“No, sir; my office is in New York. My home, however, is in Brierdale, about three miles north of Rosemont.”
“Have you the agency of the Thorne property, Orchards?”
“I have.”
“To whom does that property belong?”
“It was left by Mr. Curtiss Thorne’s will to his two sons, Charles and Douglas. Charles was killed in the war, and it therefore reverted to the elder son, Douglas. He is now the sole owner.”
“And he placed it with you to sell?”
“To sell or to rent—preferably to sell.”
“Have you had offers for it?”
“None that we regarded as satisfactory; it was too large a property to appeal to the average man in the market for a country home, as it consisted of more than eighty acres and a house of twenty-four rooms. On the afternoon of the nineteenth of June, 1926, however, I showed the photographs of the house to a gentleman from Cleveland who was about to transfer his business to the East. He was delighted with them and made no quibble about the price if the property proved to be all that it seemed.”
“You were in New York at this time?”
“Yes; and a dinner engagement there prevented me from taking him out to Rosemont that afternoon. He was extremely anxious, however, to see it as soon as possible, as he was leaving for the West the following afternoon. So I arranged to take him next morning at nine o’clock.”
“And did so?”
“And did so.”
“Now will you be good enough to tell us, Mr. Conroy, just what happened when you arrived with this gentleman at Orchards on the morning of the twentieth?”
We drove out from New York in my roadster, arriving at the lodge gates of the property shortly after nine o’clock, I should say. I was to collect the keys under the doormat at the gardener’s cottage, which was halfway between the lodge and the main house____”
“Just a moment, Mr. Conroy. Was the lodge occupied?”
“No; at this particular time no building on the place was occupied. In Mr. Curtiss Thorne’s day, the lodge was occupied by the chauffeur and his family, the gardener’s cottage by the gardener and his family, and there was another cottage used by a farmer on the extreme western boundary. None of these had been occupied for some time, with the exception of the gardener’s cottage, whose occupants had been given a vacation of two months in order to visit their aged parents in Italy. Shall I go on?”
“Please.”
“The gardener’s cottage is a low five-room building at a bend of the road, and is practically concealed as you approach it from the main driveway by the very high shrubbery that surrounds it—lilacs, syringa, and the like. There is a little drive that shoots off from the main driveway and circles the cottage, and we drove in there, to the front of the house, and mounted the steps to the front porch, as my client wished to see the interior. Just as I bent down to secure the keys, I was surprised to see that the door was slightly ajar. I picked up the keys, pushed it farther open, and went in, rather expecting that sneak thieves might have preceded me.”
Mr. Conroy paused for a moment in his steady, precise narrative, his pale face a little paler. “Shall I continue?”
“Certainly.”
“On my left was the dining room, with the door closed; on my right, the room known as the parlor. The door was open, but only a small section of the room was visible from the corridor, and it was not until I had crossed the threshold that I realized that something frightful had occurred. In the corner of the room farthest from the door____”
“Just a minute, please. Was your client with you when you entered the room?’’
“He was a step or so behind me, I believe. In the corner of the room was the—the body of a young woman in a white frock. A small table was overturned beside her, and at her feet was a lamp, the chimney and shade shattered and some oil spilled on the floor. The smell of the kerosene was very strong—very strong indeed.”
Mr. Conroy looked a little ill, as though the odor of that spilled kerosene were still about him.
“Was the girl’s head toward you, or her feet, Mr. Conroy?”
“Her feet. Her head was resting on the corner of a low fender—a species of steel railing—that circled the base of a Franklin stove.”
“Did you notice anything else?”
“Yes; I noticed that there was blood.” He glanced about him swiftly, as though he were startled by the sound of the word, and lowered his voice. “A great deal of blood.”
“On the dress?”
“Principally on the dress. I believe that there was also a little on the carpet, though I could not be sure of that. But principally it was on the dress.”
“Can you tell us about the dress?”
