Clay Hand (13 page)

“You met him several times after that?”

“Yes.”

“Did your husband know of these meetings?”

“Perhaps he did. I did not tell him. I saw no reason to.”

“Your husband is away a good part of the time?”

“Yes. He is home only two or three times a week.”

“Did anything…” Handy himself groped for a word… “improper happen between you and the deceased?”

“Nothing.” She looked at him directly as she said the word. “You would be surprised, Mr. Handy, how often the word ‘love’ occurs in very ordinary conversations.”

“Maybe I would,” Handy said, but without sarcasm.

Phil looked at Glasgow. He was sulky now, as though he resented the possibility of anyone being interested in this plain wife of his.

“You know the talk that’s been going around,” the coroner said.

“I know the talk there has been about my father and me since we came to live here. I know that it was said that I would never get a husband, and after I had married, that I would never keep him. Yes, I know the talk that’s been going round very well.”

“It’s unfortunate,” Handy said, “that talk doesn’t come out in the open except at a time like this. But the truth is, Mrs. Glasgow, all we can be concerned about here, now, is the talk about you and Coffee. Do you know how it started?”

“I can only tell you the people who saw us,” she said, “the boy who hides in the hills for purposes of his own. It was he who found Dick…” She said the name very softly. “The man who died two weeks ago, Mr. Laughlin, saw us. He stopped and talked with us a couple of times, and the girl with Mrs. O’Grady.”

All eyes turned to Anna Whelan, and she looked about the room like a trapped animal. “She sent me. She made me do it,” Anna cried out.

Mrs. O’Grady’s cane caught her across the leg. “Simpleton,” the old lady hissed at her. “What are you frightened of? Nobody’s touching you.”

A sickening realization of the old woman’s jealousy came to Phil. He had sensed it before, but now the whole impact of it hit him. Dick had realized it and been revolted by it. He had mentioned it, writing, and hated himself for the revulsion…. “…because I know she is a very lonely woman, and loneliness makes desperate wooers of us.”

Handy was banging for quiet, and Phil saw the sheriff pick up Dick’s notes from the table and thumb through them, following the same line of thought he had.

“Did the deceased talk to you about what he was doing in Winston, Mrs. Glasgow?”

“We did not talk of it,” she said, and Phil wondered if that was not an evasion of the truth.

If the thought occurred to Handy, he did not pursue it. “Did you ever go with Mr. Coffee to that abandoned entry to the Number Three mine?”

“Yes. We had seen Mr. Laughlin about there, and we went over to it.”

“Did you enter the mine?”

“No. But I watched while Mr. Coffee did. He was gone about half an hour. When he returned he told me he thought there was gas in it. He said that it was probably fugitive from the blasting at another point. I know that he talked to Laughlin that night, and the old man promised to report it.”

“But Laughlin didn’t work in the mines, Mrs. Glasgow. Why didn’t Coffee report it directly to those in authority?”

“I don’t know.”

“Could it have been that it would have spoiled a rendezvous spot for you if he had?”

Her fierce “No!” was lost in the medley of shocked exclamations.

“I’ll clear the room if this keeps up,” Handy shouted. Looking back to Rebecca Glasgow, he asked: “When did you last see the deceased?”

“Saturday afternoon between three and four. I saw him passing the house.”

“Did you speak with him?”

“No.”

“Had you quarreled?”

“No.”

“Or was it that your husband was home?”

The old magician got to his feet. “Mr. Handy, you have not treated the other witnesses…”

His son-in-law reached across the vacant chair between them and pulled him back to his seat. “You old fool. She can take care of herself.”

When quiet was restored, Handy asked: “Do you know why he did not stop, Mrs. Glasgow?”

“Because I asked him not to come any more.” The words came with difficulty.

“Why?”

She did not answer, and Handy prompted: “Were you in love with him?”

“I liked him very much,” she admitted.

“You knew he was married?”

“Yes.”

“Where did you spend last Saturday evening, Mrs. Glasgow?”

“Working with my father in the house, except for the few minutes I went out to attend the animals.”

“How long were you gone?”

“Twenty minutes, perhaps.”

“That’s a lot of attention. Where were they?”

“They had wandered a ways from the house. Not as far as the cliff,” she added without being asked. “I herded them in and watered them.”

