On this occasion he failed to smile, and though his elegance was sufficiently apparent, his worth was not so much so. Yet the impression generally made was favorable, as one could perceive from the air of respect with which his testimony was received.
He was asked many questions. Some were germane to the matter in hand and some seemed to strike wide of all mark. He answered them all courteously, showing a manly composure in doing so, that served to calm the fever-heat into which many had been thrown by the stories of the two hackmen. But as his evidence up to this point related merely to minor concerns, this was neither strange nor conclusive. The real test began when the Coroner, with a certain bluster, which may have been meant to attract the attention of the jury, now visibly waning, or, as was more likely, may have been the unconscious expression of a secret if hitherto well concealed embarrassment, asked the witness whether the keys to his father’s front door had any duplicates.
The answer came in a decidedly changed tone. “No. The key used by our agent opens the basement door only.”
The Coroner showed his satisfaction. “No duplicates,” he repeated; “then you will have no difficulty in telling us where the keys to your father’s front door were kept during the family’s absence.”
Did the young man hesitate, or was it but imagination on my part—“They were usually in my possession.”
“Usually!” There was irony in the tone; evidently the Coroner was getting the better of his embarrassment, if he had felt any. “And where were they on the seventeenth of this month? Were they in your possession then?”
“No, sir.” The young man tried to look calm and at his ease, but the difficulty he felt in doing so was apparent. “On the morning of that day,” he continued, “I passed them over to my brother.”
Ah! here was something tangible as well as important. I began to fear the police understood themselves only too well; and so did the whole crowd of persons there assembled. A groan in one direction was answered by a sigh in another, and it needed all the Coroner’s authority to prevent an outbreak.
Meanwhile Mr. Van Burnam stood erect and unwavering, though his eye showed the suffering which these demonstrations awakened. He did not turn in the direction of the room where we felt sure his family was gathered, but it was evident that his thoughts did, and that most painfully. The Coroner, on the contrary, showed little or no feeling; he had brought the investigation up to this critical point and felt fully competent to carry it farther.
“May I ask,” said he, “where the transference of these keys took place?”
“I gave them to him in our office last Tuesday morning. He said he might want to go into the house before his father came home.”
“Did he say why he wanted to go into the house?”
“No.”
“Was he in the habit of going into it alone and during the family’s absence?”
“No.”
“Had he any clothes there? or any articles belonging to himself or his wife which he would be likely to wish to carry away?”
“No.”
“Yet he wanted to go in?”
“He said so.”
“And you gave him the keys without question?”
“Certainly, sir.”
“Was that not opposed to your usual principles—to your way of doing things, I should say?”
“Perhaps; but principles, by which I suppose you mean my usual business methods, do not govern me in my relations with my brother. He asked me a favor, and I granted it. It would have to have been a much larger one for me to have asked an explanation from him before doing so.”
“Yet you are not on good terms with your brother; at least you have not had the name of being, for some time?”
“We have had no quarrel.”
“Did he return the keys you lent him?”
“No.”
“Have you seen them since?”
“No.”
“Would you know them if they were shown you?”
“I would know them if they unlocked our front door.”
“But you would not know them on sight?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Mr. Van Burnam, it is disagreeable for me to go into family matters, but if you have had no quarrel with your brother, how comes it that you and he have had so little intercourse of late?”
“He has been in Connecticut and I at Long Branch. Is not that a good answer, sir?”
“Good, but not good enough. You have a common office in New York, have you not?”
“Certainly, the firm’s office.”
“And you sometimes meet there, even while residing in different localities?”
“Yes, our business calls us in at times and then we meet, of course.”
“Do you talk when you meet?”
“Talk?”
“Of other matters besides business, I mean. Are your relations friendly? Do you show the same spirit towards each other as you did three years ago, say?”
“We are older; perhaps we are not quite so voluble.”
“But do you feel the same?”
“No. I see you will have it, and so I will no longer hold back the truth. We are not as brotherly in our intercourse as we used to be; but there is no animosity between us. I have a decided regard for my brother.”
This was said quite nobly, and I liked him for it, but I began to feel that perhaps it had been for the best after all that I had never been intimate with the family. But I must not forestall either events or my opinions.
“Is there any reason”—it is the Coroner, of course, who is speaking—“why there should be any falling off in your mutual confidence? Has your brother done anything to displease you?”
“We did not like his marriage.”
“Was it an unhappy one?”
“It was not a suitable one.”
“Did you know Mrs. Van Burnam well, that you say this?”
“Yes, I knew her, but the rest of the family did not.”
