bellied man. I went over and Jackson introduced us; the man was a reporter. I asked Jackson how things looked and he said, “Shoo-in. Wagner was comical, with that highschool dramatic act, repeating 'I'll kill you!' over and over. But he's a clever man—made me lose my head and object while he was summing up.”

“What's wrong with that?” I asked.

“Looked bad in the jury's eyes, like I was trying to take over. If they don't bring in a not guilty verdict, I'll appeal the manslaughter verdict. Judge was wrong in allowing Matt's books into evidence—I can even ask for a new trial. Hope the jury comes in by five, I have a supper engagement in town. Excuse me, fellows, there's a man from Life I know.”

As Jackson walked away the reporter asked me, “Have you read any of this book Anthony is writing?”

“We have some chapters in the office but no one's looked at it.”

“This is one book I'd be willing to buy. Time I put on the feed-bag. Like a beer?”

I shook my head and walked around the short main street, stopping to buy a dainty shell necklace for Michele. At two I phoned her at school, said there was a good chance I'd be home that night. I walked main street again, bought a paper and leaned against the courthouse as I read. There was a big crowd milling around, afraid to go too far away in case the jury came in. At three-ten there was a whispered roar that the jury had reached a decision and we all started pushing our way in. Brown appeared from out of nowhere and I asked, “Like to drive back to New York with me?”

“Thanks, Norm. I'd like to.”

“Looks good for Matt. Jury was out only about two hours.”

“I hope so.”

We found seats in the rear of the court. Matt was brought in, looking very pale. An attendant told us to rise as the judge entered. The jury's speed must have caught him by surprise, his robe seemed a trifle cockeyed. The foreman was a thin, middle-aged man in tacky clothes. When asked if the jury had reached a decision he stood up and reading from a trembling slip of paper, his voice shrill with self-importance, said, “We have. We find the defendant, Matt Anthony, guilty of murder in the second degree.”

There was a terrible hush in the courtroom. I couldn't believe my ears. Jackson looked as if he'd been punched in the stomach. Matt's big frame began shaking, his eyes grew large. The little smile appeared on his lips, grew bigger— and then he threw back his head and laughed. It was a horrible laugh, unreal, insane, filling the courtroom. I don't know, it seemed to last forever, but I suppose it only took a brace of seconds. As the judge raised his gavel, Matt collapsed, pitching forward across the table with a great thud-sound. The courtroom was in an uproar as everybody jumped to their feet. I saw Jackson, Wagner, and an attendant bending over Matt. Somehow I heard Brown mumble, “Jesus, that means at least 20 years!”

The judge was pounding his gavel like an idiot and yelling for the court to be cleared. A deep voice, probably Jackson's, called for a doctor.

Several cops appeared and began plowing through the crowd and with everybody shouting and asking what had happened, I had a feeling I was in the midst of a riot. Somebody kept climbing up my back and I dug my elbow into a belly, heard a gasp. Brown was pushing toward the front and I followed. I couldn't see Matt but Jackson suddenly boomed, “Please, step back! Give him air. Air!” I had a brief glimpse of the jury members leaning out of their box, horrified, as if they had struck Matt down. An attendant cupped his hands and bellowed, “Silence!” In the immediate hush, before the talkers could gather steam again, the judge yelled, “I order this court cleared at once!”

The cops started pushing, but now we all turned and headed for the doors, quickly and almost orderly. Outside, everybody milled around, the crowd growing. I kept telling Brown, “I simply can't believe it,” over and over, as if it made any difference whether I believed it or not. Brown looked sick and kept shaking his head, fingering his broken nose.

A man with a press card finally pushed out past the cops guarding the door. People rushed at him, knocking the press card from his lapel and I heard him say, “There's a doctor with Anthony. He's suffered a heart attack but the doc says it isn't serious.”

While I was trying to get closer to the reporter—and being bounced around on the fringe of the crowd, I saw the newsman Jackson introduced me to come out. I grabbed his arm as he headed down the steps, probably making for a phone. “Remember me? From Mr. Anthony's publishing house? How serious is his attack?”

“I think he merely fainted. How about that jury! The doctor says he'll be okay. Second degree, I never figured on that...”

“Are you sure Matt's all right?”

“That's the doctor's statement They have Anthony on a cot, waiting for an ambulance. They gave him a shot of something. He's able to sit up and talk.”

Brown and I hung around for another ten minutes. Finally I said, “We might as well go. I'll pick you up in front of your rooming house.”

We left Riverside a half-hour later, and at first we didn't talk at all. Then I said, “How in the hell did the jury ever arrive at that verdict? What is 2nd degree?”

“Killing without premeditation, but with intent to kill. I suppose it means if there's a gun around, you suddenly pick it up and shoot. 20 years to life. Poor Matt, he'll never come out alive.”

“I don't understand it. I thought they'd let him go. Wagner's summing up didn't impress me. Saying, 'I'll kill you!' over and over like a stuck record.”

“Isn't repetition the secret of advertising?”

“Cut it out, Hank. That was a lot of crap.”

