Authors: Whit Masterson
“From us?” asked Gould, grinning. “I thought you were a lone wolf.”
“Not when I can help it. That dynamite survey that your men took — all the sales in the past year — could I get a copy of it?”
“Why not? You can have just about anything you want — including a job. Maybe even mine.” Gould walked with him to the door. “Here’s the funny part to me, Holt. Did you know that McCoy is scheduled to get a testimonial banquet in a week or so? Good timing, huh?”
“Yeah,” muttered Holt. He was happier than ever that he had made the pilgrimage to Whiteside. “Send that report on over, will you?”
On the way to his office, he picked up the noon editions of the newspapers. McCoy wasn’t even mentioned. But Holt was.
H
OLT
spent the rest of the day, which was Friday, engaged in the details of preparing Farnum’s arraignment. When he closed his office for the week end, the police had not yet sent him the dynamite survey he requested and he didn’t know how to pressure them without seeming impolite. So he adopted a philosophical attitude, put it out of his mind and spent Saturday and Sunday helping Connie to get ready for their impending vacation.
When he returned to the office Monday morning, the dynamite survey was waiting on his desk. But waiting with it was another piece of news that made the survey unimportant. Ernest Farnum had confessed to planting the dynamite at Delmont Shayon’s apartment.
The information came to Holt in the form of a scribbled memo from his boss, which concluded: “As we might have guessed, it was just a clumsy attempt to shift suspicion. Nearly worked, too. Anyway, that’s that! JPA.”
“That’s that,” repeated Holt to himself with satisfaction. The last loose end had been secured and the case of the People of California versus Ernest Farnum could now proceed to its inevitable conclusion. From now on, it would be the well-ordered procession of preliminary hearing, arraignment, selection of jury … and so on, right up to the sentencing and the automatic appeals. Familiar ground, all of it; it would be a pleasure to be back on it again after the past few days.
Holt picked up the dynamite survey, preparatory to sending it to the file clerk. It was a bulky sheaf of paper, the record of all sales of explosives made in the county during the past year, with name of purchaser, quantity purchased, the retailer or wholesaler who had sold it and the date. Holt didn’t want to read it now but his eyes accidentally scanned the top page and he knew that he was lost. It was one of his foibles — he considered it a weakness — that he could not put down a document half read, no matter how unimportant its contents to him. If he started a book, he read until he had finished it, even if it meant staying up all night. It was for that reason that he avoided the daily newspapers as much as possible. He seldom had time to read every page and yet it bothered him just to skim. A psychologist friend had once told him that everyone had one or more such foolish compulsions and that they did no harm.
“It’s what you call a psychasthenic reaction,” the psychologist had said. “Your private defence against prolonged states of anxious tension. In your business you probably have a secret fear of not getting all the facts. So you develop this ritualistic habit to prove to yourself that you do.”
“Sounds crazy to me.”
“Of course. Isn’t everybody?”
Remembering the conversation now, Holt grinned — but he kept reading. Scanning the list of meaningless names, he pondered the work that had gone into assembling the survey, the men who had collected the information, the typist who had compiled it, the other men who had checked it — and all, as it turned out, for nothing because … Suddenly, his eyes stopped their rapid descent of the page and came back to focus on a name. He read the entry again. The date was five months before, the first week in September. For a moment, Holt studied the single typewritten line, frowning. Then rapidly he leafed through the remainder of the survey. The entry had not been repeated.
“Now that’s funny,” he muttered, but there was nothing humorous about his expression. “Could be a coincidence, of course.” Uneasily, he picked up Adair’s note and read it again.
Farnum finally admitted … clumsy attempt to shift suspicion … that’s that …
After a while, Holt put the dynamite survey in his desk drawer and got his hat. His first thought was to talk to Van Dusen, but the investigator wasn’t in, so Holt wandered out of the Civic Centre and strolled around the patio, pondering. Eventually, he retrieved his automobile from the parking lot and drove over to police headquarters.
He was becoming a familiar face in the official corridors and the turnkey admitted him to the detention section without hesitation. “Expect you want to see our star boarder, huh? Well, don’t worry — he’s still here.”
Holt inquired who had been on jailer duty over the week end and discovered that he was talking to him. Cautiously, he asked. “I suppose Farnum’s been having quite a few visitors?”
