by Rex Stout
Siegel pursued his advantage relentlessly. He hammered the witness with questions, and Sherman stammered and grew red in the face with helpless anger, and finally admitted that his first story had been false. That was all Siegel wanted; he sat down with a smile of triumph; his forehead was covered with beads of sweat.
On redirect examination the prosecuting attorney made a valiant attempt to bring his witness out of the hole he had dug for himself, but in vain. Sherman was hopelessly confused; he made matters worse instead of better, and ended by refusing to answer at all. He was dismissed by the court with a reprimand, and at a sign from Mr. Brant seated himself on the front row of benches.
For a few moments the progress of the trial was halted by a conference between the prosecuting attorney and Detective Barrett, while Knowlton whispered animatedly to his counsel and the faces of the Erring Knights beamed with joy.
“What did I tell you?” said Dougherty to Driscoll sotto voce. “Didn’t I say he was a slick guy?”
Then the prosecuting attorney turned to face the courtroom:
“Miss Williams, please take the stand.”
There was a silence. No one moved. Knowlton kept his eyes fastened on the desk before him. Three of the Erring Knights glanced accusingly at the other two.
Mr. Brant, whose temper had not been improved by the discrediting of Sherman’s testimony, looked directly at Lila, who had remained in her seat, and repeated his question.
“Will you please take the stand?”
Lila rose and faced him.
“Do you mean me?” she asked.
“Yes. I called your name. Take the stand.”
Lila did not move.
“I beg your pardon, but you did not call my name.”
“Aren’t you Miss Williams?” said Mr. Brant testily.
Lila answered clearly:
“No.”
The attorney started with incredulous surprise. Driscoll, Booth, and Jennings looked around at her in amazement, while Dougherty and Dumain smiled in their superior knowledge. Knowlton did not move.
Sherman sprang from his seat and, crossing to the side of Attorney Brant, whispered excitedly:
“That’s her, all right. They’re up to some trick. Call her up. She won’t lie on the stand.”
But Mr. Brant shook him off, and after a moment’s hesitation again spoke to Lila:
“Then what is your name?”
Lila sent a single fleeting glance to the prisoner, who had turned in his chair to face her; then looked directly at the questioner. Her answer was low, but distinct and half triumphant:
“Mrs. John Knowlton.”
Then she sat down and buried her face in her hands; and, as everybody stared at her in consternation, surprise, or wonder, Lawyer Siegel rose to his feet and addressed the listening judge:
“Your honor, this woman is the wife of the accused; and, therefore, may not be called as a witness by the prosecution. Your honor sees that she is in distress. May I ask that counsel be instructed not to question her further in court?”
But Mr. Brant turned on him angrily:
“Your proof! Show us your proof!”
“Of course,” said the other, taking a paper from his portfolio, “I expected you would demand it; I do not expect courtesy from you, sir.” He handed the paper to the judge. “That is the marriage certificate, your honor.”
There was a breathless silence throughout the room while the judge adjusted his eyeglasses and inspected the large, stamped document. He looked at the date and the signatures, and glanced at Attorney Siegel searchingly; then turned to Lila and asked her to step to the witness stand.
“I object, your honor—” began Lawyer Siegel, but the judge stopped him with a gesture.
Lila was in the witness chair. The clerk of the court administered the oath. The judge turned to her.
“Are you the ‘Lila Williams’ mentioned in this certificate?”
Lila barely glanced at it before answering:
“Yes, sir.”
“Are you the wife of the accused, John Knowlton?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you wish to testify for the people in this action?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That is all,” said the judge; “you may go.”
Then, as Lila glanced at him gratefully and rose to return to her seat, he handed the certificate back to Lawyer Siegel and turned to speak to the prosecuting attorney with judicial calmness:
“Call your next witness, Mr. Brant.”
But the trial had become a farce; a huge joke—on the prosecution. Of his two chief witnesses, one had been discredited and the other disqualified; and Attorney Brant stammered in angry confusion that he had no others.