“To you, but you weren't on the jury. Wagner's clever, he pulled out all the stops with that stuff about 'hick' cops and 'yokels.' And tying in all that violent trash Matt has written. When you come down to it, a man thinking of violence for any length of time probably would turn violent.”

“You think Matt really meant to kill her?”

“I still think he had nothing to do with it. But that's my little opinion.”

“Jackson will probably do something on appeal, a new trial.”

Brown was silent, staring at the dash board. Then he said softly, “Seems so damn wasteful. The fruits of ten years of writing summed up by a kick in the nuts and slapping breasts.”

“What the devil, it was merely a way of making a living.”

“Matt should have done something else for pork chops.”

“Why? What difference would it have made if he'd been writing copy? Or if he spent 8 hours a day driving a bus, or standing behind a counter? Don't tell me you think he would have written the great American novel in his spare time. That's a crock.”

“No, Matt would probably have never written a line then. That isn't the point, he betrayed his talent, prostituted it. It would have been better if he had let it die.”

“Look, Hank, as long as we do anything we don't want to do, for money, security, or whatever you wish to call it... I mean, you're working at a job you don't especially like now. Advertising is just a way of earning a buck for me... aren't we being whores? I think Matt knew exactly what he was doing: knew he could only be a good hack writer and nothing more.”

Brown shrugged. “He told me something like that, the last time we talked. I still think it's a tragic waste of time and ability. He should have—”

“Let's drop it,” I cut in, angry. It seemed to me we were kicking Matt when he was down. “Let's get off the pious soapbox.”

He slapped me on the leg. “Sure, Norm. We're both a little on edge.”

We talked, or rather Brown did, about a number of things on the drive to New York. Brown had a theory about the popularity of wrestling—people liked to see violence but at the same time because they knew the bouts were acts, were secretly relieved and could go on believing there wasn't any violence about them. Somehow, Brown even got around to the life of cats, debunking the idea cats are shrewd and have an easier time surviving than dogs. I wasn't listening. I was still shocked by the verdict. Also I wondered if I had left Riverside too hastily: Bill Long might expect me to see what happened to Matt's manuscript.

As I stopped to pay the toll at the Triborough Bridge the radio in an auto on the next toll line was on. We heard a newscaster saying: ”... and out in Riverside, the trial of Matt Anthony took a fateful twist a few minutes ago when the noted author died of a heart attack after being found guilty of murder in the second degree, in connection with the death of his wife. Mr. Anthony collapsed upon hearing the jury's verdict. Although he seemingly recovered under a doctor's care, Mr. Anthony suffered a second and fatal attack while in an ambulance on his way to the prison hospital. When he first heard the verdict, Mr. Anthony actually laughed, as if the verdict were a great joke.

“In foreign news, the....”

I stared at Brown, my mouth dry. The old guy seemed on the verge of tears. It took me a second to say, “Well, perhaps it's for the best. Matt wasn't meant for prison.”

Brown fingered his nose and didn't speak.

The cars behind me began blowing their horns. I drove up, handed the attendant a quarter. As I drove on I told Brown, “At least we'll never know, now, if he killed Fran-cine or not.”

Brown merely shrugged. When I let him off at a subway station he just waved and disappeared down the steps. I put the car in the garage and decided to phone Bill Long. He would be home by now. But when I called his house I was told he was still at the office. I called him there and he said, “I've been waiting for your call, Norm.”

“Shocking news,” I said, stupidly.

“Norm, did you by any chance pick up the rest of Matt's manuscript?”

“Why no. I thought in all the confusion....”

“Maggie and I are driving out to Riverside right now to get it before it's lost. I want....”

“I'm sorry I messed up. I have my car and can head back out there.”

“No. I want you to come down to the office and read that sealed last chapter of his book. Along with a letter he wrote before the trial started. You wait in the office... No, since it will take several hours to make the round trip, will it be all right if we come to your house? There's something we have to settle tonight.”

“Of course it will be all right,” I said, puzzled.

“Hop right over here, Norm, and when you finish reading this last chapter, put it under lock and key. We'll see you along about midnight or sooner.”

I took a cab to the office. Miss Park was still there. She handed me an open large manilla envelope as she said, “My, wasn't it awful about poor Mr. Anthony? Mr. Long asked me to stay and give you this. What's it all about?”

“I don't know,” I said, taking the envelope into my office.

“Shall I stay?”

“You can go, Miss Park. Thanks.”

I sat at my desk and started to phone Michele that I'd be late. But on opening the envelope I saw a slim pile of scribbled pages and figured it wouldn't take me long to read these. There was a letter from Matt to Maggie and clipped to everything an inter-office memo with Maggie's name printed in one corner. She had drawn a big exclamation mark across the memo. That was all.

Lighting my pipe, I started on the letter.

PART III

The Letter

Dear Maggie:

How's my favorite editor and southern beauty? (Not even prison walls dampen my trite line. Still, you must admit it has a novel ring—I bet you never received a letter before from a guy sitting in the can on a murder rap.)

