18

The next day was what I called indignation day. It was as if the men arrived by arrangement among themselves, though developments showed otherwise.

First on the scene was Gerald Fenner, the Overthrust attorney, who had given the sapphire to Laura Jane Smitson. He came in, grim-faced, and stated to Charleston, “My name is Gerald Fenner. I’m a lawyer.” His nod to me was abrupt.

Charleston said, “Yes,” and offered his hand, which Fenner affected not to see. “Please sit down, Mr. Fenner.”

“Briefly, for what I have to say won’t take long.” He was looking Charleston square in the eye. “A citizen’s complaint, Mr. Charleston, against the breaking of confidences and the harassment of innocent men.”

“Those are serious charges.”

“Not so long ago I gave your Mr. Beard here some highly confidential information, not to be used unless vital to a murder case. Now I find it is public knowledge.”

“What leads you to that conclusion?”

“A man named Gewald, representing you, I take it.”

“You take it wrong. Gewald does not represent this office.”

“Then who? Then what?”

“The state. He is the criminal investigator. As an officer of the law he will or should keep that information confidential.”

“But he came by it through you. You can’t deny that.”

“I don’t. Of necessity our records are open to him.”

“You could keep them out of his hands.”

“On the contrary. The law is the law, as you must know. You may ask why I don’t boot him out. Few things would give me more pleasure. But I’m impotent. I can’t fight the state, not to any advantage. Power and politics enter there.”

“And you have to think of your political future.”

Charleston’s face went tight. His mouth was a straight line. He leaned forward, and the tone of his voice was enough to draw up the stomach. “That remark is uncalled for. A gratuitous sneer. Good day, Mr. Fenner.”

Mr. Fenner moved uncertainly, taken aback by the force of the words. “I only meant—” Then, out of character, “Oh, shit, Mr. Charleston, forget it, please. The objection is sustained. You have my apologies.”

“I don’t apologize. Mr. Gewald’s activities are none of my doing.”

“He has the manners of a Hitler gauleiter. His questions are not so much questions as accusations.”

“I’m aware of that. Anyone he interviews has my sympathy.”

Mr. Fenner was recovering his composure. He let himself smile. “I’d welcome the opportunity to cross-examine him sometime.” He rose. “All right, Mr. Charleston. My apologies again to you and to Mr. Beard. No confidence betrayed.”

He let himself out.

I followed him part way. Blanche Burton, at the board, was wasting no time drilling her crew. Susan Strand sat at her side. Blanche had arranged her program in two-hour hitches at different times of the day, morning, afternoon, and night, thus giving her recruits variety. This was Susan’s second hitch.

Blanche was saying into the phone, “Now don’t worry, Mrs. Wilcox. We have patrols out. They’ll pick up anyone out of line.”

She hung up and said to Susan, “Old Mrs. Wilcox reports a loiterer in her block. She’s always afraid someone has broken into her house or is about to break in.”

I asked, “Afraid or hopeful?”

Blanche smiled. “A bit of both, I’d say.”

I was turning away when Alfred Parsons, the school principal, hustled in. “Mr. Charleston here?” he asked abruptly.

I nodded and showed him through the door. Charleston greeted him and told him to have a seat.

Parsons sat, breathing heavy. He wasn’t beaming today. He was steaming. A little more, and the furnace might blow up. “It’s an outrage,” he said. “A downright outrage.”

“What is, Mr. Parsons?”

“That man named Gewald, working out of this office.”

“What about him?”

“For one thing he’s agitated young Pat Lenihan into a state of extreme anxiety, virtually charging him at least with complicity in Virginia Stuart’s death. The boy came to me trembling, almost in tears.”

“Why not his father?”

“Mr. Lenihan is a strict and stern man, and the boy’s been in trouble once, you know, with breaking into that house. He was afraid to consult his father, so came to me. I have a good rapport with my boys.” The last was said with a self-satisfaction that nudged into his anger.

“Is that all?”

“Isn’t it enough? But no, by the infernal, it isn’t all. Gewald questioned me. It was his blunt implication that I knew more about the girl and her death than I had revealed. It was with difficulty I restrained myself. As an educator I can’t afford violence. So, Mr. Charleston, what are you going to do?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? That’s incredible.”

With patience then Charleston explained as he had explained to Mr. Fenner.

At the end Parsons said, “To use the vernacular, that’s a pretty kettle of fish.”

“Isn’t it? But we’re not the cooks.”

“I can hope he’s through with us.”

“I believe I can reassure you on that point. I doubt he’ll come back.”

Parsons had the courtesy to give us thanks before he went out.

Charleston and I had lunch at the Jackson Hotel and came back to the office. Once seated, he said to me, “You didn’t take notes?”

“No. Sorry if you meant me to.”

“Your memory’s good, though.”

“Good enough, I guess.”

“Then write up this morning’s proceedings. They’ll make one report I want Mr. Gewald to see.”

I got busy. Charleston went out, came back, went out and came in again. It was along toward the tail end of the afternoon when we received our next complaint. It was voiced by Mr. Duncan Stuart.

He came in, erect as always, as if iron pride stiffened his spine. The day was warm, but he wore tweeds. He stood before Charleston like a post, but I could see his trousers twitch to the trembling of his legs. I knew his control had slipped even before he said, “Domnation to all of you! Domnation to your office and to your men!”

“Before we go to hell, Mr. Stuart, won’t you sit down. How about a glass of water?”

“Forget that.”

“Do take a chair.”

Mr. Stuart perched on the edge of one. “Knowing what I know—”

“And we don’t. So tell us.”

“Gewald, he said his name was. I call him a bastard. Aye. An utter bastard.”

“What’s he done now? By the way, have you spoken to others who have complaints?”

“To whom would I speak? No. You’re evading the subject.”

“You were going to tell us?”

“He came into my house, that high and mighty man.” Mr. Stuart swallowed the beginning tremble in his voice. “He insinuated my Virginia was not what we thought. He implied she was loose, that low life! If I had been able I would have thrashed him. Aye, I would have beat him senseless.”

“It’s as well that you didn’t.”

“You would say that, Charleston. You are to blame. I hold you responsible.”

Charleston made his explanation then. It was becoming almost rote.

At the end Mr. Stuart said, “But that is incredible. It stands against reason.”

“It’s the truth.”

“I will think on it and decide for myself.” He went to the door, still stiff, and went out without thanks.

The end was not yet. Hardly had he left than Old Doc Yak came in, grinning ferociously. He plopped himself into a chair. “Let me congratulate you on your crew, Chick,” he began. “Your man Gewald, now—”

“Hold it right there, you old quack. He’s not my man, and you know it.”

“Your man, Gewald,” Doc went on without heed, “he came to see me. We had a nice, friendly visit.”

“I can imagine.”

“Oh, yes. He questioned my professional competence. How could I be so sure Virginia Stuart was a virgin? Had I sought a concurring opinion? At the end I told him nature had made a mistake, putting his anus where his mouth should be and vice versa. I threatened to kick his teeth in. It took him a moment to transpose his parts as I had suggested, and then he knew I meant to kick his ass out.”

Charleston said, “Brave words, Doc. Brave.”

“Not so brave.” Doc gave that ferocious grin again. “I happened to have a scalpel in my hand at the time. So he departed.”