The Tragedy of Z (19 page)

“I shall prove, Your Honor,” he said quietly, “and gentlemen of the jury, that Senator Fawcett was stabbed by a right-handed person, and that the defendant is left-handed.”

Upon this point hinged defeat or victory. Would the jury accept the opinion of our medical experts? Was Sweet prepared? I glanced at his sallow face, and my heart fell. He was waiting for this with the impatience of a hunter.…

When it was all over, and the smoke of battle had cleared, I sat numbly in my seat. Our experts! They had muddled things. Even Mr. Lane's physician, a famous practitioner, had been unable to convince the jury. For Sweet produced experts as well, and these gentlemen went on record as casting doubt upon the theory of a right-footed man becoming left-footed when he became left-handed; and the total result of a long and wearisome procession of doctors was a deadlock, each witness nullifying the testimony of his predecessor on the stand. The poor jury had no means of telling whose opinion was correct.

Blow after blow fell. Mark Currier's carefully simplified explanation of our deductions was brilliant in presentation; but Sweet's counter-defense wiped it all away. In despair Currier had summoned Mr. Lane, myself, and father to the stand, hoping that our testimony of the tests in Dow's cell would stand where the opinions of the experts had fallen. Sweet jumped at this, and cross-questioned us viciously. When he had mangled our words, he asked permission to reopen the case for the State, and summoned another witness. It proved to be the evil-faced keeper of the county jail. This man deliberately accused us on the stand of having rehearsed Dow in his pedal reactions. Currier shrieked objections, tore his thin hair, all but assaulted Sweet; but the damage had been done, and the jury sank back, I knew, convinced that Sweet's charge was true.… And so I was numb, and all I could see before me was the public spectacle Aaron Dow had been compelled to make on the stand. For weary hours the wretched man had submitted to pinching and pummeling, grasping things with his left hand, stamping with both feet, one foot, the other foot—put through all sorts of movements and in all sorts of positions, so that at the end he was gasping for breath, mad with fright, and more than ready, it seemed, to accept even conviction in preference to the torture he was forced to undergo. The whole dreary business deepened the atmosphere of gloom and uncertainty.

When on the last day of the trial Currier made his summation, we all saw the handwriting on the wall. He had made a hard fight, and lost, and he knew it. Nevertheless the tough fiber of the man came out; in his own way he was honorable, I suppose, and in return for the magnificent fee he was receiving he had determined to give his best.

“I tell you,” he thundered to the listless, bewildered jury, “that if you send this man to the electric chair you will be dealing justice and the medical profession its worst blow in twenty years! The case against the defendant, so cleverly but falsely made out by the prosecutor, is a tissue of convenient circumstances woven about this poor confused creature by fate. You have heard experts testify that he would instinctively, by every dictate of habit and temporary position, have stamped on that burning sheet of paper with his left foot; you know that the murderer stamped with his right foot, and moreover that only one person was in that room that night; how can you doubt then that the defendant is innocent of this crime? Mr. Sweet has been clever, but too clever. He cannot, no matter how many experts he produces to testify to the contrary, I say he cannot impugn the personal integrity, professional reputation, and highly specialized knowledge of the chief defense expert, the eminent Dr. Martini of New York!

“I tell you, gentlemen of the jury, that no matter how damning the superficial evidence may seem to be, no matter how cunningly the prosecutor has instilled in your minds the idea that there has been collusion in the preparation of this case, you cannot before your consciences condemn this poor unfortunate to die in the electric chair for a crime which he could not physically have committed!”

Aaron Dow, after a deliberation by the jury of six and a half hours, was found guilty of the crime of which he was accused.

In view of the debatable nature of some of the evidence, the jury respectfully recommended that the Court show clemency.

Ten days later Aaron Dow was sentenced to life imprisonment.

12. AFTERMATH

Currier appealed, and the appeal was denied. Aaron Dow was sent back, manacled to a husky deputy sheriff, to Algonquin Prison to begin a sentence which would legally terminate only with his death.

