The D.A. Breaks a Seal

15

Selby spent the morning with Rex Brandon. The sheriff, with painstaking patience, sat at the telephone, trying to pick up loose threads by tireless attention to detail. No automobile of the type driven by Elmer D. Floris had been registered in the state to any party of that name. A thorough search of Flora Vista disclosed that no one by the name of Floris had registered at any of the rooming houses or hotels after Floris had abruptly left the Palace Hotel, nor had any outgoing bus carried a passenger who answered Floris’ description. The police reported they had made prompt inquiries following Brandon’s telephone call. It was, of course, quite possible that those inquiries had been made in the halfhearted manner of someone performing a routine task.

Brandon had, however, put in the morning supplementing those police inquiries with a more careful checkup. His results had been absolutely nil.

Carl Gifford had been in shortly before noon. His manner radiated assurance. Henry L. Farley had been charged with first degree murder and A. B. Carr was going to represent him. Because Carr was tied up in court in a will-contest case, it was stipulated that a preliminary hearing could be had the following afternoon after court had adjourned. Carr had given Gifford his unofficial assurance that he would make no attempt to get Farley released on the preliminary examination. The evidence, the old criminal lawyer had reluctantly conceded, was sufficient to cause any unbiased magistrate to bind Farley over for trial. And, that being the case, Carr would consent to make the preliminary hearing a mere matter of form, although Carr continued to protest the innocence of his client.

Brandon had displayed some uneasiness. “I’m sort of figuring where that leaves us,” he had explained when Gifford had questioned his lack of enthusiasm.

“Leaves us right on top of the heap,” Gifford had said. “We have such an open-and-shut case against the man that Carr can’t put on any fight.”

“On the other hand,” Brandon suggested, “it puts us in the position of having one particular bear by the tail. If we ever have to let go, we’re going to have a hard time finding a place to light.”

“We aren’t going to have to let go.”

“Well, you can’t ever tell. Seems to me we’re jumping at a lot of conclusions here. The fact that old A. B. Carr walks into court tomorrow afternoon and just goes through the motions, then lets the Judge bind Farley over, means that we’re definitely committed to try Farley for the murder.”

“Well, why not?”

“Because we haven’t got enough evidence to convict him.”

“We will have by the time we get to trial,” Gifford declared confidently. “We’ll pick up more evidence here and there. We’ll show motive and opportunity. We’ll show the means of death and then bring the poison home to Farley. I don’t know what more you’ll want than that.”

“Suppose we don’t pick up any additional evidence?” the sheriff had insisted doggedly.

“We will.”

“I’m not so certain. Looks to me as though Carr is kind of rushing us into something here. We get suspicious of Farley. We ask him a few questions and he acts as though we were trying to give him a third degree and telephones for Carr. Carr comes in with an explanation that really doesn’t explain, and then goes and gets a writ of habeas corpus. Then we uncover some other evidence which, when you come right down to it, is the only real evidence we’ve got, and we file a murder charge and Carr says carelessly, ‘Oh, yes, I’m trying another case. We’ll just go through the motions of a preliminary hearing and bind this man over.’ Sort of looks to me as though Carr had set in the background but forced us to pick on this man Farley for the murder. And it just may be that that’s exactly what Carr wants. Once we’ve picked Farley as our choice we’re going to have a heck of a time backing up and trying to pin the thing on somebody else.”

Gifford flushed, swung around to face Selby, started to say something, then changed his mind.

Brandon had interpreted the expression on Gifford’s face. “Of course, I don’t know any law, I just know a little bit about how foxy old A. B. Carr is. I’m giving you just my opinion.”

“Yours and who else’s?” Gifford asked sarcastically.

Brandon got to his feet. “Nobody’s.”

Gifford turned on his heel, paused at the door of the office to fling over his shoulder, “Suppose you come down to earth, and start working on Roff and Farley. Check into their backgrounds and you’ll find they have some connection. Put your effort in on digging out a motive and you’ll find one. You get the evidence, and I’ll present it and secure a conviction.” Gifford went out slamming the door angrily behind him.

Selby, feeling like a man who had been put out of his own house, waited for another ten or fifteen minutes, smoking silently, listening to the sheriff’s telephone conversations. Then, making his departure elaborately casual, Selby said, “Well, guess I’ll get a bite of lunch and look in on the trial of that will-contest case and see how it’s coming along.”

Selby’s manner hadn’t deceived the old sheriff. “I got more confidence in you, son, than all the rest of these other fellows put together,” Brandon had blurted. “I’m running this office. Don’t you let anybody say anything that hurts your feelings or causes you to get out. You stick right around here. We’ll work on this case together. That is, as much time as you’ve got to spare.”

Selby smiled. “Thanks, Rex, but I have a few things to attend to and there’s not much good I can do here. I was up most of the night and think I’ll celebrate my freedom from responsibility by a siesta.”

Selby resolutely refrained from calling Sylvia Martin when he awakened about three in the afternoon. He strolled into court about half-past three.

