A short pause followed Jerry Noonan’s sheepish descent from the witness-stand, a pause which was filled with a low buzz of comment in the court-room. Then Ballmeier called to the stand his fifth witness, who proved to be Edward Venson, Rupert van Slyke’s man. The latter was the typical man-servant of around fifty years of age, his hair grey and shaggy, his skin wrinkled, his nose a trifle hooked. He ascended the stand apologetically, and settled down meekly in the witness chair.
“What is your name?”
“Edward Venson, sir.”
“What is your occupation?”
“I was for three years a houseman and general servant to young Mr. van Slyke. Since he was murdered, I have been employed as a butler in a home in Hyde Park.”
“Will you tell the jury in your own words what happened on Friday night, January 21?”
The elderly servant turned to the jury. “Mr. van Slyke was supposed to take a part in a comic play given on the North Shore that night — he was to be a pirate or something — Captain Kidd, I believe — and I saw him last when he was downstairs in the hall around seven-thirty calling up somebody on the telephone. I heard him say to someone that in view of the difference of opinion about something or other, he’d just check out of the play — those were his words — and let his understudy take his part. Then he hung up the receiver with a bang and went back upstairs to his library. I worked around in the basement, and just before ten o’clock went out to the mail-box to post a letter. There I met Noonan, the old officer on the beat, and talked with him until the time he rang his box and for about five minutes after. Then I walked slowly back to the house. As I came in the front door of the first floor, a man with flaming red-hair came leaping down the stairway from the second floor, and thinking I’d merely surprised a sneak-thief I grappled with him. He lunged and scratched at me as I caught him, and give me a shove that set me on my back, and before I was up he dashed out through the front door and I heard his footsteps echoing back in the gangway at the side of the house. So I went up to the library to tell Mr. van Slyke. And there he was, dead on the floor, blood coming out of his forehead.”
“What did you do,” asked Ballmeier, “as soon as you saw the tragedy?”
“I had a hope, somehow, that maybe he was only grazed with some sharp weapon; so I hurried into the bathroom on the same floor, wet a washrag in the running water from the warm-water faucet, and coming back, knelt down and swabbed the blood off his forehead the best I could considering how shaken I was and how my hand trembled, Then I knew he was done for, because there was a blue hole there you could almost stick your little finger in. I hurried back to the bathroom, tossed the washrag back in the bowl, rinsed my hands and went downstairs and called the police. They came.”
“Will you kindly look about you in the court-room and tell the jury whether you see the man with whom you grappled in the lower hallway?”
Venson turned around in his witness-box. He pointed reluctantly toward the young clubman, sitting tense at the table, chin in hand.
“That is the man I grappled with. I saw his red hair when he was at the top of the stairs racing down, then his face as we grappled together.”
“Your description was given to the police when they arrived, and your identification was completed at detective headquarters at eleven o’clock next morning?” Ballmeier prompted.
“Yes, sir.”
“How was he dressed so near as you remember?”
“Well, his clothing was dark. Sort of a blue serge, I’d venture. White collar and shirt. Grey overcoat that came to his knees, unbuttoned all the way down. Dark coloured four-in-hand tie with a stickpin in it. That’s all I remember.”
“Now about the stickpin — ” began Ballmeier, but suddenly, as though fearing after Noonan’s performance on the witness-stand that he might lay a further inartistic flaw in the arch which he was successfully building up, he cut off his words. He gazed into air for a long moment, his little corrugated brow still further wrinkled, and then, somewhat unexpectedly, turned to the polished table with the words, “Witness is turned over to the defence.”
Crosby took his position in front of the servant. His line of questioning was now less belligerent than at any time and more indicative that he himself was trying to focus some sort of light upon a situation which even to himself was a complete enigma.
“Mr. Venson, when you and Noonan were talking at the street corner which carried both the mail-box and the police-box, did you hear the shot?”
