Читать интересную книгу Breathe No More My Lady - Ed Lacy

“Of course. We may talk sooner than you expect. I plan to do a book on it. I'll be knocking on your office door any month now.”

I said I was sure Longson would be glad to consider it and we said good night. I took a shower and dropped off into a good sleep, listening to Brown snoring lightly in the next bed.

Friday was a sunny, mild Fall day. After breakfast Brown insisted it was better we part in the courtroom. The court was really packed and if Brown hadn't been such an early riser we probably wouldn't have found seats. I didn't see the Hunters, but May Fitzgerald was still around. Wearing a worn houndstooth sports jacket, slacks, a plain shirt and tie, Matt was the picture of casual high fashion as he took the stand, his big frame cramped in the witness chair.

After Jackson established Matt had been a professional writer for over 20 years, that he had been a war correspondent and employed by a Hollywood studio as a writer—for a few months—Jackson asked, “Mr. Anthony, as a self-employed writer, will you please tell the court your work schedule?

“I dictate every day, including Sundays, for at least two hours. This is typed up by a secretary in New York City, returned to me for further revision.”

Jackson's eyebrows shot up in hammy surprise. “You mean you only work two hours a day?”

“That's actual dictation, answering letters. This is rather difficult to explain,”. Matt said, his voice low and strong. “But since a writer deals with ideas there isn't any time limit on his work day. He can't put in an 8 hour day and forget his job. For instance, suppose I get an idea for a story: although I may only spend an hour putting the rough on tape, I let the idea cook in my mind for many hours, often for days and months, working out the characters, the plot. In reality I would say I am working every minute—thinking about the story—even though I may be fishing, swimming, talking or watching TV.”

“Do you work while you sleep?” Jackson asked lightly.

Matt slipped him that little smile—which was beginning to annoy me. “In a sense I do. I keep a pad and pencil near my bed, to jot down ideas that come to me either before sleeping or even in a dream.”

“Would I be correct in saying, Mr. Anthony, that you— or any professional writer—is either using his typewriter, pencil, dictation machine, or his brain, 24 hours a day?”

“I'd say he has to be ready to use them 24 hours a day. To cite another example, I may hear a bit of conversation during a dinner that would fit in with the story. In other words, I have to constantly keep my work in mind. For that reason I make it a point to keep pencil and paper in all my suits, beach robes, on my boat.”

“Have you a pencil and paper handy now?”

Matt pulled a small pad and a pencil from his pocket. “I've been making many notes about this trial. I'm writing a book about it, and my experiences while in jail.”

“You're working now?” Jackson asked, as if it was all a complete surprise to him.

“I am. I think it will be the first book showing the inside of a trial, as seen by the defendant. My publishers like the idea. As I told yon, I work seven days a week, 365 days a year.”

“Even when on trial for your life?”

“Of course,” Matt said, and for a moment his face clouded as if realizing he was on trial for his life.

Jackson stood in thought for a second, then he said, “In my quote from Mr. W. Somerset Maugham yesterday, he said something about the writer writing all day long, too, consciously or unconsciously forever sorting and making over his impressions. You said you're actually thinking, or letting an idea 'cook' in the back of your mind, even while fishing, driving your car, etc. How can you concentrate on two things at the same time, Mr. Anthony?”

“After a time I suppose it comes naturally. Foremost, I am constantly concentrating on my work. The other things are merely normal actions and reactions I do without thinking. Just as a person may drive a car and carry on a conversation at the same time.”

“Do you mean you can fish, have a swim, talk to people without giving it a second thought?”

“Yes.”

“You used the word 'normal' a moment ago. Suppose something that isn't normal happens—let us say your car breaks down, or you have a flat tire, would that disturb your working thoughts, your writing thoughts?”

“Yes.”

“Would you say that in your profession you need complete freedom of thought?”

“I would.”

“Would an argument upset or spoil such freedom?”

“A true argument would. I mean, arguing over the merits of a baseball team, for example, wouldn't disturb my thinking.”

“We have heard testimony that your wife nagged you a great deal. Is that true?”

“Yes.”

“Did her nagging ever interfere with your creative thinking?”

“Well, when it was intense I'd say it did.”

“Was it often intense?”

“Yes.”

“Did you also nag your wife?”

Wagner, who had been toying with a pencil, his face emotionless, started to rise, then sat back.

