“And when Scott was on this stand here, my very last query of him was as to whom, if anyone, he had told what he knew. Up, that is, to the time the story broke on the Chicago newsstands, which was around 2:30. My question was, in one sense, an insult to him—because Scott is beyond any doubt the closest-mouthed man on the Chicago police force. But it was, of course, a categorical question. And Scott’s answer to it—as this court will remember—what that he told nobody, not even his own wife. And when subsequently Leo here was on the stand, testifying briefly as to the defendant’s attitude in his cell, my last question of him was as to whom he might have told what he knew, up, that is, till the time the defendant was arrested. And Leo Kilgallon’s answer—as the court will also remember—was ‘My father only—and him only when I met him on the street around ten minutes to twelve.’ And when Officer Kilgallon was on the stand, and he was asked this same question, his sworn answer was that he told nobody but Archbishop Pell himself—and that only after the Archbishop’s sacred oath nor to reveal it—and also only while Professor Mustaire was downstairs in the parcel post—and all this, moreover, only a few minutes before the defendant stated to Archbishop Pell what he did. While my own brother, Hugh Vann yonder, whom I put on the stand, swore that, since he had a huge valuable newspaper scoop in his hand, he wouldn’t have dared to tell anybody from whom it could possibly have leaked—did not even, he says, tell his own city editor—told nobody, in fact, other than one who promised him faithfully that the information would not pass to anybody who could use it or misuse it—a man of a race known for centuries scrupulously to keep its promises—no other, in fact, than Mr. Wah Lung over there. And though, to be sure, I have not queried Mr. Wah Lung on that, in view of the fact that he had already been excused from the chair when my brother, in the same chair, told me for the first time that he had obtained Mr. Lung’s pointed comment on his news scoop in the morning, instead of just before press time, and by phone, I considered it quite fatuous even to recall Mr. Wah. However—” And Vann turned in the direction of the elderly Chinese seated in the middle of the second row. “You are not officially on the witness stand right now, Mr. Wah, to be sure, but I should like, nevertheless, to know—rather have the Court to know—ex-officio, as it were—whether you did not deeply realize this morning that if what my brother confided in you reached any—”
Wah Lung raised a hand, though with a proud courtesy to the gesture which told plainly that he did not wish the District Attorney to waste his energies and time on a purely obvious point.
“I realized, Mr. Vann,” he said, “that if one-thousandth of what Mr. Hugh Vann told me reached the underworld before the police could have opportunity to act fully, the last final chances of bringing the murderer of my poor son to justice would be lost forever. And I knew also, as I realized that precept of my own Confucius who said: ‘Let him who would a secret safely keep tell not his own son, nor his wife, nor his servant; but let him write the secret on a tiny fragment of fragile firecracker paper, pass the piece of paper in the flame of a taper until it is consumed, catch the smoke in a brass-copper bottle, tie to the bottle, by stout chains, a single rock—and tip all into the sea at its deepest point!’”
A number of the people in the courtroom, including Vann himself, smiled at the subtle irony with which the world-famed Confucius had said, in many words, “Tell nobody—or less!”