“In the dark?”

“It was about six-thirty. I had a flashlight.”

“Did you hear or see anything unusual?”

“Nothing. All I heard was the train whistle.”

“Questions?” Handy asked the jury.

A woman juror raised her hand. She smiled as she put the question: “Are you in love with your husband, Mrs. Glasgow?”

“Are you with yours?” the witness snapped back at her.

Again the murmur in the room which Handy had to quiet. It was a good question, Phil thought, seeing the indignant fluster of the juror. How rarely these people spoke of love, having spent its first sweet fortune. The question had come from the movie house or the pages of a magazine.

The coroner did not press for an answer, and Rebecca Glasgow was excused. She returned to her seat, and moved it back for her husband to pass, for he was called next. He trod on the old man’s foot in his haste. It was Clauson who apologized after him, unacknowledged.

“You work for the Cleveland and Mobile Railway. Is that right, Mr. Glasgow?” Handy began.

“I do.”

“How long have you worked for them?”

“Two and a half years. Since I got out of the army.”

“Were you acquainted with the deceased?”

“I met him a couple of times.”

“When was the last time you saw him, Mr. Glasgow?”

Glasgow looked at him, half squinting as though in greater effort to understand the simple question. It was only to heighten attention to his answer, Phil decided, hearing it. It was an almost verbatim repetition of his wife’s answer. “Between three and four last Saturday afternoon when he passed the house.”

“Did you or your wife comment on him at the time?”

“I told her to go on out after him if she wanted to.”

“You knew of their relationship then?” Handy asked.

“I knew, your honor.” There was more sarcasm than respect in his voice. Whelan had used that address, your honor, too, Phil thought.

“Were you jealous?”

“No. Why should I be jealous? You just heard—Coffee was in love with his wife. Rebecca knew it. What was I going to get worked up over?”

He nodded toward his wife in speaking. Phil glanced at her. Her eyes were closed, her head down.

“Then you talked about Coffee with her?”

“There was talk of nothing else in the house between her and the old man. Lord, how he would of liked a man like him in the house, somebody smart like him and her, and not a lousy working man.”

Glasgow’s venom spilled over into the onlookers. It was several seconds before Handy restored quiet. Through it all, the magician and his daughter sat like two gray animals determined not to be flushed into a hasty flight.

“Will you tell us, please, where you were from four o’clock last Saturday, Mr. Glasgow?”

“At four o’clock I sat down to my supper. Quarter to five I clocked in at the yards. By six I was on my way to Cleveland.”

“Is there someone who saw you leave Winston?”

“I signaled the engineer myself. There was nobody in the cab, if that’s what you’re asking. We picked a couple of fellows up in Rockland, but that was near ten o’clock. If it’s an alibi you’re looking for I can’t give anything more than I just told you.”

The jurors had no questions. Weariness was beginning to overtake them. The men had sprawled their legs, and the women’s hair was straggling from beneath their hats, unheeded. Handy rubbed his face down with his handkerchief. He consulted with the sheriff, and Fields shook his head. He did not want adjournment without one more witness. Handy straightened up wearily.

“Miss Anna Whelan.”

Anna was startled by the call. She moved forward only when Mrs. O’Grady gave her a shove. At the coroner’s desk she plucked at her nails until bidden to sit down.

“How old are you, Anna?”

“Fifteen, sir.”

“How long have you been with Mrs. O’Grady?”

“Since I was thirteen.”

“You knew Mr. Coffee?”

“Yes sir.”

“Your father told us this morning that Mr. Coffee gave you money. How much money?”

“A dollar a week. Sometimes two.”

“Why did he give it to you?”

“He said I ironed his shirts real nice.”

“I see,” Handy said. “Now, Anna, have you been walking in the hills east of town lately?”

“Yes sir.”

“Did you see anything unusual there?”

“I saw Mr. Coffee and that Mrs. Glasgow.”

“That isn’t so unusual, is it, Anna?”

“I saw them holding hands and lying together.”

A sound of shock escaped the women. It was soon hushed in their fear of missing a word.

“Real close together, Anna?” Handy asked evenly.

The girl flushed to the roots of her hair. “No sir.”

“Did you tell anyone of what you’d seen?”

“I told Mrs. O’Grady.”