He recalled Sherman to the stand to give a recital of Lila’s movements, as observed by him, on the evening of Knowlton’s arrest; but Sherman could tell little, and it was easy to perceive by the expression on the faces of the jurors that the little he could tell was not believed.
Mr. Brant also called an expert, who testified that the bills in the wallet in evidence for the prosecution were counterfeit; then the prosecution rested.
The defense rested without calling a witness.
Then came the closing speeches.
Young Mr. Brant stammered and hesitated for a quarter of an hour, and, considering the paucity of his material, made a very creditable effort; but it was thrown completely in the shade by that of Lawyer Siegel, which may be given in full:
“May it please your honor, Mr. Foreman, and gentlemen of the jury: Without any desire to be flippant, I can only state that since I am confined to the evidence, and since there has been no evidence worth speaking of, I have nothing to say.”
And five minutes later, without leaving their box, the jury returned a verdict of “Not guilty,” and John Knowlton was a free man.
It was Lila who reached his side first, but the Erring Knights were not far behind; and Knowlton found himself the center of an excited, laughing group of faces filled with goodwill and friendship and—one of them—with love.
In one of his hands he held both of Lila’s, and gave the other to each of the Erring Knights in turn; but his lips were silent. Before all these faces, at that moment, he could not trust himself to speak.
“But I was so frightened,” Lila was saying. “Oh, I was so frightened!”
“Bah!” said Dumain. “At what, madam?”
Lila’s cheek flushed at the title, and Driscoll, observing it, put in mischievously:
“Yes; that really isn’t very complimentary to us, Mrs. Knowlton.”
“Oh!” said Lila helplessly, while the flush deepened.
“And now,” said Dougherty, “where’s that guy, Siegel? I want to ask him to come up to the dinner tonight. I wonder where—What? Look at that!”
He was pointing excitedly across the room. The others turned and saw Billy Sherman being escorted to the door of the courtroom by two police officers in uniform.
“Probably some of his friends,” observed Booth.
“No,” said Driscoll; “it’s more likely that little slip-up in his testimony. I believe they call it perjury.”
At that moment Siegel approached the group.
“Come on,” he called gaily; “they’re going to clear the room. And I guess we’ll be glad enough to go, since we don’t have to leave anyone behind. And, by the way, did you notice our friend, Sherman? He seems to be having a little trouble of his own. They just arrested him.”
“What is it?” asked Booth. “Perjury? They certainly didn’t lose much time.”
“No. It isn’t that. That was merely a lapse of memory. They came from the outside. I didn’t hear what they said, but from the expression on Mr. Sherman’s face I wouldn’t be surprised if it was murder. We caught him prettily, didn’t we?”
They had left the courtroom and were standing at the head of the stairs in the corridor.
“Well, let’s forget him,” said Driscoll. “He was bound to
hang himself sooner or later. Maybe he’s done it already. Come on—everybody.”
They moved down the stairs and out to the sidewalk, chattering and laughing, still nervous and ill at ease from the restraint and anxiety of the courtroom.
Lined up along the curb were three big gray limousines.
“Now,” said Dougherty, stopping in front of them, in the tone of a general marshaling his forces, “here’s where we separate.”
He pointed to the first of the limousines. “Dumain, you take this car with Knowlton and take him to your rooms. He’ll find there what he needs.
“Can’t help it, Mrs. Knowlton; it’s only for an hour or two. Driscoll, you are to take Mrs. Knowlton to One Hundred and Fourth Street, and get her trunk and bags. The rest of you come with me. And remember: six o’clock at Dumain’s rooms. No later. Come on, boys!”
“But what—” Knowlton began.
“Listen here,” Dougherty interrupted sternly; “are you going to obey orders or not? Hereafter Mrs. Knowlton can boss you. It’s our turn today.”
In pretended fright Knowlton turned to Lila and bade her au revoir with a pressure of the hand, then sprang into the automobile beside Dumain.
“That’s right,” said Dougherty. “Here you go, Mrs. Knowlton. Help the lady in, Driscoll. Come on, Siegel, with us. What’s that? Yes, you will—come on! All ready, boys? Let ’er go! So long! Remember, six o’clock!”
