It had been easy to anticipate what the Cowley fool would do. As soon as the car went down the road they would hurry down the beach and cross over to the bay side where Jeff had concealed the fish and equipment. Perhaps he came, unseen, to a place where he could watch the beach so that their timing would be perfect — as perfect as it was. His attack on me had been planned, and wholeheartedly murderous. It was a release for his tension, and a chance to look good in the eyes of the law, so he had been enthusiastic.
I wondered what he thought as he looked at the dead face of his wife. Triumph? Sadness? A gnawing premonition that maybe it would all go wrong?
There was no point in thinking about it. The red-faced man glanced at me. His eyes were mild, good-tempered, speculative. “A nice mess,” he said softly.
“Can I have a cigarette, please?”
He slid a pack of matches along the table to me. “Keep the deck,” he said.
I lit a cigarette gratefully. “I should have a lawyer,” I said. I was surprised that my voice was so calm.
“It might help,” he said. Help was pronounced he’p.
“You live here. Could you recommend somebody?”
“Lots of times for bad trouble they get somebody all the way out from Tampa. Some good criminal boys up there. Me, I say Journeyman right here at home is good as any imports. A fighter, that boy.”
“Could I phone him?”
“They’ll let you know as to when you can use a phone, mister.”
“What’s going to happen next?”
“Well, I sort of imagine Vernon will get the reports together and get hold of Carl Shepp — he’s the county prosecutor — and then they’ll take statements from your wife and the Jeffries fellow, and then they’ll likely as not drop in here and have a chat with you.”
“I don’t have to talk without a lawyer, do I?”
“You don’t rightly have to.”
At two-thirty they brought me a fried egg sandwich and a coke. I was able to eat only half the sandwich. My red-faced guard ate the other half. At three they came trooping solemnly in, Vernon, a pimply female stenographer, a tall white-haired man who looked like a political poster, and a young man in a pink sports shirt with tanned powerful forearms, a face like a block of carved wood, alert eyes. Vernon glanced at me with bored professional distaste. The pimply girl stared with avid awe. The politico looked at me from stern and lofty heights of great principle. The husky young man looked at me with an alive, interested curiosity in his deep-set gray eyes.
They took chairs and Vernon said, “Cowley, this is Mr. Carl Shepp, the county prosecutor, and this is his assistant, Mr. David Hill,” Vernon opened a folder in front of him and said, “Now we got to ask you some questions for the record. Anything you say may be used in evidence against you.”
“May I have an attorney present, please?”
“That’s your right,” he said reluctantly. “We’ll adjourn this session until you can locate an attorney and confer with him, Cowley.”
“I don’t want to confer with him in advance. I’d just as soon answer anything you ask. I just want him to be here so he can hear what’s said.”
“Roose,” he said to my red-faced guard, who was standing by the door. “There’s a list in my office of all the lawyers practicing in this area. Get it and—”
“I’d prefer a man named Journeyman,” I said.
Vernon gave Roose a look of disgusted malice. “All mouth, eh? Well, phone your pal Journeyman and get him over here.”
While we waited, Vernon and Shepp sat close together and looked at the folder. Vernon turned the pages. From time to time they would whisper to each other.
His name was Calvin Journeyman, and he came into the room at a full lope. The other men wore sports shirts in concession to the thick heat. Journeyman wore a rusty black suit and a pale yellow bow tie. The suit did not fit him well. Perhaps no suit could have fit him well. He had a small torso and great long spidery arms and legs. He had black hair combed straight back, a knobbly red face, and at least a full inch of sloping forehead. His eyes were the milky blue of skim milk. They flicked from face to face, came to rest on me.
“Don’t let ’em lean on you, Paul,” he said. “Why’nt you folks clear out in the hall a minute, let me talk to my client?”
“I’m willing to answer anything they want to ask without any previous instructions,” I said.
“Go rassle another chair in here, Roose,” he said to the guard. He frowned at me. “Don’t like anybody to start off not taking legal advice. Anyway, we’ve got nothing to hide, like you say, so let it roll, Vern.”
The chair was brought and he leaned back, lean fists under his chin, eyes busy. First they had me tell the story in my own words. Then Vernon took me back over it, point by point.
“You saw the shadow of the gun barrel?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What did you see when you looked back?”
“I saw Linda aiming the rifle at Stella’s head.”
“Did the dead woman have her eyes shut?”
“Yes. She was on her back. The sun was bright.”
“How far was the muzzle from the dead woman’s head?”
“Five feet, perhaps. Maybe a little less.”
“Did you give her cause — jealousy — to kill Mrs. Jeffries?”
“No. I told you that it was Jeff and Linda who—”
“All right. Are you familiar with that rifle?”
“Yes, sir. I’ve fired it at cans. I’m not a good shot.”
“How many times have you driven to Hooker with Mrs. Jeffries?”
“Five or six times.”
“Ever go into a place called the Crow’s Nest with her?”
“Yes, sir. To kill time while the car was being greased.”
“Did she cry while she was in there with you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What made her cry?”
“Well, she was upset about the way Jeff and Linda were carrying on. It was spoiling our—”
“All right. Did you on the night of October thirtieth see Mrs. Jeffries walking alone on the beach and leave the porch of your cottage and go and catch up with her and make improper advances to her?”
“No, sir.”
“Did you not insist that the Jeffries take their vacation at the same time and in the same place, and do all the planning therefore?”
“No, sir. Jeffries wrote to Mr. Dooley and sent him the check and all.”
“Did he not do that at your request?”
“No, sir.”
The questions went on in that vein, on and on. And at last they ended. Vernon looked at me. He looked at the stenographer. “Don’t take this down, honey. Cowley, you look bright enough. Just how in the hell do you expect to sell intelligent people a yarn like you dreamed up? I was there. I saw Jeffries’ reaction. I saw your wife’s reaction. I saw the way you looked. I know the way you acted when you went into the market there at Hooker. I’ve talked to your wife. She’s a fine girl and you’ve broken her heart. I talked to Jeffries. He’s just plain stunned by what you did. And you can still sit there and lie to us the way you do and keep a straight face. It isn’t even a good lie. God help you.”
Journeyman drawled, “You’re yappin’ at my client, Vern. Beats me the way you think you can tell people are lying. I remember three weeks ago Saturday you folding three eights because you thought I wasn’t lying about my flush. It’s as plain as the nose on your face those two smart operators have set my client up in a bind. Jeffries gets the money and gets this boy’s wife too. Know any stronger motives than that? Lord, a man doesn’t kill off a little honeybear just ’cause he can’t get aholt of it, does he?”