Judge Fairbanks was presiding over the trial with an air of grave impartiality. A jury had already been selected and evidence was being put on. Old A. B. Carr had apparently finished with his preliminary proofs and was standing, tall and graceful, his finely chiseled face and wavy gray hair giving him the dignified appearance of a courtroom aristocrat.

W. Barclay Stanton was standing in the middle of the courtroom floor, his deep voice booming out fatiguing platitudes, while the jurors regarded him with a certain detached curiosity.

Inez Stapleton sat at the counsel table, her fingers impatiently twisting and twirling at a pencil. Mrs. Honcutt was seated at the right of Inez, her face turned from the jury.

Over behind old A. B. Carr, sat a young woman whom, at first, Selby failed to recognize. Only as he made a second appraisal did he realize that this demure, plainly dressed young woman who sat with downcast eyes, her hair combed severely back from her forehead, was the glamorous Anita Eldon whom Selby and Sylvia Martin had studied in the restaurant the day before.

Court took a ten-minute adjournment while Selby was sizing up the situation, and amid the hubbub of low-pitched voices and the shuffling steps of spectators filing out of the courtroom, Selby heard Inez Stapleton’s voice calling his name.

He crossed over to the corner of the courtroom where she was standing in a little space that at the moment was clear of spectators.

“Oh, Doug,” she said, laughing nervously, “it’s absolutely ghastly.”

“What is?”

“Do you see what he’s done with that woman? He’s worked over her as a master director would work over a skillful actress, and he’s certainly drilled her in the part she’s to play. She’s the most demure, sweet little thing, and her clothes look so simple! But don’t worry that she hasn’t got on nylon stockings and she’s learned a trick of always holding her toe down when she has her knees crossed so that it gives the jurors just the right perspective on her legs. Not too much you know. She’s too demure and modest to know anything about cheesecake! So sweet, and so incapable of coping with the big, bad world, now that Mother is dead. And you should see old Alfonse B. Carr when he walks over to confer with her. He bends down as deferentially as though he were looking at some fragile flower of rare beauty, and she raises her eyes so trustingly at him and smiles so warmly, and shakes her head. A perfect pantomime of a lawyer asking his client a question, his fatherly solicitude indicating his belief that she embodies all that is just and good and right in the world, and she looks up at him with that trusting expression and then shakes her head, as though to tell him she can’t cope with all this sordid commercialism of these dreadful people on the other side, and he’ll just have to use his judgment. And Carr reassuringly pats her hand and — it’s a perfect pantomime of saying, ‘Don’t worry, dear, this jury won’t let the big, bad man steal your money.’ Damn him, I suppose he’s been rehearsing her in that the whole morning.”

“And probably a good part of the night, to boot,” Selby said. “Don’t ever underestimate Carr or his courtroom technique. While you were digging away in law books trying to find some legal doctrine that would be of some help, old A. B. Carr was picking out clothes for his client, and probably rehearsing that touching little scene a couple of hundred times. He’ll think of a new one tonight and there’ll be a fresh tableau for the jurors in the morning. How’s W. Barclay Stanton doing?”

“He’s doing plenty,” she said. “You can’t head the old walrus off. He’s belching words all over the courtroom. Standing up with what he thinks is his chest pushed way out in front and proclaiming unctuous platitudes in the oratorical voice of a rural spellbinder. Just watch the jurors. They look at him for a while as though they were looking at some new sort of animal in a cage and then just when Stanton is making some point, Carr will walk over to his client and bend over her with that air of tender solicitude, and every eye in the courtroom will follow him. Stanton can’t hold their attention when that happens. It’s a perfect spiritual strip-tease. Damn the man, I hate him.”

“Hating him isn’t going to do your client any good,” Selby said. “You’re going to have to sell your client to that jury. You’ve got her in the wrong place. She’s sitting so she faces you and her back is half turned to the jury. Put her around where W. Barclay Stanton is sitting and let the jury look at her placid countenance. Let them see her smile once in a while. Let her put her hand on your arm in a motherly way, and...”

“Bunk!” Inez interrupted. “Do you think W. Barclay Stanton would move from that chair? I tried to explain to him that it would be better to have my client sitting over on that side of us. He says that he wants to be where the jury can watch his face. His face my foot! I could brain the man if I had a club and there was anything in his head to work on.”

Selby laughed, then instantly became serious. “Understand you wouldn’t answer a question the sheriff asked you last night, Inez.”

Instantly her face became wooden. “I couldn’t give him the answer he wanted to the question he asked.”

“You had a telephone conversation with Fred Albion Roff?”

“Are you asking for yourself, Doug, for Rex, or... or for the Madison City Clarion?”

Selby said thoughtfully, “I’m asking for you, Inez.”

“Just what do you mean?”

“I want to give you a chance to get into the clear.”

“And if you knew the answer, I suppose you’d tell your friend, Rex Brandon?”

“Perhaps.”

“And Sylvia Martin?”

“I don’t know.”

“If you didn’t, Rex would.”

“Perhaps.”

“No comment,” Inez said truculently.