CHAPTER XVIII.
Westward Ho!
EIGHT GILT CHAIRS WITH EMBROIDERED SEATS and backs surrounding a table covered with snowy linen and shining silver; four diminutive Swiss waiters with quick eyes and silent feet; roses everywhere—on the mantel, in vases on the table, clustered over the door, red and white; candles—hundreds of them—placed wherever there was an inch of space to hold them; such was the scene prepared by Bub Driscoll and his aids for the joy dinner in honor of Mr. and Mrs. John Knowlton, in that apartment on West Twenty-first Street which we have seen twice before.
Lila was escorted to the dining room on the arm of Lawyer Siegel, after an extended and heated controversy among the Erring Knights as to which of them should have that honor.
When it appeared that the matter was apt to be argued till the dinner was ruined, Siegel stepped in and settled the question by offering his services, which were gladly accepted.
Pierre Dumain, as host, sat at one end of the table; Knowlton at the other. On one side was Lila, between Dougherty and Driscoll; opposite them Booth, Jennings, and Siegel.
“What a shame!” said Lila. “I’m so excited I can’t eat.”
Driscoll observed:
“Now, that’s just like a woman. For two months you’ve been as cool and collected as a cake of ice, while you’ve had enough trouble to scare an army; and now that everything’s over, and you’re just at the beginning of a lifelong siege of matrimonial boredom, you’re so excited you can’t eat!”
“I never did a harder day’s work in my life,” declared Dougherty, “and I’m hungry like a bear. What do you call this, Driscoll? I’m no bridegroom—I can’t eat roses.”
But he was promptly squelched by the master of ceremonies, and everybody talked at once till the soup arrived.
Never was gayer company. Lila was at first a little embarrassed at finding herself the eighth at a table with seven men, but that did not last long; no longer, in fact, than when Dougherty, at the finish of the fish, arose to his feet to give an imitation of Miss Hughes chewing gum, powdering her face, and waiting on three customers at the same time.
“She never did,” declared Lila, when she could speak for laughing. “That’s a slander, Mr. Dougherty.”
“What?” exclaimed the ex-prizefighter. “I’ll admit it’s not true to life; it’s too delicate and refined. Not that I don’t like her; the Venus is a good sport. And if there’s any—What’s this?”
“Sweetbreads in tambo shell, m’sieu’,” murmured the waiter.
After which Dougherty was silent—and busy—for ten minutes.
Then Lawyer Siegel related some of his court experiences, both humorous and tragical, and Dumain described the mysteries and secrets of the gentle art of reading palms, and Jennings explained that his contract with Mr. Frohman would probably not be signed till the following day, and Dougherty described his first prizefight with an animation and picturesqueness of language that left the others in a condition bordering on hysteria.
“There’s one thing,” said Driscoll, turning to Lila, “for which I shall never forgive you—that you didn’t invite me to the wedding.”
“Here, too,” put in Jennings. “I call it snobbish.”
“Where was it, anyway?” Booth wanted to know. “How did you manage it?”
Dougherty explained:
“Easy. You know we got Knowlton out on bail for one day. Well, he got a license and I got a preacher, and Dumain let us use his French parlor, and stuff was all off in fifteen minutes, but you may get to see a wedding, after all.”
Dougherty glanced at Knowlton. Knowlton nodded. Then the ex-prizefighter continued:
“We all know that our friend Mr. Knowlton is traveling sort of incog. His real name is Norton, and that fact demands what you might call supplementary proceedings. The big show is on tomorrow, and if you treat Mrs. Knowlton right she’s very apt to give you a bid.”
“Hurrah!” shouted Driscoll. “In at the death is all I ask.”
“What an expression!” said Lila. “Mr. Driscoll, I’m offended.”
“I beg your pardon,” said the gentleman gallantly. “I didn’t mean it, I assure you. Waiter!”
“Yes, sir.”
“If I order another bottle of white wine—”
“Yes, sir.”
“I say, if I order more white wine—”
“Yes, sir.”
