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Authors: Kurt Vonnegut
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his fat lips, and down his blocky chin. “A little late?” he said again. “Brother, you’re gonna be about twenty years late getting home—twenty years if you’re lucky.”
“I didn’t have a thing to do with the death of that woman,” said Harve.
“Let’s hear what the witnesses say, huh?” said the sergeant. “They’ll be along in a little bit.”
“If they saw what happened,” said Harve, “I’ll be out of here five minutes after they get here. If they’ve made a mistake,if they really think they saw me do it, you can still let my wife go.”
“Let me give you a little lesson in law, buddy,” said the sergeant. “Your wife’s an accessory to the murder. She drove the getaway car. She’s in this as deep as you are.”
Harve was told that he could do all the telephoning he wanted—could do it after he had been questioned by the captain.
His turn to see the captain came an hour later. He asked the captain where Claire was. He was told that Claire had been locked up.
“That was necessary?” said Harve.
“Funny custom we got around here,” said the captain. “We lock up anybody we think had something to do with a murder.” He was a short, thickset, balding man. Harve found something vaguely familiar in his features.
“Your name’s Harvey K. Elliot?” said the captain.
“That’s right,” said Harve.
“You claim no previous criminal record?” said the captain.
“Not even a parking ticket,” said Harve.
“We can check on that,” said the captain.
“Wish you would,” said Harve.
“As I told your wife,” said the captain, “you really pulled a bonehead mistake, trying to pin this thing on Ed Luby. You happened to pick about the most respected man in town.”
“All due respect to Mr. Luby—” Harve began.
The captain interrupted him angrily, banged on his desk. “I heard enough of that from your wife!” he said. “I don’t have to listen to any more of it from you!”
“What if I’m telling the truth?” said Harve. “You think we haven’t checked your story?” said the captain.
“What about the man who was with her out there?” said Harve. “He’ll tell you what really happened. Have you tried to find him?”
The captain looked at Harve with malicious pity. “There wasn’t any man,” he said. “She went out there alone, went out in a taxicab.”
“That’s wrong!” said Harve. “Ask the cabdriver. There was a man with her!”
The captain banged on his desk again. “Don’t tell me I’m wrong,” he said. “We talked to the cabdriver. He swears she was alone. Not that we need any more witnesses,” he said. “The driver swears he saw you hit her, too.”
The telephone on the captain’s desk rang. The captain answered, his eyes still on Harve. “Captain Luby speaking,” he said.
And then he said to the sergeant standing behind Harve, “Get this jerk out of here. He’s making me sick. Lock him up downstairs.”
The sergeant hustled Harve out of the office and down an iron staircase to the basement. There were cells down there.
Two naked lightbulbs in the corridor gave all the light there was. There were duckboards in the corridor, because the floor was wet.
“The captain’s Ed Luby’s brother?” Harve asked the sergeant.
“Any law against a policeman having a brother?” said the sergeant.
“Claire!” Harve yelled, wanting to know what cell in Hell his wife was in.
“They got her upstairs, buddy,” said the sergeant.
“I want to see her!” said Harve. “I want to talk to her! I want to make sure she’s all right!”
“Want a lot of things, don’t you?” said the sergeant. He shoved Harve into a narrow cell, shut the door with a
clang
.
“I want my rights!” said Harve.
The sergeant laughed. “You got ’em, friend. You can do anything you want in there,” he said, “just as long as you don’t damage any government property.”
The sergeant went back upstairs.
There didn’t seem to be another soul in
“I didn’t have a thing to do with the death of that woman,” said Harve.
“Let’s hear what the witnesses say, huh?” said the sergeant. “They’ll be along in a little bit.”
“If they saw what happened,” said Harve, “I’ll be out of here five minutes after they get here. If they’ve made a mistake,if they really think they saw me do it, you can still let my wife go.”
“Let me give you a little lesson in law, buddy,” said the sergeant. “Your wife’s an accessory to the murder. She drove the getaway car. She’s in this as deep as you are.”
Harve was told that he could do all the telephoning he wanted—could do it after he had been questioned by the captain.
His turn to see the captain came an hour later. He asked the captain where Claire was. He was told that Claire had been locked up.
“That was necessary?” said Harve.
“Funny custom we got around here,” said the captain. “We lock up anybody we think had something to do with a murder.” He was a short, thickset, balding man. Harve found something vaguely familiar in his features.
“Your name’s Harvey K. Elliot?” said the captain.
“That’s right,” said Harve.
“You claim no previous criminal record?” said the captain.
“Not even a parking ticket,” said Harve.
“We can check on that,” said the captain.
“Wish you would,” said Harve.
“As I told your wife,” said the captain, “you really pulled a bonehead mistake, trying to pin this thing on Ed Luby. You happened to pick about the most respected man in town.”
“All due respect to Mr. Luby—” Harve began.
The captain interrupted him angrily, banged on his desk. “I heard enough of that from your wife!” he said. “I don’t have to listen to any more of it from you!”
“What if I’m telling the truth?” said Harve. “You think we haven’t checked your story?” said the captain.
“What about the man who was with her out there?” said Harve. “He’ll tell you what really happened. Have you tried to find him?”
The captain looked at Harve with malicious pity. “There wasn’t any man,” he said. “She went out there alone, went out in a taxicab.”
“That’s wrong!” said Harve. “Ask the cabdriver. There was a man with her!”
The captain banged on his desk again. “Don’t tell me I’m wrong,” he said. “We talked to the cabdriver. He swears she was alone. Not that we need any more witnesses,” he said. “The driver swears he saw you hit her, too.”
The telephone on the captain’s desk rang. The captain answered, his eyes still on Harve. “Captain Luby speaking,” he said.
And then he said to the sergeant standing behind Harve, “Get this jerk out of here. He’s making me sick. Lock him up downstairs.”
The sergeant hustled Harve out of the office and down an iron staircase to the basement. There were cells down there.
Two naked lightbulbs in the corridor gave all the light there was. There were duckboards in the corridor, because the floor was wet.
“The captain’s Ed Luby’s brother?” Harve asked the sergeant.
“Any law against a policeman having a brother?” said the sergeant.
“Claire!” Harve yelled, wanting to know what cell in Hell his wife was in.
“They got her upstairs, buddy,” said the sergeant.
“I want to see her!” said Harve. “I want to talk to her! I want to make sure she’s all right!”
“Want a lot of things, don’t you?” said the sergeant. He shoved Harve into a narrow cell, shut the door with a
clang
.
“I want my rights!” said Harve.
The sergeant laughed. “You got ’em, friend. You can do anything you want in there,” he said, “just as long as you don’t damage any government property.”
The sergeant went back upstairs.
There didn’t seem to be another soul in
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