“You know,” Selby told her, “this is a murder case and time is an important element in getting the facts straightened out.”

“I understand.”

“In order to solve questions such as motive and things like that, it’s necessary to find out a great deal about a man’s background.”

“I suppose so.”

“And, there’s just a chance — a very good chance that Fred Albion Roff’s presence in Madison City was connected in some way with this will-contest case.”

“No comment.”

“That isn’t going to help you any, Inez.”

“Thank you, I don’t need help,” she said acidly.

“I think that you do.”

“I’d prefer to get licked standing on my own two feet than win by having Sylvia Martin go running around digging up evidence for me.”

“Perhaps you can dig up evidence for yourself.”

“Or have myself go running around digging up a story for her.”

“Why so bitter against her, Inez?”

“I’m not.”

“You sound like it.”

She said, “Use you head, Doug. She’s simply using you as a stalking horse to try and get a story.”

“I haven’t seen her since...”

“Since when?”

“Since three o’clock this morning.”

“Your evenings,” Inez said coldly, “seem to be very well occupied.”

Before Selby could reply, Judge Fairbanks emerged from chambers, nodded to the spectators to be seated, glanced over to make certain the jurors were in their places and looked down at W. Barclay Stanton. “You have finished your opening statement, Counselor?”

“I have hardly started, your Honor,” Stanton said, and twisted his lips in a smile as he waited for the laughter that he seemed to feel his wit merited.

Judge Fairbanks’ tone was calmly impersonal. “Proceed, then.”

Stanton looked at the unsmiling jury. Instantly, his tone assumed the orotund cadences of an orator who knows that he holds an audience which is unable to escape just as a scientist holds an impaled butterfly on a stout pin.

“And so, Ladies and Gentlemen,” he boomed, “we come to a consideration of the sinister machinations of Martha Otley, the shrewd, designing adventuress, the scheming, unscrupulous, mercenary Judas, who masqueraded as the faithful employee, all the while she poisoned the mind of the testatrix with a long string of fabricated falsehoods that...”

“Just a moment, your Honor.”

Alfonse Baker Carr’s voice had the reproachful quality of the man who rebukes one who has committed sacrilege within the sacred precincts of a chapel.

“Yes, Mr. Carr. You wish to make an objection?”

“Yes, your Honor. It occurs to me that counsel should save his argument for the jury; that at this time he is only supposed to be making a preliminary statement setting forth the facts which he expects to prove, and this is hardly the time and hardly the place to malign a dead woman who has met her death in the employ of a woman whom she so faithfully served for so long a time.”

In the moment of tense silence which followed, Anita Eldon produced a dainty handkerchief, almost surreptitiously wiped a tear from her eyes, then sat perfectly still.

The effect was something as though Barclay Stanton had deliberately slapped her face.

Judge Fairbanks said, crisply, “I think counsel will understand that in this preliminary statement counsel are only supposed to point out the facts which they expect to prove by the witnesses, so that the jurors can intelligently receive the evidence as it is presented. Argument will come later.”

W. Barclay Stanton threw back his head, glowered across at A. B. Carr, and took a deep breath.

Selby slipped quietly out of the courtroom.

Out in the hallway, he found Sylvia Martin busily engaged in scribbling notes on a folded sheet of newsprint.

“Hello, Doug,” she said, looking up, and then dropping pencil and newsprint back into her purse. “What do you think of the case?”

“I don’t think,” Selby told her, laughing. “I just this minute dropped in and heard a few of the preliminary pyrotechnics.”

“Doug, did you see what A.B.C.’s done to that girl?”

Selby nodded.

“You’d never know she was the same girl. She looks as pure as an Easter lily.”

Selby said, “It occurs to me that we’ve all of us been inclined to underestimate Carr’s talents. When you stop to think of it, it doesn’t stand to reason that he would have been foolish enough to have walked into court in an agricultural community with a client who could have played the wicked women vampire parts that are played in the motion pictures.”

Sylvia said, “W. Barclay Stanton isn’t helping the case any. He’s representing the brother, and he certainly takes himself seriously. But A.B. has a marvelous method of puncturing everything he does. Stanton pulls flamboyant grandiloquent stuff, and Carr lets all the wind out of it with just a word or two, or sometimes with just a gesture.”

“W. Barclay Stanton is the kind who leads with his stomach... Know something, Sylvia?”

“What?”

“I’ve been wondering. Since there was so much of a transformation in this Anita Eldon — well you know, she might be a pretty good actress.”

“What do you mean?”

“The description of that woman Coleman Dexter saw coming out of Roff’s room — I’m just wondering if Anita Eldon might not have...”

“That woman was a brunette, Doug.”

“Well? Don’t such things happen?”

“Yes. I suppose so, a transformation, a... Of course, Doug, he didn’t get a good look at her.”

“I know. But suppose he’d take a good look at her now. She’s an entirely different personality from what she was when we saw her yesterday. When she tries to look demure, she becomes self-effacing, and if she did happen to be the woman who was walking out of that room yesterday morning right after the murder, and was trying to appear self-effacing then... well, it just occurred to me there might be some resemblance.”

