  The two went straight down to the office of the district attorney. “I must send a message to Mr. Whiting at once,” Fleming Stone said to a secretary there. “Mr. Whiting is in the Court of General Sessions, just below this office here, and I’d rather not disturb him. Can your business wait?” “It cannot,” declared Stone, “not an instant. Please send this message immediately. Mr Whiting will not be annoyed at the interruption.” As Fleming Stone and Fibsy entered the courtroom District Attorney Whiting was reading the note in which the detective asked the privilege of speaking to him a moment, and partially told why. At that instant also, the jury were filing into the box prepared to give their verdict. “Gentlemen of the jury,” said the clerk of the court, “have you arrived at a verdict?” “We have,” replied the foreman. “What is it?” “We find the defendant guilty, as charged in the indictment, of—” “Excuse me, your Honor,” said the district attorney, hurriedly, to the judge on the bench, “I would like to interrupt here,” and he walked toward the bench. A strange and expectant hush fell over the courtroom, as the judge and the district attorney conferred in whispers. The conference continued a few moments, and then the judge said suddenly, “This is a matter that should be discussed with the lawyer for the defense. Judge Hoyt, will you please step to the bench?” The three held a short parley, and then the judge on the bench said, “Mr. Fleming Stone, will kindly come here?” “If it please your Honor, I ask to be heard.” Leslie Hoyt looked round angrily, and as Stone’s calm, clear voice was followed by the appearance of his stalwart figure, there was a stir throughout the room. “As a detective recently employed on this case,” Stone said, “I wish to tell of my discoveries.” “Tell your story in your own way, Mr. Stone,” instructed the judge, and Stone began. “As you are all aware, the dying words of Mr. Trowbridge are said to be, ‘Cain killed me!’ implying, it was at first supposed, an allusion to the first murderer of Scripture history. Later, it was adjudged to mean a reference to Kane Landon. But I submit a third meaning, which is that Mr. Trowbridge was killed by a cane in the hands of his assailant, said cane being of the variety know as a dirk or sword cane. This type of walking-stick, the carrying of which is forbidden by law, has a dagger concealed in it, which may be drawn forth by the handle. An imprint has been found of a cane near the place of the crime, and to this print has been fitted a cane of the dirk or sword variety. The ownership of this cane has been traced to a man, who is known to have benefited by the death of the victim. I refer to Judge Leslie Hoyt, the counsel for the defense!” A sudden commotion was followed by an intense hush. Hoyt’s face was like carved marble. No emotion of any sort did he show, but waited, as if for Stone to proceed. And Stone did proceed. “Here is the cane,” he said, taking a long parcel from a messenger. “Is it yours, Mr. Hoyt?” Hoyt glanced at it carelessly. “No, I never saw it before,” he said. “It was found in the closet of your dressing-room,” went on Stone. “By whom?” “Terence McGuire.” A look of hatred dawned on Hoyt’s face, also the first expression of fear he had shown. “That self-avowed liar!” he said, contemptuously. “His word is not in question now,” said Stone, sternly. “This cane was found in your apartments. It is a dirk, as may be seen.” Stone drew out the slender, sharp blade, and the audience shivered. Disregarding Hoyt, Stone continued his address to the court. “Additional evidence is a shoe button picked up at the scene of the crime. It is proved to be from one of Mr. Hoyt’s shoes. True, these do not connect Mr. Hoyt directly with this murder, but I can produce a witness who will do so.” Stone then proceeded to tell of the Italian woman and her story. “The connecting link is this,” he said; “the day after the murder, during the coroner’s inquest, our bright young friend, McGuire, noticed on Mr. Hoyt’s coat an odor familiar to him as a remedy used to burn for whooping-cough. The scent is strong and unmistakable and clings ineradicably to a garment that has been worn, even for a few moments where the remedy is used. Mrs. Robbio’s children had the whooping-cough; she was using the remedy the day the murderer stopped in at her little shop and threatening her with this very dirk, forced her to deliver the message he dictated to the police station. “It was a clever ruse and would have remained undetected, but for the quick-witted youth who noticed the