Death Spins the Platter

16

The thin, bald, keen-eyed man seated in the front row was called to the stand and identified himself as Dr. Maxwell Swart, chief of the medical division of the coroner’s office. Stripped of its medical terminology, Dr. Swart’s testimony peeled down to what Layton already knew: the blade of an ice pick had penetrated the deceased’s heart, causing immediate death; the angle of the wound was such that it could have been self-inflicted; there were no bruises, contusions, or other wounds on the body that might have indicated a struggle.

The police lab man, Lewis Mason, described his and his coworker’s findings in room 1, where the body had been discovered, and in room 2, the disc jockey’s dressing room. There had been no detectable sign of a struggle in either room. There Had been no clues, of any nature, to indicate the presence of a second person in room 1 with the deceased, and no indication that King might have suffered the fatal stab-wound in room 2 and been dragged across the corridor to room 1. Shown a tagged ice pick by Cabot, Mason identified it as the ice pick he had found imbedded in King’s chest.

“Were you able to trace this ice pick, Mr. Mason?”

“No, sir. It’s of a very common type, sold by the thousands all over the country.”

“Did you find fingerprints on the ice pick?”

“Yes, sir. Four, which we identified as coming from the right hand of the deceased.”

“Which four, Mr. Mason?”

“All but the thumb.”

“Were you able to establish whether deceased was right-handed or left-handed?”

“He was right-handed. Millions of TV viewers can testify to that from having watched him perform on his show for five years. We have affidavits to the same effect from numerous persons connected with Station KZZX who were in daily contact with him, and from Mrs. King.”

“Was the position of deceased’s four fingerprints on the ice pick handle compatible with, let us say, his having grasped the ice pick firmly to stab himself?”

“Yes, sir. The thumbprint was not laid down, of course, because in grasping the handle the thumb would overlap the fingers.”

“One thing more, Mr. Mason,” young Cabot murmured. “Was there any indication on the ice pick, identifiable or not, of a print or prints not belonging to the deceased?”

“No, sir.”

The photographer took the witness chair. He identified the photographs he had snapped of King’s body and of the two dressing rooms. Prints of these photographs were handed around to the jury.

Layton was called. Prepared as he was for the predetermined course of the inquest, he was nevertheless surprised at the brevity of his questioning. Before he had time to adjust to the witness chair, it seemed to him, he was told to step down.

Hathaway, Stander, and Lola Arkwright received equally perfunctory treatment. Like Layton, they were merely asked to describe what they had done and seen during the news-break interval. In the redhead’s case, Cabot asked two further questions.

“As Mr. King’s assistant, Miss Arkwright,” the young man from the D.A.’s office said, “you were very close to him from the time he reached the station on the day of his death, not to mention at other times?” Was there the faintest sardonic note in Cabot’s murmur? Layton saw Lola flush; she had caught it, too. And he heard Nancy’s almost inaudible sniff of contempt.

“Yes,” Lola said defiantly.

“Did you notice anything strange in Mr. King’s conduct that day?”

“Yes. He was nervous and jumpy. He put on a good act for other people, but he couldn’t fool me.”

“Nervous and jumpy,” Cabot said. “That’s all, Miss Arkwright.”

He called Nancy King. After asking her the same preliminary questions about her movements during the newscast, he said, “Mrs. King, how did your husband take the cancellation of his TV contract by Station KZZX?”

“He was very upset,” Nancy said in a low voice. “It meant that he was through on the air — at least, he thought it did.”

“Would you describe his mental condition as depressed?”

She took a moment to think. “Bitter would be a better description. Bitter and angry.”

The coroner interrupted. “You undoubtedly knew your husband better than anyone else, Mrs. King. Would you say he was high-strung, temperamental, given to sudden changes of mood?”

“Not any more than you’d expect from a popular performer. He had to be onstage a lot, as they say in show business, and that kind of life can be wearing.” Nancy’s glance went for a flick of time to the second row of the witness section. “But I would definitely not call my husband nervous and jumpy. At most times he was easy-going and good-natured.”