I'm sure you've been wondering all these months about this sealed letter and large envelope. I hope you haven't peeped. I've sent this directly to you. Not even my agent knows about this chapter. I feel the entire concept would be far too startling for his timid soul. Yes, the chapter in the attached envelope is the last chapter of the book I shall write here in jail, and during the trial. That's correct, my sweet, I'm doing the last chapter first, and doing it with a purpose. So no cracks about my usual backward methods.

Seriously, Maggie, I feel I've stumbled upon something that is going to make for one hell of a snapper ending, probably the greatest twist in commercial literature (whatever that may mean!) for in this chapter I tell exactly what happened out in End Harbor. No matter what will have come out in court, this is the truth. (I damn near said, so help me God! No, I shall say it. This is the truth and I swear it, so help me God!)

The way I plan it, the trial will be over by the time you read this, and I will have completed the rest of the book. Of course I shall be acquitted, or at worst, appealing a light manslaughter sentence. In brief, ye wheels of justice will have made their full turn, the mills of the gods will have finished grinding, etc., etc. (This lousy pen!) And this last chapter, the truth, will work either way—proving how blind or clear-eyed old lady justice really is.

I know you haven't the smallest idea of what I'm talking about, but you'll see the light when you read this final chapter. It may surprise you, it's probably the most honest bit of scribbling I've done in years. I think I've given a frank portrait of Matt Anthony. If it isn't a pretty picture, it is true and it is me. We all know our weaknesses, the trick is to be willing to admit them. So if I come out a kind of coward, well, let's face up to it—that's what I am. You see, I had to be a coward or he would have killed me there and then, busted my heart. No point in being a dead hero, nor do I have to add anything about the terrible strength of self-preservation. You may also ask why I haven't shouted out the truth in court. Honey, I'm trapped. Maggie, if it's bad to be a coward, it's worse to be a fool, and an unbelieved fool is what I would look if I even tried to tell the truth. I think court will be like poker, you have to stay with the hand you decide to play. While I made my original decision because I was afraid of being beaten to death, now I know it's all for the best. Otherwise there wouldn't be our twist, this last chapter. If I can't say it in court, I can write it. And what you have to understand, dear girl, is that nobody is master of their fate nor captain of their soul—Mr. Henley's “Invictus” to the contrary. Perhaps in the old days when he wrote his poem. But in this atomic era far too much happens to us, so we can not be master of circumstances. Maggie, I'm probably not saying this too clearly, but it's all rather straight in my little mind.

Now, as to the last chapter. Of course as of now I have no idea how the rest of the book will turn out. But I've given a great deal of thought to this final chapter, and am rather mixed up as to whether to be subjective or objective. Or clever. It may very well be that I shall do the first part of the book with my tongue in my fat cheek. At one time I considered writing this last part as a kind of fable and be witty about the names. Call myself Mark Anthony and of course Francine would be named Cleopatra. May Fitzgerald would be called Zelda, while Prof. Henry Brown would be Prof.. Patrick Henry. And so on. Only I'm not certain (aside from whether that's being witty or not) if this chapter—as the truth—should be anything but my normal writing.

Of course if I were in my den, I would have experimented and written it several different ways. But I'm not used to scratching away with a pen, and find it very tiring. (How do some guys write a rough in long-hand?) So I've written it straight, and in the third person—as I intend (at this moment) to write the balance of the book. That's our gimmick: Matt Anthony writing as a spectator at the trial of Matt Anthony. However, by the time you're reading this I shall be in your office, either free or out on bail, and by then you will have the complete manuscript... so we can bat around any revisions. (And I know how dear rewriting is to your hard heart.)

As to publication. I think we might consider issuing it with this last chapter sealed. A sort of soft sell on: this-is-what-came-out-at-the-trial.... Now-can-you-guess-the-true-story. Naturally I shall not give the reporters a word of the truth until the book is released. As to time, I suppose the sooner the better. On the rest of the book I suggest you get cracking on it at once. (Why tell you this when you won't read the letter until the trial will be over? Stupid me.) What I'm trying to say is, if I'm found innocent, then publication must be as quickly as possible. However, if they give me manslaughter and a suspended sentence, or a fine, I will most certainly appeal. That will give us time to decide when the book shall be released. (As I will be sitting across your desk when you read this, have a bottle ready.)

Here's a bit we can use for publicity. I had to have permission to send this out of jail. I merely told 'them' it was a piece of fiction I was finishing up. They let it go after a fast reading of the first page! Of course, could be my handwriting discouraged them. (This entire chapter is worth a ton of shirts in any Chinese laundry! Told you I still have my corny humor.)

Maggie, if you should open this before the trial is over, please don't read the last chapter. You'll appreciate it more when things are finished here. Do what I ask, even as you shake your pretty head and mumble, “What is that idiot Matt Anthony up to now?” Be sorry for me, Maggie, jail has a cold loneliness to it, a reflection of man's insanity to man that...

My arm is numb with fatigue. Ah, if only I was allowed a typewriter in here. And the condemned man wrote a hearty last chapter. Well, my love, let us both hope this turns out to be the big one I've been fishing for all these years, the kind of bombshell seller I know it will be... if you get behind it.