“Yet they shared in your disapprobation?”
“They felt the marriage more than I did. The lady—excuse me, I never like to speak ill of the sex—was not lacking in good sense or virtue, but she was not the person we had a right to expect Howard to marry.”
“And you let him see that you thought so?”
“How could we do otherwise?”
“Even after she had been his wife for some months?”
“We could not like her.”
“Did your brother—I am sorry to press this matter—ever show that he felt your change of conduct towards him?”
“I find it equally hard to answer,” was the quick reply. “My brother is of an affectionate nature, and he has some, if not all, of the family’s pride. I think he did feel it, though he never said so. He is not without loyalty to his wife.”
“Mr. Van Burnam, of whom does the firm doing business under the name of Van Burnam & Sons consist?”
“Of the three persons mentioned.”
“No others?”
“No.”
“Has there ever been in your hearing any threat made by the senior partner of dissolving this firm as it stands?”
“I have heard”—I felt sorry for this strong but far from heartless man, but I would not have stopped the inquiry at this point if I could; I was far too curious—“I have heard my father say that he would withdraw if Howard did not. Whether he would have done so, I consider open to doubt. My father is a just man and never fails to do the right thing, though he sometimes speaks with unnecessary harshness.”
“He made the threat, however?”
“Yes.”
“And Howard heard it?”
“Or of it; I cannot say which.”
“Mr. Van Burnam, have you noticed any change in your brother since this threat was uttered?”
“How, sir; what change?”
“In his treatment of his wife, or in his attitude towards yourself?”
“I have not seen him in the company of his wife since they went to Haddam. As for his conduct towards myself, I can say no more than I have already. We have never forgotten that we are children of one mother.”
“Mr. Van Burnam, how many times have you seen Mrs. Howard Van Burnam?”
“Several. More frequently before they were married than since.”
“You were in your brother’s confidence, then, at that time; knew he was contemplating marriage?”
“It was in my endeavors to prevent the match that I saw so much of Miss Louise Stapleton.”
“Ah! I am glad of the explanation! I was just going to inquire why you, of all members of the family, were the only one to know your brother’s wife by sight.”
The witness, considering this question answered, made no reply. But the next suggestion could not be passed over.
“If you saw Mrs. Van Burnam so often, you are acquainted with her personal appearance?”
“Sufficiently so; as well as I know that of my ordinary calling-acquaintance.”
“Was she light or dark?”
“She had brown hair.”
“Similar to this?”
The lock held up was the one which had been cut from the head of the dead girl.
“Yes, somewhat similar to that.” The tone was cold; but he could not hide his distress.
“Mr. Van Burnam, have you looked well at the woman who was found murdered in your father’s house?”
“I have, sir.”
“Is there anything in her general outline or in such features as have escaped disfigurement to remind you of Mrs. Howard Van Burnam?”
“I may have thought so—at first glance,” he replied, with decided effort.
“And did you change your mind at the second?”
He looked troubled, but answered firmly: “No, I cannot say that I did. But you must not regard my opinion as conclusive,” he hastily added. “My knowledge of the lady was comparatively slight.”
“The jury will take that into account. All we want to know now is whether you can assert from any knowledge you have or from anything to be noted in the body itself, that it is not Mrs. Howard Van Burnam?”
“I cannot.”
And with this solemn assertion his examination closed.
The remainder of the day was taken up in trying to prove a similarity between Mrs. Van Burnam’s handwriting and that of Mrs. James Pope as seen in the register of the Hotel D—— and on the order sent to Altman’s. But the only conclusion reached was that the latter might be the former disguised, and even on this point the experts differed.
CHAPTER XIII
HOWARD VAN BURNAM
The gentleman who stepped from the carriage and entered Mr. Van Burnam’s house at twelve o’clock that night produced so little impression upon me that I went to bed satisfied that no result would follow these efforts at identification.
And so I told Mr. Gryce when he arrived next morning. But he seemed by no means disconcerted, and merely requested that I would submit to one more trial. To which I gave my consent, and he departed.
I could have asked him a string of questions, but his manner did not invite them, and for some reason I was too wary to show an interest in this tragedy superior to that felt by every right-thinking person connected with it.
At ten o’clock I was in my old seat in the court-room. The same crowd with different faces confronted me, amid which the twelve stolid countenances of the jury looked like old friends. Howard Van Burnam was the witness called, and as he came forward and stood in full view of us all, the interest of the occasion reached its climax.