Again Mr. Conroy’s haunted eyes went wandering. “The dress? It was soaked in blood, sir—I think I may say that it was soaked in blood.”
“No, no—I mean what kind of a dress was it? An evening dress?”
“Well, I hardly know. I suppose you might call it that. Not a ball gown, you understand—just a thin lacy dress, with the neck cut out a little and short sleeves. I remember that quite well—the lady’s arms were bare.”
The prosecutor, who had been carelessly fingering some papers and pamphlets on the top of a small square box, brushed them impatiently aside and scooped something else out of its depths.
“Was this the dress, Mr. Conroy?”
The long screech of Mr. Conroy’s chair as he shoved it violently back tore through the courtroom like something human, echoing through every heart. The prosecutor was nonchalantly dangling before the broker’s staring eyes a crumpled object—a white dress, streaked and splotched and dotted with that most ominous color known to the eyes of man—the curious rusted sinister red of dried blood.
“Yes,” said Mr. Conroy, his voice barely above a whisper—“yes, yes; that is it—that is the dress.”
The fascinated eyes of the spectators wrenched themselves from the dress to the two defendants. Susan Ives was not looking at it. Her head was as high as ever, her lips as steady, but her eyes were bent intently on a scrap of paper that she held in her gloved fingers. Apparently Mrs. Ives was deeply interested in the contents.
Stephen Bellamy was not reading. He sat watching that handful of lace and blood as though it were Medusa’s head, his blank, unswerving eyes riveted to it by something inexorable and intolerable. His face was as quiet as Susan Ives’s, save for a dreadful little ripple of muscles about the set mouth—the ripple that comes from clenched teeth, clenched harder, harder—harder still, lest there escape through them some sound not meant for decent human ears. Save for that ripple, he did not move a hairbreadth.
“Was the blood on this dress dry when you first saw it, Mr. Conroy?”
“No, it was not dry.”
“You ascertained that by touching it?”
Mr. Conroy’s small neat body seemed to contract farther into itself.
“No, I did not touch it. It was not necessary to touch it to see that. It—it was quite apparent.”
“I see. Your Honor, I ask to have this dress marked for identification.”
“It may be marked,” said Judge Carver quietly, eyeing it steadily and gravely for a moment before he returned to his notes.
“Got that?” inquired Mr. Farr briskly, handing it over to the clerk of the court. “I offer it in evidence.”
“Are there any objections?” inquired Judge Carver.
“Your Honor, I fail to see what necessity there is for____”
The judge cut sharply across Lambert’s voice: “You are not required to be the arbiter of that, Mr. Lambert. The state is conducting its case without your assistance, to the best of my knowledge. Do you object, and if so, on what grounds?”
Mr. Lambert’s ruddy countenance became a shade more ruddy. He opened his mouth, thought better of it, and closed it with an audible snap. “No objection.”
“Mr. Conroy, did you notice whether the slippers were stained?”
> “Yes—yes, they were considerably stained.”
“What type of slippers were they?”
“They were shiny slippers, with very high heels and some kind of bright, sparkling little buckles, I believe.”
“Like these?” Once more the resourceful Mr. Farr had delved into the square box, and he placed the result of his research deftly on the edge of the witness box. A pair of silver slippers with rhinestone buckles, exquisite and inadequate enough for the most foolish of women, small enough for a man to hold in one outstretched hand—sparkling, absurd, and coquettish, they perched on that dark rim, the buckles gleaming valiantly above the dark and sinister splotches that turned them from gay and charming toys to tokens of horror.
“Those are the slippers,” said Mr. Conroy, his shaken voice barely audible.
“I offer them in evidence.”
“No objections.” Mr. Lambert’s voice was an objection in itself.
“Now, Mr. Conroy, will you be good enough to tell us what you did as soon as you made this discovery?”
“I said to my client, ‘There has been foul play here. We must get the police.’____”
“No, not what you said, Mr. Conroy—what you did.”
