Phineas Carr had her confirm two of Pamela’s statements before he turned her over for cross-examination. Without rising, Horace Hale waved a plump hand.
“No questions.”
Mehitable’s jaw dropped. She blinked incredulously. She stared truculently at counsel for the prosecution before she turned to the judge. His lips twitched.
“That will be all, Miss Betts. Step down.”
His Honor had a nice sense of humor, Pamela told herself, in the midst of her own suppressed, nervous laughter. Hitty was a pricked balloon if ever there was one. Minutes on end, while at work in the sunny kitchen, she had rehearsed the incontrovertible evidence she would present under oath, which would leave the “actress woman” and her lawyer “without a leg to stand on between them.” Poor, disappointed Hitty, the great moment of her life gone flat.
“Scott Mallory.”
The name crashed into Pamela’s sympathetic reflections. It unseated her heart. Scott a witness in this case! Why? To what could he testify? Not once in their conferences had Phineas Carr mentioned the possibility of his appearance. What had her counsel up his sleeve? How good looking Scott was! How clean-cut! Was his fine, lean face less colorful than usual or was her imagination playing tricks? She especially liked that blue serge suit. He was the only man of her acquaintance whose taste in ties she approved. How could she sit here appraising him when her whole financial future was at stake? Without looking, she sensed the consternation of plaintiff and her counsel, a tightening of the spinal vertebrae of the jurymen, concentration on the part of the judge.
Phineas Carr settled the white carnation in his coat lapel before he began the examination of this witness. For the rest of her life the spicy scent of a pink would project this court scene on the screen of her memory, Pamela predicted.
“Mr. Mallory, you own the dog known in this case as the Babe, do you not?”
“Yes sir.”
“Will you tell the jury where and why you bought him?”
Mallory’s voice produced an instant emotional effect. No wonder he was a successful advocate, he had fire and personality plus. No editor would blue-pencil that story, Pamela thought as he answered the question. His evidence was boiled down to essentials. He told of buying the dog of a fisherman who sold him because his son, a fisherman, hated and abused the animal. Counsel for plaintiff, eyes wary, waived cross-examination.
Phineas Carr rose. “I present my next witness, your Honor. The Babe.”
A chill of excitement cavorted up and down Pamela’s spine as the Belgian police dog dashed through the jurors’ entrance dragging Eddie Pike at the end of his leash. Was it Eddie Pike? Gone was the rope-belted army coat. The man’s clothing screamed. Checks. Stripes. Dots. A blinding rhinestone horseshoe in his tie. A huge ring shot passionate purple lights. There was a hint of frightened vacancy in his eyes, on his sagging lips. The jury grinned to a man, the spectators tittered, the sheriff rapped for order.
Noble tawny, proudly conscious of his swankish new breast-strap, the Babe stood with forepaws on the rail of the witness-stand. Head cocked, ears pricked, he regarded the faces bent eagerly toward him. Without warning he yelped joyously. With a leap he jerked the leash from the lax hand of his keeper and cleared the shoulders of the Clerk of the Court by an attenuated inch. With forepaws in Pamela’s lap he snuggled his cold nose into her neck. She smothered her laughter against his shoulder as she encircled him with her arms.
With a cry of well simulated terror Cecile clung to her counsel’s arm. Pandemonium. Laughter. Shouts. Raps! Raps! Raps! The sheriff’s stentorian command.
“Order! Order! Order!”
Phineas Carr caught the dog’s leash, dragged him to the stand.
“Take him in there again, Pike, and hold on to him. Understand me? Hold on!”
Eddie gasped like a codfish out of water as he gripped the leash. With forepaws on the rail, mouth open as if in hilarious appreciation of the riot he had staged, tawny eyes snapping, red tongue dripping, the Babe surveyed the court-room. His Honor covered the betraying twitch of his lips with a transparent hand. Counsel for the plaintiff seemed in a daze. One of the jurors indulged in a nervous chuckle. Phineas Carr addressed the judge.
“May it please the Court, I have put this witness on the stand to account for his attack on Cecile Mortimer Leigh, alleged to have been promoted by the defendant in this case.”
