Rumpelstiltskin

12

The jailer on the second floor of the building led the three of us to a steel door at the end of the corridor, lifted a ring of keys from his belt, and fitted a key that was color-coded red into the keyway. He twisted it and swung open the heavy door.

“This way, please,” Bloom said.

We walked parallel to a long row of iron bars, down a narrow corridor, made an abrupt right turn, and came into a cul-de-sac at the end of which was a pair of cells. Eddie Marshall was in the cell at the end of the hallway. The jailer used the same color-coded key to open the cell door. Mrs. Gibson hesitated.

“It’s all right,” I said, and the three of us entered the cell. The jailer locked the door behind us.

“Mr. Marshall,” Bloom said, “this is Mrs. Mary Gibson, she runs the Marjo Motel on the South Trail. I’d like you to...”

“What are you doing here?” Marshall asked me.

“He’s her attorney,” Bloom said. “I’d like you to hear what Mrs. Gibson has to say, but first I want to be sure you still understand what your rights are. Earlier today, before I talked to you, I told you that you had the right to remain silent, that you didn’t have to answer any questions, and that whatever you said could be used against you at a later time. Do you remember that?”

“I remember it,” Marshall said.

“Well, you’ve still got those same rights. Do you want an attorney now?”

“We’ve got one attorney too many right this minute,” Marshall said.

“Does that mean you don’t want an attorney?”

“If I can sign off whenever I want to, why would I need an attorney?”

“Yes or no, Mr. Marshall?”

“No.”

“Okay. I’m going to ask Mrs. Gibson some questions, and she’s going to give me some answers. I want you to listen carefully to what she says, because I’ll be asking you about it later on. Okay?”

“Sure,” Marshall said.

“Mrs. Gibson, do you recognize this man?”

“I do,” Mrs. Gibson said.

Her earlier qualms seemed to have vanished entirely. She stood directly in front of Marshall where he sat on the cell’s single, wall-fastened cot, looking him directly in the eye, as though challenging him to deny the truth of what she was saying.

“Is he someone who registered at the Marjo Motel?”

“He is.”

“Did he register under the name Edward Maresciallo?”

“That’s the name in my records.”

“And this is the man who registered under that name?”

“Yes, he’s the man.”

“Have you looked at your records recently, Mrs. Gibson?”

“I looked at them last night when you called me.”

“By me...”

“The police.”

“Can you tell me when Mr. Maresciallo... ?”

“Listen, that’s enough of this,” Marshall said.

“No one’s questioning you,” Bloom snapped. “You just sit tight and listen to this, okay?” He turned back to Mrs. Gibson. “Can you tell me when this man registered at your motel?”

“Yes, it was Friday night, January the eleventh.”

“Did he check in alone?”

“I don’t have to listen to...”

“Just keep your mouth shut, Marshall!” Bloom said. “No one’s violating your goddamn rights. Did he check in alone, Mrs. Gibson?”

“Yes, he did.”

“When did he check out?”

“Late last night.”

“What time would that have been?”

“Ten-thirty or thereabouts.”

“Now, Mrs. Gibson, during all that time Mr. Marshall was staying at your motel, did he remain alone?”

“I don’t want to hear any more of this,” Marshall said, and suddenly got to his feet.

“Sit down,” Bloom said.

“No, I don’t want to sit down! You’re a lawyer,” he said, turning to me, “tell him I want him to quit.”

“He’s not asking you for incriminating testimony,” I said. “He doesn’t have to...”

“No, then what the hell is it when he drags somebody in here and...”

“You’re not covered by law,” I said, “so forget it. If he wants to, he can ask you to submit to a blood or breathalyzer test, take your fingerprints or photograph you, put you in a lineup, ask you to put on a hat or a coat, put your finger to your nose, pick up coins, repeat in your own voice words he’s written on a piece of paper — and listen to what a witness has to say. The difference is between nontestimonial and testimonial responses. When he gets to you, you can refuse to answer any questions. But so far, he hasn’t gotten to you. I suggest you listen quietly, Mr. Marshall.”