“Don’t bring it.”
“Yes, sir. No, sir.”
The table grinned, and made a concerted and valiant attack on the dessert, while Jennings and Booth accused each other with some heat of being the cause of Driscoll’s order.
Presently Driscoll rapped on the table for attention, and glared fiercely at the disputants till he got it.
“Lady and gentlemen,” said he, “I must ask your kind favor and indulgence. Unlike the rest of this proud assembly, Mr. Jennings and myself are workingmen. We earn our bread by toil.”
Cries of “Hear, hear!” came from Jennings, while the others jeered.
“Howbeit,” continued the speaker, silencing the interruptions with an imperious gesture, “we must be at our tasks by eight o’clock. It is now seven-twenty.
“I understand that Mr. Dumain has a surprise in store for us, and that Mr. Knowlton has kindly consented to make a speech. In the interests of equality and justice I demand that these ceremonies begin at once.”
Applause, continued and vociferous, from Jennings. Booth and Siegel each grasped one of his arms and held him quiet. Driscoll turned to Dumain and demanded an answer.
“All right,” said the little Frenchman, “I’m ready.”
“What about it?” Driscoll turned to the others.
They signified their approval. Knowlton, who had been silent throughout the dinner, nodded. Dumain rose to his feet, pushed back his chair, and cleared his throat.
“About zee surprise,” the little Frenchman began; “eet ees a pleasant surprise. We are here this evening—”
“Hear, hear!” murmured Jennings.
“Silence him!” ordered Driscoll. Booth and Siegel obeyed, and the speaker continued:
“I say we are here this evening because our hearts are glad for our friend Mr. Knowlton and our very dear lady—God bless her!—zee Lady Lila!”
“To her!” shouted Dougherty, springing to his feet and raising his glass on high.
“To Lady Lila!” came in a deafening chorus, while Lila rose to her feet, trembling and confused.
They drank the toast amid cheers and applause.
“And now,” continued Dumain, when they h
ad reseated themselves, “for zee surprise. I must go back a leetle, and I do not speak zee Angleesh so well, so you must have zee patience.
“About Knowlton eet ees—only hees name ees Norton. I can only tell what I know. From what Sherman and our very dear lady have say to me I add zis to zat, and I know nearly all.
“I know he was officer in a bank in Warton, Ohio, and zat money was missing, and zat our friend was what you call eet suspicioned. And about zis Sherman tol’ me, and from what he look at me I theenk to myself, aha! Sherman know more zan he say.
“Well, I theenk very little about all zat—I nearly forget eet because we are all busy wiz trying to put Knowlton away from all. For many weeks I forget eet.”
Dumain paused, glanced at his audience with the assurance of a man who holds a high trump, and continued:
“All zis we all know. Well. Today I take Knowlton here to my rooms where ees hees trunk I brought. But he needs something—we go out. I stop in zee Lamartine to wait for heem—I go to zee telegraph desk, I go to zee cigar stand, I go to zee front desk, and Geebson call me and say, ‘Telegram here for a man named John Norton. Do you know heem, Dumain?’
“I say, ‘Yes, I will take eet to heem,’ and he give eet to me, and I open eet and read eet to make sure. What I theenk, eet ees for Knowlton. Right. Here eet ees.”
He took a yellow telegraph form from his pocket and waved it in the air. It was extra size—the telegram was a long one.
They shouted, “Read it!”
But Dumain tossed it to Knowlton, who, after reading it through, let it fall from his hands to the table and turned a white face to Lila.
“What is it?” Lila faltered.
Dougherty snatched up the telegram and read it aloud:
“Mr. John Norton, Hotel Lamartine, New York. Alma Sherman has confessed all. I was a fool not to believe you, but come home. Her brother got the money. They have wired to the New York police. Come home at once. Letter follows, but don’t wait for it. Wire me immediately.
“FATHER.”
“Oh!” cried Lila. “And now—and now—”
In the confusion that followed, while the others applauded and shouted and clapped Knowlton on the back, Dougherty had to place his mouth close to her ear to make her hear: