“It’s Frank Phelan,” said the sheriff, covering the transmitter. “He says he’s got something and he’s bringing it over right away, and he wants you to be here.”
“Well, I’m here!” Baker told him testily. “Tell him to bring it along!” He resumed with Jimmie. Five minutes later he had all he seemed likely to get. The questions stopped. He surveyed the boy a moment, then turned to face Dillon. “All right,” he said grudgingly. “You said you have evidence. You have. Congratulations. But it seems to me you should have taken it to the defense attorney in the first place. You’d better take it there now.”
Dillon stared. “Take it — why? What more do you want? Do you mean you’ve got the nerve to hold—” His voice was on the way, crescendo, to a shriek of indignation.
“Cool off, Dillon. Use your head a little. What’s my nerve got to do with it? I admit you’ve dug up evidence, enough of it so that when Harvey Anson gets it he’ll probably take a crack at a habeas corpus writ and then I’ll have to decide whether to fight it or not. I’ve got to think it over. There’s still a preponderance against her and if you were in my place you’d know it as well as I do.”
“But damn you, what more do you want? This proves that she couldn’t—”
“This proves only one thing, that if she shot Jackson she didn’t do it with one of the cartridges she bought from MacGregor’s clerk Tuesday morning. I admit that’s something. I admit that it puts it up to me — now what?”
He wheeled. The door had been flung open and feet were tramping in. Everybody gazed at the new influx, which seemed to threaten, as it continued, to jam the office. First was Lem Sammis, followed by Quinby Pellett. Next in order, entered a uniformed policeman, a tall skinny young man in a polo shirt and seersucker slacks, with wavy blond hair, Chief of Police Phelan and another cop in uniform. At the tail end, as usual, progressing with a minimum of exertion, was Harvey Anson.
The Reverend Rufus Toale unobtrusively left his seat and went to stand by the wall. James Archer, Senior, chased the boys off of their chairs. But the newcomers appeared to be seeking not ease, but action. They stayed on their feet. Lem Sammis was saying to Ed Baker, “See how you like this one. So Quin Pellett’s a liar, huh? When you go out of my gate, Ed, it shuts behind you!” Phelan was telling the sheriff he had better get some of the crowd out of there. But Harvey Anson had elbowed through to the county attorney and his thin voice, sparing of breath, took the attention:
“Uh, Baker. I can go up to Judge Hamilton. But maybe you’d like it better informally. As a favor to you. We have a witness you ought to hear.”
Baker’s lower lip was upthrust. “A witness to what? Who is he?”
Anson pointed a thumb at the young man with wavy blond hair. “Ask him. He’ll tell you about it.”
Baker’s sharp glance took in the witness from head to foot. “We can take him upstairs to my office.”
“Oh, no, that won’t be necessary. He’ll enjoy the audience. We all will.”
The audience, for its part, was already engrossed. In the silence, the impact was plainly audible when the sheriff of Silverside County spat. One of the cops nudged the young man forward.
Baker faced him. “You’ve got something to say?”
“I have.” The young man’s voice was a little squeaky, but not with timidity or uncertainty. “Shall I go on and say it?”
“Just a minute. What’s your name and who are you?”
“My name is Clement Ardyce Cooper and I’m a student at the university. I live at Comstock Hall.”
Baker grunted. “Shoot.”
“Tuesday afternoon about four o’clock I was standing at the curb on Halley Street, not far from The Haven, studying types—”
“Types of what?”
“People. Do you want me to explain everything carefully as I go along?”
“I want you to say what you were brought here to say.”
“Then please don’t interrupt me. I was standing at the curb and I saw a man pass by, among many others, and decided he was an extrovert, unstable, philotype B. He walked close to the curb and looked into several parked cars in a peculiar manner, taking precautions against observation, but I am accustomed to observing people without making them aware of it. I am a psychologist. I saw him open the door of a car and take something out — a leather handbag. He was about thirty feet from me. A moment later another man approached and accosted him. The first man said something in reply, thrust the handbag into the other man’s hands and walked away. The other man stared after him a few seconds, then he walked off too, in the opposite direction, carrying the handbag. His name was Quinby Pellett.”
“You mean you knew him?”
“Oh, no, not then. I had never seen him before. But this morning I saw his picture on the front page of the newspaper, in an advertisement. I read the advertisement and at two o’clock, after my classes were over, I went to the police station to reply to it. They sent for Quinby Pellett and when he came naturally I recognized him.”
“Naturally. From his picture in the paper.”
“Oh, no. From having seen him on Tuesday.” The young man looked amused. “You’re so transparent, really. Almost infantile. I’d love to give you a test.”
“Much obliged. If there’s any testing, I’ll do it myself.” Baker was gazing at him resentfully, but the resentment was not for him. It was like Harvey Anson to spring a thing like that, informally he called it, before a bunch of rubbernecks, without any warning...
“Anything else?” the psychologist inquired.
“Yes,” Baker snapped. “Plenty. First about the man who took the bag from the car. Has he been described to you?”
“Described? By whom?”
“By anyone. Anyone who is now in this room, or out of it either. Or have you been shown a photograph of him?”
“Oh, I get you.” The young man looked more amused than ever. “I’ll tell you about that. I know I’m a little skinny, but I’m all right. I’m the second best in tennis up at the campus. If you’ll have this room cleared, or if you’ll come out in the alley with me, I’ll beat some of that out of you.”
Baker looked a little startled. “There’s no occasion—”
“There’s plenty of occasion.” The student’s voice got more of a squeak in it, but otherwise he maintained his calm. “I come here to tell you something I saw because I saw it and right away you start trying cheap insulting tricks. If you want to ask me if I’m lying and give me a chance to say no, I’m not, that’s all right, but instead of that you start making cowardly insinuations. What’s wrong with you is a fundamental lack of intelligence, to suppose that if I undertook, or had been persuaded, to invent a story, I wouldn’t have sense enough to defend it against any attack you could possibly be capable of. I’m not surprised you’re a lawyer. You probably couldn’t make a living at much of anything else.”
“I should have warned you, Baker.” A cackle came from Harvey Anson’s lips, which was a rare occurrence. “He’s pretty hot. That’s about the identical thing he said to me. Why don’t you look into his connections? To see how we might have suborned him.”
“Thanks, I will.” Baker glared at the witness. “What does your father do?”
“He’s a geodesist.”
“A what?”
The youth smiled tolerantly. “A sectional director of the United States Geodetic Survey.”
“Is he a friend of the chief of police? Or of Quinby Pellett or the Brand family? Or of Mr. Anson or Mr. Sammis?”
“No.”
“Are you?”
“No. I wouldn’t be. I have nothing but contempt for lawyers, financiers and politicians.”