He sat on the cot again, and in that instant I knew he was finished. There was something in his look of resignation, his entire body stance, that told me all the spirit had suddenly drained out of him, it was all over. He knew exactly what Mrs. Gibson was going to say next, knew that Bloom had him dead to rights, knew further that there was nothing more he could do about it, nothing more he could say in denial or rebuttal; this was the end of the long road that had begun in Valdosta, Georgia, eleven days ago — or perhaps even longer ago than that.

“Mrs. Gibson,” Bloom said, “did he remain alone all the time he was registered at the Marjo Motel?”

“No, he did not remain alone.”

“Can you... ?”

“All right,” Marshall said softly.

“Can you tell me who was there with him?”

“A little girl.”

“When did she join him, Mrs. Gibson?”

“On Sunday night, the thirteenth of January.”

“Can you describe... ?”

“All right,” he said again.

“Can you describe the girl to me?”

“She was about six or seven years old, with long black hair. She was wearing a granny nightgown, I saw him carrying her from the station wagon to the...”

“All right, goddamnit!” he shouted.

The cell went utterly still.

“Want to tell me about it?” Bloom asked.

“You know it all, the hell with it.”

“Tell me anyway,” he said, more gently this time.

“I killed them,” he said, and looked down at his hands. “I killed them both.”

“Let’s start from the beginning,” Bloom said.

The beginning had been a long time ago, back in New Orleans, when he’d taken the basic straw of Victoria Miller’s meager talent and turned it into the pure gold of three million-copy albums. In return she had graced him with her favors. As Victoria’s father had told me earlier, Eddie and she became lovers, a relationship that lasted until fame and the heady lure of Konig and his sophisticated friends convinced Vicky that he was the man she should marry. Marshall made love to her for what he thought would be the last time (and here Mrs. Gibson turned away from him and stared in embarrassment through the bars at the wall in the corridor outside) in a farewell assignation a month before her wedding to Konig. When she returned from her honeymoon, she called Marshall to say she was pregnant with his child.

“Your child?” Bloom said.

“Mine.”

“Mr. Marshall...”

“My baby. She was married to Tony, but this was a week after the wedding, the baby was mine — from the last time we’d been together. And she killed it. She pushed so hard on that album, the last album, knew she was pregnant but worked herself like a dog, anyway. That was what caused the miscarriage, her working so hard, driving everyone so hard. She killed my baby.”

He left New Orleans shortly after Vicky’s retirement and the dissolution of Wheat, taking a job with a small record company in Nashville (“I was an industry giant, working for a firm with a list of midgets”), and when the company collapsed finally managed to get himself a job as a disc jockey in Georgia. In 1973, five years after he’d last seen her, he went back to New Orleans for a visit. She was still married to Konig, but the marriage was in serious trouble and when she came to see Marshall at the Royal Sonesta, where he was staying, she told him she hadn’t had sex with her husband in months. Inevitably, she and Marshall made love again. And inevitably, or so it seemed to him now, she got pregnant again. Two months after they were together for the last time, she called to tell him the news and to announce that the child was without question his.

“She promised me she wouldn’t lose this one, she’d take good care of it forever and make sure nothing happened to it. I got a birth announcement when Allison was born. Allison Mercy Konig, the card read. Konig. My daughter — with Konig’s name.”

After that there was silence — except for the Christmas cards each and every year with the little handwritten notes telling Marshall how the daughter he’d never seen was coming along. And then, this past Christmas, a card with a note saying she was going back into the business again, and would be opening a singing engagement at the Greenery on the eleventh of January. He called her on New Year’s Eve. He was drunk. Little Allie answered the phone. There must have been a party going on, he could hear a lot of noise in the background, could hear his daughter yelling to her mother that there was a “Mr. Marshall” on the phone. Mr. Marshall. His daughter, and she was calling him Mr. Marshall. Vicky sounded drunk, too. He told her she’d promised him she’d take care of their little girl forever, make sure nothing ever happened to her the way it happened to the first one and she just laughed and said she’d have plenty of money soon, she’d be able to hire a dozen governesses to take care of Allie, he had nothing to worry about. He didn’t know what she meant. How did she plan on making any money singing in public when she had a voice like a flat tire? He told her she’d better not do it. He warned her. She told him to go to hell, and hung up. He was sitting in a chair near the dresser in the room he was renting. He yanked the phone out of the wall and threw it at the mirror over the dresser, smashing it.