Love and sleep comfortable,

Matt

The Last Chapter

July 25th was one of those hot summer days and May Fitzgerald was sweating as she dusted the living room. She heard Matt drive up and soon he stood in the doorway with another man, a stranger. He asked May where Francine was.

When May told him, “Mrs. Anthony is out back feeding cantaloupe to the poodle,” Matt noticed a faint smile on Henry Brown's thin face. Matt was annoyed.

Little smiles were very important to Matt Anthony. Usually he was the one who smiled, in fact he often set the stage for them. These faint (and meaningless) smiles were his 'secrets' and gave him the same false sense of superiority joining a 'secret' lodge gives other people. Matt needed to feel superior and his tiny smiles were his mystic rings and pins.

He would smile at the awe on a person's face when they found out Matt was a writer, was the Matt Anthony. Matt would grin slightly, eating up their astonishment when he told them he was also Daisy Action, and the rest of his many pen names. Or when he was called “Mad" Matt Anthony. Then Matt might not only show off his muscles, but often wrap a towel around his right fist and split a thin board with one punch. (He kept a supply of such boards on hand.) He would also make his favorite crack, “Only difference between Papa and myself—he's a far more successful hack.” And of course smile at the other person's reaction to Matt daring to call Hemingway a hack.

There was a special smile when Matt met a guest at the station and as they stepped into his Jaguar, Matt would say, “Off to the cottage,” and his big grin when they saw the large house carefully screened from the bay by a row of immense pines. Again the little smile when he casually said, “Oh, I own all the land around this end of the bay. Might call it my private bay.”

Now he turned to Brown and with a grin (of self-pity) said, “Guess that sums up my life, Hank; feeding the poodle cantaloupe. Still, it is a long way from being an English Lit instructor—only most times I can't figure in which direction it's a long way.”

“A comfortable way, at least,” Brown said, sitting in a pigskin camp chair, rubbing his broken nose. Matt was terribly envious of that busted nose.

“A 'comfortable' weight around my neck,” Matt said. “I need a minimum of twelve grand a year for living expenses. Means three books a year, unless I'm fortunate enough to have a movie or TV sale. And with my lousy luck, those have been few and far between.”

“Lord, three books a year? How many have you published, Matt?”

“Oh, I've lost count. Around 40. And a few dozen novelettes, and perhaps 500 stories. Although I haven't done much short fiction in recent years.

“How do you do it?”

Matt smiled. “The secret is to do 10 pages a day. Trouble with most writers is they're lazy. Stall themselves with crap about having to be in the mood, all that. No matter how much hell I raise, how crocked I get, I do my 10 pages a day, seven days a week. Rain or shine. Okay, Hank, don't look so damn horrified. It really isn't much. I dictate it in about two hours, then mail the tape to my secretary in New York. Hell, I once dictated a complete novel in three days. Listen, I'm a slow writer compared to a fellow like Simenon. I can't complain, where else could I make this sort of money for a 14 hour week? You know, Hank, I often think back to the old days when we'd argue for hours over a line, the right word, or—”

Francine Anthony came into the living room followed by a black poodle licking his chops, and the Hunters. The Hunters wore bathing suits. Wilma Hunter had a strong figure with sturdy hips and a great bosom. She had an average face, but intense eyes, and her very red hair was rough and kinky. Joel Hunter was slim and stooped. His face was flushed and in sharp contrast to his white-gray hair which was cropped very short—like a worn brush. He was smoking a corncob pipe and wearing thick black-shell glasses. He dropped into a chair with a decidedly feminine movement, stretching his thin legs. He said, “I've never seen a dog like that before, eating fruit like a pig.”

The poodle looked up, ran over and mounted one of Joel's legs. Joel yelled, “Matt, will you get this sexy mutt off me!”

Matt looked at Hank Brown and smiled.

Francine Anthony said sharply to the dog, “Come here, Clichy.” She walked over and kicked the poodle's backside, and he whined, then sat down and went back to licking his whiskers. Everything about Francine was small and compact. Her features were sharp and her shorts and striped blouse showed off a slightly scrawny figure. She could have been 40 years old, or 50. Her face was weather-beaten and her hair stringy and wild. She asked, “Anything in the mail, Matt?” as she ran her eyes over Brown's worn tropical suit.

“No checks; honey, this is Hank Brown. Prof. Hank Brown. We used to teach together at Brooks. Hell of a thing, haven't seen him for years, and I run into Hank in Hampton, of all places. Hank, these two slightly drunk inkers are Wilma and Joel Hunter. Perhaps you've read some of Joel's children's books, Hank. They sell faster than contraceptives.”

Joel waved as he said, “Oh, Matt, you always do that to me. ”

“I wish they did sell that fast,” Wilma Hunter said, nodding at Brown.

Francine said, “Glad to meet you, Professor. What were you doing in Hampton, Matt?”

“Out for a ride and there was old Hank waiting at the station. Must be at least 16 or 17 years since we last saw each other. Hasn't it, champ?”

