I noticed this on the morning of December 17th when I was rubbing off the skylights in the studio. I was standing on a step-ladder when I looked up at the wall of the Octagon rising like a cliff, and just on the angle, a little above our roof, were the pipes with the ice wrapped round them like a winding sheet. I couldn’t help laughing for they’d blown so about the Octagon and her modern improvements.
Two days later the black frost broke and there was the biggest thaw that ever was seen. It got soft and warm like Spring, the streets began to swim with water, and all day long the boys were coming down from the offices complaining of the steam heat. I was on the rush all day, for to add to everything else it was Saturday, and Rosy and I have most of the building to ourselves that day and we do the cleaning.
But we didn’t do as much as usual that Saturday, for, as I had to tell on the trial, and so must repeat it now, Rosy and I had fallen out. We’d been bickering for quite a while past and Saturday it seemed as if we couldn’t meet on the stairs or hand each other a broom or a pail without snapping and nagging. I’m not blaming her, for I was as ugly as she, only my temper is not of that kind. It’s the still, sulky sort, and it rises slowly but takes a long time to cool.
The trouble between us was this—Heaven forgive me for raking it all up after Rosy proved herself to be the truest wife a man ever had, but it’s part of my statement, and has to go in—Rosy was jealous. She’d always been inclined that way, and when we were first married and everything she did seemed just about right, I tried never to bother or annoy her.
But after five years of marriage I wasn’t quite so considerate, and though I swear before Heaven I never did aught that any man mightn’t do without shame or blame, I wasn’t so mindful of what Rosy liked or disliked. I know now that, without meaning it, I must have provoked her often. I suspect I did it to tease her a little, and I suspect I did it to prove to her that I was my own master and wasn’t going to have any woman dictating to me.
It was one of the models up in the ladies’ studio that Rosy was jealous about. Most of them being dagoes, as black as mulattoes, and only speaking their own talk, I had no words with them. But there was one of them, Alice Merrion, that was of Irish parentage but American born, and with her I struck up an acquaintance, and we used to stop and pass the time of day when we met on the stairs or in the hall.
Rosy took a dislike to Alice Merrion right from the start. She said she couldn’t bear her because she was a model. Nothing that you could say would make Rosy believe that a girl could be honest and earn her living that way.
As for Alice Merrion’s looks—she couldn’t understand why any one wanted to paint her picture. To tell the truth, I often thought this too, for Alice wasn’t what I’d call a pretty girl. She had freckles, yellowish-green eyes and a big bush of red hair that stood out like flames round her head.
I liked the girl and I was sorry for her. She was one of the best I ever knew, honest as a die and straight as a string for all her being a model. She supported her mother, and if ever I was sure of anything in my life, I was sure of Alice Merrion’s character. But I wasn’t any more taken with her than a married man might be honestly taken with any decent girl.
On Saturday afternoon, the ladies going home early, I made it my business to clean up the studio and lock it till Monday morning. On Saturday, December 19th, the ladies left even earlier than usual, the day settling down dark and threatening rain, and about four I went up with my broom and pail.
I was mightily surprised when I opened the door to see Alice sitting huddled up, cowering over the stove. She was right under the middle skylight and the gray, wintery light fell in on her red hair that was loosely knotted up and looked like a fiery crown. From under her skirt her bare feet were thrust out on the stove ledge, and she had a shawl folded round her shoulders, with her bare arms, white as marble, coming out.
“Why, Alice,” said I, “what’s up? It’s past four and here you are, not even dressed yet.”
She looked up at me and I saw that her cheeks were pale and her eyes looked dull and heavy.
“I feel sick,” she said, drawing her hand over her forehead, and pushing back her hair. “I’ve got something sure. A little while ago I was as hot as this stove, and now I’m freezing.”
She crouched over it spreading out her hands. I touched one of them; it was like ice. As I stood looking at her I heard the first drops of rain—big, heavy, slow drops—fall on the skylight.
