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Just And The Unjust, The

<h2>CHAPTER TWELVE</h2> <h3>JOE TELLS HIS STORY</h3> The inquest was held late Saturday afternoon in the bleak living-room of the McBride house. The coroner had explained the manner in which the murdered man had come to his death, and as he finished he turned to Moxlow. The prosecuting attorney shifted his position slightly, thrust out his long legs toward the wood-stove, and buried his hands deep in his trousers pockets, then he addressed the jury. They were there, he told them, to listen to certain facts that bore on the death of Archibald McBride. If, after hearing these facts, they could say they pointed to any person or persons as being implicated in the murder, they were to name the person or persons, and he would see that they were brought before the grand jury for indictment. They were to bear in mind, however, that no one was on trial, and that no one was accused of the crime about to be investigated, yet they must not forget that a cold-blooded murder had been committed; human hands had raised the weapon that had crushed out the life of the old merchant, human intelligence had made choice of the day and hour and moment for that brutal deed; the possibility of escape had been nicely calculated, nothing had been left to chance. He would venture the assertion that if the murderer were ever found he would prove to be no ordinary criminal. All this Moxlow said with judicial deliberation and with the lawyer's careful qualifying of word and phrase. Shrimplin was the first witness. He described in his own fashion the finding of Archibald McBride's body. Then a few skilful questions by Moxlow brought out the fact of his having met John North on the Square immediately before his own gruesome discovery. The little lamplighter was excused, and Colonel Harbison took his: place. He, in his turn, quickly made way for Andy Gilmore. Moxlow next interrogated Atkinson, Langham's client, who explained the nature of his business relations with McBride which had terminated in the payment of three thousand dollars to him on Thanksgiving afternoon, the twenty-seventh of November. "You are excused, Mr. Atkinson," said Moxlow. For an instant his eyes roved over the room; they settled on Marshall Langham, who stood near the door leading into the hall. By a gesture he motioned him to the chair Atkinson had vacated. Langham's testimony was identical with that which he had already given in the informal talk at Moxlow's office; he told of having called on Archibald McBride with his client and, urged on by Moxlow, described his subsequent conversation with North. Up to this point John North had felt only an impersonal interest in the proceedings, but now it flashed across him that Moxlow was seeking to direct suspicion toward him. How well the prosecuting attorney was succeeding was apparent. North realized that he had suddenly become the most conspicuous person in the room; whichever way he turned he met the curious gaze of his townsmen, and each pair of eyes seemed to hold some portentous question. As if oblivious of this he bent forward in his chair and followed Moxlow's questions and Langham's replies with the closest attention. And as he watched Langham, so Gilmore watched him. "That will do, Mr. Langham. Thank you," said Moxlow at last. North felt sure he would be the next witness, and he was not mistaken. Moxlow's examination, however, was along lines quite different from those he had anticipated. The prosecuting attorney's questions wholly concerned themselves with the sale of the gas bonds to McBride; each detail of that transaction was gone into, but a very positive sense of relief had come to North. This was not what he had expected and dreaded, and he answered Moxlow's queries frankly, eagerly, for where his relations with the old merchant were under discussion he had nothing to hide. Finally Moxlow turned from him with a characteristic gesture. "That's all," he said. Again his glance wandered over the room. It became fixed on a grayish middle-aged man seated at Gilmore's elbow. "Thomas Nelson," he called. This instantly revived North's apprehensions. Nelson was the janitor of the building in which he had roomed. He asked himself what could be Moxlow's purpose in examining him. There was just one thing North feared, and that—the bringing of Evelyn Langham's name into the case. How this could happen he did not see, but the law dug its own channels and sometimes they went far enough afield. While this was passing through his mind, Nelson was sworn and Moxlow began his examination. Mr. Nelson was in charge of the building on the corner of Main Street and the Square,—he referred to the brick building on the southeast corner? The