Sylvia Martin thought that over, then said, “I wonder. You think we should get him down here to look her over, Doug?”

“It wouldn’t be a bad idea to give him a ring and see if he could come down to the courthouse, slip in as a spectator, and look Carr’s client over carefully. There’s certainly a possibility she could have been the woman Coleman Dexter saw leaving that room.”

“Doug, I’m going to try it. What will we do? Telephone him? Or should we go see him and explain...”

Selby shook his head with a smile. “We shouldn’t do anything, Sylvia. It’s up to you. You see, I have no official status in the case and am only here as a visitor. I think that Carl Gifford somewhat resents my activities.”

“He would.”

“Well, you can’t exactly blame him.”

“Bosh, Doug! You’ve got more brains in your little finger than he has in his whole body. He’s a man who only goes through the motions of thinking. You resigned your office so you could enter the Army. He was glad enough to grab the district attorneyship so it would give him a good excuse... he...”

“Forget it,” Selby laughed. “See if you can get Coleman Dexter and ask him to drop into the courtroom. What else is new — anything?”

She said, “We’ve found out just a little more about Carr and his white gardenias.”

“What about them?”

“He had never met Anita Eldon. She was to have arrived from the East on the same train that you came in on, but at the last minute she changed her mind and decided to fly. Of course, her plane ticket took her right through to Los Angeles, and she decided to stay there overnight and take the bus back to Madison City in the morning. She thought the bus would get in before the train did and she’d get in touch with Carr. But she overslept and missed the early bus and came in on the one that arrived a short time after the train was due. She telephoned Carr’s house and found he was out — you see, Carr doesn’t really have an office here. You know, Doug, if that house could talk, I’ll bet it could tell plenty of stories. Anyhow, that’s Anita Eldon’s story. You see how it gives old A.B.C. a clean bill of health.”

Selby nodded. “What else have they found about Fred Albion Roff, anything?”

“Nothing much. That conversation with Inez Stapleton... I hate to play that up, Doug, but it’s really the highlight in the story.”

“They’ve cheeked the hotel records to make sure that conversation was with Inez Stapleton?”

“With someone at her office number, and I guess there’s no question but what she was in her office at the time.”

“What have they done about checking up with the hotel where he stayed in Los Angeles? Have they made any check to find out whether he received visitors or not?”

“I don’t know, Doug. I haven’t checked on that angle myself. I understand the Los Angeles police are working on it.”

Selby said, “I’ll go back and sit in the courtroom. You see if you can get Coleman Dexter to come down. Don’t say anything to anyone else about it. And make it unofficial so that Carr won’t get wise to it. If he knew what you were doing... Well, let’s just keep it between ourselves.”

“I get you, Doug. You’ll be here?”

“I’ll be here.”

Selby went back to the courtroom.

Inez Stapleton was examining a witness who had apparently at one time been employed as a servant in the house. Inez was standing, slim and graceful, and Selby could see that she was commanding the attention of the jurors. Evidently, the rulings of Judge Fairbanks and the comments of A. B. Carr had choked W. Barclay Stanton into at least temporary silence.

“Now, Mrs. Dixon, please tell the jury exactly what you observed on that occasion.”

“You mean the time Mrs. Otley prevented Miss Preston from writing the letter?”

Old A. B. Carr said, somewhat quizzically, “Come, come, that’s rather a conclusion of the witness that Miss Preston was prevented from writing a letter.”

Inez Stapleton whirled on him defiantly. “That’s exactly what we expect to prove.”

Carr’s gesture was very magnanimous. “Go right ahead and prove it, then, if you can. No one will welcome it more than I. I withdraw my comments. Your Honor, I was about to object to the statement made by the witness on the ground that it was a conclusion of the witness, but I shall withdraw it. By all means, let’s hear how Miss Preston was prevented from writing the letter.”

“Go ahead,” Inez Stapleton said to the witness.

“Well, Miss Preston said she wanted to write a letter to her sister...”

“Now, by her sister, you mean Barbara Honcutt, the woman who is sitting over here at my left?”

“That’s right. It was Mrs. Honcutt.”

“Very well. And Miss Preston said she wanted to write a letter to her sister?”

“That’s right.”

“And did Martha Otley do anything to prevent her from writing that letter?”

“Yes she did.”

“What?”

“Well, she went to get the fountain pen, and then she told Miss Preston that there wasn’t any ink in the pen. But what she’d really done had been to go out and empty the pen down the sink so as to make certain it would be dry. And there wasn’t any more fountain pen ink in the house, and Miss Preston told her to get some fountain pen ink the next day, and that was all there was to it.”

Inez Stapleton glanced at the jury, saw that the jurors were listening attentively. She glanced at Carr and saw a slight smile twisting the corners of Carr’s mouth.

“Now, I want to ask you about the time that Eleanor Preston wanted to go and visit her sister, Barbara Honcutt. What about that time?”