odor, and remembered it when whooping-cough was mentioned.” “A string of lies,” sneered Hoyt. “Made up by the notorious street gamin who glories in his sobriquet of liar!” Still unheeding, Stone went on. “In search for a motive for the murder of Rowland Trowbridge by Leslie Hoyt, I examined the will of the deceased, and discovered, what I am prepared to prove, that it is, in part, a forgery. The instrument was duly drawn up by Judge Hoyt, as lawyer for the testator. It was duly witnessed, and after,——” Fleming Stone paused and looked fixedly at Hoyt, and the latter at last quailed before that accusing glance. “And after, at his leisure, the lawyer inserted on the same typewriter, and with greatest care, the words, ‘and herself become the wife of Leslie Hoyt.’ This clause was not written or dictated by Mr. Trowbridge, it was inserted after his death, by his lawyer.” “You can’t prove that!” cried Hoyt springing to his feet. “I can easily prove it,” declared Stone; “It is written on a new ribbon known to have been put into the typewriter, the afternoon the murder took place. And, too, it is of slightly different slant and level from the rest. Of course, it was only by microscopic investigation I discovered these facts, but they are most clearly proven.” “Gee! he’s goin’ to brash it out!” exclaimed Fibsy, under his breath, as Hoyt rose, with vengeance in his eye. But the judge waved him back as Stone proceeded. “I understand Mr. Hoyt claims as an alibi, that he was in Philadelphia that day.” “I was,” declared the accused; “I brought home an afternoon paper from that city.” “The paper was from that city, but you bought it at a New York news stand to prove your case, should it ever be necessary.” “What rubbish! I wrote Mr. Trowbridge the day before, that I was going. The letter was found in his pocket.” “Where you placed it yourself after the murder!” shot back Stone. “Ridiculous! I also telegraphed to——” “The telegram was faked. I have examined it myself, and it is typewritten in imitation of the usual form, but it never went through the company’s hands. That, too, you placed in Mr. Rowland’s pocket after,—after the cane killed him! You remember, Mr. District Attorney, a lead pencil was found on the ground at the scene of the crime. I am prepared to prove this pencil the property of Judge Hoyt. And this is my proof. Until the day of the crime, Judge Hoyt had been in the habit of using a patent sharpener to sharpen his lead pencils. I have learned from Judge Hoyt’s Japanese servant, that the day after the murder, Judge Hoyt discarded that sharpener, and used a knife. This was to do away with any suspicion that might rest on him as owner of the pencil. On that very date, he resharpened, with a penknife, all his pencils and thus cleverly turned the tide of suspicion.” “Also a clever feat, the finding of this out,” murmured Whiting. “The credit for that is due to the lad, McGuire,” said Stone. “At the time of the inquest, the boy noticed the pencil, particularly; and afterward, telling me of his surmises, I looked up the matter and found the proof. Again, the man I accuse, secured a handkerchief from Stryker’s room, and carried it away for the purpose of incriminating the butler. It seems, owing to a past secret, the butler was in the power of Judge Hoyt. However, circumstances led suspicion in other directions. The tell-tale handkerchief seemed to point first to the Swedish couple. Later it seemed to point to the butler, Stryker, and later still, was used as a point against Kane Landon. But it is really the curse that has come home to roost where it belongs, as a condemnation of Judge Leslie Hoyt. This arch criminal planned so cleverly and carried out his schemes so carefully, that he overreached himself. His marvelously complete alibi is too perfect. His diabolical skill in arranging his spurious letter, telegram, newspaper, and finally a picture postcard, which I shall tell of shortly, outdid itself, and his excessive care was his own undoing. But, in addition to these points, I ask you to hear the tale of young McGuire, who has suffered at the hands of Judge Hoyt, not only injustice and inconvenience, but attempted crime.” Fibsy was allowed to tell his own story, and half shy, half frightened, he began. “At first, Judge Hoyt he wanted me to go to woik in Philadelphia, an’ I thought it was queer, but I went, an’ I discovered he was payin’ me wages himself. That was funny, an’ it was what gimme the foist steer. So I came back to New York an’ I stayed here, makin’ b’lieve me aunt needed me. So then one day, Judge Hoyt, he