“I know now that what I thought at the time was an auto tyre exploding in the neighbourhood, while Noonan was talking in the transmitter of the police-box, must have been that single shot from over on Oakley Avenue. But you’ll remember, sir, that this corner is the junction of two car-lines, Western Avenue and Irving Park Boulevard, and there is more or less noise all the time.”
“How long do you calculate it was after the shot that you came in at the front door? In other words, how long was the total of the time talked to Noonan and walked back to the house?”
“Well,” ventured the old man, “Noonan and I talked for five minutes at least, and it took me another full five minutes to walk back. I’d say I got in the house about ten minutes after the murder.”
“Then it appears that the red-haired man with whom you grappled had remained for some purpose after he killed van Slyke?”
“So the police say,” ventured Venson politely.
“You were the first to see the room. Just what was its condition as you found it?”
“The same, sir, as Jerry Noonan described. I touched nothing. I made no changes. As Mr. Noonan says, the window was up, but it always was up anyway in that library.”
“The police theory is that Mr. Chalmers entered the block by coming under the bill-boards at Western Avenue, crossing the prairie, climbing the elm tree at the back of the house, entering the open window and either shooting van Slyke from outside or after he got in. That he then remained for ten minutes, and then, coming downstairs the front way was confronted with you entering the door. That he made a desperate attempt to get away, and running down the front steps circled around the gangway — crossed back across the prairies and out into Western Avenue again. Is this your theory?”
“I object,” said Ballmeier irritably. “The witness’s own personal theories do not matter.”
“They may matter,” retorted Crosby, looking up at the judge. “This man” — he inclined his head in Ballmeier’s direction — “objects to every attempt on the part of the defence to work out its case.”
“Well,” said Judge Lockhart, looking down through his gold-rimmed pince-nez from one to the other of the two attorneys, “I guess the witness may answer.”
“I have no theory,” declared Venson. “All I know is, whatever the path of Mr. van Slyke’s murderer, he tried to use me for a gangplank to leave the house on.”
Crosby smiled in spite of himself. A titter ran around the court-room, but on Venson’s face only the rueful, injured look was to be found. The bailiff rapped for order.
“About that library window,” Crosby asked suddenly. “Is it customary to leave it unlocked? How does it happen that on the night of January 21, a crisp winter’s evening, it would be even partly open so that a man could shin up that tree outside the window and shoot Mr. van Slyke on the inside?”
Venson’s answer explained this point. “For the reason sir, that that library had a radiator intended for a room twice as big. I have never seen the time that the room was not overheated.”
“I see.” Crosby paused, thinking. “Ever see Mr. Chalmers in your life before you were confronted with him at the detective bureau?”
“Never.”
“Ever heard your former master speak of him, either favourably or unfavourably?”
“Neither, sir. I did not know Mr. Chalmers existed.”
“I see. You notified the police at once as soon as you saw your master was murdered?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You discovered the body at — say — ten minutes past ten. The police blotter says the call came in at twenty-five minutes to eleven. Just how was your time divided up between those minutes?”
Venson was plainly angry. “I didn’t keep any books of my time, sir. I must have lost several minutes grappling with the murderer in the hall. I must have spent some time picking myself up and brushing myself off. It took me five minutes to take in that horrible scene upstairs. Then my hands trembled so, I couldn’t hardly hold the telephone-book when I went to look up the police number. It’s a wonder I got the police as quick as I did.”
“Did it occur to you to call Main 13 — the standard emergency police call as printed on the mouthpiece of the transmitter?” asked the defence curiously. “Those calls are rushed through in lightning order.”
Ballmeier was on his feet, his face an apoplectic red. “I object,” he shouted. “This fledgeling that calls itself attorney for the defence is badgering and hectoring the witness merely to make a show for the public.”
“Don’t get excited, Mr. Ballmeier,” retorted Crosby, a wave of heat rising to his own face. “The only trial that can make you happy is one where the defence sits in the corner. You ought to be — ”
“No personalities, gentlemen,” interrupted Lockhart, a reproving look coming over his stern face. “The witness may answer.”
