“If you turn into one of those cold-tar girls,” Hodge Kistler said, meeting me, “you’ll eat lunch alone.”
I lasted being snooty until we were sitting kitty-corner on the beige leather seats in one of the booths; we got a corner one.
“What’d your proofreader find out?”
“Wait until I get us something to eat, please, Mrs. Holmes.”
He ordered pickled pigs’ feet, which I thought was a queer choice, but when they came they were jellied, in slices, with awfully good salads, and he told me how he’d been a reporter on a stockyards paper, once, and all the big meat men said pickled pigs’ feet were the biggest delicacy there was, in meats. He talked about stockyards for twenty minutes before he’d come around to Mr. Halloran’s alibi.
“Okay, hold everything. This proofreader arrived at the Halloran ménage bright but not early; ten thirty to be exact. Mr. Halloran was still recumbent.”
“As I’d expect.”
“Sh-sh-sh. Am I telling this? So the proofreader told the little girl who opens the door that he is an American Legion buddy and he is working to get every veteran paid ten thousand dollars spot cash, and he would like to know could he get Mr. Halloran’s support. That brought him out like a shot.”
“I can imagine.”
“They sat in the parlor and communed. Halloran was wearing two-thirds of a pajama and bare feet. Little Hallorans scurried around the house, dashing their heads around doors, staring, and sort of whinnying. Entranced, my proofreader was.”
“I’ve wondered how Mrs. Halloran kept her house. She isn’t there much.”
“Kept, my dear lady? No, no, unkept, I gathered.”
“Ugh.”
“So then,” went on Mr. Kistler blithely, “the talk sort of shifted. To the trials and tribulations poor veterans suffered. To Mr. Halloran’s having been held by the police one night, and why. To how Mr. Halloran knew he didn’t murder Mrs. Garr. Did you ever ask Mrs. Halloran how many children she had?”
“Why, yes. Seven, she said.”
“Did you ever ask Mr. Halloran ditto?”
“No.”
“Ah, my proofreader did. And there, as one might say, was the rub. Or not, to be exact. Sorry, couldn’t help it. Opportunity knocked. Anyhow, Mr. Halloran, questioned, says five.”
“Five? But—”
“And he was out Friday night getting even.”
“I see. A brother of yours.”
Mr. Kistler shook his head sadly. “It dismays me to view my attitude toward Mr. Halloran. My proofreader—what the hell, his name’s Anderson—did better. He admired. And Mr. Halloran, sniggering, gave name and place. Which Anderson immediately checked, and sure enough, the proprietor says he can almost answer this question in his sleep—he is prepared to say Halloran, in company with a strawberry blonde, was at his place from nine o’clock that Friday night until four a.m., when they dumped him out, and that during practically all of that time, he was too drunk to commit murder or anything else.”
“But it’s just got to be Mr. Halloran! Why would anyone else?”
“Well, the only chance is that the proprietor is squared. Anderson’s out now, hunting the strawberry and two more gents the proprietor remembers having been present. But just remember, those hands on your neck weren’t drunk.”
“Pooey, pooey, double pooey, and a couple of extra-super pooeys,” I said. “I’m disgusted.”
“Cheer up. Who knows what the inquest will bring forth? And speaking of inquests, my darling, the hour is come. We’re late. It’s after two thirty now.” We hurried, almost running the two blocks to the city hall where the inquest was to be held. But when we got there, breathing hard, the coroner hadn’t even arrived.
Information told us room 223 for the Garr inquest. Room 223 smelled hot and dry, yet woolly, as if a lot of damp winter clothes had dried in there. It was barer than any schoolroom, with Teacher’s desk on a raised platform, and rows of folding chairs facing the desk. One row of chairs at right angles to the others was up by the desk; it was filled; the jury, I guessed.
Most of the folding chairs were full, too. All the residents of the Garr house. The Hallorans. The Tewmans. The ticket seller. A scattering of other people. And at the back, bedraggled hangers-on, with a reporter or two. A few policemen stood about the room.
We sat down next to Mr. Grant and whispered about how long we’d have to wait. We waited a good long time. Long enough to take in the flyspecks on the light globes, and the general hopelessness of everyone who straggled past the door. I felt, as I always feel when I’ve been in the courthouse, that I needed to be fumigated before I’d really be clean again.
The coroner came in briskly when he did come, with Lieutenant Strom and a couple of more men in tow. The coroner—he was the florid politician to the life—sat down behind the desk and went through the preliminaries quickly. Lieutenant Strom sat beside him.
“First witness,” the coroner said. “Mrs. Halloran, please take the chair.”
I shan’t give the whole inquest; you’d find most of it repetition. But there were a few high spots.
Mrs. Halloran’s testimony dealt with the Chicago trip. After her came the ticket seller. Then a Mr. Banks was called; he was new to me, a railway employee.
“You examined the tickets for the Great Western’s Chicago excursion at eight-five on Friday, May twenty-eighth, Mr. Banks?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you recall any incident involving Mrs. Halloran, the woman who just testified, and another woman?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Describe the other woman.”
“She was older, sir. White hair. Very pretty white hair. Old-fashioned hat high on her head. Violets in front. Black dress.”
“What attracted your notice to her?”
“Well, sir, this crowd was milling around me. The gate wasn’t open yet. And these two women”—he pointed back at Mrs. Halloran—“her and the older one, kept jamming up against me. This one here, Mrs. Halloran, kept waving a ticket in my face and yelling,