“Not to speak of. He hasn’t asked for anybody. Just lays on his bunk most of the time.”
“His lawyer, maybe?”
“Doesn’t have one that I know of. I guess the court’s going to have to appoint somebody.” The jailer led him down the row of cells, most of them empty after being cleaned out by the Monday morning court session. “No, I can’t recall anybody coming to see him. Except our own men, of course. Quinlan was in Saturday. So was Captain McCoy later on.” They halted at the last cell in the corridor. “Well, here he is, just like I promised. Hey, Farnum, wake up for company.”
Farnum was lying face down on his bunk. He raised his head and stared at Holt for a moment, but didn’t speak. The turnkey unlocked the cell door. “Just yell when you want out,” he told Holt, then added humorously, “You — not you.” He locked the door behind Holt and walked off, whistling.
Holt hesitated a moment, expecting Farnum to say something. When it became apparent that Farnum didn’t intend to initiate the conversation, he said, “How you getting along Farnum?”
“All right.” Farnum regarded him sullenly. “What do you want?”
“Like to talk to you.” Since there was no place to sit, with Farnum occupying the bunk, Holt remained standing.
“I told you everything I had to say the other night.”
“That’s what I thought, too. But this morning I hear you admit that you hid the dynamite in that outside closet under Shayon’s stairs. I’d like to hear about it from you.”
“I haven’t got anything else to say. I read in the papers about the daughter having a boy friend, his address and all, and I guess I decided I’d rather have the cops after him than after me. So I took the rest of the dynamite over to his place and hid it there. I never really expected any trouble would come of it.” He chewed his lip, then added slowly, “I did it, that’s all.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that the other night?”
“I guess I forgot.”
“That’s a little hard to believe, considering I asked you specifically about it.” Farnum didn’t reply. Holt said, “I hear you had some visitors over the week end.”
“No,” said Farnum immediately. “I haven’t seen anybody.”
“The jailer says that Captain McCoy and Sergeant Quinlan were both here and talked to you.”
Farnum hesitated. “Oh, yeah — that’s right. Well, what about it?”
“What did they want?”
“Just to talk about things. I don’t know. They’re cops, aren’t they? Why shouldn’t they talk to me?”
“No reason.” Holt got out his cigarettes and offered the pack to Farnum. The prisoner accepted one reluctantly and his eyes, when they met Holt’s were wary. “I’m curious about your loss of memory regarding the dynamite, Farnum. You understand, don’t you that it’s not going to make any difference in your case one way or the other?”
“I told you I just forgot it,” Farnum muttered. He had to sit up to light his cigarette and he remained in an upright position on the bunk. Holt sat down on the other end, hoping to establish a more friendly relationship. Standing over Farnum put him too much in the attitude of prosecutor. Farnum didn’t seem to relax any, however.
Holt said, “I don’t want you to be misled. You’ve confessed to murder and you’ll be tried for it. If anyone has given you the idea that a deal is possible, that you might get off easier if you admitted hiding the dynamite, too, then that person did so without any authority. Do you understand that?”
“I guess so.”
“Do you still want to stick to your story about the dynamite, on that basis?”
Farnum stared at the floor of the cell. Holt noticed that the fingers holding the cigarette were quivering. Finally, Farnum said morosely, “I said I did it, didn’t I? What more do you want?”
“The truth, perhaps.”
“It is the truth. I thought I could fool the cops by framing Shayon. That’s why I hid the dynamite at his place.”
Holt said, “The other night in your room, you confessed the Linneker murder to me because, as you put it, it wasn’t decent to let another man take the blame. Now you claim you tried to frame this same man. Which time was the lie, Farnum?”
“The other time,” Farnum mumbled. “I’m telling the truth now.”
“In that case, you shouldn’t object to taking a lie detector test, should you?”
“I don’t want any of that crap!” Farnum cried immediately and his voice shook. “You can’t make me do that. I know my rights and privileges under the law and I don’t have to. Just leave me alone!”
The phrase “rights and privileges under the law” had an odd sound on Farnum’s lips as if he were parroting something he had been taught. Holt wondered who the teacher had been. Not Farnum’s attorney certainly, since he had none. Holt said, “I’m anxious to protect your rights and privileges, too. Why don’t you help me?”
