A Covenant with Death Read Online Free PDF Page A

politics. Otherwise it was a quiet life. The county had two judges, and we sat alternately, three months on and three off, always in Soledad City; whoever was off performed the lesser functions of justice of the peace and assisted Ira Grandison, the municipal judge, when necessary. My colleague was an older man, over sixty, a former United States marshal named Alvin Hochstadter. I did not care for him at first—he was showy and frontierish, with a string tie, a wide-brimmed hat, white hair, a ruddy face, a promiscuous smile—but he was a fair man and we got along. He knew the law, but I don’t believe he ever in his life gave a thought to the philosophy behind the law. Maybe he was better off. He had a vinegary wife who was one of the nice people. Nobody liked her. They had two boys and a girl out in the world.
    I waved to Geronimo—that was how he signed himself, by the way, even checks—and ran upstairs. I opened the windows and took off my white linen jacket and sat down at my desk and called Alfred.
    â€œThat’s right,” he said. “Around ten last night. Strangled, looks like. No idea why, and it could have been anybody. No evidence one way or another. I’m afraid Bryan’s in for a hard time.”
    â€œNo criminal assault, I take it. Why Bryan?”
    â€œThat’s right. No real reason,” Alfred said, “except that, well, he was there, he was around. And he was drunk, and he said some suspicious things. He’s a strange fellow,” and I could almost see Alfred frown and fret, sadly yearning for a neatly classified criminal like a walking delegate (they were coming to be called “union organizers” and their presence in Soledad City contravened a municipal ordinance) or a drunk and disorderly.
    â€œGo slow,” I said, “You know that’s not enough.”
    â€œOf course I know,” Alfred barked. “Sorry. I mean that it’s only a possibility. He was closest to her. He’d been drinking again and he had a bad bruise on his face. And you never know what goes on in a marriage. There was talk about her and various people, just talk as far as we know. Of course even if it was true, I don’t suppose a man goes around killing his wife just because she’s, uh—”
    â€œFlighty.”
    â€œThat’s it.” He sounded at once relieved and embarrassed.
    â€œAll right,” I said. “It’s in your hands. And the District Attorney’s. Get the coroner’s jury together, and the grand jury if Dietrich wants it. If you make an arrest get your man to me or Hochstadter right away. And Alfred—”
    â€œWhat is it, Ben?”
    â€œI don’t know how to say this, and I don’t mean to rile you, but remember about confessions. Don’t be clubbing anybody.”
    â€œBen,” he said, “you ought to be ashamed of yourself. I’ve never done that. Not even with—not with anybody.”
    â€œYou’ve never had a first-degree murder either. I didn’t mean any harm, Alfred. Just a caution.”
    â€œAll right. Forget it. I’ll keep you posted.”
    â€œThanks, friend. I’ll see you later.”
    Alfred had called me Piggy until I was twenty or so; I was a stocky little black-haired black-eyed boy. Then he decided I deserved better, college boy and all, and switched to Ben—my full name is Benjamin Morales Lewis. Everybody called me Ben. My mother called me Judge when she felt I had done something egregiously stupid, which was, come to think of it, often.
    Now I had nothing to do. I leaned back and thought about the Talbots. I had never spoken to the deceased, and only casually to her husband, so there was not much to think about. After a while I derricked out my father’s silver watch. It was 8:20. I called Rosemary at her home. She had left for school. I waited twenty minutes and called her at school. She was in class; for long distance they