“You’ve caught a bad cold,” I said to her. “You want something to warm you up. Don’t you think a cup of tea would do you good?”
Her face brightened directly.
“Oh, Mr. Johnson,” she said, “do you think you could get me one? I didn’t have a bite of lunch today. I felt so bad. And then I stood here for two hours and that’s hard work, even when you’re well. I think if I could get something hot I’d feel better.”
She looked, up at me with her big, yellowish eyes shining through the gray light, and if ever I was sorry for a woman it was for her. I wished that Rosy wasn’t so down on her and I’d have taken her to our rooms and given her a good meal.
“Rest here easy,” I said to her, “and I’ll get you a bite that will brace you up. I won’t be long,” and I went out and down the stairs feeling angrier than ever with Rosy for her senseless prejudice.
I hoped and prayed that there might be no one in the kitchen and things went my way for once. Rosy was not there. So I made a little brew of tea, cut some bread and butter, put it on a tray and set off up the stairs.
And it was here that my luck deserted me. For, on the second landing, I met Miss Maitland going out.
“What’s the matter?” says she, looking at the tray. “Any one sick?”
It didn’t cross my mind not to tell the truth and I answered:
“The model, ma’am, on the top floor, has caught a chill and feels bad.”
Miss Maitland laughed and went down the stairs and her testimony in court, if you remember, was pretty damaging for me.
On the fourth floor I ran into Mr. Raymond on the landing. Mr. Raymond is my favorite in the whole Fremont. He is a stenographer and rents all the back rooms on that floor, some of them for offices and the rest for his own lodgings.
“Hullo, Johnson,” he says to me in his jolly way, “taking that up to me? Made a mistake this time. That’s not my particular tipple.”
I laughed, for we all knew that Mr. Raymond’s tipple was a pretty strong one.
“No, sir,” I said. “It’s for Alice Merrion in the studio. She’s taken with a chill. She’s had nothing to eat since morning and I thought this would warm her up a little.”
“Ah, poor girl!” he says, going on down the passage to his own rooms. Then over his shoulder he called: “If you want anything stronger—if she feels faint, or anything—just drop in on me and I’ll give it to you.”
And he went down the passage. Those two meetings were about as bad for me as they could be, as it turned out afterward.
I went into the studio and found Alice just as I had left her. She drank the tea and ate the bread with a relish and I began to get things ready for my cleaning. Now and then we spoke to each other, and betweenwhiles we could hear the rain drumming on the skylight. It grew dark and leaden, and, as I moved, I could see through the skylights the big wall of the Octagon, with the windows springing out in yellow squares as the gases were lit.
When Alice had finished, I knew she’d want to dress and go home, so I made an excuse to go. She watched me as I set the tea things back on the tray and then said suddenly:
“You’re very good to me; let’s shake hands.”
I was surprised, but took her hand and shook it.
“You’re a good girl,” I said to her, “mind you remember that I’m always your friend.”
“Thanks, Jared Johnson,” said she quite solemnly, “I know that. Good-bye.”
I turned round and went, some way or other feeling sort of strange and awed. I shut the door
behind me and as I was on the stairs I heard her lock it.
In the kitchen I found Rosy. The moment she saw the tray her face darkened, and she pulled up short in her work and eyed me with a sharp look. I was irritable myself, angry with her for her treatment of Alice Merrion, and when she looked at me that way, it made me blaze up. Without waiting for her to ask me, I told her who the tray was for and where I had been.
I don’t think it’s necessary for me to tell just what we said to each other, but we had a quarrel—a bitter one. Now that both of us have felt what real misery is, we realize with shame what a pair of crazy fools we were.
But we thought of nothing then but our own anger. 1 don’t remember all I said. I felt that black rage a man sometimes feels when a woman he loves and honors flings in his teeth low meannesses he never thought of doing. In the middle of it I got up and ran out of the room, banging the door. I went down to the cellar, and stayed there all night sleeping on a pile of gunny sacks in front of the furnace.
