around no place in particular was a funny thing for a young healthy couple to be doing for four or five hours on a cold winter night.”
“Isn’t that what McCoy thinks, too?”
“Now I ask you, Van. Suppose that you planned to kill somebody and knew that you were bound to be the principal suspect. Would you stand pat on an alibi like that — which you admit is no alibi at all? I don’t think so. Even that tuna fisherman did better than that, and Shayon is no dumb-bell. It’s my guess that those two kids have an alibi they’re not telling us about.”
“You mean you think they were shacking up some place,” said Van Dusen thoughtfully. “But why hold it back, considering the spot they’re in?”
“Tara is so crushed at the moment she doesn’t care what happens. And I think that Shayon has some crazy idea that he has to play the gentleman, prove that he’s better than ‘just a shoe clerk.’ And it’s also quite likely they believe that the fake alibi is as good as the real one, and less damaging to their reputations. What would you say to checking motel and hotel registers against Shayon’s handwriting and their descriptions?”
“It’s easy enough done, if that’s what you want,” Van Dusan hesitated. “You really want it, Mitch?”
“Why shouldn’t I?”
“Because you’re liable to wind up being a very unpopular guy. If you blow up the case against Tara Linneker and Delmont Shayon, there’ll be some hotheads who’ll say that you’re doing the defence’s work, not your own. And that number will include our distinguished patron, James P. Adair. Two-Gun is counting on the Linneker trial sewing up another term for him.”
“It still can — but not if we prosecute the wrong people.”
“But are they the wrong people?” asked Van Dusen sceptically. He reached for the check but Holt beat him to it. “Well, I’ll give it a whirl, Mitch. But I’ve got a strong feeling that everybody will be happier if I don’t find anything.”
Driving down the harbour boulevard in the cold February sunlight, Holt thought about what Van Dusen had said. Yes, everybody might be happier if he just let things ride — everybody except the suspected couple, that is. Just the same, Holt had to know. Otherwise, he could not in conscience ask a jury to bring in a verdict he himself wasn’t sure was justified. To be a successful prosecutor was the same as being a successful salesman or a successful preacher: you had to believe in your product.
But he couldn’t ignore the other side of the coin. All else aside, there had been a murder committed. This was a fact about which there was no argument. Therefore, a murderer was loose. If he was right and Tara and Shayon were not guilty this still did not end the matter. And since he was presently bent on destroying — or at least rigorously testing — McCoy’s hypothesis, it was his responsibility to find an alternate hypothesis. It was not enough merely to say, They are innocent, because the immediate rejoinder was, Well, who then?
He parked in front of the Linneker Lumber & Hardware Company. It occupied about five acres of reclaimed land, once tidewater marsh, just within the city’s southernmost limits. The bay had been dredged to allow the ocean-going lumber schooners to dock there. Close to the highway stood the company buildings, offices, planing mills and warehouses, with the towering stacks of raw lumber stretching away in orderly ranks behind them to the water’s edge. A spur railroad track led into the grounds, which were surrounded on three sides by a chain-link fence. Despite the recent death of the owner, business was going on as usual. Saws whined and moaned in the mill and fork-loaders trundled up and down the aisles like ants on seemingly pointless missions.
As Holt walked toward the general offices, he sniffed appreciatively the distinctive blend of smells — resin and fresh wood and salt water. It was pungent and invigorating, full of life.
“Isn’t that what McCoy thinks, too?”
“Now I ask you, Van. Suppose that you planned to kill somebody and knew that you were bound to be the principal suspect. Would you stand pat on an alibi like that — which you admit is no alibi at all? I don’t think so. Even that tuna fisherman did better than that, and Shayon is no dumb-bell. It’s my guess that those two kids have an alibi they’re not telling us about.”
“You mean you think they were shacking up some place,” said Van Dusen thoughtfully. “But why hold it back, considering the spot they’re in?”
“Tara is so crushed at the moment she doesn’t care what happens. And I think that Shayon has some crazy idea that he has to play the gentleman, prove that he’s better than ‘just a shoe clerk.’ And it’s also quite likely they believe that the fake alibi is as good as the real one, and less damaging to their reputations. What would you say to checking motel and hotel registers against Shayon’s handwriting and their descriptions?”
“It’s easy enough done, if that’s what you want,” Van Dusan hesitated. “You really want it, Mitch?”
“Why shouldn’t I?”
“Because you’re liable to wind up being a very unpopular guy. If you blow up the case against Tara Linneker and Delmont Shayon, there’ll be some hotheads who’ll say that you’re doing the defence’s work, not your own. And that number will include our distinguished patron, James P. Adair. Two-Gun is counting on the Linneker trial sewing up another term for him.”
“It still can — but not if we prosecute the wrong people.”
“But are they the wrong people?” asked Van Dusen sceptically. He reached for the check but Holt beat him to it. “Well, I’ll give it a whirl, Mitch. But I’ve got a strong feeling that everybody will be happier if I don’t find anything.”
Driving down the harbour boulevard in the cold February sunlight, Holt thought about what Van Dusen had said. Yes, everybody might be happier if he just let things ride — everybody except the suspected couple, that is. Just the same, Holt had to know. Otherwise, he could not in conscience ask a jury to bring in a verdict he himself wasn’t sure was justified. To be a successful prosecutor was the same as being a successful salesman or a successful preacher: you had to believe in your product.
But he couldn’t ignore the other side of the coin. All else aside, there had been a murder committed. This was a fact about which there was no argument. Therefore, a murderer was loose. If he was right and Tara and Shayon were not guilty this still did not end the matter. And since he was presently bent on destroying — or at least rigorously testing — McCoy’s hypothesis, it was his responsibility to find an alternate hypothesis. It was not enough merely to say, They are innocent, because the immediate rejoinder was, Well, who then?
He parked in front of the Linneker Lumber & Hardware Company. It occupied about five acres of reclaimed land, once tidewater marsh, just within the city’s southernmost limits. The bay had been dredged to allow the ocean-going lumber schooners to dock there. Close to the highway stood the company buildings, offices, planing mills and warehouses, with the towering stacks of raw lumber stretching away in orderly ranks behind them to the water’s edge. A spur railroad track led into the grounds, which were surrounded on three sides by a chain-link fence. Despite the recent death of the owner, business was going on as usual. Saws whined and moaned in the mill and fork-loaders trundled up and down the aisles like ants on seemingly pointless missions.
As Holt walked toward the general offices, he sniffed appreciatively the distinctive blend of smells — resin and fresh wood and salt water. It was pungent and invigorating, full of life.
Similar Books