witness answered in the affirmative, and Moxlow's next question brought out the fact that for some weeks the building had had only two tenants; John North and Andrew Gilmore. What was the exact nature of his duties? The witness could hardly say; he was something of a carpenter for one thing, and at the present time was making certain repairs in the vacant store-room on the ground floor. Did he take care of the entrance and the two halls? Yes. Had he anything to do with the rooms of the two tenants on the first floor? Yes. What? Sometimes he swept and dusted them and he was supposed to look after the fires. He carried up the coal, Moxlow suggested? Yes. He carried out the ashes? Again yes. Moxlow paused for a moment. Was he the only person who ever carried out the ashes? Yes. What did he do with the ashes? He emptied them into a barrel that stood in the yard back of the building. And what became of them then? Whenever necessary, the barrel was carted away and emptied. How long did it usually take to fill the barrel? At this season of the year one or two weeks. When was it emptied last? A week ago, perhaps, the witness was not quite sure about the day, but it was either Monday or Tuesday of the preceding week. And how often did the ashes from the fireplaces in Mr. North's and Mr. Gilmore's rooms find their way into the barrel? Every morning he cleaned out the grates the first thing, and usually before Mr. North or Mr. Gilmore were up. Again Moxlow paused and glanced over the room. He must have been aware that to his eager audience the connection between Mr. North's and Mr. Gilmore's fireplaces and the McBride murder, was anything but clear. "Did you empty the ashes from the fireplaces in the apartments occupied by Mr. North and Mr. Gilmore on Friday morning?" he asked. "Yes; that is, I took up the ashes in Mr. North's rooms." "But not in Mr. Gilmore's?" "No, sir, I didn't go into his rooms Friday morning." "Why was that,—was there any reason for it?" "Yes, I knew that Mr. Gilmore's rooms had not been occupied Thursday night; that was the night of the murder, and he was at McBride's house," explained the witness. "But you emptied the grate in Mr. North's rooms?" "Yes, sir." "And disposed of the ashes in the usual way?" "Yes, sir." "In the barrel in the yard back of the building?" "Yes, sir." "Did you notice anything peculiar about the ashes from Mr. North's rooms on Friday morning?" The witness looked puzzled. "Hadn't Mr. North burnt a good many papers in his grate?" "Oh, yes, but then he was going away." "That will do,—you are excused," interposed Moxlow quickly. The sheriff was next sworn. Without interruption from Moxlow he told his story. He had made a thorough search of the ash barrel described by the witness Thomas Nelson, and had come upon a number of charred fragments of paper. "We think these may be of interest to the coroner's jury," said Moxlow quietly. He drew a small pasteboard box from an inner pocket of his coat and carefully arranged its contents on the table before him. In all there were half a dozen scraps of charred or torn paper displayed; one or two of these fragments were bits of envelopes on which either a part or all of the name was still decipherable. North, from where he sat, was able to recognize a number of these as letters which he had intended to destroy that last night in his rooms; but the refuse from his grate and the McBride murder still seemed poles apart; he could imagine no possible connection. The president of Mount Hope's first national bank was the next witness called. He was asked by Moxlow to examine a Mount Hope Gas Company bond, and then the prosecuting attorney placed in his hands a triangular piece of paper which he selected from among the other fragments on the table. "Mr. Harden, will you kindly tell the jury of what, in your opinion, that bit of paper in your hand was once a part?" said Moxlow. Very deliberately the banker put on his glasses, and then with equal deliberation began a careful examination of the scrap of paper. "Well?" said Moxlow. "A second, please!" said the banker. But the seconds grew into minutes before he was ready to risk an opinion. "We are waiting on you, Mr. Harden," said Moxlow at length. "I should say that this is a marginal fragment of a Gas Company bond," said the banker slowly. "Indeed there can be no doubt on the point. The paper is the same, and these lines in red ink are a part of the decoration that surrounds the printed matter. No,—there is no doubt in my mind as to what this paper is." "What part of the bond is it?" asked Moxlow. "The lower right-hand corner," replied the banker promptly. "That is why I hesitated to identify it; with this much of the upper left-hand corner for instance, I should not have been in