“I withdraw the question and excuse the witness,” said Crosby. He plumped down into his chair. He made a few notes on his paper. Ballmeier, jerking his own head triumphantly, scrawled a few notes on his own side of the table. A buzz flitted over the court-room. Pleased glances were thrown from face to face of the curiosity-mongers.
But at this point, the hands of the big clock across the room pointing to four o’clock, Lockhart with a curt nod to the bailiff as a signal for dismissal of court, rose from his bench and in his black gown went in to his chambers.
CHAPTER VIII
BALLMEIER INSERTS HIS KEYSTONE
THE opening of the second day of the Chalmers trial saw the court-room more crowded than the previous day, were this at all possible.
Ballmeier first put upon the stand Billy Matthews, clerk for seven years at the Sportsmen’s Club. The latter was the epitome of sartorial correctness, the personification of geniality, a walking example of spruceness. Ballmeier held up exhibit one, and handed it to the witness.
“Have you ever seen this stickpin before?”
The pink-faced Beau Brummel nodded, rather regretfully. “Will you state where?”
“I formerly owned it.”
“Did it pass from your possession? If so, how?”
Billy Matthews shifted in his seat. His baby-face grew serious. “I sold it to Mr. Chalmers for 20 dollars about a year ago. I heard him say he’d have to replenish his jewellery a bit. I had bought the pin in Pittsburg. I was shy on money. He liked it. He bought it. That’s all.”
“You realize, do you not, that this same pin which you are identifying is the pin which was dropped by the murderer in his flight?”
“Object!” snapped Crosby. “It is not yet proven that the murderer dropped it, or that it was even dropped in any one’s flight.”
“Objection sustained to the wording used by the prosecution,” said Judge Lockhart with no hesitation. “Strike it out.” And the court stenographer for a few seconds was busy drawing lines through her pothooks.
“I think,” said Ballmeier, nonplussed by his legal rebuff, “that that will be about all. Excused.”
Crosby asked but one question. “You say you never saw but one pin like that before?” he said, staring at the witness. “Where was that?”
“In Pittsburg,” was the witness’s reply, “but the other was like this one only in the general shape of the stone, and the colour of the gold. They were not identical.”
“Excused,” said Crosby abruptly.
There was a craning of necks as the clerk called the name of George Krenway, who as chief of the Chicago detective bureau had figured in the public prints too many times to be unknown to the public. Thin-lipped, sour-faced, his black hair flecked with grey, he ascended the stand. A number of rapid questions concerning the condition of van Slyke’s library, and his body, were put in succession to him by Ballmeier, and it could be seen by the veriest tyro in legal matters that Krenway’s testimony was distinctly coloured in favour of the State. His answer to Ballmeier’s last question showed as well as any his desire to remove from his dockets one more murder case.
“Just what was the suspect’s attitude the night he was brought down to your office for questioning?” was the query.
“He was surly and impudent,” was Krenway’s prompt reply, glancing down unembarrassedly toward the red-haired defendant who sat with chin in hand at the long table. “When I asked him whether he killed van Slyke, he openly defied the department to get anything on him.”
“Excused,” said Ballmeier, stooping down among his papers.
Crosby’s examination of Krenway was soon to rouse all the ire in that gentleman’s being. The younger man began easily, however.
“Do you know Tommie Heyworth, a night reporter on the morning Herald-Examiner?”
“Ought to know him,” said Krenway brusquely. “He’s been in the offices enough times. What about him?”
“I am doing the questioning, not you, Mr. Krenway.”
Crosby thrust his hands in his pockets. “Was Heyworth a witness to the examination that night of Mr. Chalmers?”
“Don’t know — well, suppose he was — it’s the last examination he’ll witness if he’s going around discussing the department’s affairs,” was Krenway’s angry retort.