“I suppose every husband nags at some time or other,” Matt was grinning again.

“Mr. Anthony, we are not talking about every husband. Did you ever nag your wife?”

“Yes, at times.”

“The State's witnesses have testified that Francine Anthony nagged about your exercising, your drinking, your choice of friends. Why didn't you give in to her demands, end the arguments?”

Matt shrugged his thick shoulders. “I felt I not only had a right to live my own life, but that it also had to be an active life. To spur my thinking, I couldn't live in a mental cage. Also, since we were living pretty high, I had to keep jabbing my mind to turn out enough work to meet our expenses.”

“Are you in debt?”

“Yes. We went into debt to buy our house, the boats, other items. I haven't any set income I can count on. Some years I've made over $20,000... and there have been years when I didn't average fifty bucks a week.”

“Miss Fitzgerald has testified you and your wife entertained often. Was that Mrs. Anthony's idea?”

“No. We both liked to live comfortably, entertain, travel.”

“Did you give your wife a weekly allowance for household expenses?”

“We had a joint checking account. She took out about two hundred dollars each week for food, help, whatever household expenses arose.”

“Was Mrs. Anthony a wealthy woman before you married her?”

Matt shook his head. “No.”

“Was she working then?'

“She was a cashier in a store.”

“Do you know if she was supporting her former husband?”

“Yes. She was.”

“Do you know who paid the legal expenses for her divorce?”

“I did.”

“Did you ever buy Francine Anthony a mink coat?”

“Yes, twice, that I can recall.”

“Did you ever buy her a car for her own use?”

“We've had many cars, we both used them.”

“Mr. Anthony, do you play golf?”

“No.”

“Did Mrs. Anthony?”

“Sometimes. Not very often during the last few years.”

“Did she have a set of golf clubs?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know what her golf clubs cost?”

“About $300.”

“Did you ever buy Francine Anthony any jewelry?”

“Only a wedding ring. She never cared for jewels.”

“Did Mrs. Anthony have charge accounts at most New York City department stores?”

“Yes.”

“Was she fond of fishing?”

“Very.”

“Did she have her own fishing gear?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know what her rods and reels cost?”

Matt shrugged again. “About $2000. I know her tuna reel cost $650.”

“Mr. Anthony, since your marriage to Francine Anthony, have you traveled often?”

“Almost every year. We've been to Europe three times, to the West Indies, to Canada and various parts of the United States.”

“Mrs. Anthony accompanied you on all these trips?”

“Certainly.”

“Now, Mr. Anthony, let us come to July 25th. Will you tell the court exactly what happened on that day, starting from the time you arose.”

“Fran and I got up at about nine, had a swim. Then the Hunters came down and we all had breakfast I had secretly ordered a skin diving outfit sent to the Hampton post office— under one of my pen names. About ten-fifteen I took the car and drove over to see if it had arrived. It had and I hid it in the trunk of the car. I was amazed to see Hank Brown walking towards the Hampton railroad station. We had taught together at Brooks University many years ago. I stopped Hank and we talked for...”

Jackson held up his hand. “One second, Mr. Anthony. You said you had 'secretly' ordered this skin diving outfit. Why in secret?”

“Fran was against it. She felt underwater swimming might be a strain on my heart.”

“Mr. Anthony, do you carry a large insurance policy?”

“Not at present. At one time I held policies totaling $50,000. However, due to the expense of buying our estate, building the house, I was not able to meet some premiums and a few of the policies have lapsed. At present I only carry about $6000 worth of insurance.”

“How much insurance did you carry on July 25th?”

“About $6000.”

“Did Mrs. Anthony ever tell you she was afraid you might die before your larger policies could be renewed?”

Matt grinned. “Many times. She claimed I had let the insurance lapse merely to annoy her. I kept reminding her the insurance money went into the house.”

I—and everybody else—glanced at Wagner, expecting him to make an objection. Even the judge looked his way. But Wagner sat there calmly, making notes.

“So you had to sneak over to Hampton to get this skin diving outfit, Mr. Anthony. Did you think skin diving might be a strain on your heart?”

“Mr. Clair, if I thought I was dying I would have shot myself. I don't believe in being a living corpse. I realized I had to take moderate care of my heart, we all do as we grow older. I cut down on my drinking, on exercise, avoided fatty foods. At the same time I swam, I walked, I fished. Skin diving requires even less energy than swimming. I felt exploring the bottom of the bay, perhaps finding the remains of old ships, might give me material for a book. I looked forward to it as a new experience.”