doubt." "Excused," said Moxlow briefly. The room became blank before John North's eyes as he realized that a chain of circumstantial evidence was connecting him with the McBride murder. He glanced about at a score of men—witnesses, officials, and jury, and felt their sudden doubt of him, as intangibly but as certainly as he felt the dead presence just beyond the closed door. "We have one other witness," said Moxlow. And Joe Montgomery, seeming to understand that he was this witness, promptly quitted his chair at the back of the room and, cap in hand, slouched forward and was duly sworn by the coroner. If Mr. Montgomery had shown promptness he had also evinced uneasiness, since his fear of the law was as rock-ribbed as his respect for it. He was not unfamiliar with courts, though never before had he appeared in the character of a witness; and he had told himself many times that day that the business in which he had allowed Mr. Gilmore to involve him carried him far behind his depths. Now his small blue eyes slid round in their sockets somewhat fearfully until they rested on Mr. Gilmore, who had just taken up his position at Marshall Langham's elbow. The gambler frowned and the handy-man instantly shifted his gaze. But the prosecuting attorney's first questions served to give Joe a measure of ease; this was transitory, however, as he seemed to stand alone in the presence of some imminent personal danger when Moxlow asked: "Where were you on the night of the twenty-seventh of November at six o'clock?" Joe stole a haunted glance in the direction of Gilmore. Moxlow repeated his question. "Boss, I was in White's woodshed," answered Montgomery. "Tell the jury what you saw," said Moxlow. "Well, I seen a good deal," evaded the handy-man, shaking his great head. "Go on!" urged Moxlow impatiently. "It was this way," said Joe. "I was lookin' out into the alley through a crack in the small door where they put in the coal; right across the alley is the back of McBride's store and the sheds about his yard—" the handy-man paused and mopped his face with his ragged cap. At the opposite end of the room Gilmore placed a hand on Langham's arm. The lawyer had uttered a smothered exclamation and had made a movement as if about to quit his seat. The gambler pushed him back. "Sit tight, Marsh!" he muttered between his teeth. Mr. Montgomery, taking stock of his courage, prepared to adventure further with his testimony. "All at once as I stood by that door lookin' out into the alley, I heard a kind of noise in old man McBride's yard. It sounded like something heavy was bein' scraped across the frozen ground, say a box or barrel. Then I seen a man's derby hat come over the edge of the shed, and next the man who was under that hat drawed himself up; he come up slow and cautious until he was where he could throw himself over on to the roof. He done that, squatted low, and slid down the roof toward the alley. There was some snow and he slid easy. He was lookin' about all the time like he wasn't anxious to be seen. Well, boss, he never seen me, and he never seen no one else, so he dropped off, kind of givin' himself a shove out from the eaves, and fetched up against White's woodshed. He was pantin' like he'd run a mile, and I heard him say in a whisper, 'Oh, my God!'—just like that,—'Oh, my God!'" The handy-man paused with this grotesque mimicry of terror. "And then?" prompted Moxlow, in the breathless silence. "And then he took off up the alley as if all hell was whoopin' after him!" Again Montgomery's ragged cap served him in lieu of a handkerchief, and as he swabbed his blotched and purple face he shot a swift furtive glance in Gilmore's direction. So far he had told only the truth, but he was living in terror of Moxlow's next question. "Can you describe the man who crossed the roof,—for instance, how was he dressed?" said Moxlow, with slow deliberation. "He had on a derby hat and a dark overcoat," answered Montgomery after a moment's pause. He was speaking for Gilmore now, and his grimy lists closed convulsively about the arms of his chair. "Did you see his face?" asked Moxlow. "Yes—" the monosyllable was spoken unwillingly, but with a kind of dogged resolution. "Was it a face you knew?" Montgomery looked at Gilmore, whose fierce insistent glance was bent compellingly on him. The recollection of the gambler's threats and promises flashed through his mind. "Was it a face you knew?" repeated Moxlow. The handy-man gave him a sudden glare. "Yes," he said in a throaty whisper. "How could you tell in the dark?" <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/174.jpg" width-obs="45%" alt= "" title="" /> "Then I seen a man's derby hat come over the edge of the shed." </div> "It wasn't so terrible dark, with the snow on the ground. And