  “Now,” went on Stone, “I’m going to begin at the beginning of this thing and I propose to take you along with me.” “Yes, sir, I’ll help,” and Fibsy settled back in his seat in the taxicab without a trace of presumption or forwardness on his freckled face or in his blue, ‘seeing’ eyes. The beginning seemed to be at police headquarters and the two went in there. Inspector Collins was interviewed as to the message that brought to him the first news of the murder. He patiently retold the story, now old to him, and Stone questioned him as to the woman’s voice. “I couldn’t rightly hear her, sir. Her kids was all screamin’ and whoopin’-coughin’ to beat the band.” “Gee!” remarked Fibsy, “Vapo-crinoline!” “What?” asked Stone. “It’s the stuff they uses for whoopin’ cough. Me kid brother had it onct. Vapo Kerosene, or sumpin.” “Also,” the captain went on, “there was a phonograph goin’ and there was building goin’ on near. I could hear riveters.” “But who was the woman? Didn’t she give her name?” “No, she was a dago woman,” Collins said, stroking his chin reflectively; “I couldn’t find out where she lived, nor why she sent the message. There was such a racket goin’ on where she was, I couldn’t half hear her.” “What sort of a racket?” “All sorts. She said her children had whooping-cough, and they did, for sure; but there was other noises. Seemed like hammerin’ and screechin’ and music all at once.” “Music?” “Oh, only a phonograph goin’. Playin’ some rag-time. Dunno what ’twas; ‘My Cockieleekie Lassie’ or some such song. Or maybe——” “Well, never mind the song. Did you finally get the message?” “Yes, I did.” “What was it?” “Only that Rowland Trowbridge was dead and for me to go to Van Cortlandt Park woods for the body.” “Singular that an Italian woman should tell you the news.” “Very singular, sir.” “What did you do then?” “Called up the Van Cortlandt Park Station, and told them to look into the matter.” Stone asked further details concerning the finding of the body, and then inquired as to the nature of the wound. “He was stabbed,” said Collins, “And, without doubt, by a slender-bladed dagger or stiletto.” “An Italian stiletto?” asked Stone. “That is impossible to tell,” answered the Inspector a little pompously. “The wound would present the same appearance if made by any sharp, narrow-bladed weapon.” “This weapon was not found?” went on Stone. “No,” replied Collins, “I had vigorous search made in vain. But its absence proves the deed of an intelligent person. Whoever killed Mr. Trowbridge, went to the woods, knowing his victim would be there, and carrying his weapon with him.” “It seems to prove that the criminal was provided with a dagger,” agreed Stone, “but it in no way convinces that it was not an accidental meeting between the murderer and his victim.” So far the facts were bare ones. The announcement through the green cord of the telephone, the finding of the dagger-killed body, and the identification of the victim were clearly stated, but what inferences, could be drawn? There were no side lights, no implications, no pegs on which to hang theories. Still keeping Fibsy with him, Stone returned to the Trowbridge house. It had been agreed that should he meet any one there, he was to be introduced as Mr. Green, a friend of Kane Landon’s. As, it happened, there was quite a crowd in the library. Judge Hoyt had asked the district attorney and Alvin Duane to meet him there for a conference with Avice. Also, they wanted a few more words with Stryker, who had returned to his old place as butler. As a friend of Landon’s and as an acquaintance of Avice’s “Mr. Green” was made welcome, and Avice asked that he be allowed to discuss the matter with them all. “Mr. Green is sure that Kane is innocent,” Avice said, “and he may be able to suggest some point that we may have overlooked.” No one objected to the presence of the stranger, nor did they mind when Fibsy slid into the room, and sat down in a corner. It was no secret conclave, and any hint or theory would have been welcomed. Stryker, who was present, was giving the best answers he could to the questions put to him. “What were you really doing, Stryker,” the district attorney asked, “that afternoon of Mr. Trowbridge’s death?” The old man shook his head. “I can’t remember,” he said; “I was at home when the news came, but I can’t just recollect whether I had been out afore that or not.” Mr. Whiting appeared to think this a little suspicious, and