“Well, Miss Preston suggested that Martha Otley could get tickets and they’d go and visit her sister for three or four weeks and Martha Otley seemed sort of flabbergasted. She tried to think up something right quick, and then suddenly said, ‘You remember you’ve got an appointment with your dentist next week, and you’d better wait until after that tooth is fixed.’ ”

“And then what happened?”

“And then Miss Preston said that was right, and well, that’s the way it was, she didn’t go.”

“You may cross-examine,” Inez Stapleton said, and sat down.

Old A. B. Carr ran his hand through the flowing locks of his hair. He stood up and regarded the witness for a minute or two in silent appraisal.

The witness was glowering at him belligerently, as though defying him to change her testimony by jot or tittle.

Old A. B. Carr smiled reassuringly at her, then walked halfway around the counsel table so that he stood where he could look directly at the witness. His manner was that of a benign friend merely helping a witness get her testimony straightened out.

“Reminded her that she had an appointment with her dentist?” he asked, conversationally, and with none of the manner of a cross-examiner.

“That’s right.”

“Miss Preston had been having some trouble with her teeth?”

“Yes.”

“During the time that you were in her employ and while you saw Miss Preston and Mrs. Otley together, you noticed those two occasions when Martha Otley had exercised undue influence over Miss Preston?”

And Carr held up his right hand with his two fingers extended in order to emphasize the number of two.

“Yes, sir.”

“That period covered how long a time?”

“About six months.”

“Did you like Mrs. Otley?”

“She was all right.”

“Did you know Miss Preston’s sister, Barbara Honcutt?”

“No.”

“Or her brother, Hervey Preston?”

“No.”

“Now, naturally,” Carr said, “as a fair-minded woman, when you saw Martha Otley attempting to influence Miss Preston in this way, you resented that, didn’t you?”

“Well... well, yes.”

“You weren’t taken in any, were you?” asked Carr. “You saw what Mrs. Otley was trying to do. She didn’t fool you any.”

“She certainly didn’t! I sized her up the minute I clapped my eyes on her.”

“And, naturally, as an honorable, upright person, you resented her being there, and resented the undue influence she was bringing to bear on Miss Preston?”

“That’s right.”

“So,” Carr said, as though that virtually disposed of the matter, “you didn’t like Martha Otley.”

“I didn’t say that.”

Carr raised his eyebrows in surprise. “You resented her attempts to influence Miss Preston?”

“That’s right.”

“And knew what she was trying to do?”

“Yes.”

“All along?”

“Well, yes.”

“Knew it as soon as you saw her, didn’t you?”

“Well, I don’t know what you mean by that.”

Carr’s voice was patient. “I understood you to say that you knew what was going on as soon as you clapped eyes on her.”

“Well, yes. I guess I did.”

“Now what was there at the moment that you first clapped your eyes on Mrs. Otley that made you think she was trying to influence Miss Preston to make a will that would disinherit her brother and sister and leave her fortune to Martha Otley?”

“Well, you could just see it in everything she did.”

Carr held up his hand and motioned with his fingers as though he had been a traffic officer signaling to an automobile to back up. “I’m talking now of the minute you clapped your eyes on her, Mrs. Dixon. The first time you saw her.”

“Well... well, of course...”

“In other words, sort of an intuitive appreciation of her situation. Is that right?”

“Well, I guess so.”

“So, the minute you clapped your eyes on Martha Otley, you knew intuitively that she was trying to influence Miss Preston to disinherit her brother and sister.”

“Well, not quite that soon.”

“I don’t want to misunderstand your testimony,” Carr said with the magnanimity of a man who is asking only what is fair. “Now, I understood you to say you knew this the minute you clapped your eyes on Mrs. Otley. If you didn’t say that, please accept my apology. If you did say it, but didn’t mean it, then let’s change your testimony. Now, did you say that or didn’t you?”

“Well... well... I guess I did.”

“But you didn’t mean it? You now want to change your testimony?”

“No. I did mean it.”

“All right,” Carr said. “Now we’ve got that one starting point definitely fixed in your testimony. The very first minute you clapped your eyes on Martha Otley you knew intuitively that she was trying to exert undue influence on Eleanor Preston. Now, because you’re an upright, honest woman yourself, you resented that, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did.”

“And so, from the minute you clapped your eyes on Martha Otley there was an antagonism, a certain resentment.”

“All right, if you want it that way.”

“It’s not the way I want it,” Carr said, turning to make a little inclusive gesture toward the jurors, “it’s the way the jurors want it. They want to know the facts, Mrs. Dixon. They’ve got to find out the facts.”

“All right.”

“Your answer is yes?”

“Yes.”

“All right, that’s settled. Now, during the six months that you were there in the house, there was nothing that changed your initial antagonism to Mrs. Otley, was there?”

“Well, I don’t know.”

Carr said, “As I understand your testimony, Mrs. Dixon, that initial resentment was brought about because of the fact that you knew the minute you clapped your eyes on Mrs. Otley that she was trying to influence Eleanor Preston to make out a will that would disinherit her brother and sister. Now, if you changed in your feeling toward Mrs. Otley, it must have been because subsequent events led you to believe that you had been mistaken in your initial appraisal.”