“Told me!” the old lady shouted. “She brought up a tale that’d raise your hair. The details the little strut gave me.”

“That’s enough, ma’am,” Handy said. “You were mild enough with your comments before us. Be so good as to keep your peace now.”

“My peace! There’ll be a hell of a lot of peace now with the tales coming out of her.”

“You liked them,” Anna said in an instant’s rebellion. “That’s why I told them. He was good to me…”

“Bah!”

“Anna, talk to me and the jury,” the coroner said. “Did you make up the stories yourself?”

Deserted and cornered, Anna began to fight back. “No sir. I just told what I saw, and I saw plenty.”

“Did you tell it at home, too, Anna?”

“Yes.”

They both would be fond of a lecherous tale, Phil thought—her father and the widow. It accounted for their camaraderie, and was indulged in spite of her affection for Dick Coffee. When Dick was carried home, and only the smoke and dirt remained in Winston, they would sit at the kitchen table with a bottle and wait for the devil to pluck them out of it.

“Anna,” Handy said, “tell us the truth now, and mind, this is very important. Did you ever see Mr. Coffee and Mrs. Glasgow at the mouth of the mine over there—the entry that’s closed up now?”

“I saw them go into it,” the girl said, and then as the clamor rose in the room, she shouted, “Yes. I saw them move the boards and go in there!”

Rebecca Glasgow bit hard upon her underlip, as though to dull another, deeper pain than that of her teeth upon her flesh. At the coroner’s desk the sheriff had taken over the questioning of Anna, trying to place the date on which the girl had seen them. It was small wonder that he failed. What was one day from another to one who went to the Widow O’Grady’s house with daylight and left it only in time to go to her bed?

A long shiver seemed to run through Margaret Coffee. The widow had observed it, too, for she reached her horny hand across and patted Margaret’s where it lay upon her lap. Margaret smiled at the consoling gesture. Phil turned his back on them and stepped deeper into the hallway. From there he heard the sheriff say: “Maurice, I’d like you to adjourn the inquest till one week from today when…”

He was interrupted by Howard Lempke, the mine superintendent, who was on his feet among the witnesses. “What kind of shenanigans is this?” he shouted. “I demand you bring a verdict. You’ve heard the witnesses. If the men don’t go back in Number Three…”

Handy banged him down, his big fist almost shattering the table. “You are not coroner of Corteau County, Mr. Lempke. Not yet, anyway. And you aren’t going to stampede us with your threats.”

“No,” Lempke said. “But you can stampede the men out of the mines, can’t you?”

“This inquest doesn’t give a damn about the mines,” Handy said. His face was flushed and sweating.

“That’s pretty obvious. Maybe you don’t give a damn about the people who get bread and butter out of them, either.”

The sheriff laid his hand on the coroner’s shoulder. “Let me say a few words, Maurice.”

Handy waved him ahead impatiently. Fields moved between the witnesses and the coroner’s desk. Sit down a minute, Mr. Lempke, please. We’ve heard contradictory evidence here. It’s my job to find out what’s the truth and what isn’t. I can’t snap my fingers and have it shake out like numbers on a pair of dice. I know what two weeks’ loss in production means these days. I know there isn’t the demand for coal there used to be. I know what that means to you. I know what two weeks out means to the men, too. It means bills they’ll be paying on months later. Now the truth of all this is, it’d be a lot easier for me, too, if the men was to go back, and everything in Winston was to go on like normal.

“So I’m on your side there, Lempke. I’d like the men to go back in the morning, and with the Number Three recertified, I don’t see no reason they shouldn’t. But that isn’t my business. My job is investigating Richard Coffee’s death, and I’m going to do it no matter what happens.”

He turned and faced the coroner. “Do I get the week, Maurice?”

The inquest was adjourned for one week.

T
HE ROOM CLEARED QUICKLY
of weary and disgruntled people. Mrs. O’Grady was waiting for Margaret to pack her things, and Phil realized that he was expected to take them both to the widow’s house. He had no desire to be with either of them at the moment, and went to the back room to offer Fields any help he might be able to give him. There he walked in on another argument.

“I can’t give you that authorization, Fields,” Lempke was saying. “I’ll have to get in touch with the main office. That’s not the state fair grounds out there, you know.”