questioned him severely. But, “Mr. Green” smiled pleasantly; “His alibi is perfect because he hasn’t any alibi,” he said cryptically. “Just what does that mean to your cabalistic mind?” asked Whiting, ironically. “Only this. If Stryker were implicated in this crime, he would have had an unshakable alibi fully prepared against your questions. The very fact that he doesn’t pretend to remember the details of his doings that afternoon, lets him out.” Whiting saw this point, and agreed to the conclusion, but Alvin Duane looked decidedly crestfallen. “In that case,” he said to Whiting, “an alibi is always worthless, for they are, according to the learned gentleman, always faked.” “Not at all,” said Stone, easily. “An alibi is only ‘faked’, as you call it, by the criminal. Had Stryker been the criminal, he would have been shrewd enough, in all probability, to be prepared with a story to tell of where he spent that afternoon, and not say he doesn’t remember.” The butler himself nodded his head. “That’s right! Of course I wouldn’t kill the master I loved,—the saints forgive me for even wording it!—but if I did, I’d surely have sense to provide an alloby, or whatever you call it.” As no further questioning seemed to incriminate the man, he was dismissed from the room. Baffled in his attempt to prove his somewhat vague theory as to Stryker, Duane insisted on a consideration of the note alleged by Avice to have been found in her uncle’s desk. Judge Hoyt took up this matter somewhat at length. He admitted that Miss Trowbridge had found the note, as she averred, but he urged that it be not taken too seriously, for in his opinion, it had been written on Mr. Trowbridge’s typewriter by other fingers than the owner’s. And it was probably done, he opined, to turn suspicion away from his client. “And do you want suspicion to rest on your client?” asked Stone. “I do not and I do not propose that suspicion shall rest on him. But I do not care to divert it from him by fraudulent means.” Hoyt was careful not to glance toward Avice. He regretted her impulsive act in forging that note, and he felt sure that if he appeared to bank on it, the truth would come out. So he endeavored to have the note’s implication discarded, and the matter ignored. But this attitude, of itself, roused Whiting’s suspicions. “Might it not be,” he said, slowly, “that the note, then, is the work of the prisoner, himself? Mr. Landon has been living in the Trowbridge house and would have had ample opportunity to ‘plant’ the note which the young lady found.” Judge Hoyt looked annoyed. The possibility of this theory being set forth had occurred to him. But, adhering to his one idea, he smiled, and said, lightly: “That is for you to determine. As I am convinced of Mr. Landon’s innocence, I, of course, feel sure he did not write the note in question; but if you think he did, and can prove it on him, go ahead and do so. But I do not see how it can in any way help your cause.” This was true. Were it proved that Landon wrote the note, it would be evidence of a most undecisive sort; or at any rate, Hoyt’s indifference made it appear so. “Perhaps Fibsy will tell us of his clues,” said Avice, smiling at the serious-faced boy, who was quietly listening to all that was said, but making no interruptions. “Now, now, Avice,” said Judge Hoyt, “don’t bring our young friend into the conversation.” “Why not?” and Avice pouted a little more at the judge’s opposition to her suggestion, than because she really thought Fibsy could be of any help. “Well, you see, this youth, though a bright-witted boy, rejoices in the nickname of Fibsy, a title acquired because of his inability to tell the truth. I submit that a customary falsifier is not permissible as a counselor.” “But I don’t tell lies when I testify, Judge Hoyt,” said the boy, a disappointed look on his freckled face. “You won’t have a chance to, Fibsy,” and Hoyt smiled at him indulgently, “for you’re not going to testify.” Fibsy stared at him, and then a strange look came over his face. “I got you!” he fairly screamed; “I’m onto you! You know I’m nobody’s fool and you’re afraid I’ll queer your client!” Judge Hoyt didn’t so much as glance at the angry boy. He addressed himself to Avice. “My dear, I protest. And I demand that this impossible person be removed.” But Fibsy possessed a peculiar genius for making people listen to him. “Him!” he said, and the finger of withering scorn he pointed at Judge Hoyt was so audacious, that the others held their breath. “Him! He sent me to Philadelphia to get me outen his way! That’s what he did!” “A sample of his celebrated falsehoods,” said the judge, now smiling broadly. “The little ingrate! I did get him a position in Philadelphia, as he could no longer be in Mr. Trowbridge’s office. But I fail to see how even his fertile imagination can make it appear that I did this to ‘get him out of the way.’ Out of whose way may I ask. He certainly wasn’t in mine.” Whiting stared. He was trying to put two and two together to make some sort of a four that would worry his opponent, and for the life of him he couldn’t do it. Why, he thought, would Judge Hoyt want to get rid of this boy, unless the chap knew something detrimental to his client? There could be no other reason, and yet what could the boy know? Hoyt had said he was a bright boy, so he must be afraid of that brightness. And yet—and this point must be well considered—it might well be, if the boy were really an abandoned liar, that Hoyt only feared the falsehoods he could make up, and which might be adverse to Landon’s interests even though untrue. And so, in spite of Hoyt’s protests, indeed, really because of them, Whiting insisted on questioning the boy. The first questions put to him were of little interest, but when Fibsy, in his dramatic way, announced the finding of a button on the scene of the crime, Whiting pricked up his ears. Could it be a button of Landon’s clothing? Could it be traced to the prisoner? “What kind of a button?” he asked the lad. “A—a sus-sus-sus-shoe button!” The final word came out in a burst of emphasis, and Fibsy, raised a defiant, determined face, as if expecting opposition. And he got it! “Now, I protest!” said Judge Hoyt, and he was actually laughing; “this mendacious youth told me about that button some time ago; only then, he said it was a suspender button! Didn’t you, Fibsy?” “Yep;” was the sulky reply, “and I came near callin’ it that this time, too!” “Well, why not? or why not a coat button?” “That’s it!” and Fibsy’s eyes sparkled; “it was a coat button! I remember now! It was a coat button!” Hoyt laughed out in triumph. “And tomorrow it will be a waist-coat button,” he said; “and the day after, a sleeve button!” “Yep,” said Fibsy staring at him; “Yep, most prob’ly! anyway, it’s a clue, that’s what it is!” The audience shook with laughter. The funny shock-headed boy was out of place in this serious affair, but he was there, and his comical face was irresistibly humorous. But Judge Hoyt was solemn enough now. “Send away that boy!” he said sternly; “is this matter to be made a burlesque on the Law? a comic opera of ‘Trial by Jury?’ Order him out, Avice, I’ll see him later.” And Fibsy was ordered out. No one could take seriously the sort of talk he had treated them to. But the boy was not covered with confusion. Nor did he even appear chagrined at his misbehaviour. He looked thoughtful and wondering. He gazed at Hoyt with an unseeing, almost uncanny stare. He walked to the door, and as he left the room, he exploded his breath in a deep-toned “Gee!” Whiting looked after the boy a little uncertainly. Hoyt looked at Whiting. But the prosecuting attorney could see no reason to recall the lad, and though he felt there was something going on he couldn’t fathom, he could get no glimmer of an idea as to its nature. Judge Hoyt smiled, and try as he would, Whiting could not discern the meaning or intent of that smile. Fleming Stone remained, after the others left, for a talk with Avice. “None of them recognized me,” he said, “I’ve not been in New York for a year or more, and though I have seen Judge Hoyt before, we were not personally acquainted.” “The judge is doing his best,” said Avice, wearily, “but he is very fearful of the outcome. It is strange there is so much circumstancial evidence against Mr. Landon, when he is entirely innocent.” “Kane Landon is his own worst enemy,” declared Stone. “I have not seen him yet, but what I’ve heard about him does not prepossess me in his favor.” “You don’t think him guilty?” “I can’t say as to that, at this moment, but I mean his attitude and behaviour are, I am told, both truculent and insolent. Why should this be?” “It’s his nature. Always he has been like that. If anybody ever accused him of wrong, as a child, he immediately became angry and would neither confess nor deny. I mean if he was wrongfully accused. It rouses his