“I returned to my roadster with my client, locking the front door behind me with a key from the ring that I had found under the doormat, and drove as rapidly as possible to police headquarters in Rosemont, reporting what I had discovered.”
“Just what did you report?”
“I reported that I had found the body of Mrs. Stephen Bellamy in the gardener’s cottage of the old Thorne place, and that it looked as though she had been murdered.”
“Oh, you recognized Mrs. Bellamy?”
“Yes. She was a friend of my sister-in-law,. who lives in Rosemont. I had met her on two occasions.”
“And what did you do then?”
“I considered that the matter was then out of my hands, but I endeavored to reach Mr. Douglas Thorne by telephone, to tell him what had occurred. I was not successful, however, and returned immediately to New York with my client.”
“He decided not to inspect the place farther?”
For the first time Mr. Conroy permitted himself a small, pallid, apologetic ghost of a smile. “Exactly. He decided that under the circumstances he did not desire to go farther with the transaction. It did not seem to him, if I may so express it, a particularly auspicious omen.”
“Well, that’s quite comprehensible. Did you notice when you were in this parlor whether Mrs. Bellamy was wearing any jewellery, Mr. Conroy?”
“To the best of my recollection, she was not, sir.”
“You are quite sure of that?”
“I am not able to swear to it, but it is my distinct impression that she was not. I was only in the room a minute or so, you understand, but I still retain a most vivid picture of it—a most vivid picture, I may say.”
Mr. Conroy passed a weary hand over his high brow, and that vivid picture seemed suddenly to float before the eyes of every occupant of the court.
“You did not see a weapon?”
“No. I could not swear that one was not there, but certainly I did not see one.”
“I understood you to say that you locked the front door of the gardener’s cottage with one of the keys that you found on the ring under the mat. How many keys were on that ring?”
“Seven or eight, I think—a key to the lodge, to the garage opposite the lodge, to the gardener’s cottage, to the farmer’s house, to the front and back doors of the main house, and to the cellar—possibly others.”
“Didn’t it ever strike you as a trifle imprudent to keep these keys in such an unprotected spot, Mr. Conroy?”
“We did not consider it an unprotected spot, sir. The gardener’s cottage was a long way from the road, and it did not seem at all likely that they would be discovered.”
“Whom do you mean by ‘we,’ Mr. Conroy?”
Mr. Conroy made a small restless movement. “I was referring to Mr. Douglas Thorne and myself.”
“Oh, Mr. Thorne knew that the keys were kept there, did he?”
“Oh, quite so—naturally.”
“Why ‘naturally,’ Mr. Conroy?”
“I said naturally—I said naturally because Mr. Thorne had placed them there himself.”
“Oh, I see. And when had Mr. Thorne placed them there?”
“He had placed them there on the previous evening.”
“On the previous evening?” Even the prosecutor’s voice sounded startled.
“Yes.”
“At what time?”
“I am not sure of the exact time.”
“Well, can you tell us approximately?”
“I am not able to state positively even the approximate time.”
“Was it before seven in the evening?”
“I do not believe so.”
“How did you acquire the knowledge that Mr. Thorne was to leave those keys at the cottage, Mr. Conroy?”
“By telephone.”
“Mr. Thorne telephoned you?”
“No, I telephoned Mr. Thorne.”
“At what time?”
“At about half-past six on the evening of the nineteenth.”
“I see. Will you be good enough to give us the gist of what you said to him over the telephone?”
“I had been trying to reach Mr. Thorne for some time, both at his home in Lakedale and in town.”
“Mr. Thorne does not live in Rosemont?”
“No; he lives the other side of Lakedale, which is about twelve miles nearer New York. When I finally reached him, after his return from a golf match, I explained to him the urgency of getting into the house as early as possible the following morning and suggested that he might drive over after dinner and leave the keys under the mat of the cottage. I apologized to Mr. Thorne for causing him so much trouble, and he remarked that it was no trouble at all, as—”
“No, not what he remarked, Mr. Conroy—only what you said.”
