CHAPTER VII
AN EVENING AT THE CLUB
Upon the conclusion of the hearing I left at once and, avoiding anychance of interruption, went directly to my rooms. Once there I pulledmy chair up to the fire, lighted my pipe, and sat down to think it allover.
If I were going to work intelligently upon this case I must understandit, and if I meant to proceed upon the theory that the accused wasinnocent and try to establish that fact, I must have good reason forsuch course. Hasty conclusions would not do. They must be deliberate andbe logically deduced from the evidence.
I realized that I was now in possession of sufficient facts to draw someconclusions if only, tentative ones, and I felt, indeed, that there wasgreat doubt if any further light would be thrown upon the case beforethe trial, so that I might as well study the situation as it was.
The police believed they had established their case against Winters andall their future efforts would be directed against him. If, therefore,his conviction was to be avoided, it would most likely have to bethrough such analysis of facts arrayed against him as should demonstratethe possibility of another theory of murder and not by direct evidenceof his innocence, for such would probably not be forthcoming.
Could I do this? Would an analysis of the facts and testimony afford theopportunity? I could but try.
My thoughts were in confusion, and I was unable for a time to directthem or to clearly define for contemplation the different elements inthe case. After a while, however, as the personalities of the differentwitnesses faded from my mind and the vivid impression I had brought awayfrom the scene of the court-room grew dim, I succeeded in concentratingmy attention on the subject in the abstract. I now concluded to reviewthe whole case and to determine upon what, if any, reasonable theoriesWinters could be innocent.
The strength of the case against him was plain. The Inspector's methodof procedure had been such as to present it strongly and allow of nopart being overlooked; and I recognized also that the evidence hadprobably all been true and that any effort to reach a differentconclusion would have to be premised upon an admission of his facts andbe made consistent with them. I had set myself a hard task, but its verydifficulties only incited me to greater effort.
While the evidence against Winters was very strong it was notconclusive. This much I felt, and I, therefore, meant to proceed uponthe theory of his innocence.
The facts were that he had been at White's house that night and that hehad possession of one of the bills Van Bult had left on the table, butit did not necessarily follow from them that he had killed White. Hemight have taken the money, while he slept, and without disturbing him.Such an hypothesis was consistent at the same time with the facts andwith Winters's innocence.
Such being the case why should he not be innocent? These two facts, hispresences at the house and possession of the bill, were in reality allthat had actually been proved against him, although as the evidence hadbeen presented at the hearing, it had seemed almost conclusive of hisguilt.
Having reached this conclusion it still remained necessary, in order tomake his innocence a reasonable hypothesis, to demonstrate in some waythat some one else had probably been there that night also; and thusmake possible another theory of the murder.
There was one fact in the case that I thought did suggest--sufficientlyat least for argument--the presence of a second person on the scene.
Van Bult had left four fifty-dollar bills on the table, and of theseonly one had been traced to Winters, and the remaining three weremissing and unaccounted for. If it could be demonstrated with reasonablecertainty that Winters had not taken them, it must follow that some oneelse had done so, and the presence of this other party would thus beestablished.
Under these conditions, until such person could be found, and hisinnocence shown, the chances of Winters's guilt or innocence of themurder would be equally divided.
Of course I recognized the fact that Winters might have taken them all,but it seemed very unlikely. It was clear from the evidence that betweenthe time the officer saw him leaving the vestibule and the time herejoined his friend in the saloon on Sixth Avenue but a very briefperiod could have elapsed, not enough under any ordinary circumstancesto account for the disposal of a hundred and fifty dollars. There was nosuggestion that he had spent any while with his friend before theyvisited the gambling house, and he had lost but one of the bills there.If, then, he had secured more than one of them, he must have kept thebalance in his possession; but to admit this was to conclude that he hadabandoned his gaming while he had plenty of money in his pocket, whichwas highly improbable in a man of Winters's habits and temperament; suchwas not the way with his kind. I concluded, therefore, that it was notunreasonable to assume that he had not taken all the bills and that someone else had probably been on the scene that night, in which case thepolice must either negative this assumption or find that other person,and establish his innocence, before they could with any certaintyestablish Winters's guilt. At least so I reasoned.
As I further reflected, however, there occurred to me anotherexplanation of the disappearance of the money that did not involve theintervention of a third party. White had apparently gone out that night.Why should he not have disposed in some way of all but the one billduring his absence? It was possible, just as possible as any otherhypothesis, and would undoubtedly suggest itself to the prosecution whenthe question arose. There would still, of course, remain some doubt asto the true explanation of their disappearance; and every doubt, nomatter how small, was a cloud upon the State's case; but I felt it wouldbe insufficient to weigh against the other evidence unless corroboratedby additional facts. I was thus compelled to look further for theevidence I sought.