“Ready!”
At the quick command a sheriff opened the jurors’ door. Someone in a yellow slicker backed into the court-room. The dog turned. He stiffened. The hair on his neck ruffed. He glared at the oilskin clad figure with eyes gone red. Ears laid back, ivory tusks gleaming, he strained at the leash. Eddie Pike turned as purple as his ring from the strain of holding him. The dog snarled, growled, barked, bristled; his jaws dripped. Phineas Carr snapped his fingers. The figure turned, peeled off the slicker. Terrence! Pamela went limp as her brother laughed, inquired soothingly:
“What’s it all about, young fella?”
Except for the growl rumbling in his throat the dog might have been turned to stone. Then with an apologetic “Whoof!” he extended a placating paw. Terrence accepted it with grave ceremony. At a word from Phineas Carr, youth, man and dog departed.
Hale shook his black mane and shot up.
“I object to this melodrama, your Honor. It is irrelevant to this case. I move that it be struck off the record.”
Counsel for the defense suavely addressed the Court.
“Your Honor, you heard Mr. Mallory’s testimony to the effect that he bought this dog from a fisherman, whose son, also a fisherman, abused the animal. Fishermen spend much of their lives in oilskins. Would that not account for the Babe’s yellow-slicker complex? You saw what happened when his young master — whom, it must be evident to the least intuitive person in this room, he loves — appeared in a yellow slicker. Does that not explain to any intelligent person the attack on Mrs. Leigh when she appeared at her stepdaughter’s residence attired in Iry Crockett’s oilskins which she had borrowed? After this demonstration, is it not rank nonsense to claim that the dog’s attack was instigated by this defendant?”
The judge scrutinized a paper on his desk. Peered over the rims of his horn spectacles at Hale.
“On the testimony in this action so far presented, I rule this evidence admissible. Motion denied. Proceed, Mr. Carr.”
“I have but two more witnesses, your Honor. I may need but one.” He cleared his throat. Was the pause due to nervousness or his appreciation of the dramatic value of suspense?
“Brown of Boston.”
Chapter XX
What possible connection could the man on the witness stand with a large loose-leaf book in his hand, have with this case, Pamela wondered. Brown of Boston. She had imagined him broad of shoulder, ruddy, a balloon-tire sort, who would ride lightly over the ruts and bumps of life. On the contrary, he was tall, hawk-faced, with large eyes magnified by the strong lenses of horn-rimmed spectacles; he suggested a wire-spring quality of mind. His well-tailored clothing needed pressing.
She glanced at the plaintiff and her attorney. Unless their expressions belied them they were as much at a loss as she to account for this witness.
Phineas Carr tenderly fingered the petals of the carnation in his coat lapel. The room was uncannily still, the atmosphere pulsed with suspense. Motes of golden dust coasted down a sunbeam. Outside, the triphammer tap of heels in the corridor; somebody whistling “Kiss Me Again” from Victor Herbert’s Mlle. Modiste; the bang of a door. Inside, the monotonous tick-tock of the wall clock.
“Mr. Brown, you are a collector and dealer in stamps, are you not?”
There was a sharp jingle of bracelets. Pamela looked swiftly at Cecile. She was colorless. Her counsel’s expression remained faintly puzzled. One of the two urban jurymen leaned forward eagerly. The witness attested:
“I am a philatelist, sir.”
Phineas Carr smiled, explained suavely: “I used the simpler term for th
e benefit of my brother advocate. Of course his Honor and the gentlemen of the jury understand the more technical name.”
His brother advocate audibly snorted but let the gibe pass while he watched warily for a chance to jump into the ring.
“Mr. Brown, a short time ago, you purchased at auction a rare stamp, an English, ten shilling, King Edward stamp overprinted I.R. Official, for the sum of two thousand dollars.”
A murmur of incredulity rippled through the court-room.
“Order!” rapped the sheriff.
“Will you show that stamp to the jury?”