“About that. I'm really an ex-professor, Mrs. Anthony,” Brown said as the poodle came over and sniffed him. Brown rubbed the dog's wooly head. The professor had big hands for a little man.

Francine lit a cigarette, blew thin clouds of smoke through her nose as she said, “Seems to me I've read something about you, Prof. Brown. A book out recently?”

Hank Brown glanced at Matt, who smiled. “I only published one book. That was quite some time ago.”

“A textbook, and a damn good one,” Matt added. “Joel, that's the racket we should be in, writing textbooks. The dough pours in, year after year.”

“But somehow your name rings a bell,” Francine said. “You can have the bedroom in the...”

“Thank you but I have to be back in New York tonight.”

There was a moment of silence which Matt enjoyed, then Francine asked him, “How many drinks did you have in Hampton?”

“I didn't even sniff a cork, my darling. I stopped to look at some new reels, glanced at the magazines,” Matt said, fingering the car keys in the pocket of his plaid shorts, certain the 'stuff' was safe in the trunk of the roadster. Brown said, “It's nearly one. I want to catch the 2:05 train.”

“Plenty of time, champ. We have a lot of talking to do. Want some lunch?”

“Thanks, Matt, but as I told you, I've already eaten.”

“How about a cocktail?” Francine said, “Matt, the doctor said—”

“Okay, honey, but the doc didn't say my guests couldn't drink. What are you guzzling these days Hank, gin and tonic, Scotch?”

“I could use a beer.”

“Splendid, I have some imported brew that's terrific Wilma?”

Wilma shook her head. Joel said, “Much too early for beer. I'll take a Scotch, please, Matt.”

Matt gave his wife a very tender smile. “Are you gassed-up for the day, yet, darling?”

“Don't be so goddamn smart, Matt. I don't want anything.”'

As Matt started for the kitchen Francine said, “Ring for May.”

“I'm not too old to fetch a drink for a buddy. And don't worry, honey, I really don't want a belt.” Once inside the kitchen Matt leaned against the door and listened. After a moment he heard Francine say, “Names stick in my mind—a lousy habit. Haven't you been in the papers recently, Prof. Brown?”

“Yes.”

“Divorced your wife?” Wilma Hunter asked.

“What? No, no, nothing like that I... uh... refused to sign a loyalty oath and was dismissed from Brooks. I also had the misfortune to do this on a day when there wasn't much news.”

Matt grinned at the sudden hush in the living room, broken somewhat when Francine said harshly, “Oh, yes!”

Joel asked, “Why didn't you sign the damn thing? I mean, what the hell, avoid all the... mess?”

“Well,” Hank said slowly, obviously not wanting to discuss it, “I felt it wasn't a question of loyalty at all, but rather an invasion of privacy. Also, it's rather complicated. If I had signed I probably would have been called upon to... perhaps... become a kind of informer. I couldn't do that.”

There was a long silence and then Joel Hunter suddenly came to life, as if hearing the conversation for the first time. He sat up straight, his red face full of worry. He said, “Oh, my!”

Matt, who was standing in the doorway holding a large glass of dark thick beer and a jigger of Scotch, said, “Don't jump, Joel, Hank isn't a leper.”

Francine actually glared at Matt, then calling the dog, she left the room. Matt said sternly, “Fran!” The Hunters remained for a moment, ill at ease, then Wilma said, “Come along, Joel, show me what you want typed.”

Joel nodded at Brown and as he passed Matt gave him a sickly grin. “Don't forget your goddamn drink!” Matt said, shoving the glass at him, spilling Scotch on Joel's smooth chest.

Matt handed Brown the beer, sat down opposite him. “The smug sonsofbitches. Why didn't you tell them off, champ?”

“Can one explain hysteria in a few sentences? You were wrong, Matt, I am a modern leper. To associate with me can mean blacklist, loss of employment. Really, Matt, I wish you'd drive me to the station. You know I didn't want to come here.”

“Don't worry about the damn train, we have time. Hell of a deal when you, of all people, can't feel at ease in my house. But don't mind Francine, she's the world's biggest bitch.”

Hank stared at him over the glass of beer.

“We've hated each other from the moment we got married. That's why we're so compatible.”

Brown looked puzzled, as Matt knew he would. After the tiny smile, Matt said, “Francine is right for me, she's a pusher and a worrier, and you know what an easy-going slob I am. Then we have great times in bed. We're a couple of sexual sadists and since we hate each other, well... we're fantastic between the sheets. Don't look so damn shocked, Hank, I'm only telling you what...”

“Matt, why tell me?”

“Oh, come now, champ. You know damn well every man is curious—even if only passively—about every woman's sex life. Christ, not you—you just can't have become a hypocritical old bastard. Man, when you see Wilma's big knockers, don't you wonder what she's doing with a fag like Joel? Admit it, Hank: could you take your eyes off that breastwork?”

Brown looked a bit sick as he said, “A man my age loses a great deal of that... eh... curiosity and... Matt, what's happened to you?”