“Well they didn’t. The more I saw of her, the more I knew I was right. Everything she did showed me I was right.”

“Therefore, you didn’t ever change in your feeling toward her.”

“I’ll say I didn’t!”

“So, during all of the six months you were in the employ of Miss Preston and were in the house of Martha Otley, you felt a resentment toward Martha Otley? You called it a righteous resentment, but it was an antagonism, a definite resentment. Is that it?”

“Yes.”

“And I take it that Mrs. Otley, being a woman of ordinary intelligence, soon discovered how you felt toward her.”

“Well, I guess she knew I didn’t have any particular love for her.”

“So that made for a situation where there was some friction?”

“I don’t know as I’d call it that.”

“Now then,” Carr said, smiling, “as an upright, honest woman, and one who knew what Martha Otley’s game was the minute you clapped your eyes on her, you decided that she wasn’t going to get away with it if you could possibly help it, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did.”

“And so you kept your eyes open.”

“That’s right.”

“For a period of six months?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And during all of that time,” Carr said, “despite the fact that, right there, living in the house, you were watching every minute of the time with a firm determination to thwart Martha Otley in her purpose, you only saw these two instances of undue influence which you have just testified to.”

Once more Carr held his right hand high above his head, with the first and second fingers extended.

The witness hesitated.

“Only two instances in six months,” Carr said, moving his hand slightly as though to emphasize the rigidly upthrust fingers.

“Well, no, when you come right down to it, there were lots of things.”

“Then why not tell us about them?”

“I’ve forgotten about them.”

“Despite the fact that you made up your mind that you were going to thwart Martha Otley in her game, you have forgotten about them?”

“Well, they were little things.”

“And these two things were big things?”

“They certainly were.”

“Well, let’s investigate those two big things,” Carr said, smiling in the most friendly manner. “Now, Miss Preston had some work done on her teeth.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Over a period of time?”

“A month or so.”

“She had some trouble with her teeth?”

“Naturally.”

“And she put off going to the dentist, didn’t she?”

“Well, I don’t know...”

“Didn’t you hear her complain about her teeth for a while before she went to a dentist?”

“Yes. She didn’t want to go.”

“Exactly. And when she did decide to go, did she have some trouble getting an appointment?”

“Yes, she had to wait for three weeks in order to get her appointment.”

“So, she wasn’t particularly anxious to go to the dentist, and when she did get an appointment, it took some little time. Now, Mrs. Dixon, just to be fair, don’t you think that if Martha Otley had wanted to use some undue influence to keep Eleanor Preston from visiting her sister, she could have thought up something better than an appointment with a dentist?”

“Well, that was what she thought up.”

“Are you sure that she thought it up?”

“Well, that’s what you just said.”

“I may have suggested the idea to your mind,” Carr said, “but the words were yours. That is, you agreed with me. Did she or did she not think it up?”

“Well, I suppose she did.”

“But there actually was an appointment with the dentist.”

“I believe there was.”

“So all that Martha Otley really did was to remind Miss Preston that she had an appointment with a dentist.”

“Yes.”

“You know that some people hire secretaries to remind them of their appointments?”

“I suppose so, yes.”

“And Martha Otley was really performing the work of a secretary?”

“She seemed to think she was.”

“So that when she reminded Miss Preston of a dental appointment, she was only doing what she was paid to do?”

“I don’t look at it that way.”

“And on the occasion when she prevented Eleanor Preston from writing to her sister by telling her that the pen was dry, the pen actually was dry?”

“Naturally, after she’d dumped all of the ink down the sink.”

“And what sink was this that she spilled the ink down?”

“The set tub on the back porch.”

“And how did you know that she had dumped ink down there?”

“Because the next day I found some little drops of water that had ink in them on the side of the tub.”

“And there wasn’t any more fountain pen ink in the house?”

“No.”

“And Miss Preston told Martha Otley to get some fountain pen ink the next day?”

“Yes.”

“And Martha Otley got it?”

“I believe she did.”

“And the fountain pen was then filled?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And there was nothing to have prevented Miss Preston from writing to her sister the next day?”

“She was probably out of the notion by that time.”

“She didn’t say she was?”

“No.”

“She didn’t say anything about it?”

“No.”

“But the fountain pen was there and she could have written to her sister?”

“I suppose so, yes.”

“Now, who filled the fountain pen?”

“I don’t know.”

“And it was the next day that you found the drops of water on the side of the set tub?

“Yes, sir.”

“After the fountain pen had been filled?” Carr asked.

“Well, I don’t know whether it was before or after.”

“It may have been after?”

“Well, I don’t think...”

“Do you know?”

“No.”

“Then it may have been after the fountain pen was filled?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“And there was inky water?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You knew it was ink?”

“Well, I think it was ink.”

“Now, if the fountain pen had been emptied down that set tub the day before, don’t you think the water would have evaporated during the night?”