took me to dinner at a restaurant, sayin’ he took a notion to me, an’ wanted me to learn to be a gent’man. Well, when we had coffee, he gimme a little cup foist, an’ then he put some sugar in it fer me. Well, I seen the sugar was diffrunt—” “Different from what?” asked Whiting. “From the rest’rant sugar. That was smooth an’ oblong, and what the judge put into my cup, was square lumps, and rougher on the sides. So I s’picioned sumpin was wrong, an’ I didn’t drink that coffee. I left it on the table. An’ soon’s I reached the street I ran back fer me paper, what I’d left on poipose, and I told the waiter to save that cup o’ coffee fer evidence in a moider trial. An’ he did, an’ Mr. Stone he’s had it examined, an’ it’s full of—of what, Mr. Stone?” “Of nitro-glycerine,” asserted Stone, gravely. “Yes, sir, Judge Hoyt tried to kill me, he did.” Fibsy’s big blue eyes were dark with the thrill of his subject rather than fear now. He was absorbed in his recital, and went steadily on, his manner and tone, unlettered and unschooled though they were, carrying absolute conviction of truth. “When I seen that queer sugar goin’ in me cup, me thinker woiked like lightnin’ an’ I knew it meant poison. So I thunk quickly how to nail the job onto him, and I did. Then soon after that, I was kidnapped. A telephone call told me Mr. Stone was waitin’ fer me in a taxi, and when I flew meself to it, it wasn’t Mr. Stone at all, but a Japanese feller, name o’ Kite. He took me to a swell house, and locked me in. If I tried any funny business he gave me a joo jitsy, till I quit tryin’. Well, I didn’t know whose house it was, but I’ve sence found out it was Judge Hoyt’s. He lived with his sister an’ she’s away, but the Jap told me it was another man’s house. Well, in that house, I found one o’ them postcard pictures o’ Judge Hoyt in the Philadelphia station. I didn’t think even then, ’bout me bein’ in his house, I just thought maybe it was a friend o’ hisen. But when I ’zamined that picture, I saw the judge had pertended it was took a diffrunt date from what it was. Now, I thought he kinda lugged it in by the ears when he showed it to me anyway, an’ I began to s’picion he meant to make me think sumpin’ what wasn’t so. ’Course that could only be that he wasn’t in Phil’delphia when he said he was. An’ he wasn’t.” Fibsy’s quietly simple statements were more dramatic than if he had been more emphatic, and the audience listened, spellbound. Judge Hoyt sat like a graven image. He neither denied nor admitted anything, one might almost say he looked slightly amused, but a trembling hand, and a constant gnawing of his quivering lip told the truth to a close observer. “And you were held prisoner in Judge Hoyt’s house, how long?” “Nearly a week.” “And then?” “Then I jumped down a clothes chute, and ran out on the basement door.” “A clothes chute? You mean a laundry slide?” “Yes, sir. I’m told it’s that. I didn’t know what it was. Only it was a way out.” “You jumped?” “Well, I sorter slid. I threw down pillers and mattresses first, so it was soft.” “You are a clever boy.” “No, sir, it ain’t that,” and Fibsy looked embarrassed. “You see, I got that detective instick, an’ I can’t help a usin’ of it. You see, it was me what got Miss Trowbridge to send for Mr. Stone, an’ then Judge Hoyt he tried to head him off.” “How?” “Well, I jest knew for pos’tive certain sure, that this case was too big fer anybody to sling but Mr. Stone. Well, I got Miss Trowbridge to send fer him, and Judge Hoyt he told Miss Avice, Mr. Stone was outa town. Then I said I seen him on the street the day before, an’ we called him up, an’ he was right there on the spot, but said he’d had a telegram not to come. Well, Judge Hoyt, he sent that telegram. But the way I got Miss Avice to do it in the first place, was to get me Aunt Becky to go to her an’ tell her she’d had a revelation, and fer Miss Avice to go to a clairvoyant. Well, an’ so Miss Avice did, an’ that clairvoyant she told her to get Mr. Stone. You see, the clairvoyant, Maddum Isis, she’s a friend of me Aunt Becky’s, so we three fixed it up between us, and Miss Avice went an’ got Mr. Stone. If I’d a tried any other way, Judge Hoyt he’d found a way to prevent Mr. Stone from comin’ ’cause he knew he’d do him up.” “This is a remarkable tale,—” “But true in every particular,” averred Fleming Stone. “This boy has done fine work, and deserves great credit. The final proof, I think, of the guilt of Judge Hoyt, is the fact that the cane found in his room exactly fits a round mark found in the soil at the scene of the crime and cut