Matt's smile opened into a laugh. “Nothing very much, champ, I'm a success. A big gassy success. I make money. Everything I write sells, my books are translated all over the world. Don't look down your busted nose at me, champ, because I write about sex and violence. In your old age, Hank, you're naive, real simple.”

“Thank you.”

“It's a fact, you still put a halo around the word 'writer.' Let a pro tell you about writing. It requires a great deal of research—for example, I know all there is to know about police work, detection. And everything I read or see must be translated into a gimmick for a crime plot. Those floods out West the other day—I may use them in a murder story. A month ago I happened to read that a cobra can only strike down, Hot up. That's been burning and turning over in my mind ever since. I've read up on it, even. A cobra can only strike down. I'll use that... some day. Oh, my mind is full of many such fascinating thoughts. Just as my relationship with Francine helps put sex in my books and... skip the vomit look, champ, I know it sounds rough, but I'm safe. I am. I'm safe because objectively and subjectively I'm one of the few writers in America who knows exactly what he's doing. Yes, sir!”

“Matt, what are you talking about?”

“Salvation!”

“What's all this mean?”

“That I don't kid myself. That's the secret—not to fool the fooler. It means all writing today is a series of compromises. It has to be or it will never reach print. Things are reduced to the degree you compromise. You can't be honest if you compromise. Yeah, they talk about the mediocrity of TV—as though compromise hasn't leveled all our culture, our lives. Your so-called serious writers, who think they're writing honestly, they're lying in their brains and don't realize it. Don't realize they have compromised, and begin believing the stuff they write is honest. They're lost.”

Matt pounded his fist into his other palm. “Of course, it's tougher today. Different in the old days—the good old days! At least then you could write honestly because everything was so new, even the publishers couldn't detect the truth. People are too smart today. 'Greatness' gives me a laugh. One major reason for Shakespeare's 'greatness' was the mass illiteracy, hence the worship of any printed word. London could write about Alaska, Twain about the West, Hemingway about war and the Paris of 1920, Faulkner and Caldwell about the South, Lewis about main street... and not many people knew if it was real or not. Today, as a result of the travel two wars have brought, radio, TV, paperbacks, greater education in general, people are smarter. There aren't any new frontiers—unless you write about pansys, and that will soon become too well known—to write about. So people know when a writer is compromising, faking. Education has made people tolerant in an unhealthy way: they're actually cynical and indifferent to whatever issues a writer tries to give. But above all, they damn well know when he's lying, or half-lying. Well, by God, I'm no fake, I never lie to my readers!”

“Honest Matt Anthony! By what rationalization do you picture yourself writing the truth?”

“Truth? That's the whole point, champ, I don't pretend to write the truth. I write crap fantasies—the modern fairy tale: two-fisted, gonadal whimsy. But I never fool my readers or myself. Once a writer fools himself he's lost. But not little Matt. Plain and simple, I'm a hack and I'm writing to make a big buck. I haven't any fuzzy notions I'm turning out literature; I don't worry whether my name will live two seconds after I die or not.”

Matt was staring at Brown, as if waiting for an answer, an argument. Brown sipped his beer. Matt asked, “Isn't that something? I get it by the case from Austria.”

“Very good.” Brown glanced at his wrist watch. “Matt, I simply must make that train. I should have taken the early one. I'm looking for a job and I'm to see somebody this afternoon who may be able to arrange for me to ghost several textbooks.”

“Relax, champ, I'll get you there. I might even drive you into New York. Don't worry about Francine or the Hunters being uncomfortable around you. I—”

“Matt, I'm the one that's uncomfortable. I must catch that train.”

“Okay, okay, Hank. Just don't worry. I can make the station in six minutes flat. Champ, I want you to come out and spend time here. I'll clean house of all jerks, ship Fran-cine to town for a shopping spree. Just the two of us to bull about old times.”

“Thanks, Matt, but Ruth is waiting for me in Chicago.”

“Relax, champ, you've had a tough time. You need a vacation, I have the house, the beach, the boats. Ruth would agree with me.”

“Let me see how my time turns out, Matt. I might have to remain East over the weekend. I'll call you.”

“Not this weekend. I'm having Gary Rawn, the screen star, and his current gal, down. What about the following weekend?”

“I'll see how things work out. If this job comes through, I may settle in New York, Matt, let me call you.”

Matt stood up, took a boxing stance. “Great seeing you, champ. You're a breath of clean air. So we have a date. Finish your beer. I'll see if Fran needs anything in the village, then drive you to the station.”

Francine was sitting on the rear steps, sipping rye and water. The poodle was busy worrying a lemon, which he thought was a ball. Joel Hunter was stretched out on a dull red lounge—two empty glasses on the floor—glancing at an English magazine. Wilma Hunter was sewing a bra strap. Before Matt could open his mouth, Francine sprang to her feet, told him, “I've been waiting for you to step out here. Matt, are you out of your goddamned mind? If the papers, the gossip columnists, ever found out you're entertaining a Fifth Amendment Red, or that you even knew him, why Hollywood would drop the option on Slug In The Gut and you'd be ruined as a writer!”