“Well, that is quite all we need to know,” he commented, and turned partway toward the Judge again. “And had that information leaked at all—in a world where a tip to a newspaper on a murder is worth $100 to the tipster—I assure this Court that the District Attorney’s office would have been besieged by reporters, bragging, cajoling, threatening for the whole story. But not even a phone call of inquiry came in! So—it very much did not leak! And in case yonder defendant, now sitting there with eyes screwed thoughtfully together, is concocting in his mind some ridiculous story like I have heard in dozens of other trials—such as, for instance, that he found the incriminating evidence on the street, or that somebody poked the incriminating evidence under his arm and told him to deliver it to such-and-such a man—well, it will be interesting to learn exactly how the defendant knew it was Wah Lee’s skull; and how he knew Louis Vann’s safe had been knocked in. And from whom? So that we may summon that party here—and confirm the defendant.” Vann paused a second. “But he, I rather think, is a bit too intelligent to try to tell that story. Or, moreover, to tell any! Well, we heard Officer Henry Morgan—or ‘Hoke’ Morgan—Senior Officer of Loop Squad Car Number 18, tell us how, after he had been tipped off by Officer Kilgallon that this defendant was not at all what he appeared to be, he drove around there, with his brother officers, to Adams and Dearborn Streets, and accosted the defendant; how the defendant boldly lied, saying he was waiting for a streetcar; how he edged off when Morgan invited him to get into the car and ride up to a more convenient car stop ahead; and how Morgan actually had to make a gesture toward his gun holster, indicating he would shoot first and investigate after—if the defendant so much as made a break for it—before the defendant would get into the car. The Court then heard Morgan’s story of how they strong-armed the defendant in the car, examined the box which the defendant had weakly claimed held slippers, and found—a skull! and Morgan’s final testimony was that when he told the defendant that the latter was going on a long long ride, ending in the electric chair, the defendant sneeringly said: ‘Oh—yeah? Me—and who else?’
“It is true,” Vann conceded, “that Morgan admitted, on the second bit of cross-examination offered tonight by my youthful opponent yonder—and that consisting of but one question—that he has heard that identical phrase, ‘me and who else?’ uttered a hundred times in his life. But not, as Mr. Morgan informed my opponent—and this counts—with the peculiar sinisterness with which that defendant invested it. Which emboldens us to believe that if we give this defendant tonight what he richly deserves, he will—before he completes that fate—be passing one some of his fate to somebody behind him. And now we come to the matter of a State’s witness whom I did not summon, Mr. Silas Moffit. I placed Mr. Moffit on the stand following the group who testified as to the facts and time and so forth of that murder—though I place him under consideration here at this point where the persons having direct contact with the defendant enter the case. But the point is that he has told us that while coming down Washington Street last night, from Wells Street to Clark, on his way to catch a northbound streetcar for Fullerton Avenue, near where he lives—at 10:45—for he had just checked his watch by the clock on the 33 North LaSalle Street Building, and found that both tallied—he met this defendant coming toward him, away from where the entrance of the Klondike Building stands, carrying a violin case. But that not until he came into court tonight, as a privileged spectator, did he realize that he had become, willy nilly, a witness for one side. And that side—the State. A witness which I can say the State doesn’t even require—but which rounds out completely the State’s damning case.
“And it was at this point of Mr. Moffit’s testimony where we might have heard the third attempt tonight of the defense attorney toward cross-examination—for my youthful opponent there seemed all ‘hetup’ and anxious to wade into the witness. Only the Court no doubt noted how her client tapped her sharply on the shoulder—she turned—he shook his head emphatically—and that was the end of that—so far as possible cross-examination went! And there is something as, for instance, Mr. Moffit—if cross-examined—revealing that he could also identify voices—if given out, by the Judge’s order, in this courtroom!”
Vann paused significantly, almost as a challenge to Elsa Colby. But the challenge went unanswered. “And so,” Vann declared, again glancing at his watch, “we come practically to the end of things: To the most important exhibit of all the exhibits lying over there on the side of Mr. Mullins’ desk. That ghastly item, in short, with its under-jaw taped to it, and
gazing right now toward Mr. Wah Lung. I have seen in this very courtroom tonight the intense pain that has flooded into Mr. Wah Lung’s tired face, from the moment of my production from my leather case of that exhibit; and only a Chinese, I say, with all respect, could gamely sit, as he sits tonight, with that thing gazing at him—seeing this whole affair through to the bitter end. Which end is, of course, not merely the execution of the man who killed his son, but the execution of every person who had any hand in it.”
CHAPTER X
“The State Rests!”
Vann again paused a bare second. And all could notice how Wah Lung’s eyes, drawn to that exhibit by the very force of Vann’s words, jerked painfully away.
“And that exhibit there,” Vann pressed on, “a skull, on the back of the rounded dome of which lie now four pairs of inked initials, showing its passage from Moses Klump to my office assistant Miss Burlinghame, thence passage from Miss Burl—”
“I object!” said Elsa Colby suddenly. “A pair of initials does not in itself and per se show passage from anybody to anybody.”