The only other tangible factor in the case that seemed to suggest inany way the presence of a third party was the ulster. My former theorythat its absence from the scene--since it had not been taken byWinters--proved the presence of a third party, failed now since it hadevidently been worn out by White himself, and apparently left by him atBelle Stanton's; but this last conclusion I was not yet quite preparedto admit. Of course, Belle Stanton's home was a place where White mightwell have left it, had it been likely that he would have left itanywhere; but I thought it highly improbable that any man would havewalked back nearly two blocks on such a rainy night, and in eveningdress, without an overcoat; that is, unless he was out of his mind, andWhite was certainly not that when I had parted from him less than anhour earlier. Furthermore, I reasoned, if he had done so his clothesmust have shown the effect of exposure to the weather and as far as Irecalled, they were immaculate when I saw him the following morning. Onthe whole I was not ready to admit that White had left the ulster there.Assuming, therefore, that he had not done so, I turned my thoughts tothe consideration of some other means by which it could have gottenthere. It must have been taken out by some one with intimate knowledgeof White's habits and private life, and also by some one having accessto his several establishments, to at once secure the ulster and disposeof it in a place so suggestive of the action of White. The veryconditions of the problem suggested the answer. I knew of but one manwho possessed the knowledge and opportunities required. That man wasBenton.
With the recognition of this fact came a very disagreeable sensation. Iwas anxious to establish Winters's innocence, but I recoiled from thethought of hunting down another man in his place, especially when Irealized that while the conclusion of my reasoning might raise a doubtas to Winters's guilt, it was entirely insufficient to do more than castan awful suspicion upon Benton.
I sat long in reflection over the situation. I was at first inclined toabandon the whole thing, but then I recognized the obligation to fulfila duty I had undertaken, especially since it had disclosed a theory ofthe murder that might be the means of saving an innocent man's life.Could I, to spare the feelings or even to spare the reputation ofanother man who might be either innocent or guilty, leave Winters to thefate I felt must overtake him if I did not interfere?
My duty was plain; miserable as was the task, I must go on with it to aconclusion one way or the other, but I determined that so long as Icould, I would pursue the investigation alone, and thus spare Bentontrouble and mortification if it should develop that he was innocent.Time enough to submit it to the police when I had something moretangible to go upon than mere speculation based on the fitting of actsto opportunities. Furthermore, I knew the police would not be gratefulto me for upsetting or even casting doubt upon their well-worked-upcase, and would depart upon the investigation of a new clue with verylittle enthusiasm for the work.
At this point my reflections were interrupted by a servant who came totell me that Benton would like to see me.
I almost jumped from my chair. What irony of fate had brought thisman--the one I wished least of all to see--to me at this moment? I feltguilty at the mention of his name. How should I treat him? What should Isay to him? At first I was inclined to refuse to see him, but then Ireflected that it was as well to have an interview with him now asanother time. I need ask him no direct questions, do nothing to alarmhim, but could listen to what he might have to say. The interview beingunsolicited, on my part, he could have no idea of my suspicion and mighttherefore be led to talk freely. My determination thus taken, I told theservant, who had been patiently waiting on me, to bring Benton to myroom. By the time he appeared I had composed myself and was prepared totake advantage of any opportunity that might offer to further myinvestigation.
On entering he was so eager to impart his news that barely waiting forme to signify my readiness to hear him, he began telling it in a hurriedand nervous manner.
"I came, Mr. Dallas," he said, "because after I saw at the trial thisafternoon that the police had caught Winters and that he was the man, Ithought I ought to tell you at once what I know about it. I would havetold it when I testified, but did not think of him at all then. Mr.Winters," he continued, "was always coming to Mr. White's rooms, at alltimes of the day and often late in the evening, too, and he alwayswanted money, and Mr. White always gave it to him; sometimes a gooddeal, and sometimes a little, just according to what he had with him;and he had generally been drinking, more or less, and sometimes he wouldbeg and cry, and sometimes, when Mr. White didn't have as much money togive him as he wanted, he would get mad, and say it was all his money byright anyhow, and that Mr. White had as good as robbed him of it andsuch like; but Mr. White would never say much to him, but just give himthe money and be kind to him, and tell him to come again when he neededmore; and indeed it seemed to me he was always coming, sir, and it usedto bother Mr. White, I am sure, for he seemed worried and out of sortsafter Mr. Winters had been there." He paused for a moment and then wenton. "That is all I wanted to say, but I thought I ought to tell you,sir. I tried to see you after the trial, but you got away too soon, andso I thought I would wait until you got through your dinner, and hadtime to see me. So I came around now."
He had rattled on till he was out of breath, and now stood in someembarrassment waiting for what I might have to say.
I sat looking at him. I was puzzled as to his character. Either the manwas simple and straightforward in nature and worked up at the moment toa high pitch of nervous and pleasurable excitement over the murder, asis apt to be the case with his class; or else he was a worse man and adeeper one than I had conceived him to be.