“No, my darling, not as a writer. What you mean to say is my sales might dip. Although I even doubt that. Hank is one of the oldest friends I have, and I certainly do not intend to let anybody tell me who my friends are to be.”

“I'm telling you, Matt Anthony!” Francine said. “Keep your gentle voice down, honey. Anybody is a noun that can be both male and female.”

“You might have the decency to think of Joel's career,” Francine said, stooping to pick up her drink. “Francine, my sweet, don't tempt me.”

“Seriously, Matt,” Wilma said, “Fran is right. We're not the martyr type, we—”

“Wilma,” Matt said, his eyes staring at her breasts, “will you please explain what sort of movement would make a bra snap? I'm dead serious. They're not like an arm, or even the hips, where there is a certain amount of movement, or muscular contraction. They lay in the bra like eggs waiting... waiting for what?” (Matt loved to shock people with his clever 'hot' talk. But actually he enjoyed it because deep in his mind, Matt himself was the one most shocked by his own bold words.)

“Stop it, Matt,” Wilma said. “This isn't a joke.”

“Do you think this professor fellow will ever mention meeting me?” Joel asked.

Matt smiled down at Joel, aware of the narrow shoulders —and how huge be must look in comparison to this runt. “Joel, what do you think he's rushing back to New York for? He wants to shout it from the top of the Empire State Building. Listen to me, all of you; maybe you don't agree with what the champ did, but that's no call for this display of Goddamn rude manners.” He turned to Francine. “You acted with all the taste of a two-bit whore stuck with a lead quarter.”

“You know what you can do, Mr. Sonofabitch. If your friend wants to get his rear kicked, fine. But don't bring him here so we all get the boot.”

“As usual, you're talking sheer nonsense, honey,” Matt said. “You'll be slobbering about witches and bogeymen next.” He paused to smile. “Matter of fact you should be grateful for the champ's courage. You see, if he wanted to save his job and name people, he could have very easily named me!”

Wilma stopped sewing. “Really, Matt?”

“You?” Francine blurted the word out. “Now I've heard everything!”

“Indeed, darling, little old me,” Matt said, his voice mocking them. “I know my dearest wife thinks of me only as a drunken dumb-ox so it may come as a shock to learn I didn't quit college to write—as a jacket blurb once stated. I was thrown out for being the only instructor backing a student anti-ROTC demonstration. I was the only teacher with guts. True, that was over 20 years ago, but mere mention of my name would still make headline reading now.”

They were silent for a moment, Matt enjoying things thoroughly. Then Wilma asked, “You were the only teacher? Where was the professor at the time?”

“He was lecturing at—”

Francine stormed over to Matt, her head barely reaching the bushy grey hair on his chest. “You damn fool! Did you lend him any money? You know how tight—”

“I told you to keep your sweet voice down. Hank refused money. But I am going to see if I can do something about finding the champ a job with Longson.”

“They'll love that! Just eat it up! Bill Long is after you to make good the money—” Francine noticed the Hunters straining their ears and stopped. She shouted up at Matt, “You'll have nothing more to do with him!”

“No? I've asked him out for a weekend. If the champ gets a job in New York, I shall certainly see him as often as possible.”

“Matt Anthony, that man is not coming into my house again!”

Matt laughed. “While it isn't your house, nor mine, but the bank's, I am still able to ask my friends here.”

“Matt, I've taken all I can stand from you. I won't see us broke because of some sentimental whim of yours.” Francine started around his big bulk. Matt grabbed her shoulders, asked, “Where are you going?”

“To settle this! To tell that... Red bastard to get the hell out of here!”

Matt squeezed her shoulder and Francine's face screwed up with pain. She tried to get away but Matt shook her hard, his face going paler than his stubble of gray-white whiskers. Matt told her, “Francine, honey, some things I'll take from you because it's a kind of game between us. But Hank Brown is one of the few real things in my life. Do you understand that? He's an isle of reality in this phony world. If you ever say a single out-of-the-way word to Hank, I'll kill you! I mean that.” He pushed her away, sending Francine sprawling against the wall, then walked out.

The poodle whined, Wilma sat there pop-eyed and Joel Hunter said, “My, aren't we melodramatic!”

Francine Anthony stepped away from the wall, rubbed her shoulder.

As they walked toward the roadster, Henry Brown asked, “Something wrong, Matt? You look sick.”

“Nothing. Another row with Francine—as you probably heard.”

“I didn't hear a thing. I'm sorry I caused any—”

“It really isn't about you, champ. She's such a scheming bitch. A silly doc claims my heart does a rumba now and then. Hell, I guess he knows his stuff but... it isn't anything serious. Francine keeps harping on it. Every time I take a drink, a swim, for Christsakes she looks ready to step aside so I won't fall on her when I drop dead.”

“Don't you think you should take it easy?”

“Look, champ, I carried a large policy but two years ago we were stony and I had to borrow to the hilt on it. I couldn't meet the payments and they had to cut down the insurance. Francine wouldn't mind my dying—if I had the full policy again. She's trying to get me reinstated. I guess I couldn't pass a new physical.”

