“Mother. You’re hurt. I’m sorry.”
“Let’s go, Mrs. Nemo,” I said.
Wild Goose Chase
Published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, July 1954.
The plane turned in towards the shoreline and began to lose altitude. Mountains detached themselves from the blue distance. Then there was a city between the sea and the mountains, a little city made of sugar cubes. The cubes increased in size. Cars crawled like colored beetles between the buildings, and matchstick figures hustled jerkily along the white morning pavements. A few minutes later I was one of them.
The woman who had telephoned me was waiting at the airport, as she had promised. She climbed out of her Cadillac when I appeared at the entrance to the waiting room, and took a few tentative steps towards me. In spite of her height and her blondeness, the dark harlequin glasses she wore gave her an oddly Oriental look.
“You must be Mr. Archer.”
I said I was, and waited for her to complete the exchange of names – she hadn’t given me her name on the telephone. All she had given me, in fact, was an urgent request to catch the first plane north, and assurances that I would be paid for my time.
She sensed what I was waiting for. “I’m sorry to be so mysterious. I really can’t afford to tell you my name. I’m taking quite a risk in coming here at all.”
I looked her over carefully, trying to decide whether this was another wild goose chase. Although she was well-groomed in a sharkskin suit, her hair and face were slightly disarranged, as if a storm had struck a glancing blow. She took off her glasses to wipe them. I could see that the storm was inside of her, roiling the blue-green color of her eyes.
“What’s the problem?” I said.
She stood wavering between me and her car, beaten by surges of sound from the airfield where my plane was about to take off again. Behind her, in the Cadillac’s front seat, a little girl with the coloring of a Dresden doll was sitting as still as one. The woman glanced at the child and moved farther away from the car:
“I don’t want Janie to hear. She’s only three and a half but she understands a great deal.” She took a deep gasping breath, like a swimmer about to dive. “There’s a man on trial for murder here. They claim he murdered his wife.”
“Glenway Cave?”
Her whole body moved with surprise. “You know him?”
“No, I’ve been following the trial in the papers.”
“Then you know he’s testifying today. He’s probably on the witness stand right now.” Her voice was somber, as if she could see the courtroom in her mind’s eye.
“Is Mr. Cave a friend of yours?”
She bit her lip. “Let’s say that I’m an interested observer.”
“And you don’t believe he’s guilty.”
“Did I say that?”
“By implication. You said they claim he murdered his wife.”
“You have an alert ear, haven’t you? Anyway, what I believe doesn’t matter. It’s what the jury believes. Do you think they’ll acquit him?”
“It’s hard to form an opinion without attending the trial. But the average jury has a prejudice against the idea of blowing off your wife’s head with a twelve-gauge shotgun. I’d say he stands a good chance of going to the gas chamber.”
“The gas chamber.” Her nostrils dilated, and she paled, as if she had caught a whiff of the fatal stuff. “Do you seriously think there’s any danger of that?”
“They’ve built a powerful case against him. Motive. Opportunity. Weapon.”
“What motive?”
“His wife was wealthy, wasn’t she? I understand Cave isn’t. They were alone in the house; the housekeeping couple were away for the weekend. The shotgun belonged to Cave, and according to the chemical test his driving gloves were used to fire it.”
“You have been following the trial.”
“As well as I could from Los Angeles. Of course you get distortions in the newspapers. It makes a better story if he looks guilty.”
“He isn’t guilty,” she said in a quiet voice.
“Do you know that, or merely hope it?”
She pressed one hand across her mouth. The fingernails were bitten down to the quick. “We won’t go into that.”
“Do you know who murdered Ruth Cave?”
“No. Of course not.”
“Am I supposed to try and find out who did?”
“Wouldn’t that be very difficult, since it happened so long ago? Anyway, it doesn’t really matter to me. I barely knew the woman.” Her thoughts veered back to Cave. “Won’t a great deal depend on the impression he makes on the witness stand?”
“It usually does in a murder trial.”
“You’ve seen a lot of them, haven’t you?”
“Too many. I take it I’m going to see another.”
“Yes.” She spoke sharply and definitely, leaning forward. “I don’t dare go myself. I want you to observe the jurors, see how Glen – how Mr. Cave’s testimony affects them. And tell me if you think he’s going to get off.”
“What if I can’t tell?”
“You’ll have to give me a yes or no.” Her breast nudged my arm. She was too intent on what she was saying to notice. “I’ve made up my mind to go by your decision.”
“Go where?” I said.
“To hell if necessary – if his life is really in danger.”
“I’ll do my best. Where shall I get in touch with you?”
“I’ll get in touch with you. I’ve made a reservation for you at the Rubio Inn. Right now I’ll drop you at the courthouse. Oh, yes – the money.” She opened her leather handbag, and I caught the gleam of a blue revolver at the bottom of the bag. “How much?”
“A hundred dollars will do.”
A few bills changed hands, and we went to the car. She indicated the right rear door. I went around to the left so that I could read the white slip on the steering column. But the leatherette holder was empty.
The little girl stood up in the front seat and leaned over the back of it to look at me. “Hello. Are you my daddy?” Her eyes were as blue and candid as the sky.
Before I could answer, her mother said: “Now, Janie, you know he isn’t your daddy. This is Mr. Archer.”
“Where is my daddy?”
“In Pasadena, darling. You know that. Sit down, Janie, and be still.”
The little girl slid down out of my sight. The engine roared in anger.
It was ten minutes past eleven by the clock on the courthouse tower. Superior Court was on the second floor. I slid into one of the vacant seats in the back row of the spectators’ section. Several old ladies turned to glare at me, as though I had interrupted a church service.
The trial was more like an ancient tribal ceremony in a grotto. Red draperies were drawn over the lofty windows. The air was dim with human exhalations. Black iron fixtures suspended from the ceiling shed a wan light on the judge’s gray head, and on the man on the witness stand.
I recognized Glenway Cave from his newspaper pictures. He was a big handsome man in his early thirties who had once been bigger and handsomer. Four months in jail waiting for trial had pared him down to the bone. His eyes were pressed deep into hollow sockets. His double-breasted gabardine suit hung loosely on his shoulders. He looked like a suitable victim for the ceremony.
A broad-backed man with a straw-colored crewcut was bent over the stenograph, talking in an inaudible voice to the court reporter. Harvey, chief attorney for the defense. I had met Rod Harvey several times in the course of my work, which was one reason why I had followed the trial so closely.
The judge chopped the air with his hatchet face: “Proceed with your examination, Mr. Harvey.”