Anatomy of a Murder by Robert Traver Page B

kickoff dinner tonight, after that the Amvets, then bowling … . Shut the door, Polly, and sit down. Make yourself at home. Long, time no see. Tell me, how the hell—ah—won’t you have a cigarette?”
    I gestured with the stub of a cigar. “No thanks, Max, I’m still faithfully on these Italian reefers, still smoking the poor man’s marijuana.”
    The Sheriff wagged his head. “Still the same old joker, too, Polly. Lord, it’s good to see you, man. How do you feel, I mean, how are you really feeling?”
    â€œLook, Max,” I said, taking the plunge, “what were the results of Laura Manion’s lie-detector test?” I held my lighter poised at my cold cigar. The flame burnt my finger.
    â€œOh, that,” the Sheriff replied, without a pause. “As a foxy old D.A. like you well knows—remember those good old days, Polly?—the state police made that test. They made the test, they’ve got the results.” He fleetingly laid a confiding hand on my knee. “You remember how jealous they always were of their prerogatives.” He nodded sagely. “Well, Polly, they still are. Jealous as all hell. So wouldn’t it be better all around for you to go ask them?” He again looked at his desk pad. “Call operator Eleven, Detroit,” he murmured absently. He looked up. “Boy, Polly, it’s been good to see you. Tell me, man, how the hell are you?”
    â€œI guess maybe you’re right, Max,” I grudgingly admitted, standing up. “It’s their baby, I’d better go ask them.” I paused, pondering the problem aloud. “But what’s the use of asking them? They probably wouldn’t tell me—and anyway the results wouldn’t be admissible in court.” I too could confide. “I think maybe I’ll skip it,” I said resolutely. “Yes, I think I may just skip the whole thing. Only complicate matters. To hell with the lie-detector test.” I I pumped the Sheriff’s free hand. He had grabbed up the phone with the other. “Thanks, Max,” I said. “Sorry to have troubled you.”
    â€œAny time at all, Polly. Long time no see. Boy, it’s been good to see you, you old buckaroo … . Hello, Operator, this is Sheriff
Battisfore. Give me operator Eleven at Detroit. That’s right, honey, just about an hour ago … . Yes, dearie, for you I’ll hold on forever … .”
    Max stood silhouetted against his wall of framed photographs. For the first time it occurred to me that there were no pictures showing him out pursuing felons or making an arrest, in fact none showing the man in the simple act of being sheriff … . I nevertheless found it an impressive scene, as though one had long read about and seen some fabulous personage in the newsreels and on TV and then suddenly been privileged to confront him, relaxed and friendly, in the intimate glow of his own home. One had never realized what a remarkable personality he was.
    â€œThere’s just one more thing, Max,” I said. “I was just going to ask Sulo about it, but perhaps I’d better ask the head man himself. I’m in Manion’s case now and he and I are going to have a lot to talk about.” I paused diffidently. “There’ll be lots to do, too, and the trial’s just three weeks away,” I explained.
    â€œNaturally,” the Sheriff said. “And he’s retained one of the best lawyers in the business, Polly. The very best, for my money.”
    â€œThanks, Max,” I said. I was finding trouble coming to the point. “Well, the county still won’t furnish you a jail conference room and I hate for us to be cluttering up your office and being underfoot all the time. I realize you have your work to do.”
    â€œYes?” the Sheriff said helpfully.
    â€œWell, I was wondering how about the Lieutenant and me occasionally sitting outside in