We heard vague reports through Father Muir. As was the custom, on his recommitment to Algonquin, Dow was treated exactly like all new prisoners; despite his previous incarceration, he was compelled once more to go through the whole sickening round of prison routine in the effort to rehabilitate himself; to earn his pitiful “privileges”; to become, for so long as he should survive, as useful a member of that iron-fisted community of lost souls as his deportment and the kindness of his keepers would permit.

The days passed, and the weeks passed, and the sunken and bitter expression on the face of Drury Lane did not lighten. I was surprised at his persistence; he refused to consider returning to The Hamlet, but remained doggedly with Father Muir, sunning himself in the priest's little garden by day, and occasionally spending an evening in conversation with Father Muir ad Warden Magnus, on which occasions he invariably asked as many questions concerning Aaron Dow as the warden would answer.

That the old gentleman was waiting for something to happen I saw all along; but whether he was really hopeful, or remained in Leeds out of a sense of great wrong done to the convict, I could not determine. At any rate, we could not desert him. So father and I stayed on in Leeds.

Things were happening only dimly related to the case. The death of Senator Fawcett, with the thinly veiled revelations concerning the Fawcett machine's depredations in all the opposition newspapers, had placed Dr. Fawcett in a precarious political position. John Hume, the Fawcett murder-case settled to his dubious satisfaction, began an open attack in his drive for the senatorial incumbency. His attack took the form of refined muckraking, apparently excusable in his mind because of the quality of his foes. The filthiest rumors began to trickle out and about town concerning the character and career of the late Senator. Every day it was something new. Apparently the ammunition that Hume and Rufus Cotton had laid hands on during the investigation of the Senator's murder was now being returned to the enemy piece by piece, with telling effect.

But Dr. Fawcett did not accept defeat easily. His essential genius for politics, the secret of his success, was reflected in his retaliatory move. A less imaginative political mogul would have fought Hume's harsh accusations with vituperation. But not Dr. Fawcett. He preserved a dignified silence against all slander.

His only reply was to put up Elihu Clay for the Senate.

We were still imposing on the hospitality of the Clays, and I was in a position to see the whole canny affair work out. Elihu Clay, despite his wealth, was well thought of in Tilden County; he was a philanthropist, a leader of the solid business element, one of the powers in the Leeds Chamber of Commerce, a beneficent employer of labor—from Dr. Fawcett's standpoint the ideal candidate to run against reform-shouting John Hume.

We got the first hint of what was in the doctor's mind when, one night, he called at the house and closeted himself with Elihu Clay. They were
tête-à-tête
behind closed doors for two hours. When they emerged finally and Dr. Fawcett, suave and oily, as usual, drove off, we saw that our host's face was screwed into an expression of rather pleasant indecision.

“You'll never guess,” he said in a wondering tone, as if he could not believe it himself, “what that fellow wants of me.”

“Wants you to be his political hobby-horse,” drawled father, who has his moments.

Clay stared. “How did you know?”

“Pretty plain,” said father dryly. “It's what a schemin' scoundrel like him would think of. What's his proposition?”

“He wants me to accept the nomination for Senator on the Fawcett ticket.”

“You belong to his party?”

Clay flushed. “I believe in the principles——'

“Dad!” growled Jeremy. “You're not thinking of tying in with a heel like that?”

“Oh, naturally not,” said Clay hastily. “Of course I refused. But, hang it all, he very nearly convinced me that this time he's strictly on the level. He said that the good of the party demands a forthright and honest candidate—er, like myself, as it were.”

“Well,” said father, “and why not?”

We all stared at him.

“Hell,” chuckled father, mouthing his cigar with relish, “you've got to fight fire with fire, Clay. He's played into our hands. You accept that nomination!”

“But, Inspector—” began Jeremy in a shocked voice.

“Keep out of this, younker,” grinned father. “Don't you cotton to the idea of seeing your old man a Senator? Look here, Clay. By this time we're both pretty well convinced we'll never get anywhere pussyfootin' around that partner of yours. Too smart. All right, we'll play ball with him. You accept that plum, and you'll be one of the boys—see? Maybe you'll even be able to lay your hands on some documentary evidence. Never can tell; these smart boys very often pull boners when success goes to their heads. And, if you can pull off some evidence before election, you can always resign from the shindig at the last moment and explode the works under your backer.”