On the eleventh of January, the day of Vicky’s opening, he drove down to Calusa from Valdosta, Georgia. He hadn’t planned to kill her. He planned only to talk to her, reason with her. When he got down here that Friday night, he went to see her. This was just before the opening, he begged her not to go through with it, begged her to take care of their baby the way she’d promised. She told him Allie wasn’t a baby anymore, Allie was already six years old, and besides she’d be coming into a lot of money very soon, and he didn’t need to worry. He asked her what money, and she said the trust. He didn’t know anything about a trust, he thought she was lying, thought she was still planning on making millions singing again, the way she had back in the sixties. He warned her again. He told her not to go ahead with it, or he’d come take the baby from her as sure as he was standing there. She said he’d better get out of the house before she called the police. He left without even seeing his own daughter. She was staying at a friend’s house that night, sleeping over, so Vicky could get ready for her goddamn opening!

“It was happening already,” Marshall said. “She was already neglecting Allie for her dumb career!” He shook his head, and suddenly he began weeping. Mrs. Gibson, startled by the sound, turned from the bars to look at him. An expression of pity crossed her face. She stood watching him as though wanting to take him in her arms and comfort him. Bloom waited. Marshall took a handkerchief from the back pocket of the dark blue prison trousers. He blew his nose. He dried his eyes. He sighed heavily, and blew his nose again, and then shook his head and said, “I... I still... still didn’t plan to kill her. All I wanted was my daughter. I only planned to take my daughter. That’s why I registered under my old name, I guess. Because I planned to take my daughter from her. And then only if I couldn’t talk her into giving up this... this dumb move she’d made. I mean, she’d got that bad review in the paper on Saturday, she had to know it was a lost cause. On Sunday I... I called her at about ten to eight, I figured she’d still be at the house, I’d catch her before she left for the lounge. But she’d already gone, I talked to a baby-sitter instead. It was beginning, you see, she was leaving my daughter with a sitter while... while she...” He shook his head again. He had begun wringing his hands. Mrs. Gibson was watching him, unable to take her eyes from his face.

“I called again at about ten-thirty, figuring she’d come straight home after the show ended. It ended at ten, you know, I figured she’d go straight home to Allie, but no, the goddamn sitter again! And then I called at about a quarter past eleven it must’ve been, and this time I asked the sitter to tell Vicky I’d be stopping by to collect. I was parked up the street when she got home at about eleven-thirty, I guess it was. I watched her go inside the house, and then come out again to where Mr. Hope here was waiting in his car. I saw both of them go in the house together. I... I waited till he was gone, he left about three-thirty in the morning. There was only one light on in the house, I guessed she’d fallen asleep with the bedroom light on. I found a sliding door unlocked at the back of the house, and I went in. She was naked in bed. A light was burning on the table alongside the bed. I woke her up and told her I was taking Allie home with me. She... she went for the phone right away, and I shoved her away from it, and she... she started screaming... and... and hitting at me with her fists and I... I just... just lost my temper, I guess. I started pushing back at her, just trying to keep her away from me, you know, and then... punching her, I guess, and then I... I don’t remember, I guess I... I banged her head against the tile floor until she was... I guessed she was... dead.”

He looked down at his hands. A shiver shook his body. He kept looking at his hands. I was surprised to see tears running down Mrs. Gibson’s cheeks. Bloom waited for a moment, and then very gently said, “What about your daughter, Mr. Marshall?”

“God,” he said.

“Will you tell me about her now?”

“God,” he said, “God,” and began wringing his hands again, and then abruptly brought them to his face, and buried his face in them, and spoke through his hands, hiding his face, his voice muffled. “I took her to that motel, I knew they were looking for her, they thought I’d kidnapped her, my own daughter! I couldn’t move, I couldn’t chance having her seen, she was still wearing the nightgown she’d had on Sunday night, when I took her from the house, I didn’t know whether to go out and buy her some clothes, I didn’t know what to do. When I went to the funeral last Wednesday, I had to leave her tied up in the room, tied and gagged, my own daughter! I just didn’t know what to do.”

