CHAPTER XIII
The prosecution produced many witnesses during the next two days:Shanty-boat Tim's story withstood the most vigorous cross-examination.After him, Mr. Bronson from the theater corroborated Miss Hope's storyof Jennie Brice's attack of hysteria in the dressing-room, and told oftaking her home that night.
He was a poor witness, nervous and halting. He weighed each wordbefore he said it, and he made a general unfavorable impression. Ithought he was holding something back. In view of what Mr. Pitmanwould have called the denouement, his attitude is easily explained.But I was puzzled then.
So far, the prosecution had touched but lightly on the possible motivefor a crime--the woman. But on the third day, to my surprise, a Mrs.Agnes Murray was called. It was the Mrs. Murray I had seen at themorgue.
I have lost the clipping of that day's trial, but I remember hertestimony perfectly.
She was a widow, living above a small millinery shop on FederalStreet, Allegheny. She had one daughter, Alice, who did stenographyand typing as a means of livelihood. She had no office, and worked athome. Many of the small stores in the neighborhood employed her tosend out their bills. There was a card at the street entrance besidethe shop, and now and then strangers brought her work.
Early in December the prisoner had brought her the manuscript of aplay to type, and from that time on he came frequently, sometimesevery day, bringing a few sheets of manuscript at a time. Sometimes hecame without any manuscript, and would sit and talk while he smoked acigarette. They had thought him unmarried.
On Wednesday, February twenty-eighth, Alice Murray had disappeared.She had taken some of her clothing--not all, and had left a note. Thewitness read the note aloud in a trembling voice:
"DEAR MOTHER: When you get this I shall be married to Mr. Ladley. Don't worry. Will write again from N.Y. Lovingly,
"ALICE."
From that time until a week before, she had not heard from herdaughter. Then she had a card, mailed from Madison Square Station, NewYork City. The card merely said:
"Am well and working. ALICE."
The defense was visibly shaken. They had not expected this, and Ithought even Mr. Ladley, whose calm had continued unbroken, paled.
So far, all had gone well for the prosecution. They had proved acrime, as nearly as circumstantial evidence could prove a crime, andthey had established a motive. But in the identification of thebody, so far they had failed. The prosecution "rested," as they say,although they didn't rest much, on the afternoon of the third day.
The defense called, first of all, Eliza Shaeffer. She told of a womananswering the general description of Jennie Brice having spent twodays at the Shaeffer farm at Horner. Being shown photographs ofJennie Brice, she said she thought it was the same woman, but wasnot certain. She told further of the woman leaving unexpectedly onWednesday of that week from Thornville. On cross-examination, beingshown the small photograph which Mr. Graves had shown me, sheidentified the woman in the group as being the woman in question.As the face was in shadow, knew it more by the dress and hat: shedescribed the black and white dress and the hat with red trimming.
The defense then called me. I had to admit that the dress and hat asdescribed were almost certainly the ones I had seen on the bed inJennie Brice's room the day before she disappeared. I could not saydefinitely whether the woman in the photograph was Jennie Brice ornot; under a magnifying-glass thought it might be.
Defense called Jonathan Alexander, a druggist who testified that onthe night in question he had been roused at half past three by theprisoner, who had said his wife was ill, and had purchased a bottle ofa proprietary remedy from him. His identification was absolute.
The defense called Jennie Brice's sister, and endeavored to provethat Jennie Brice had had no such scar. It was shown that she was onintimate terms with her family and would hardly have concealed anoperation of any gravity from them.
The defense scored that day. They had shown that the prisoner had toldthe truth when he said he had gone to a pharmacy for medicine thatnight for his wife; and they had shown that a woman, answering thedescription of Jennie Brice, spent two days in a town called Horner,and had gone from there on Wednesday after the crime. And they hadshown that this woman was attired as Jennie Brice had been.
That was the way things stood on the afternoon of the fourth day, whencourt adjourned.
Mr. Reynolds was at home when I got there. He had been very muchsubdued since the developments of that first day of the trial, satmostly in his own room, and had twice brought me a bunch of jonquilsas a peace-offering. He had the kettle boiling when I got home.
"You have had a number of visitors," he said. "Our young friend Howellhas been here, and Mr. Holcombe has arrived and has a man in hisroom."