“Indeed!” returned Vann smilingly. “I see!” he nodded. “Well—we’ll modify that statement then, Miss Colby, and say instead, ‘That skull, the identification initials on the back of which show passage from the defendant to Squad Car Officer Henry Morgan, from Morgan to Leo Kilgallon, from Leo Kilgallon to me, and from me to Court Clerk Mullins there.’ But how, then, did it pass from Miss Burlinghame to the defendant? Since we know that it—rather, a skull—passed to her from Moses Klump.”
“And,” put in Elsa Colby suddenly, “I wish to call the Court’s attention to the fact that when Mr. Wah Lung was on the stand tonight, and Mr. Vann asked him casually whether he could detail or describe any dental work—fillings, or extractions, or what—that his son Yah Lee might ever have had, Mr. Wah Lung declared that he could not; that Wah Lee had had some trouble with his teeth—yes—about a year before his death—for he used to cry out and hold his jaws when eating sweet Chinese preserved fruits; that he had gone on a long trip over the United States, visiting numerous relatives; and when he had returned he no longer exhibited any pain eating preserved fruits, showing that at one or various cities he must have gone up to some dentist’s office, or various dentists’ offices, and had this or that done. But I call the attention of the Court to that fact that Mr. Wah Lung could not specifically state that—”
“The Court,” said Judge Hilford Penworth reprovingly, “will be happy to receive Miss Colby’s comments on the evidence at the proper time—which will be the time of her final address.”
“Well, Mr. Vann, Your Honor,” she expostulated gamely, “is giving nothing else right now than a final add—”
But the defendant could be seen reaching forward and tapping her on the arm. Even as the Judge was saying coolly: “Mr. Vann is but summing up his evidence prior, no doubt, to resting the State’s case.” While Elsa, on receiving the tap, gave a helpless gesture with her hands that seemed to indicate that her client, her opponent, and the Judge were all seemingly in a pact to make her a fool. “Forgive us for living, dear God!” she muttered.
“Why—Miss Colby—” began Penworth. “Have you never heard of contempt of cou—” But he broke off.
“Purely negative testimony, Miss Colby, such as Mr. Wah Lung’s in the matter you brought up, has no legal significance of any degree whatsoever. It possesses no more weight, Miss Colby, than the one-millionth part of—of—of a gnat’s eyelash. And it—however—” And Penworth turned and addressed himself to Wah Lung, over amongst the spectators and witnesses.
“Mr. Wah,” he said, “with respect to a certain inevitable trial which will be held in Chicago eventu—wait, let the Bench correct itself. With respect to a certain trial which the State hopes eventually to hold in Chicago, namely, the State of Illinois versus Gus McGurk, for murder and so forth—I am able to say to you here right now, officially, that the corpus delicti of your son, Wah Lee, has been a hundred per cent, established to-night—a hundred and one per cent, if I may indulge in a permissible bit of hyperbole! By yonder cranium—yes.”
And that was the end of that small flurry!