"Sit down, Benton," I said at last, pointing to a chair opposite me;"what you have told me is of much importance, and I want to talk to youfurther about it."
"Yes, sir," he said, and sat down obediently. I felt I had a delicatetask in hand. I must on no account alarm him or in any way arouse hissuspicion, and yet the opportunity of questioning him was too good tolose.
"It is very important," I continued, "that I should learn all I can ofMr. White's habits. I knew him well, of course, but as his servant, youknew more about him than any one else. How long, now, had you lived withhim?"
"More than a year," he answered.
"Did you know this Miss Stanton, who testified to-day?" I continued.
"Yes, sir, I did; he had been going with her ever since I knew him."
"Do you know whether he was in the habit of visiting her house oftenlate in the evening?"
"I think so, sir, but I do not know just how often. I used to take notesfor him to her house, and sometimes she would come to his rooms and takesupper with him."
"Did she have any key to his rooms?" was my next question.
He said he did not think so, because she always rang for admission whenhe was there.
I inquired then if he knew of any one who had keys to White's room.
He said he did not think any one had except, probably, the landlady andhimself.
"I think," I said, "you testified that you found the door unlatched whenyou went to the rooms the morning of Mr. White's death. How do you meanit was unlatched?"
"I mean," he answered, "that the catch was so fixed that it could beopened from the outside without a key. This was hardly ever the casethat I remember, and never before over night."
I asked him how the catch was fixed when he left, and he answered thathe could not say because the door was open, and Mr. Davis still in theroom.
"And you did not go back that night?" I asked.
"No, sir," he answered promptly, "certainly not. You saw me going homeyourself."
"So I did," I admitted; "and how about the front door when you left, wasthat unfastened, too?"
He said that he had closed the door after him when he went out, but didnot know whether it was fixed to open from the outside or not as he hadnot tried it, but that it was fastened when he returned in the morningbecause he had to use his key to get in.
"Had Winters a key?" I asked.
"No," he admitted, "I am very sure he hadn't."
"Then in case the door was locked," I said, "how could he have gottenin?"
He looked puzzled for a moment, but brightened up, and suggested thatMr. White might have let him in, as he never refused him admission.
"But in that case," I suggested, "Mr. White would have been awake and hewas apparently asleep when he was killed." He had nothing to say tothis, except to suggest rather doubtfully that Mr. White might have laiddown and gone to sleep again while Winters was there.
"Do you think that likely?" I inquired.
"No," he said, "I do not."
"Then," I continued, "why do you feel so sure that Winters killed him?"
After looking at me in a surprised way, he asked:
"If he didn't kill him, sir, who did?"
I admitted I did not know, but suggested that we ought not to be toohasty in our conclusions.
"Well, sir," he answered, "perhaps he didn't, but everybody thinks hedid, and I think so too."
I felt that the examination was at an end, and that I had not made verymuch of it. If Benton was guilty he had successfully avoided givingevidence of it, and if he was innocent, then his attitude was a prettyfair sample of the estimate the average man or juror would be apt toplace upon my conjectures and theories.
"You may go," I told him; "I am much obliged to you for coming, and youmust tell me anything more you may learn or that occurs to you about thecase."
"I will, sir. Good-night, sir," he answered, and went out promptly andquietly, like the well-trained servant he had always been.
If it had not been for my horrible suspicions I should have liked toengage him myself. A man such as Benton is a great comfort to abachelor--that is, under ordinary circumstances--but not when you thinkhe may have murdered his last master.
When he was gone I looked at the clock, and saw it was after eleven. Ihad been in my room with my thoughts and with Benton for three hours,and I could not say that either companionship had been altogetherpleasant. I determined to go downstairs now and see what was going on.It was the time of the evening when the club was likely to liven up withmen returning from the theatre or other places of amusement for an hourof cards or gossip, and I hoped to find diversion in their society.
As I descended the stairs, Ned Davis was standing in the hall, and heimmediately locked his arms in mine and began talking of the case.
"Extraordinary, isn't it," he said, "that Winters should have done it?Awful clever of the police, too, to ferret it out so soon, don't youthink so?"
I was annoyed at this unhesitating assumption of Winters's guilt, andsomewhat out of humor also, I have no doubt, and I asked him sharply:
"How do you know Winters did it?"
"Why, you haven't any doubt about it, have you?" he asked.
"Certainly," I said, "it isn't proven yet."
"Well, if it isn't proven, I never saw a case that was."
"Look here, fellows!" he called out to a lot of men who were seatednearby talking and who looked up inquiringly at his hail; "Dallas don'tbelieve Winters did it."
I realized at once that a man holding my office could not afford to bequoted as an exponent of Winters's innocence, and therefore disclaimedany such expression of opinion.