from the earth, and carefully preserved by McGuire. Also, a shoe button found there corresponds with the buttons on shoes found in Judge Hoyt’s dressing room. And it seems to me the most logical construction is put upon the dying words of Rowland Trowbridge, when we conclude that he meant he was killed by a cane, thus describing the weapon. Judge Hoyt also is conversant with the Latin names of the specimens of natural history which Mr. Trowbridge was in the habit of collecting, and it was he, of course, who telephoned about the set trap and the Scaphinotus. And, as his motive was to win the hand of Miss Trowbridge by means of a forged clause in her uncle’s will, we can have no further doubts.” “You have done marvelous work, Mr. Stone,” said the judge on the bench. “And you say this young lad helped you?” “No, your Honor, I helped him. He noticed clues and points about the case at once. But he could persuade no one to take him seriously, and finally, Judge Hoyt, for reasons of his own, sent the boy to a lucrative position out of the town.” There were many details to be attended to, much business to be transacted, and many proofs to be looked up. But first of all the name of Kane Landon was cleared and the prisoner set free. Leslie Hoyt was arrested and held for trial. As Avice passed him on her way out of the courtroom, he detained her to say: “You know why I did it! I’ve told you I would do anything for you! I’m not sorry, I’m only sorry I failed!” His eyes showed a hard glitter, and Avice shrank away, as if from a maniac, which indeed he looked. “Brave up, Miss Avice,” whispered Fibsy, who saw the girl pale and tremble. “You orta be so glad Mr. Landon is out you’d forget Judge Hoyt!” “Yes, brave up, darling,” added Landon, overhearing. “At last I can love you with a clear conscience. If I had known that clause about your marriage was not uncle’s wish, how different it would have been! But I couldn’t ask you for yourself, if by that you lost your fortune!” “Why wouldn’t you straightforwardly tell me you were innocent, Kane?” asked Avice as they rode home together. “I couldn’t, dear. I know I was foolish, but the fact of your doubting me even enough to ask me, made me so furious, I couldn’t breathe! Didn’t you know I couldn’t kill Uncle Rowly?” “I did know it, truly I did, Kane; but I was crazy; I wasn’t myself all those dreadful days!” “And you won’t be now, if you stay here! I’m going to marry you all up, and take you far away on a long trip, right now, before we hear anything more about Leslie Hoyt and his wickedness!” “I’d love to go away, Kane; but I can’t be married in such a hurry. Let’s go on a trip, and take Mrs. Black for chaperone, and then get married when I say so!” This plan didn’t suit Landon so well as his own, but he was coerced into submission by the love of his liege lady, and the trip was planned. Fibsy was greatly honored and praised. But the peculiar character of the boy made him oblivious to compliments. “I don’t care about bookays, Miss Avice,” he said, earnestly; when she praised him, “just to have saved Mr. Landon an’ you is enough. An’ to knock the spots out o’ Judge Hoyt! But it’s the game that gets me. The whole detective business! I’m goin’ to be a big one, like Mr. Stone. Gee! Miss Avice, did you catch on to how he ran Judge Hoyt down, the minute I gave him the steer? That’s the trick! Oh, he’s a hummer, F. Stone is! An’ he’s goin’ to let me work with him, sometimes!” Fibsy spoke the last words in a hushed, rapt tone, as if scarcely daring to believe them himself. “But I say,” he went on suddenly; “what about that guy as telephoned and called Mr. Trowbridge ‘Uncle’?” “It wasn’t I,” said Landon; “I called up uncle that afternoon, but couldn’t get him.” “Then I know,” said Avice. “It was Judge Hoyt. You see,” and she blushed as she looked at Landon, “he was so sure he would marry me, he frequently said ‘uncle’ to my uncle. And Uncle Rowly sometimes called him, ‘nephew’. They used to do it to tease me.” “Your uncle really wanted you to marry him, then?” and Landon looked anxious. “Yes, he did. But not to the extent of putting it in his will! Uncle often said to me, that as I didn’t seem to care for any one else I might as well marry Leslie.” “And now, you do care for somebody else?” Landon had forgotten the presence of the boy. But Avice had not, and she looked around. “Sure, Miss Avice,” said Fibsy, politely, as if in response to her spoken word, and he slid swiftly from the room. And then Avice answered Kane Landon’s question. |
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