You haven't met Sheriff Morley Haight, which is fair enough, because he hadn't met himself. Lily and I, having had occasion to discuss him, had done so. His basic idea of a Western sheriff was Wyatt Earp, so that was how he dressed, but obviously the modern way to tote a gun was on a belt like a state trooper's, so he did, though he knew he shouldn't. An even bigger difficulty was that he was a born loudmouth, a natural roof-raiser, and of course that wouldn't do at all for a Wyatt Earp. As if that wasn't enough, he had told various people, two of whom I had met, that when there was a problem to handle he always asked himself what J. Edgar Hoover would do. The product was a personality mess that couldn't have been made any worse even by a trained psychoanalyst.
Since he had known what I would do as soon as he heard about my credentials from Jessup, and since he had told his son what to do, my marching in was no surprise for him and he didn't pretend it was. He just squinted at me, his Wyatt Earp squint, and growled, 'What kept you?'
His son Gil, who was standing over by a tier of filing cabinets, had got his long-limbed setup, including his extra inch and a half of neck, straight from Dad, and of course that wasn't ideal for a sheriff, but he had got elected anyway and that's the test-lick your handicaps. One of his dodges was keeping his shoulders up and back to make them look broader, and he was doing that now.
There was a plain wood chair at the end of his desk, and I went and took it. 'Mr Wolfe thought there were better things to do yesterday,' I said politely. 'This will be the first time I ever questioned a murder suspect with a sheriff listening. Do we want a stenographer?'
'We don't need one.' He opened a desk drawer, fingered in it, brought papers out, and selected one. 'Here's an extra copy of a signed statement by one of the suspects I questioned.' He held it out and I took it. 'I guess you can read?'
I didn't bother to bat that back. The exhibit was typewritten on a plain 8Ѕ-by-11 sheet, single-spaced and wide-margined:
Timberburg, Montana
July 27, 1968
I, Gilbert Haight, living at 218 Jefferson Street, Timberburg, Montana, hereby state that on Thursday, July 25, 1968, I was at the Presto Gas Station on Main Street continuously from 12:50 p.m. to 2:25 p.m. The times given in this statement are exact within five minutes, and are all for the aforesaid Thursday, July 25.
From 2:35 p.m. to 4:25 p.m., continuously, I was with Miss Bessie Boughton at her home at 360 Willow Street, Timberburg. From 4:40 p.m. to 5:05 p.m., continuously, I was with Mr Homer Dowd at his place of business, the Dowd Roofing Company, on Main Street, Timberburg. From 5:20 p.m. to 6:00 p.m., continuously, I was with Mr Jimmy Negron at his chicken farm on Route 27 south of Timberburg.
Gilbert Haight
Witness: Effie T. Duggers
The names were typed below the signatures. Apple-pie order.
Of course he expected me either to tackle Gil on the alibi, trying to find a crack, or to get personal with him about his relations with Alma Greve and his contacts with Philip Brodell, so I had to do something else. There weren't many alternatives. I folded the document carefully, pocketed it, narrowed my eyes at him, and said the way Wyatt Earp would have said it, 'That seems to account for him, subject to a check, but what about you? Where were you from two p.m. to six p.m. on Thursday, July twenty-fifth?'
The reaction was even better than expected. His hand went to his belt and for half a second I thought he was actually going to draw; his eyes bugged; and he roared like a bull at the touch of the branding iron, 'You goddam New York punk!' He then jerked his chair back and started up, but I don't know how fast or far he came because I was walking out and my back was turned. On through the anteroom and down the hall and out to the car.
Having been to 360 Willow Street once before, I didn't have to get directions. It was a neat little one-story white cottage with a narrow concrete walk leading to the three steps up to a little covered porch. I hadn't been inside because Miss Boughton had spoken her few words to me through the screen door, but this time she pushed it open and I entered. Obviously she too had been expecting me, though she didn't say so. All she said, after inviting me in and taking me to a neat little room with two windows, and one wall covered nearly to the ceiling with shelves of books, was that I should have phoned because she often spent weekends at her brother's ranch. Before she sat on the biggest chair of the three available she had to pick up an embroidery frame with work in progress that was there on the seat. Probably the Thomas Jefferson that decorated the back of my chair had come from that frame.
'I had Gilbert Haight in my political-science class for two years,' she said. 'When I started teaching thirty-eight years ago, they called it history.'
I gave her a cordial smile. Evidently we weren't going to bother about approach, but I asked if she would like to see my credentials from the county attorney.
She shook her head, making glints dart at me as the light from a window bounced from the thick lenses of her gold-rimmed cheaters, which were too big for her little round face. 'Gilbert saw it,' she said. 'He just told me on the phone. Of course it wouldn't have been proper for me to talk when you were here before, since you were just a stranger I knew nothing about, but now I'll be glad to. Some people are criticizing Tom Jessup for getting outsiders like Nero Wolfe and you to help, but that's parochial and narrow-minded. I thoroughly approve. Tom's a good boy, I had him back in nineteen forty-three, a war year. We are all citizens of this great Republic, and it's your Constitution just as much as it's mine. What do you want to know?'
'Just a few little facts,' I said. 'Since you teach political science of course you know that when a crime is committed, for instance homicide, anyone with a known motive is asked some questions, and his answers should be checked. Gilbert Haight says he was here with you for part of a certain afternoon a couple of weeks ago. So of course he was. Right?'
'Yes. He came about half past two and left about half past four.'
'What day of the week was it?'
'It was a Thursday. Thursday, July twenty-fifth.'
'How sure are you it was that day?'
Her lips parted to show two even rows of little white teeth. I wouldn't have called it a grin, but she