“I don't like it,” muttered Jeremy.

“Well,” said Clay, with an uneasy frown, “it's—I don't know, Inspector. It seems a pretty underhanded sort of thing to do. I——”

“Of course,” said father dreamily, “it takes guts. But you can do yourself and the people of this county a swell turn by showing up that bunch. Become a sort of civic hero, by God!”

“Hmm.” Clay's eyes had begun to shine. “I never thought of it in that way, Inspector! Perhaps you're right. Yes, I believe you're right. I'll chance it. I'll call him now and tell him I've changed my mind!”

I stifled the impulse to protest. What good would it do? At the same time I shook my head in the darkness. I was not too sanguine of the success of father's ruse. It seemed to me that this bearded physician with the shrewd and large ambition had seen through father's intentions weeks ago, had suspected his investigations into the accounts and files of the Clay company, had made the offer of the Senatorial nomination knowing Clay would refuse, knowing father would urge him to accept. Perhaps this was too subtle reasoning. But it was significant—I knew this from father—that almost from our first appearance on the scene the peculiar odor of crookedness in connection with the Clay Marble Company versus Fawcett had vanished. The gentleman was lying low, in cover. He was also, by getting Elihu Clay to be the candidate of the Fawcett gang, tarring that honest citizen with the defiled brush, perhaps even inveigling him into some crooked scheme which would effectually close his mouth forever concerning his silent partner.

At any rate, since these were only suspicions and I felt that father probably knew best, I kept my own counsel.

“It's just another rotten Fawcett trick!” cried Jeremy as his father rose to go into the house. “Inspector, that's mighty bad advice.”

“Jeremy,” said his father stiffly.

“I'm sorry, dad, but I won't keep quiet. I tell you, if you go into this deal you'll come out covered with muck.”

“Why not leave such decisions to me?”

“All right, I will.” Jeremy jumped to his feet. “It's your funeral, dad,” he said omniously. “But don't say I didn't tell you.”

And with an abrupt good-night he strode into the house.

The next morning at breakfast I found a note on my plate. I thought Elihu Clay was pale. Jeremy was gone—back to work, he said in his bitter little note. He had now to “take care of things for dad. I suppose he'll be too busy now with his politics.” Poor Jeremy! He turned up at dinner, silent and hard-faced; and for many days thereafter was precious poor company for a young woman who needed cheering and was losing that maidenly freshness of complexion whose passing the poets generally deplore as betokening the death of youth. I even caught myself examining my hair in the mirror, on the still-hunt for gray; and when I found one which looked faded I flung myself on the bed and wished I had never heard of Aaron Dow, Jeremy, Leeds, and the United States of America.

One of the immediate results of Aaron Dow's trial and conviction struck very close to home. We had been keeping in touch with Carmichael all along, and he had been able to furnish us with valuable pointers about Dr. Fawcett. But whether the Federal agent overplayed his hand, or Dr. Fawcett's sharp eyes saw through his masquerade, or his testimony at the trial had made his employer suspicious—whether any or all of these possible explanations applied, the net result was Carmichael's abrupt dismissal. Dr. Fawcett offered no reason, and Carmichael turned up one morning at the Clays', disconsolate, bag in hand, bound, he said, for Washington.

“Work's only half done,” he complained. “A few weeks more, and I'd have had the goods on the whole crowd. As it is, I'll have to make a case on insufficient documentary evidence. But I've some classy records of bank deposits, some beautiful photostatic copies of canceled vouchers, and a list of dummy depositors as long as your arm.”

With Carmichael's departure, and his parting promise that as soon as he could lay the results of his work before his chief in Washington the Federal government would take the legal steps necessary to punish the Tilden County political ring, father and I both felt that for the moment Dr. Fawcett had outwitted us. The removal of our spy from the enemy's stronghold, as it were, cut us off from our source of supply.