The next day Rosy and I were about as stiff to each other as we could be. We hardly spoke at all and ate our meals in a heavy silence. Monday morning broke with a blue sky and sunlight outside, but between us there was still cloudy weather.
I got up early, for I had to build fires in some of the offices, especially in the studio, which, by eight o’clock, was supposed to be warmed and ready for the first class. As I went up the third flight of stairs, Mr. Raymond came out on the landing.
“Hullo! Johnson,” says he, “what the devil’s the matter with this building? Is she settling?”
“The Fremont’s as good as she ever was, sir,” I answered. “What’s the matter?”
“The ceiling’s come down in my bathroom,” says he. “Early this morning—whang! bang!—down she came. Come and see the scene of carnage.”
I followed him into the bathroom, which opened off the end of the passage, and there, sure enough, the ceiling was down. I picked up a piece of the plaster and felt that it was wet.
“A leak,” I said, “the rain’s come in above.”
Oh, then, he says, suddenly, that explains the crash of glass I heard Saturday evening. There was a tremendous smashing of glass from somewhere up there.
This startled me. I suppose I looked sort of alarmed, for Mr. Raymond said, “I’ll go up with you. Probably the skylight’s broken.”
We ran up the last flight and tried the studio door. It was locked, and when I tried my key I found that there was one already in the keyhole.
I don’t know then just what I thought, but I know a deadly feeling of fear took hold of my heart. Mr. Raymond must have seen it in my face.
“Break in the door,” says he in a low voice, and, as he spoke, he put his shoulder to the panel and pressed. In a moment we had ripped off the old socket that held the lock and the door burst in.
There was a sudden sharp current of air, cold and wet, and the brown curtain over the models’ dressing corner swelled out on the draught. A window was open somewhere and part of the floor was dark with rain stains.
We shut the door with the key still in the lock and ran to where the curtain fell back into its straight folds. Behind it we saw a sight that neither of us will ever forget.
Alice Merrion lay on her face on the floor, the skylight above her broken, and the fragments of glass scattered in every direction.
She was fully dressed, except for her shoes, one of which she held in her hand. Through the broken skylight the rain had beaten upon her till her clothes, the floor, her hair, were oozing moisture. The latter was wet with something else which dyed it a deeper red. The back of her skull was fractured and partly driven in. She was rigid in death, her eyes open, and an expression of strange, terrified surprise stamped upon her features.
That first glimpse impressed every detail of the room upon my mind. Her hat and jacket were hanging from a peg in the wall. On the shelf under the square of looking-glass lay some hair-pins and her purse. All about—on her dress, in her hair, on the floor—shone bits of the shivered skylight. The panes of glass were of a good size and were fitted into light, thin supports of iron. Just in the middle two of these were bowed downward.
We bent over her to see if there were any signs of life, but she was cold and stiff as a marble statue. The physicians afterward said that when we found her she had been dead about thirty-six hours. She had evidently been putting on her shoes when struck down by the terrific blow that killed her.
That is as truthful a description as I can write of the finding of Alice Merrion’s body. I ought to know how to do it by this time. I’ve not only told it so often, but I’ve dreamed it night after night till I wonder if I’m going to go on dreaming it forever.
The next day I was arrested on suspicion as the murderer and a week later was indicted by the Grand Jury. My trial followed in two months.
I never knew until I was in danger of losing my life on circumstantial evidence how important the most insignificant things can become when people are looking for incriminating actions and words. Foolish things I had said came up against me as black as night. The cup of tea I took the girl was as bad for me as if it had been a cup of poison. But worst of all was the quarrel I had with Rosy. It all had to come out, and the newspapers that were not on my side said it was as bad for me as if I’d been caught red-handed.