“I don’t... I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“But you don’t know whether the inky water had been placed there that day or the day before?”

“Well, I guess not, when you come right down to it, I don’t know.”

“You couldn’t swear to it?”

“No.”

“So when Mrs. Otley filled the fountain pen with ink, she may have washed off the surplus ink in the set tub, or she might have spilled ink on her hands and washed that off in the set tub.”

“I suppose so.”

Carr smiled. “And those were the only two things that you saw in six months of patient, careful observation while you were living right there in the house with these two women, with the firm determination that you were going to watch Martha Otley like a hawk in order to see that she didn’t carry out this design of hers. Those were the only two things that you saw.”

“Well, they’re the only two I can remember now.”

“And all of the time you were there, from the minute you clapped your eyes on Martha Otley, you had a resentment for her?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“I thought you did,” Carr said smiling, “but after all, we’ll leave that to the recollection of the jury. It’s rather unimportant. The point is, Mrs. Dixon, that for six months you lived in the house with these two women. You watched very carefully. You listened very carefully. You had a grim determination that you were going to thwart Martha Otley in her purpose. She wasn’t going to slip anything over on you. You watched every move she made. You listened to every word she said, looking for some evidence that would show she was carrying out her purpose of unduly influencing Eleanor Preston. And yet, the only two instances that you saw were one instance when there was no fountain pen ink in the house, but Mrs. Otley got some fountain pen ink and filled the fountain pen the next day, and the other instance was when she reminded Miss Preston of an actual appointment that she had with her dentist.”

The witness looked pathetically at Inez Stapleton for help.

“Do you understand that question?” Carr asked.

“I understand it the way you mean it.”

“Well, can you answer it?”

“Well, I don’t think it’s fair.”

“But those two instances were the only things you remember — if there’d been anything else you’d have told the lawyer for Barbara Honcutt about them? You’d have told the jury about them. Just those two things are all that you can remember?”

“Right now. Yes.”

Carr smiled and bowed. “That’s all, Mrs. Dixon, and thank you for being very fair with us.”

Doug Selby turned toward the back of the courtroom, caught Sylvia Martin’s eye. She was standing there with Coleman Dexter beside her.

“Your next witness?” Judge Fairbanks asked.

Carr said urbanely, “Just for the sake of the record, your Honor, I want to state that as it now appears from the evidence this will was signed in my Los Angeles office. There were two subscribing witnesses present. One of these witnesses, a Mr. Franklin L. Dawson, has rather extensive business interests. He is here in court, and if the contestants wish to call him, he is available.

“The Court will remember that he has already testified in connection with the routine probate of the will. Now then, if the contestants desire to call him in connection with their claim of undue influence, Mr. Dawson is available. If they do not wish to call him, however, I would like to have Mr. Dawson excused from further attendance on the Court, as he is here at some considerable sacrifice to himself.”

“We’re going to call him,” W. Barclay Stanton boomed.

“Then he is available,” Carr said. “Mr. Dawson, will you take the stand please?”

“We don’t need to call him right now,” Inez Stapleton interrupted.

Carr looked at her somewhat in surprise. “I understand that Mr. Stanton wanted to call him.”

“Put him on the stand,” Stanton bellowed. “I’ll examine him right now on behalf of contestant Hervey Preston, my client.”

“Very well,” Carr said.

Selby tiptoed toward the rear of the courtroom, nodded to Sylvia Martin. She and Coleman Dexter joined him in the corridor.

“Well?” Selby asked.

Dexter said, “How are you, Mr. Selby? My gosh, you wouldn’t know that woman for the same woman seen yesterday coming out of that room, would you?”

“She’s changed a good deal,” Selby said. “I’m wondering if by any chance she’s the woman you saw leaving Mr. Roff’s room yesterday morning.”

“That’s what Miss Martin has been asking me,” Dexter said, “and I hate to tell you folks the answer. The answer is that I just don’t know. If you’d asked me yesterday if that blonde who had the room adjoining the room where the murder was committed was the one that I’d seen, I’d have told you there wasn’t a chance in the world, but the way things are now I just don’t know, Mr. Selby, and I know that isn’t doing you folks any good. I hate to appear dumb, but that’s just the way it is.”

“You just can’t tell?” Selby asked.

“To tell you the truth, I can’t. There’s been so much change in that woman between the time I saw her at the hotel yesterday and today that — well, to tell you the truth, Mr. Selby, I’d have walked into court and sworn that I’d never in my life seen that woman before — the woman that’s sitting there now, but I guess she’s Anita Eldon, the same woman that I saw half a dozen times at the hotel and I sure looked her over then. The way she’s changed her hair and something about her clothes and the way she wears them makes her look altogether different. She’s like a sweet, demure little school girl now, but when I saw her at the hotel yesterday, she was like a million dollars, conscious of her clothes and conscious of her hips. Sort of the kind that gets looked over and likes to be looked over, but will turn around and wither you with a haughty glance if they catch you looking them over. That’s not a good description, but...”