"No," I said; "I merely decline to accept his guilt as a fact until heshall be convicted."
"That's all right, Dallas," one of them answered, "we all understand youmustn't express an opinion under the circumstances of course, but we allknow what you really think, and we hope you will go in and convict thefellow quickly. Sit down and take a drink with us, we were just talkingabout the case."
I declined the invitation, pleading some excuse, and leaving Davis toaccept it, walked on to the billiard-room, in the hope of escaping thesubject in a game, but it was of no avail, for there, too, it held thefloor.
As I entered the room I observed collected at one end a group, thepersonnel of which I at once recognized. It was made up of a class ofmen such as are to be found in every club, men to whose words attachesno responsibility and who are accustomed to express themselves on allsubjects, particularly sensational ones, in exaggerated language. Theyare of the sort that become especially enthusiastic over a jockey, aprize-fighter, or a detective, and on any provocation will indulge inflights of hero-worship. In such a clique are always to be found certainleaders who assert themselves and their opinions in aggressive tones andto whom the others render admiring homage. It was so now; one of theSolons was on his feet engaged in an argumentative review of theevidence in the case to an admiring audience. The tables were deserted,except for an old gentleman, who always played his "evening game for alittle exercise before bed," but who now stood disconsolately leaning onhis cue while his partner hung absorbed over the group of listeners.
"Now see here, Dallas," said the speaker on observing me, "wasn't thatabout the finest worked-up case you ever saw? Here was an instance wherethe police had absolutely nothing to go on but some missing money and aglimpse at a man peering in at a window on a dark night, and yet withinforty-eight hours they run down their man and have him safe in jail.There is no doubt of it, we have the finest police force in the world,and I always have said so. That man Dalton is a wonder."
"Yes," chimed in another before I had time to assent or dissent, "andwhat an eye he has; it pierces you like an eagle's when he looks at you.He understands his business."
"Indeed he does," the first speaker continued, "and he leaves nothingundone. Did you read the testimony in the 'Extra' this evening? He hasseized and exhausted each clue systematically. He hasn't left a loopholeof escape for Winters." To which ultimatum, all assented heartily.
"So you think there is no doubt of his guilt?" a mild little man,anxious for a word, next ventured to ask in a deferential tone.
"Doubt of his guilt!" repeated the first speaker, in a tone of pityingindulgence; "why, man, the case is all over."
"Of course, the evidence proves that," the little man hastened toexplain apologetically, "I only asked to get your opinion."
"That's all right," continued the speaker, mollified; "I am glad youasked. There can be but one opinion. Winters was a bad lot anyhow andbound to come to a bad ending."
"How soon do you suppose he will be tried?" he added, turning to meagain.
I said I did not know, but I thought very soon. At which they allexpressed satisfaction.
Then he began once more: "There is nothing like swift and sure justice,"he announced, "and there now remains in the Winters case only theformality of a trial. The work of the Inspector has left nothing more tobe found out."
He would apparently have gone on in this strain indefinitely, had he notbeen interrupted by Littell, who had come in unobserved, and nowquietly asked the speaker's opinion as to what the Inspector might havedone with the other three fifty-dollar bills that had been left in theroom.
"And pray what has the Inspector to do with them?" was the rejoinder.
"I don't know, I'm sure," Littell answered, "but you said the Inspectorhad exhausted every clue and left nothing more to be found out and Ithought perhaps that if the tracing of one bill was sufficient toconvict a man, the whereabouts of the other three might be ofimportance, too. When found, you see," he continued, "they might convictthree more men."
A dead silence followed this explanation, and I fear I rejoicedmaliciously over the evident discomfiture of the crowd while at the sametime I was gratified by the apparent confirmation of my own views.
"Then you don't think Winters guilty?" some one timidly asked, after awhile. I listened eagerly for the answer.
"I didn't say that," Littell replied, "I only wanted to find out ifthere might not possibly be something that the Inspector did not know."
He refused to be drawn into further discussion, rather suggesting by hismanner that he did not think it worth while; and after an awkward pause,the party moved across the room to a more congenial atmosphere, whencein a few minutes I heard them with recovered assurance again telling oneanother all about it. Evidently side remarks were not in order,particularly if they savored of incredulity.
After they had gone I took the opportunity to ask Littell if he thoughtthe missing bills a serious defect in the case.
"I think it is important that they should be found, if possible," hesaid, "though I doubt if it would alter much the present status of thecase. I only suggested their absence to these men, to show them howlittle they really knew about it, and that the police are notinfallible."
I turned away disappointed: even Littell did not consider the missingbills of much real importance. Their absence might do to juggle with asa lesson to superficial talkers, but from a practical standpoint, it wasimmaterial.
A Master Hand: The Story of a Crime Page 7