Brown of Boston removed a leaf from his book. Counsel for the defense waved away the Clerk of the Court when he would have taken it, himself held it before the twelve men. The urban juror with the elk’s tooth on his watch chain lost his balance in his eagerness to see. Counsel for the plaintiff appealed to the judge.
“Your Honor, I protest against the holding up of this case for irrelevant testimony.”
“Your Honor, the testimony is not irrelevant.” Phineas Carr’s contradiction lashed. “I propose to show that this plaintiff, who claims that the defendant did wilfully and maliciously poison her husband’s mind against her until her nerves were so shaken that she was unable to fill her theatrical engagement, sold this rare stamp for two thousand dollars, less commission.”
Counsel for the prosecution sprang to his feet, shook his mane, bowed formally to the judge.
“I move that that statement be stricken from the records. The sale of that stamp has no bearing on the question before this jury, which is, did the defendant or did she not influence the plaintiff’s husband against her? The introduction of this stamp act is a ruse to rouse the sympathy of the jury.”
“This is not the first time a Stamp Act has roused the sympathy of citizens of this Commonwealth, your Honor,” Phineas Carr reminded dryly.
The gentlemen of the jury smiled broadly, the spectators tittered, the sheriff rapped. The judge fitted finger-tips together and deliberated.
“I agree with counsel for the defense. The sale of the rare stamp has a bearing on this case. Motion denied. Proceed with your witness, Mr. Carr.”
Counsel for the defendant stood tall and straight. The fingers of one hand gripped the carnation-decked lapel of his morning coat, the other held a slip of paper. Color burned in his high cheek bones, his dark eyes were smoldering coals.
“Mr. Brown, how did you know that this rare stamp was to be sold?”
“Collectors and dealers are usually notified of sales, sir; besides, there’s a sort of wireless over which news spreads when a rarity is about to change owners.”
“Were you surprised when this specimen was offered for sale?”
“Yes sir. Right off the reel I had a hunch —”
“Just a moment. Aren’t rare stamps constantly coming into the market?”
“Yes sir.”
“The collecting of stamps is a costly fad, is it not?”
“I would rather call it an investment, Mr. Carr. I have several clients who spend between twenty-five and thirty thousand dollars a year for contemporary and rare stamps. Of course, during the late depression, values shrunk — except in outstanding rarities — as in everything else.”
Was Carnation Carr dragging this out to create suspense, Pamela wondered. If he were he was succeeding. She was on the edge of her chair, there wasn’t a person in the room who wasn’t listening avidly — except counsel for the plaintiff who was whispering to his client. Thirty thousand dollars a year for postage stamps! Unbelievable.
Counsel for the defense continued: “You spoke of a hunch, Mr. Brown. You mean, I suppose, that you were suspicious that something was wrong about this sale. Explain to the jury what you mean by hunch.”
The plaintiff’s attorney sprang to his feet. “I object to that question, your Honor.”
“Objection overruled. Proceed, Mr. Brown.”
Hale had the temerity to glare at the judge before he sat down. The lips of his Honor set in a straight line. Brown looked at counsel for the plaintiff over the horn rims of his spectacles before he explained:
“I had a hunch there was something irregular, because when the owner of a stamp like that had bought it of me he said, ‘It has been one of the ambitions of my life to own this. I’ll starve before I part with it.’ He is a philatelic fanatic. I felt sure that if he were to sell it, he would offer it through me.”
“Any other reasons for suspicion, Mr. Brown?”
“Yes sir. From time to time, previous to this, to be exact since last July, several rare stamps were sold which I knew to be from this same collection. I began to suspect they had been stolen.”
The judge bent forward. “How did you know they were from that collection, Mr. Brown?”
His voice was drenched with interest. Had he also collected stamps as a boy? Pamela glanced about the court-room. If his Honor’s expression was a test, every person present had at one time or another been bitten by the stamp-bug. Absorption unbelievable. The witness smiled indulgently.
“Just as a collector of works of art knows where to locate a Rembrandt, a Corot, a Daubigny, or any one of the great masterpieces.”
Hale rose. “If these stamps were such rare treasures, how could they be so easily stolen, may I ask?” His amused skepticism was well done.