The redhead’s thin lips became thinner. Layton was furious. He could only imagine what the silent battle Nancy was compelled to wage in public with the woman she despised was costing her.

“Mrs. King,” the coroner said, a little testily, “did your husband ever threaten to commit suicide?”

“Never,” Nancy said firmly.

“Not even when he thought his career was finished?”

“No, sir. I still can’t believe my husband took his own life. He had too much to live for, career or no career.”

“Then it’s your opinion, Mrs. King, that he did not commit suicide?” The coroner sounded positively unhappy.

“I don’t know what to think.” Her distress was beginning to show through. “I suppose anyone’s capable of such a thing, at some crisis in life... I just don’t know.”

“Thank you, Mrs. King,” young Cabot said hastily at the coroner’s surreptitious nod. “You may step down.”

Nancy was the last witness.

The coroner gave his formal instructions to the jury, and they filed out to consider their verdict.

Their deliberations lasted six minutes. They brought in a verdict of suicide.

When Layton returned to the courtroom from phoning the Bulletin, he had to step aside to allow Hubert Stander and Lola Arkwright to pass. Hathaway was just behind them. Neither Stander nor the red-haired girl so much as glanced his way. But George Hathaway muttered, “Thank you, thank you, Layton,” as he went by.

Nancy was still seated in the witness section, her eyes closed. They opened at Layton’s step.

“Don’t disillusion me, let me dream,” Layton said lightly. “You were waiting for me.”

“As a matter of fact, yes.” She sounded very tired. “Did you drop your car off this morning to be fixed?”

“I did.”

“I’ll drive you wherever you say. It’s the least I can do for all the chauffeuring you’ve done for me.”

“You bet it is! I’d like to have a word with Trimble first, though. Mind waiting a few minutes, Nancy?”

She smiled the faintest, most pathetic smile. “Of course not, Jim. I’ve spent my life waiting... it seems.”

Layton said gruffly, “Well, that’s all over!” and strode over to the table where Arthur Cabot was still sitting, talking to Sergeant Trimble.

“Thanks for keeping my promise to Hathaway,” Layton said to the scarred detective.

Trimble grunted. “What the hell! He’s got troubles enough with that bitch who’s suing him for divorce.”

“You weren’t as considerate of Stander.”

“Stander,” Trimble said, “I don’t like.”

“You had your hooks into him over that ice pick. What happened?”

The detective grinned wryly. “He’s got a lawyer who ought to be in my job, that’s what happened. I sure got chewed out.”

“What do you mean?”

“We take Stander downtown and this legal eagle hears what we’ve got. He says, ‘Let’s go back to Mr. Stander’s house.’ We go back, and he asks Mrs. Stander one question — what did she do with the ice pick? You know, he hit it on the head? She hefted that behind of hers up to her bedroom, opened a drawer of her vanity, and there it was. She’d borrowed it from the tool drawer in the kitchen to punch a hole in a belt — a new hole, naturally! — and didn’t bother to put it back. Bam.”

Layton shook his head. With the Stander ice pick found, there was no legal evidence against him sufficient to warrant an indictment. No wonder they had rushed through the inquest.

“At that, you went easy on him,” Layton said. “You didn’t even mention his shacking up with the redhead.”

“Give the old devil his due,” the sergeant said dryly. “I had a long session with both of them. Stander wouldn’t have swatted a fly because of her. He has a yen for her, sure. But murder?” Trimble shook his head.

“You’re convinced, Mr. Cabot, you got a proper verdict?”

The assistant district attorney said stiffly, “If we hadn’t been, we wouldn’t have settled for it.” He seemed to feel the need to add, “To press a murder charge, a D.A. has to have evidence to bring into court. You know that, Layton. In this case, legally speaking, there just isn’t any. So what difference does it make?”

“There are thousands of murderers walking around without a care in the world,” the glass-eyed detective said with a shrug, “for the same reason. So long, Layton.”

“So long,” Layton said.

They were right. Society put a premium not on guilt but on proof. Trimble, Cabot the Coroner, the D.A. — they could only obey the rules. Tutter King had been murdered, but for practical purposes he might just as well have committed suicide. The decision of the coroner’s jury was merely an exercise in reality.

That’s exactly what’s wrong with it, Layton thought. Not legally wrong, but wrong.

But then Layton was an honest man.

Nancy had managed to find a parking place near the Hall of Justice.

“This was Tutter’s,” she said, stopping at a sleek white Jaguar. “I usually drive the station wagon, but I always have trouble parking it downtown — I’m an awful driver. Maybe you oughtn’t to trust yourself with me. Or would you like to drive?”

The thought of touching the wheel that had been grasped so many times by Tutter King’s hands was unpleasant. “I’ll take a chance,” Layton said. “How about some lunch? I could eat a horse, hoofs and all.”

He liked the way she promptly said, “All right, Jim,” and slipped behind the Wheel, indifferent to who might be watching. It had been different last night! Layton went around the Jaguar and got in beside her. “Where do we go?” she asked.

“Ling’s. Ever been there?”

“No.”

“It’s only a few blocks from here, in old Chinatown.”

They were sitting in one of the candlelit booths, protected by beaded curtains and sipping the pungent Chinese tea, when Nancy suddenly said, “I like this, Jim. It’s restful... intimate.”

“That’s why I suggested it,” Layton said.

Her lashes drooped. “Jim,” she said. “Not today. Not now:”

So she knew. Layton’s heart began to hammer away.

They ate in silence. When Nancy set her fork down with a little sigh of repletion, he lit two cigarettes and put one between her lips and the other between his.

“What did you think of the verdict, Nancy?”

“I don’t want to think about it,” she said slowly. “The nightmare is over, that’s all.” Then she smiled and tapped her cigarette ashes into the ash tray. “You’ve been so good for me, Jim. I don’t know how I’d have gone through all this without you.”

He knew she meant it, and he knew she had not intended it as an opening. “Made any decisions yet? Like where you’re going to live, and so on?”

“I’ll stay where I am for a while, anyway. Eventually, I suppose, I’ll sell the house and take an apartment in town.”

Layton picked up his teacup. “Any idea yet how Tutter was fixed? I mean, how he left you?”

“Tutter’s lawyer says I don’t have anything to worry about. I won’t know the details of the will till after the funeral.” She tamped out her cigarette. “I think, Jim, I’d like to go.”

“Sure.”

She drove him to Joe’s. The new windshield had been installed.

“We picked it up secondhand for forty bucks,” Joe said. “Plus twelve-fifty for labor, and I put in new wiper blades. This be a charge, Mr. Layton?”

“Who carries all that cash?” Layton grinned. “Thanks, Joe.”

“I still think you’re nuts,” Joe said.

When he had walked back to the Jaguar Layton said, “The buggy’s all set, Nancy. You’re a doll to have waited.”

“Will you be at the funeral?”

“My editor told me to cover it. Sort of a wrap-up.”

Nancy King bit her lip. He had to force himself to look away. What a rotten thing to have said to her, he thought. And he thought, Those lips of hers.

“I’m sorry, Nancy. I don’t want the assignment. I want to forget Tutter King. I want to forget you were ever Tutter King’s wife. I want...” It poured out in spite of him.

“Jim, Jim,” she said, in a kind of pain. For a moment he caught a glimpse of the old fear in her eyes, the fear he had seen the instant he spotted her in King’s studio. “I know what you want. I know.” Her gloved hand on his felt like a branding iron.

“And what do you want?” Layton asked roughtly.

“I can’t... I mustn’t... tell you.”

“You’ve told me!” Great joy flooded him. “Nancy, let me come with you. I want to touch you, hold you, spend all night just looking at you—”

She threw him a wild, tender, confused smile and stepped on the gas. But she had to stop for some passing traffic before she could pull out into the street, and he stood there like a yokel, the carbon of the charge slip fluttering unnoticed from his fingers, gaping at her profile. That exquisite profile. Caught in a cameo moment...

Cameos yet.

Layton came to himself.

There was no way out.

He was finally, irrevocably, painfully, ecstatically in love.