Crosby smiled. It was plain that Krenway got mad easily.
“Mr. Heyworth has quit the newspaper profession and is now selling bonds,” he informed the detective head. “Did not Mr. Chalmers, in reply to your question as to whether he had shot van Slyke, tell you definitely and conclusively no?”
“Well, he — ”
“Yes or no?”
“He tried to — ”
“Yes or no, Mr. Krenway?”
“Yes,” shouted Krenway.
“So this was impudence, eh? Did he not show genuine surprise when he learned that van Slyke was dead?”
Krenway’s eyes roved savagely about the court-room as though he would like to have fastened them upon the traitorous Tommie Heyworth, who in fleeing from the newspaper game had betrayed the detective bureau.
“Oh yes, Chalmers was surprised,” he said, taking no care to conceal the sarcasm in his voice.
Crosby’s lips tightened. This official was out to help smash the defence as much as he could, that was plain.
“Know a detective called Jake Kilduff, Mr. Krenway?”
“Ought to know him. He worked under me in the department.”
“Did you send Kilduff out to the 32nd Precinct station the night of the murder?”
“Sure did.” Krenway might as well have said, for the inflection in his voice, “what are you going to do about it?”
“Didn’t you then despatch him by telephone from there to Mr. Chalmers’ flat to search for evidence? Didn’t you tell him to get something on Chalmers?”
“Nonsense,” snorted Krenway. “I told him to get some evidence if there was any to get.”
“Did he then appear back at your office toward dawn with a stickpin which he said was picked up in the gangway at the van Slyke house by Noonan, a policeman at the 32nd Precinct station?”
“He did.”
“Jake Kilduff could have, if he had so wished, substituted the pin Noonan picked up for one he had abstracted from Mr. Chalmers’ chiffonier-drawer, to make a case against Chalmers? Is this not a fact?”
“How could he?” sneered Krenway. “How about Noonan?” This triumphantly.
“Sorry you didn’t read the papers last night,” said Crosby with a smile. “Mr. Noonan yesterday admitted on the witness-stand that he himself couldn’t identify the stickpin.”
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br /> Krenway’s face fell. Ballmeier was chewing on his lips.
“One more question, Mr. Krenway, and then I’ll let you go. Wasn’t this Jake Kilduff under indictment for some sort of bribery at the time he worked for you?”
Krenway swallowed hard. “Yes.”
“Is it your custom to keep detectives working for you that are crooked?”
“What’s it to you,” snarled Krenway, beside himself with irritation and rage, “what my department does?”
“It’s a lot to me,” said Crosby, “considering that your department is trying to help send my client to the gallows. Excused, Mr. Krenway.”
And the burst of handclapping that followed, unchecked by the stiff staccato rattle of the bailiff’s gavel, showed where the public’s sympathy lay in that tilt, and marked the descent of Krenway, his face an apoplectic red.
Crosby, watching from the corner of his eye, felt as by a sixth sense that now was come the pivotal point of the battle, the point that would clear or convict Chalmers, the keystone which would either sustain against all efforts of demolishment the arch of circumstantial evidence thus far built up, or crumple up and release the entire structure. He was dimly conscious, as he leaned forward watching, of Chalmers turning toward him as though to speak, and then quickly closing his lips again. But to his client he paid little attention at this point, proceeding instead to focus his attention entirely on the witness who was laboriously ascending the stand.
The individual climbing up into the witness-chair was a dignified man of about fifty-five, with iron-grey hair that partly covered his temples; keen, straight-looking eyes which, gazing through business-like eyeglasses, seemed to belie the possibility of an untruth; square hard jaw, and conservative business man’s suit. His progress to the witness-chair was made with some difficulty, for he walked with a dragging movement of the legs as though they were made of heavy lead-weights, helping himself along by two stout canes provided with rubber ferrules.
“What is your name?” was Ballmeier’s preliminary question.
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