“Why’d you go to the funeral?” Bloom asked.

“I figured if I was there, I mean if I was there expressing my grief, then nobody’d know I did it, nobody’d suspect me, you know what I mean? And then, when I talked to Mr. Hope, I found out he knew about those phone calls I’d made, and if he knew, then the police had to know, too, am I right? So I had to get out of Calusa, I had to take Allie someplace far away from Calusa. But I didn’t know where. I couldn’t go back to Georgia with her, I just didn’t know. I mean, the job in Georgia is nothing, I wouldn’t have cared about leaving it, but I didn’t know where to go. I mean, how could I get a job anyplace, take my daughter anyplace when the whole damn world was looking for her?”

He kept his face buried in his hands. It was difficult hearing him. Bloom had moved closer to him. I was standing alongside Mrs. Gibson, who took a surprisingly delicate lace-edged handkerchief from her pocketbook, and dabbed at her eyes with it, and then put the handkerchief back in the bag, and closed the bag. The brittle snap of the catch sounded like a gunshot in the small cell.

“It was... it was Fri... it was Friday night when I decided I’d have to make a run for it. Go down to the Keys with her, rent a boat there, take her out on the water till I figured out my next move. I told her we were leaving. I’d brought some fruit back from the market, and some cheese, and a bottle of wine, and we were having supper in the room when I told her we’d be leaving in the morning. We’d be going out on a boat, I told her, did she like boats? She said she didn’t want to go out on a boat with me, she wanted to go home to her mother. I told her... I said your mother is dead, darlin. And then, for the first time since I’d taken her from the house, I... I told her who I was. I said, ‘I’m your daddy, I’ll take good care of you, don’t worry.’ And she looked at me, I was peeling an orange, I had this knife I kept in the wagon for whenever I went fishing, I... I was peeling an orange with it, for her, the orange was for her, and she looked at me and said, ‘You’re not my daddy, Tony Konig is my daddy,’ and got up and ran for the door. I caught her before she could unlock the door, I yanked her back by her hair, and I... she was struggling to get away, I had the knife in my hand, I... I just... I guess I... lost my temper again, her saying Tony was her daddy, damnit, I was her daddy! So I... I guess I... I used the knife. I guess I... slit her throat.”

“All right, Mr. Marshall,” Bloom said.

“I guess I killed her.”

“All right,” Bloom said.

“I’m sorry,” Marshall said.

In the reception area upstairs Mrs. Gibson apologized for not having been more alert during Marshall’s stay at the motel. She’d seen him bringing the girl in, she’d seen pictures of the missing girl in the papers and on television, but she’d never once made any connection. Bloom assured her she wasn’t at fault, thanked her for her cooperation, and then arranged for a police officer to drive her back home. It was almost six-thirty. The office seemed surprisingly still. Bloom was worried that Marshall’s confession might be inadmissible because he’d made it in the presence of Mrs. Gibson and me. I told him I saw no reason for any objections on those grounds, but he still seemed worried about it, and said he wanted to check with the State’s Attorney right away.

“They always have their reasons, don’t they?” he said, and shook his head sadly. “Remember what I told you that time? They always have their reasons, Matthew. It’s only in the movies that guys commit murder for the money in a goddamn trust. In real life it’s things like husbands and wives and daughters.” He shook his head again. “Killed two people and wrecked his own life. How does that happen to somebody, Matthew? Man who used to be a giant in his profession.”

“He was a dwarf inside,” I said.

I phoned Joanna the moment I got home. I wanted to hear her voice. I wanted to hear her call me “Daddy.” She told me she had talked to Andrew the Cruel just a little while ago and had told him she didn’t want to go steady with him, and in fact wasn’t even sure she wanted to see him again. She had called him Andrew the Cruel, I noticed with some satisfaction.

“So that’s that, I guess,” she said.

“Are you sure it’s what you want to do?” I asked.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure,” she said. “Dad,” she said, “thanks, I mean it.”

“I love you,” I said.

“I love you, too, Daddy,” she said.

I put the receiver gently onto the cradle and sat looking at the phone for several moments. I felt like crying. I sat very still for what seemed a long time, and then I picked up the receiver again and dialed Dale’s number.