“I do not remember that I said anything further of any importance.”
“Do you know at what time Mr. Thorne is in the habit of dining, Mr. Conroy?”
“I do not, sir.”
“How long should you say that it would take to drive from Mr. Thorne’s home to Orchards?”
“It is, roughly, about fourteen miles. I should imagine that it would depend entirely on the rate at which you drove.”
“Driving at an ordinary rate, some thirty-five to forty minutes, should you say?”
“Possibly.”
“So that if Mr. Thorne had finished his dinner at about eight, he would have arrived at Orchards shortly before nine?”
“I really couldn’t tell you, Mr. Farr. You know quite as much about that as I do.”
Mr. Conroy’s small, harassed, unhappy face looked almost defiant for a moment, and then wavered under the geniality of the prosecutor’s infrequent smile.
“I believe that you are right, Mr. Conroy.” He turned abruptly toward the court crier. “Is Mr. Douglas Thorne in court?”
“Mr. Douglas Thorne!” intoned the crier in his high, pleasant falsetto.
A tall lean man, bronzed and distinguished, rose promptly to his feet from his seat in the fourth row. “Here, sir.”
“Mr. Thorne, will you be good enough to speak to me after court is over? . . . Thanks. That will be all, Mr. Conroy. Cross-examine.”
Mr. Lambert approached the witness box with a curious air of caution.
“It was entirely at your suggestion that Mr. Thorne brought the keys, was it not, Mr. Conroy?”
“Oh, certainly—entirely.”
“He might have left them there at eight o’clock or at even eleven o’clock, as far as you know?”
“Exactly.”
“That is all, Mr. Conroy.”
“No further questions,” said the prosecutor curtly. “Call Dr. Paul Stanley.”
“Dr. Paul Stanley!”
The man who took Herbert Conr
oy’s place in the witness box was a comfortable-looking individual with a fine thatch of gray hair and an amiable and intelligent countenance, which he turned benignly on the prosecutor.
“What is your profession, Dr. Stanley?”
“I am a surgeon. In my early youth I was that now fabulous creature, a general practitioner.”
He smiled engagingly at the prosecutor, and the crowded courtroom relaxed. A nice, restful individual, after the haunted little real-estate broker.
“You have performed autopsies before, Dr. Stanley?”
“Frequently.”
“And in this case you performed the autopsy on the body of Madeleine Bellamy?”
“I did.”
“Where did you first see the body?”
“In the front room of the gardener’s cottage on the Thorne estate.”
“Did you hear Mr. Conroy’s testimony?”
“Yes.”
“Was the body in the position in which he described it at the time that he saw it?”
“In exactly that position. Later, for purposes of the autopsy, it was removed to the room opposite—the dining room.”
“Please tell us under what circumstances you first saw the body.”
“Certainly.” Dr. Stanley settled himself a trifle more comfortably in his chair and turned a trifle toward the jury, who stared back gratefully into his friendly countenance. If Dr. Stanley had been explaining just how he reeled in the biggest trout of the season, he could not have looked more affably at ease. “I went out to the cottage with my friend Elias Dutton, the coroner, and two or three state troopers. Mr. Conroy had turned over the key to the cottage to us, and we found everything as he had described it to us.”
“Were there signs of a struggle?”
“You mean on the body?”
“Yes—scratches, bruises, torn or disarranged clothing?”
“No, there were no signs of any description of a struggle, save for the overturned table and the lamp.”
“Might that have happened when Mrs. Bellamy fell?”
“The table might very readily have been overturned at that time; it was toward Mrs. Bellamy’s head and almost on top of the body. The lamp, on the other hand, was practically at her feet.”
“Could it have rolled there as the table crashed?”
“Possibly, but it’s doubtful. The fragments of lamp chimney and shade were there, too, you see, some six feet away from the table.”
The Bellamy Trial (American Mystery Classics) Page 5