Selby laughed. “I think it’s an excellent description, but the point is, could she have been this woman you saw coming out of the room?”

“I think she could, but I can’t say that she was. That woman-lawyer could have been the one. They’re both the same build, slim, good figures and all that. Understand me, Major, I just turned around and gave that woman a glance. There wasn’t any reason for me to look at her twice. She was just a woman with some laundry. It wasn’t until afterwards I remembered about this paper lying there in the hall by my door. I don’t know for sure whether I saw it just flutter as though it had just hit the floor, or what it was, but when I thought it over later, something gave me the impression that she’d dropped the paper, I just wasn’t thinking about her. I had other things on my mind and I walked on down to my room, and that’s all there is to it. I’m afraid that there’s nothing I can do that’s going to help except to swear that a woman came out of that room at that particular time, and that there were some clothes over her arm.”

“You knew that some woman came out of that particular room at that time?”

“I’ll swear to that, Major Selby, and no lawyer on earth is going to shake me on that point. But when it comes to identifying that woman, to tell you the truth, I just wouldn’t be any good at all. I’ve been listening to this man Carr in there, and — it doesn’t make any difference who that woman was, I couldn’t identify her, because, if I got on the stand and tried to identify any woman, that lawyer would tie me all up in knots and my testimony wouldn’t be any good at all. As a matter of fact, that woman lawyer looks more like the woman I saw than the blonde. But I... I can’t identify anyone.”

“But you could testify that a woman came out of that particular room at that particular time?”

“Mr. Selby, a woman came out of that room at that time. She had some clothes over her arm. I think she dropped that paper that was in the hallway, but I can’t swear to that. I can and will swear that a woman came out of that room and all the lawyers on earth can’t change that testimony.”

“You know definitely that she came out of that particular room?”

“Out of that particular room.”

“It couldn’t have been the adjoining room?”

“No, sir, it could not. She came out of that room. I saw her open the door. I saw her stand there for a minute and she looked sort of surprised as she saw me. I was bent over putting out that cigarette stub and when I looked up she was walking toward me, and I turned and walked on down the corridor.”

“And you didn’t notice the paper lying on the carpet of the corridor when you first saw her.”

“I didn’t, Major. The paper may have been there. I think she dropped it. That’s another thing that I can’t swear to. I can only say that I think she dropped it.”

“But you do remember now that there was a paper there on the floor when you looked up from putting out the cigarette and saw the woman coming?”

“I do, now, yes sir.”

“And you can fix the time?”

“I can fix the time absolutely, Major Selby. It was nine-fifty, and I’ll swear that I’m not missing it by more than a minute either way... Understand me, the things that I know, I’ll swear to, but the things that I am not absolutely certain about, I don’t want to try to swear to, because I’d just get up on the stand and some lawyer would make a monkey out of me.”

Selby said, “That’s just about all we can ask. I’m sorry we bothered you.”

“Not at all. I’m glad to do it. I’d like to help clear this thing up. Incidentally, I’ve closed the deal on that orange orchard and I’m going to be living here in the community, and I want to... well, you know, I want to do what’s right.”

Sylvia Martin said, “He was really busy this afternoon, Doug, but he dropped everything to come down here.”

Selby shook hands. “Thanks a lot, Mr. Dexter, I understand your position perfectly.”

When Dexter had gone, Selby turned to Sylvia Martin. “It’s a lot better to have a witness like that than one who will try to oblige you by saying the thing he thinks you want him to say and then get on the witness stand and go all to pieces.”

“Like that woman in there?” Sylvia asked laughing.

Selby said, “It wasn’t the woman as much as it was old A. B. Carr. You notice Carr played along with her until she made that statement that she knew what Martha Otley was up to as soon as she clapped her eyes on her. That was the payoff. From that minute, Carr had her right where he wanted her. He could come back to that any time he wanted to, and when he starts arguing to the jury he’ll naturally claim that the witness was prejudiced against Martha Otley from the first time she saw the woman; that she reached the conclusion that Martha Otley was trying to get Eleanor Preston to disinherit her brother and sister, and that for six months she built up and nursed that insane prejudice.

“He’ll ask the jury how anyone could possibly take one look at a woman and know intuitively that she was trying to get someone to make a will disinheriting her relatives.”

“And yet, it was such a natural thing for the woman to say,” Sylvia said. “I didn’t hear the first part of the cross-examination.”

Selby nodded. “Those perfectly natural things we say are the things that betray us. Don’t ever underestimate old A. B. Carr. If he hadn’t trapped her on that, he’d have trapped her on something else. What do you say we take a run into Los Angeles and just check up for ourselves on the hotel where Fred Albion Roff stayed that night?”

Sylvia consulted her wrist watch. “I’m working, Doug. I...”

“It wouldn’t take too long. We could be back by eleven o’clock, and, after all, this would be in the line of duty. We could have dinner and perhaps squeeze in a couple of dances during dinner, and...”

“I’m just a poor spineless female,” Sylvia Martin protested, laughing. “You’ve made a sale. Let me go telephone my paper.”