worst passions to be unjustly treated. That’s an added reason, to me, for knowing him innocent in this matter. Because he is so incensed at being suspected.” “I understand that sort of nature,” and Stone spoke musingly, “but it is carrying it pretty far, when one’s life is the forfeit.” “I know it, and I want to persuade Kane to be more amenable and more willing to talk. But he shuts up like a clam when they question him. You’re going to see him, aren’t you, Mr. Stone?” “Yes, very soon. I’m glad you gave me this information about his disposition. I shall know better how to handle him. And, now, Miss Trowbridge, will you call your butler up here again, please?” Stryker was summoned, and Fleming Stone spoke to him somewhat abruptly. “My man,” he said, “what is the secret understanding between you and Judge Hoyt?” “I don’t know what you mean, sir.” “Oh, yes, you do. You are not only under his orders, but he owns you,—body and soul. How did it come about?” The old butler looked at his questioner and an expression of abject fear came into his eyes. “N-no, sir,” he said, trembling, “no,—that is not so—” “Don’t perjure yourself. You do not deceive me in the least. Come now, Stryker, there’s no reason for such secrecy. Tell me frankly, why the judge holds you in the hollow of his hand.” Stone’s manner was kindly, his voice gentle, though compelling, and the old man looked at him, as if fascinated. “He saved my life,” he said, slowly, “and so—” “And so it,—in a way,—belongs to him,” supplemented Stone. “I begin to see. And how did Judge Hoyt save your life, Stryker?” “Well, sir, it was a long time ago, and I was accused of—of murder, sir,—and Mr. Hoyt, he wasn’t a judge then, he got me off.” “Even though you were guilty?” and Fleming Stone’s truth-demanding gaze, brought forth a low “yes, sir. But if you knew the whole story, sir—” “Never mind that, Stryker, I don’t want to know the whole story. It was long ago?” “Yes, sir, a matter of twenty years now.” “Then let it pass. But ever since, the judge has held your life at his own disposal?” “Yes, sir, and glad I am to have it so. I’d willingly give it up for him, if so be he asks me.” “Do you think he will ever do so?” “I don’t know, sir. It may be.” “And it may be in connection with this coming trial of Mr. Landon?” “It may be, sir.” “And what has he asked you to do, so far?” Fleming Stone shot out the question so suddenly, that Stryker replied without a moment’s thought, “He says he may ask me to testify that I telephoned to Mr. Trowbridge to go to the woods that day.” “Ridiculous!” cried Avice. “Why, Stryker, you don’t know about the birds and insects Uncle Rowly was so fond of collecting.” “Oh, yes, I do, Miss Avice. I used to set his traps for him, often. And I know quite a lot of the long names of the queer beetles and things.” “Can this be, Miss Trowbridge? Is Judge Hoyt capable of using a false witness thus, to win his cause?” Avice blushed deeply, and her eyes fell before Stone’s inquiring glance. “He wouldn’t be, Mr. Stone, except for—Judge Hoyt is a most honorable lawyer. He makes a fetish of punctilious practice. But there is a certain reason why—he might—” “You needn’t say any more, Miss Trowbridge. I understand now. It is because of—pardon me if I seem intrusive,—because of you.” “Yes, Mr. Stone,” returned Avice, simply. “Since you are here to help in this matter, I will tell you frankly, that if Judge Hoyt succeeds in winning his case and freeing Kane Landon, I have promised to marry him.” Stryker had been dismissed, and the two were alone. With infinite pity, Stone looked at the sad-eyed girl, and intuitively understood the whole situation. “I see,” he said, gently, “Judge Hoyt is going to sacrifice Stryker for you. It is a clever idea, and he will see to it, somehow, that the old man does not suffer penalty.” “Yes, it is so. Judge Hoyt told me the only way to get Kane off, is to get somebody else to swear to that telephone message. If Stryker does this, they can’t prove Kane’s guilt.” “It’s a desperate move,” observed Stone. “It is; but Judge Hoyt is a desperate man. If he determines to do a thing, he sweeps away all obstacles.” “A strong nature. And a most capable mind. I was impressed today by his marvelous faculty of making other people see things as he does.” “Yes,” and Avice sighed. “He can do that. It is that power that I am banking on in his conduct of the trial.” |
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