“Now, Mr. Anthony, let us continue with the day of July 25th. You said you met Professor Brown in Hampton— what happened after that?”

“I'd read a little of Hank's troubles in the papers. Naturally, we talked about that, and other things, for a while. He kept saying he had to make a train. I urged him to come over to the house and either take a later train, or stay the weekend. As I said, we hadn't seen each other in years, had much to talk over. He told me he was out of work and stony. I thought I might be able to help him find something. We arrived at the house before noon. Hank met Fran and the Hunters. Fran kept repeating his name, trying to remember where she had heard or read about him. Finally, while I was getting everybody a drink, Fran asked him pointblank— she was always outspoken—and he told her about losing his job. Although she didn't say a word, everybody could see how furious she was and I knew Hank was uncomfortable. Fran and the Hunters went out on the veranda. When I passed there, Fran bawled me out. I told her Hank and his wife had been very kind to me when I was a young instructor at Brooks, that I was very fond of him, both as a man and as a friend, and might have him out for a weekend. She was afraid I was going to lend him some money. Then Fran said she wanted him to leave at once and if I didn't tell Hank to get out, she would. It was then I told her I'd kill... her... if... if she ever said a rude word... to him.” Matt's voice ended in a nervous whisper. Under his tan I thought he looked pale.

“Would you like a glass of water, Mr. Anthony?”' Jackson asked.

Matt shook his head, sat up straight and smiled again—a brave little smile this time. He certainly was acting again. He said, “I am perfectly all right, Mr. Clair, thank you.”

Jackson rubbed his chin slowly, asked, “What was your state of mind when you told your wife you would 'kill' her if she was rude to your old friend?”

“I was quite angry, upset. I knew most people were avoiding Hank and... well, a crisis is the test of any friendship.”

“Had Mrs. Anthony ever met Prof. Brown before?”

“No.”

“Have you any idea as to why she wanted him out of your house? Did she find him loud, obnoxious, or—”

“Of course not. She barely had a chance to talk to him. She made the reason very clear—it was a matter of money. Fran felt if my name was linked in any way to his, it might hurt some movie sales I had in the works.”

“Matt Anthony, when you told your wife you would 'kill' her if she ordered your friend out of your house, did you mean that as a threat?”

“I did not! It was merely words—a phrase—one uses in the heat of anger.”

“Have you ever used that same phrase before?”

“Hundreds of times—ever since I could talk. It was said in the same sense as saying, if you don't pass the bread I'll break your arm. Or, get off the phone before I wring your neck. Merely words.”

“Then, am I correct in stating that in your own mind, at least, you were not threatening to actually kill your wife?”

“Absolutely correct!” Matt half rose from the witness chair. “I loved Fran.”

“Witnesses have testified that your wife nagged you, that the both of you often argued. Were you and Mrs. Anthony happy?”

“Yes. As a writer all people interest me, but few excite me. Fran was an exciting person. We had both been married and divorced before. If we hadn't been hitting it off, we would have separated. We were in love, happy, suited each other.”

“Mr. Anthony, have you ever in your life actually wanted to kill a person?

“I have—once.”

Jackson looked startled, even Wagner came to attention.

That smile—as if it was the key to a great secret—formed on Mart's face. “During the war a Nazi officer wounded me and killed several of my G.I. buddies. I tried to kill him with my bare hands.”

Jackson gave the court a big understanding grin. “We all know during the war thousands of Americans killed. Except for that one war experience, have you ever wanted to kill anyone?”

“No. Or hurt anybody, either.”

“Now, Mr. Anthony, let us continue with the events of July 25th. What happened after you talked to your wife on the veranda?”

“I went back to Hank. As I said, he couldn't help but sense Fran's hostility. He said he wanted to take the next train back to New York, that he had to see somebody about a job that afternoon....”

One of Wagner's assistants whispered something and they both turned to search out Brown in the crowd, then Wagner shrugged and shook his head. I wondered if be could still call Brown to the stand.

“... I drove Hank to the railway station, said I'd get in touch with him in a week or two. I saw Hank off and returned to the house—”

“One second, Mr. Anthony,” Jackson cut in. “Did your wife see Mr. Brown before he left the house? Did she speak to him?”