“All those books, how could you be broke?” Brown asked, getting into the Jaguar.

“Don't talk like a hick, champ. Writers never make real money. In the last census the income of the average professional writer was substandard. In a way we're like pugs: a few writers are in the top brackets, a few more make a fair living—and most writers need a working wife to keep above water. Anyway, we were building this house that year.” Matt started the car, the motor purring with power. “Hank, we're really equipped for decent living here. When you come out I'll take you tuna fishing—I have a hell of a fine sea boat and... damn I never had a chance to show you the boat, the beach. This was some visit. When you come out we'll do nothing but fish and bull about the old gang. I won't do a drop of work, won't think about my damn cobra gimmick. We were all so full of purpose, so sure of life in those days. Sometimes I wonder if it wasn't all a kind of binge. Tell me, do you ever hear of Nick and old Pete? What's become of Hazel the pretty kid with the haunting eyes?”

They talked about 'old times' while waiting for the train, an awkward conversation since neither could recall much about any one person. Brown again refused a check, said he would phone about the weekend the moment he knew about his time. When the train pulled out, Matt drove down a deserted side road and parked. He ran around to the car trunk and eagerly opened a large cardboard carton—the real reason he'd gone to Hampton.

Through the mail, and under a pen name, he had ordered a complete skin-diving outfit: mask, fins, spear gun and two compact air tanks that fastened over the back. A month ago, after he had tried a friend's outfit, there had been a bitter fight with Francine over buying one. “That's all your heart needs!” she had said.

“Nonsense. I won't go down more than 50 feet. We'll buy two and both of us can explore the bay.”

“Forget it, Matt. Or better yet, let's call the doctor and have him tell us it's okay?”

Now Matt fingered the gadgets like a happy kid. He thought, It will be a cinch, hide it in the sail locker in the boat house, she never opens that. I'll only use it at night or when Fran is away. I can stay under for nearly an hour. My God, they're always talking about the British ships sunk here in 1776—-be something if I find them. Maybe treasure! Has anybody used skin diving as a plot gimmick yet? Must have been used.

When he reached the house Joel Hunter was sleeping on a beach mat on the front lawn, a shaker of cocktails sweating in the sun beside him. Wilma was dozing in a chair, a yellow scarf flung over her eyes. The dog was curled up in the shade of the chair. For a second Matt grinned down at Wilma, mentally taking off her bathing suit—as he had, in his mind, so many times before. Couple of years, he thought, she'll be a pot. But right now... mine for the asking. What the hell am I afraid of?

He walked on into the house, walking softly. Upstairs he heard May working. Quietly he walked to the veranda, opened a closet—Fran's tackle box was gone. Matt glanced at the pines which screened the view (and the wind) of the bay. He looked at his wrist watch and nodded to himself. Crossing the rear lawn, he opened the trunk of the Jaguar, and glancing around like a ham actor, took out the cardboard box, and headed through the pines toward the boat house.

He suddenly came up on Francine, walking toward the main house. She was wearing a floppy straw hat that they had bought in Haiti and an old Italian sports shirt over her bathing suit. She was holding her fishing gear. Matt asked with real annoyance, “Where did you come from?”

“I forgot my spinning reel and... what's in the box?”

“Nothing much. Tools, oarlocks... a few things I ordered last week,” Matt said, walking past her, shielding the box with his body.

“We don't need oarlocks. Come back here, Matt.”

He kept walking. She said, “You louse, you have a case of gin in there!” Francine turned to run after him. She fell over a root, and unable to break the fall because her hands were full of tackle, she cracked her head on a large rock imbedded at the side of the rough path. The big hat didn't even touch the rock but her skull and the stone made a dull sound.

Matt dropped the box, raced back to her. He said, “Honey, are...?” as he started to lift Francine, then let the body fall again. Her head hit the stone once more—hardly any sound this time—and Matt jumped back in horror: he knew she was dead.

Matt was dazed. He stared at the body and couldn't believe what he saw. He knelt beside her and felt the back of her neck. He massaged the pulse-less wrists, turned Francine over gently and started to put his hand under her bathing suit to feel for a heart beat, but the unseeing open eyes stopped him. She wasn't stunned or hurt, she was dead.

Matt was numbed, shocked, grief-stricken: he began to weep—a little. And under all these emotions there was another one pushing its way to the top of his mind—relief. For a second the tears came, and he seemed to be kneeling in prayer and crying. But the more he stared at her body, the stronger an entirely new thought grew—one which filled him with fear and horror. He mumbled half aloud, Joel would break under any kind of questioning and Wilma—she'd hold it over me the rest of my life. No, there's only one thing to do and I have to do it damn fast—make it look “Nobody will ever believe this was an accident! The Hunters heard me say I'd kill Francine a short time ago... 'She tripped and hit her head on a rock....' No, no, oh, my God no! I wouldn't believe that myself. I'm in a hell of a jam unless... unless what? Can I make the Hunters forget they heard me threaten her? more like an accident.”