His countenance wore a reckless look that did not serve to prepossess him with the people at whose mercy he stood. But he did not seem to care, and waited for the Coroner’s questions with an air of ease which was in direct contrast to the drawn and troubled faces of his father and brother just visible in the background.
Coroner Dahl surveyed him a few minutes before speaking, then he quietly asked if he had seen the dead body of the woman who had been found lying under a fallen piece of furniture in his father’s house.
He replied that he had.
“Before she was removed from the house or after it?”
“After.”
“Did you recognize it? Was it the body of any one you know?”
“I do not think so.”
“Has your wife, who was missing yesterday, been heard from yet, Mr. Van Burnam?”
“Not to my knowledge, sir.”
“Had she not—that is, your wife—a complexion similar to that of the dead woman just alluded to?”
“She had a fair skin and brown hair, if that is what you mean. But these attributes are common to too many women for me to give them any weight in an attempted identification of this importance.”
“Had they no other similar points of a less general character? Was not your wife of a slight and graceful build, such as is attributed to the subject of this inquiry?”
“My wife was slight and she was graceful, common attributes also.”
“And your wife had a scar?”
“Yes.”
“On the left ankle?”
“Yes.”
“Which the deceased also has?”
“That I do not know. They say so, but I had no interest in looking.”
“Why, may I ask? Did you not think it a remarkable coincidence?”
The young man frowned. It was the first token of feeling he had given.
“I was not on the look-out for coincidences,” was his cold reply. “I had no reason to think this unhappy victim of an unknown man’s brutality my wife, and so did not allow myself to be moved by even such a fact as this.”
“You had no reason,” repeated the Coroner, “to think this woman your wife. Had you any reason to think she was not?”
“Yes.”
“Will you give us that reason?”
“I had more than one. First, my wife would never wear the clothes I saw on the girl whose dead body was shown to me. Secondly, she would never go to any house alone with a man at the hour testified to by one of your witnesses.”[1]
“Not with any man?”
“I did not mean to include her husband in my remark, of course. But as I did not take her to Gramercy Park, the fact that the deceased woman entered an empty house accompanied by a man, is proof enough to me that she was not Louise Van Burnam.”
“When did you part with your wife?”
“On Monday morning at the depot in Haddam.”
“Did you know where she was going?”
“I knew where she said she was going.”
“And where was that, may I ask?”
“To New York, to interview my father.”
“But your father was not in New York?”
“He was daily expected here. The steamer on which he had sailed from Southampton was due on Tuesday.”
“Had she an interest in seeing your father? Was there any special reason why she should leave you for doing so?”
“She thought so; she thought he would become reconciled to her entrance into our family if he should see her suddenly and without prejudiced persons standing by.”
“And did you fear to mar the effect of this meeting if you accompanied her?”
“No, for I doubted if the meeting would ever take place. I had no sympathy with her schemes, and did not wish to give her the sanction of my presence.”
“Was that the reason you let her go to New York alone?”
“Yes.”
“Had you no other?”
“No.”
“Why did you follow her, then, in less than five hours?”
“Because I was uneasy; because I also wanted to see my father; because I am a man accustomed to carry out every impulse; and impulse led me that day in the direction of my somewhat headstrong wife.”
“Did you know where your wife intended to spend the night?”
“I did not. She has many friends, or at least I have, in the city, and I concluded she would go to one of them—as she did.”
“When did you arrive in the city? before ten o’clock?”
“Yes, a few minutes before.”
“Did you try to find your wife?”
“No. I went directly to the club.”
“Did you try to find her the next morning?”
“No; I had heard that the steamer had not yet been sighted off Fire Island, so considered the effort unnecessary.”
“Why? What connection is there between this fact and an endeavor on your part to find your wife?”
“A very close one. She had come to New York to throw herself at my father’s feet. Now she could only do this at the steamer or in—”
“Why do you not proceed, Mr. Van Burnam?”
“I will. I do not know why I stopped—or in his own house.”
“In his own house? In the house in Gramercy Park, do you mean?”
“Yes, he has no other.”
“The house in which this dead girl was found?”
“Yes,”—impatiently.
“Did you think she might throw herself at his feet there?”
“She said she might; and as she is romantic, foolishly romantic, I thought her fully capable of doing so.”
“And so you did not seek her in the morning?”
“No, sir.”
“How about the afternoon?”
This was a close question; we saw that he was affected by it though he tried to carry it off bravely.
“I did not see her in the afternoon. I was in a restless frame of mind, and did not remain in the city.”
“Ah! indeed! and where did you go?”
The Lady Sleuths MEGAPACK ™: 20 Modern and Classic Tales of Female Detectives Page 66