I could see as plain as anybody that the case against me was a strong one. It started on the theory that I was in love with Alice Merrion. Both Rosy and I acknowledged that we’d more than once quarreled about her. On the afternoon of December 19th I had had a final interview with her. There were different opinions as to what this had been about. Some had it that she’d threatened to expose me to my wife, who was jealous already; others that she’d given me to understand she wouldn’t have anything to do with me. Whatever she’d said, she’d scared or angered me till I’d crept up on her from the back and struck her dead with one—or some thought two—savage blows.
To turn aside suspicion I had then locked the door and left the key in it, had broken the skylight—the noise of which Mr. Raymond had heard at a few minutes after five—and, under cover of the dark, had dropped from the roof to the fire-escapes. When I got to the kitchen my nerves were naturally unstrung and I had quarrelled with my wife, left the room, and had not been seen again until the morning.
The one link in the chain which did not fit was how I had brought the tea tray down with me. The only way I could have done this was to have put it outside the door, and then, after escaping by the fire-ladders, crept back for it and come down again. This, people said, was a proof of my fiendish coolness and cunning.
The fact that the evidence pointed to no one else made it all the worse for me. There did not seem to be a human creature but myself who could be suspected. The girl had no enemies and no followers that anybody knew of. She had led a quiet and perfectly respectable life. That the object was not theft was proved by the fact that her purse, containing twenty dollars, was untouched. There was no doubt that somebody had murdered her, and the murder could be fastened on no one but me.
One of the questions over which there was great argument was what instrument or weapon had been used to deliver the blow. On the upper part of the occiput, just below the crown, the skin and flesh had been cleanly cut as though struck with something sharp-edged or pointed.
There were expert surgeons called up to examine the wounds and they each had their own ideas as to what the murderer had used. One thought a bayonet, or something shaped like a bayonet, such as a pickaxe or an ice-pick. Another said a hatchet or axe. And one—he was the most celebrated of the lot—said he thought that not one but two implements had been employed, a sharp one which cut the scalp, and a heavy one which fractured the skull.
It was this man who said that the murderer had evidently been in a state of frenzy, as the blow or blows must have been of terrific force to so crush the skull. His evidence started the theory that the girl had been killed by a maniac who had entered and come out
by the skylight.
The first days of the trial were so terrible I hate to think of them. The whole world seemed against me. The reporters used to come and talk with me and then write me up as “a man with the face of an assassin” or describe me as “the human bloodhound.”
Some of them were friendly fellows too—used to clap me on the back and say, “Brace up, old boy, they’ve not got enough evidence to convict you”; but when it came to believing in me, that was quite another story. I was Jared Johnson The Suspect, as they called me, a good case to make copy out of, and that was all.
There was one of them that I didn’t take much notice of or stock in at first. He was the youngest looking chap for his age I ever saw. When I first saw him I thought he was about eighteen. He was a little, thin, smooth-faced, light-haired boy, and new to the business, as you could see by the quiet bashful sort of way he hung round when the others were there.
One day he got at me alone and began to talk to me, easy and natural, as man to man. He told me he was from Ohio, as I was, and that broke the ice right off. Then he said his name was John Paul Hayne, and he was twenty-six years old. He sat quite a while talking of places in the old state we both knew, and I got to feel as if I was a civilized Christian once more, not an Apache Indian that all the world was chasing. When he got up to go, he stood round for a minute in an uneasy sort of way, and then he suddenly says to me, looking me straight in the eye:
“Jared Johnson, you’re not guilty of that murder.”
He didn’t say it as if he was asking a question, or as if he was trying to persuade himself—he just stated a fact. I looked back at him and I said as quietly as he:
“You’re right. But what makes you think so?”
“Oh,” says he, speaking in a queer sort of way he had with him, “I can see a church by daylight. I’ve seen a lot while I’ve been loafing round here.”
The next time he came we had a long talk. He told me he’d viewed the premises and the body the morning the murder was discovered. He was sent by his paper, The Scoop. And since then he’d been there several times on his own account.
In the Shadow of Agatha Christie Page 15