Mr. Holcombe came down a moment after, with his face beaming.
"I think we've got him, Mrs. Pitman," he said. "The jury won't even goout of the box."
But further than that he would not explain. He said he had a witnesslocked in his room, and he'd be glad of supper for him, as they'd bothcome a long ways. And he went out and bought some oysters and a bottleor two of beer. But as far as I know, he kept him locked up all thatnight in the second-story front room. I don't think the man knew hewas a prisoner. I went in to turn down the bed, and he was sittingby the window, reading the evening paper's account of the trial--anelderly gentleman, rather professional-looking.
Mr. Holcombe slept on the upper landing of the hall that night, rolledin a blanket--not that I think his witness even thought of escaping,but the little man was taking no chances.
At eight o'clock that night the bell rang. It was Mr. Howell. Iadmitted him myself, and he followed me back to the dining-room. I hadnot seen him for several weeks, and the change in him startled me. Hewas dressed carefully, but his eyes were sunken in his head, and helooked as if he had not slept for days.
Mr. Reynolds had gone up-stairs, not finding me socially inclined.
"You haven't been sick, Mr. Howell, have you?" I asked.
"Oh, no, I'm well enough, I've been traveling about. Those infernalsleeping-cars--"
His voice trailed off, and I saw him looking at my mother's picture,with the jonquils beneath.
"That's curious!" he said, going closer. "It--it looks almost likeLida Harvey."
"My mother," I said simply.
"Have you seen her lately?"
"My mother?" I asked, startled.
"No, Lida."
"I saw her a few days ago."
"Here?"
"Yes. She came here, Mr. Howell, two weeks ago. She looks badly--as ifshe is worrying."
"Not--about me?" he asked eagerly.
"Yes, about you. What possessed you to go away as you did? Whenmy--bro--when her uncle accused you of something, you ran away,instead of facing things like a man."
"I was trying to find the one person who could clear me, Mrs. Pitman."He sat back, with his eyes closed; he looked ill enough to be in bed.
"And you succeeded?"
"No."
I thought perhaps he had not been eating and I offered him food, asI had once before. But he refused it, with the ghost of his boyishsmile.
"I'm hungry, but it's not food I want. I want to see _her_," he said.
I sat down across from him and tried to mend a table-cloth, but Icould not sew. I kept seeing those two young things, each sick fora sight of the other, and, from wishing they could have a minutetogether, I got to planning it for them.
"Perhaps," I said finally, "if you want it very much--"
"Very much!"
"And if you will sit quiet, and stop tapping your fingers togetheruntil you drive me crazy, I might contrive it for you. For fiveminutes," I said. "Not a second longer."
He came right over and put his arms around me.
"Who are you, anyhow?" he said. "You who turn to the world the frozenmask of a Union Street boarding-house landlady, who are a gentlewomanby every instinct and training, and a girl at heart? Who are you?"<
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"I'll tell you what I am," I said. "I'm a romantic old fool, and you'dbetter let me do this quickly, before I change my mind."
He freed me at that, but he followed to the telephone, and stood bywhile I got Lida. He was in a perfect frenzy of anxiety, turning redand white by turns, and in the middle of the conversation taking thereceiver bodily from me and holding it to his own ear.
She said she thought she could get away; she spoke guardedly, as ifAlma were near, but I gathered that she would come as soon as shecould, and, from the way her voice broke, I knew she was as excited asthe boy beside me.
She came, heavily coated and veiled, at a quarter after ten thatnight, and I took her back to the dining-room, where he was waiting.He did not make a move toward her, but stood there with his very lipswhite, looking at her. And, at first, she did not make a move either,but stood and gazed at him, thin and white, a wreck of himself. Then:
"Ell!" she cried, and ran around the table to him, as he held out hisarms.
The school-teacher was out. I went into the parlor bedroom and sat inthe cozy corner in the dark. I had done a wrong thing, and I was gladof it. And sitting there in the darkness, I went over my own lifeagain. After all, it had been my own life; I had lived it; no one elsehad shaped it for me. And if it was cheerless and colorless now, ithad had its big moments. Life is measured by big moments.
If I let the two children in the dining-room have fifteen big moments,instead of five, who can blame me?