“You may not ask.” Phineas Carr’s protest was a roar. “Your questions are in order when this witness is turned over to you for cross-examination, not before.” Counsel for the plaintiff dropped to his chair somewhat heavily.
“Did it occur to you to query the owner of these stamps as to the reason for their sale, Mr. Brown?”
“It did. Then I heard that he had lost his fortune and was up against it. Thought it might hurt his pride if I seemed curious. He had been doing a little exchanging of stamps with me to keep him amused, he wrote.”
“But you did finally question him? Why?”
“In a registered letter he sent a mint block, which I had bought for him, with instructions to sell it.”
Pamela remembered her father’s wail: “My mint block! My mint block!” And she had thought it might be a rare print!
“Please explain to the jury what a mint block is, Mr. Brown,” Phineas Carr requested.
“The term is borrowed from the numismatists — coin collectors. It means a block of six or more unused stamps with the original gum.” Witness opened his book, extracted a leaf. “You will notice on this example of twelve stamps that the perforation between the two rows is missing.”
The judge leaned far forward, there were red spots on his cheek bones, his eyes shone boyishly eager. Brown indicated a place on the page.
“Here is the lot I bought. A mint block of twelve stamps of the partly perforated six-cent 1894 issue. It is one of the largest blocks of its kind known. Notice the sheet-number in the margin. I ordered it put up at auction. Bid it in for $1000.”
The concerted “Oh!” of the spectators passed without rebuke from the sheriff. He was pop-eyed with amazement. Phineas Carr returned the precious leaf to its owner and inquired:
“It was after that sale that this English stamp came on the market?”
“Yes sir. I bought it. I was so keen to get it — stamp collecting is just as exciting as horse-racing at times — that I didn’t think where it came from. It isn’t the only example of its kind. When I came to I began to wonder. Yesterday morning, the man whom I had thought might be the owner, phoned me. He had just heard of the sale of a stamp like his. I told him of my suspicions, with the result that I picked him up in a plane. We flew to New York, checked up on his stamps and found that several were missing from one of the most famous collections of English stamps in the country — in the world.”
“Did you inquire of the bank officials if anyone but the owner had had access to that box?”
“We did.”
“And the answer?”
The ticking of the clock boomed through the silence. A bee buzzed in at th
e open window, realized its intrusion and buzzed out. Someone caught his breath in a nervous gasp. Phineas Carr fingered the petals of his carnation. His face was quite white as he repeated:
“And the answer?”
“Mrs. Harold Leigh.”
Counsel for the prosecution pulled his client back to her chair when she would have risen. His face was patched with purple, his voice was shaken as he demanded:
“Your Honor! Do you realize that witness has intimated that an innocent woman stole and sold those stamps?”
“Sit down, Mr. Hale.”
The plaintiff’s attorney swayed for an instant as if debating the wisdom of obeying the judge’s command, before he resumed his seat. Phineas Carr addressed the Court.
“Your Honor, before I turn this witness over for cross-examination, I wish the jury to understand our claim, which is: that the plaintiff has not been without funds; that she sold rare stamps to the amount of ten thousand dollars, which she took from the safety-box of her husband without his knowledge or consent.”
Cecile Mortimer Leigh sprang to her feet. “Suppose I did?” Her voice was shaken, her green eyes were wistful. She was attempting to charm, less obviously than on her appearance on the witness-stand, but with deadlier purpose. “Hadn’t I a right to support from the man I married? His daughter had turned him against me —”
“If counsel for the prosecution does not restrain the plaintiff I will fine her for contempt of court!” Thus the judge. The spectators showed symptoms of applause.
“Order! Order!” The sheriff was crimson from the volume of his roar. Horace Hale caught his client’s arm. His face was expressionless as he talked with her in a low tone. A playful breeze danced in at the window, cut antics with the pages of the stamp book of Brown of Boston on the witness-stand, before it danced on.
Phineas Carr addressed the Court. “Your Honor, the plaintiff has by that last admission substantiated our claim that she has been far from destitute during this last year.” He waved a transferring hand. “The witness is yours, Mr. Hale.”
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