“Well, as I was detailing,” Vann now resumed, “when the defense attorney slipped a cog and started summing up State’s evidence before she was even making her own address—” He chuckled audibly. “Started, moreover, even, to add legal ‘zeros’—” One last chuckle rippled up from him. “I want to call the attention of the Court to the testimony of the gentleman in the further end seat of that third row there—” and Vann indicated, this time with a general wave of his hand, a professional-looking man of about sixty, with iron-gray moustache “—Dr. Clendenning Moore, dentist, who personally knew—from boyhood up—Dolf Grubbs, sailor, of Goose Island, and son of Mrs. Mary Grubbs, who criminally identified that headless body found ten years ago in the Schlitzheim Brewery as her son. Dr. Clendenning Moore—who drew out all of Dolf’s badly decayed upper teeth when he was in his early thirties. Dr. Clendenning Moore—who not only made Dolf Grubbs’ upper plate—but fitted it! With the sad result—I regret to say—that that skull yonder, which we are establishing completely as the one dug up by Moses Klump—cannot be that of Dolf Grubbs. A move which, if the defense made it—and if the Court accepted it—couldn’t in the least save this defendant’s skin—but might yet possibly work to defeat the later conviction of that bigger criminal—kidnaper and murderer—out in the Moundsville Pen. But Dr. Moore—his history card on Dolf Grubbs even now lies there on Mr. Mullins’ table—knocks out that last possible contention. The skull unearthed is not even that of the body criminally identified as Dolf Grubbs! It is, of course—as even this Court has declared ex officio—that of Wah Lee. Which in turn means that the body first unearthed belongs to the skull, and the establishment of the corpus delicti is complete in the case of—”
But here Vann stopped short and turned to an elderly and extremely professional-looking man, seated in the third row just back of Mr. Wah Lung and the latter’s one remaining guest—a man who kept his hand upon the silver head of a walking-stick whose point was propped, so that it would not slip, against one of the feet of the chair in front of him.
“Dr. Graham,” Vann declared, “I regard you as one of the most important witnesses here tonight—if not the most important. For you offered technical and uncontestable testimony to the effect that—” Vann turned to the Court. “Dr. Purvis Graham examined that skull briefly on this witness stand tonight, and told us that an intra-nasal operation, on the right side only, had been performed upon the individual whose living head originally contained that skull. In short, an operation had been performed that was—so he assured us, after reading State’s Exhibit Number 1, or Dr. Hancoast Bradley’s own handwritten history card in the matter of his surgical patient Wah Lee—identical with that detailed and specified therein. Dr. Graham establishes conclusively that Wah Lee was killed not long, long after his abduction—as once was indicated by certain factors—but immediately after; proving, in turn, that it was a foregone conclusion to the kidnapers that he could never be liberated, and that no chance must be taken on his escaping, for either eventuality would involve some man higher up. The famous ‘finger man,’ in all probability. And—but my young opponent appears to be getting restive, and is almost on the verge of rising and declaring that the circumstances of the Wah Lee case are not relevant to the John Doe case—and so we will drop that particular tack in this particular case.
“And in this wise,” added Vann, smiling pityingly down at Elsa, “is the State able to establish not merely that the skull which passed from Moses Klump to Beryl Burlinghame passed to the defendant—but that that skull was the skull of Wah Lee! And so the State rests! And since, as I have said, the defense has summoned no one—and no persons are left to be heard—I now ask, of the Court that it limit the State and the defense each to five minutes�
�� final address—and that the Court will then let us have the decision which will write finis on this case—and incipiens on one even more important.”
The Judge was silently reflective. The witnesses and spectators, judging from the various faces which turned immediately to their companions, and whispered, shaking their heads, half admiringly, plainly had but one impression: namely, that Louis Vann had performed an exceedingly clever legal move tonight, for in the mere casual listing of his witnesses and exhibits according to some ingenious scheme he had draughted out, he had obtained the bulk of his final address—and a long one, too—and an effective one, likewise—before the State rested, leaving the defense to do everything it had to do in five minutes. Five minutes, that is—if the Court acquiesced in Vann’s petition.
Penworth was speaking.
“Well—under the recent rulings in Illinois Criminal Jurisprudence which do permit me to definitely limit final addresses to myself—though not, Mr. Vann, to juries—I will, therefore, limit both Prosecution and Defense to five min—”
“Just a minute, Your Honor!” Elsa Colby had arisen, and was now speaking. “If the Court will pardon me for interrupting, I should like to say that Mr. Vann is somewhat premature and presumptive both, in stating baldly that my client has no witnesses. For my client has a witness—and one, moreover, who—has—testimony of considerable importance to offer.”
Judge Penworth looked surprised.
“He—he has a witness, Miss Colby? But Mr. Vann says—that is, where—” And the eyes of the white-goateed man in the black gown swept the spectators’ faces helplessly.
The Case of the Lavender Gripsack Page 7