Farnum wouldn’t look at him. “I haven’t got anything to say.”
Holt sighed. “If you change your mind, call me.” Farnum didn’t reply. Holt got up and shouted for the turnkey. When he left, Farnum was still sitting on the edge of his bunk, staring at the floor.
A
DAIR
had left word that he wanted to see Holt in his office, which suited Holt just fine. He considered that he had carried this particular load as far as he could by himself.
Adair was in a good mood, still basking in the warmth of the Linneker case wind-up. “Just wanted to ask when you figure on leaving. If it’s going to be soon, I’m going to start Burnett on the preliminary.”
“I was sort of planning on getting away tomorrow,” said Holt. “Until this other thing came up.”
“Didn’t want to take it away from you if you’re going to be here to handle it, since it’s your baby, after all.” Adair continued. Then he frowned, as if just realizing what his assistant had said. “What other thing you talking about, Mitch?”
Holt took the police dynamite survey out of his breast pocket and tapped the folded sheaf of paper on his knee for a moment before answering. “This is going to sound pretty wild to you,” he confessed finally, “but I think I’m duty bound to report it anyway.”
Adair waited, his face assuming its usual stony inscrutability.
Holt said, “It’s the question of the dynamite that McCoy and Quinlan found at Shayon’s apartment.”
“I thought that was all settled. Didn’t you get my note?”
“Yes, and I’ve also talked with Farnum about it. It still doesn’t make sense to me. Let me lay it out for you. First of all, Farnum confessed to the murder because, so he said, he didn’t want to see an innocent man suffer. When questioned, he denied planting the dynamite or, for that matter, ever being within a couple of miles of Shayon’s place. Two days later, he changed his story completely. Why?”
“Oh, I don’t think that’s so much of a problem,” said Adair, relaxing. He had obviously expected something much worse from the way Holt had commenced. “Weren’t you the one who said he was a paranoiac? You can’t expect rational behaviour from him.’’
“I agree with you — up to a point. I suggested a lie detector test to Farnum today. He would have nothing to lose, certainly. Yet he refused, went all to pieces, started quoting his legal rights and so forth.”
Adair rocked back and forth in his chair slowly. “Mitch, aren’t you making a mighty big mountain out of a pretty small molehill? Just what are you attempting to prove, anyhow?”
Holt opened the dynamite survey to the appropriate page and pushed it across the desk to the district attorney. “Read where I marked it.”
Adair did so, frowning. “Loren McCoy, Whiteside, California, fifty sticks Black Fox brand dynamite with blasting caps, purchased from Heartland Hardware Company, September 5 … What is all this, anyway?”
“That’s the police list of all dynamite purchases made during the past year. Interesting, huh?”
“I don’t know that I follow you.”
“Let’s put it this way. Black Fox was the brand used to blow up Linneker, about eighteen sticks of it. Farnum bought Black Fox dynamite in December. Three months before, Captain McCoy also bought Black Fox. It was McCoy and Quinlan who found the Black Fox dynamite in Shayon’s closet. Farnum denied putting it there. Then he changed his story — unconvincingly.” Holt paused. “McCoy and Quinlan each visited Farnum over the week end in his cell, although Farnum didn’t want to admit it to me.”
Adair couldn’t remain seated. He rose and paced up and down, finally halting to stare at Holt. “Do you know what you’re suggesting?”
Holt nodded reluctantly. “I told you it was going to sound pretty wild.”
“Wild? That’s the understatement of the year.”
“Suppose,” said Holt, massaging his forehead, “that it went this way. McCoy and Quinlan were sure that Shayon and Tara were guilty. Intuition, McCoy called it, based on their experience. All they needed was one solid bit of proof — they told me so. They thought they were going to get a positive identification of Shayon up at Seacliff from the clerk who sold Farnum the dynamite. Well, naturally, they didn’t get the identification. But that didn’t shake their belief in Shayon’s guilt. They knew they were right. And don’t forget that the pressure was on them, and heavily, to solve the Linneker murder fast. Everybody expected it because of their reputations. Couldn’t they have been tempted to ‘find’ the evidence they needed — even if that meant faking it — figuring that it would make Shayon crack? I think they could.”