I was so close to him I could have put an apple in his pocket," Joe explained. "Who was the man?" asked Moxlow. "I thought he looked like John North," said Montgomery. There was the silence of death in the room. "You thought it was John North?" began Moxlow. "Yes." "When he spoke, you thought you recognized North's voice?" "Yes." "Were you sure?" "I was pretty sure, boss—" "Only pretty sure?" "I thought it was Mr. North,—it looked like Mr. North, and I thought it was him,—I thought so then and I think so now," said Montgomery desperately. "Are you willing to swear positively that it was John North?" demanded Moxlow. "No—" said the handy-man, "No,—I only say I thought it was John North. He looked like John North, and I thought it was John North,—I'd have said it was John North, but it all happened in a minute. I wasn't thinkin' I'd ever have to say who it was I seen on the shed!" "But your first distinct impression was that it was John North?" "Yes." "You have known John North for years?" "All his life." "Had you seen him recently?" "I seen him Thanksgiving day along about four o'clock crossing the Square." "How was he dressed, did you notice?" "He was dressed like the man in the alley,—he had on a black derby hat and a dark brown overcoat." "That's all," said Moxlow quietly. The coroner and the jury drew aside and began a whispered consultation. In the vitiated atmosphere of that overcrowded room, heavy as it was with the stifling heat and palpably dense with the escaping smoke from the cracked wood-stove, men coughed nervously with every breath they drew, but their sense of physical discomfort was unheeded in their tense interest in the developments of the last few moments. The jury's deliberation was brief and then the coroner announced its verdict. North heard the doctor's halting words without at once grasping their meaning. A long moment of silence followed, and then a man coughed, and then another, and another; this seemed to break the spell, for suddenly the room buzzed with eager whisperings. North's first definite emotion was one of intense astonishment. Were they mad? But the faces turned toward him expressed nothing beyond curiosity. His glance shifted to the official group by the table. These good-natured commonplace men who, whether they liked him or not, had invariably had a pleasant word for him, instantly took on an air of grim aloofness. Conklin, the fat jolly sheriff; the coroner; Moxlow, the prosecuting attorney in his baggy trousers and seam-shining coat,—why, he had known these men all his life, he had met them daily,—what did they mean by suspecting him! The mere suspicion was a monstrous wrong! His face reddened; he glanced about him haughtily. Now at a sign from the coroner, Conklin placed his fat hands on the arms of his chair and slowly drew himself out of its depths, then he crossed to North. The young fellow rose, and turned a pale face toward him. "John," said the sheriff gently, "I have an unpleasant duty to perform." In spite of himself the pallor deepened on North's face. "I understand," he said in a voice that was low and none too steady. During this scene Moxlow's glance had been centered on North in a fixed stare of impersonal curiosity, now he turned with quick nervous decision and snatching up his shabby hat from the table, left the room. Langham had preceded him by a few moments, escaping unobserved when there were eyes only for North. "I am ready, Conklin." And a moment later North and the sheriff passed out into the twilight. Neither spoke until they came to the court-house Square. "We'll go in this way, John!" said the sheriff in a tone that was meant to be encouraging, but failed. They ascended the court-house steps, and went down the long corridor to the rear of the building. Here they passed out through wide doors and into a narrow yard that separated the court-house from the jail. Crossing this sandy strip they entered the sheriff's office. Conklin paused; North gazed at him inquiringly. "It's too bad, John," said the sheriff. Then without further words he led North to a door opposite that by which they had entered. It opened on a long brick-paved passageway, at the end of which was a flight of narrow stairs. Ascending these North found himself in another long hall. Conklin paused before the first of three doors on the right and pushed it open. "I guess this will do, John!" he said. North stepped quickly in and glanced about him. The room held an iron bedstead, a wooden chair and, by the window which overlooked the jail yard and an alley beyond, a wash-stand with a tin basin and pitcher. "Say, ain't you going to see a lawyer?" asked the sheriff. "He may be able to get you out of this, you can't tell—" "Can you send a message to young Watt Harbison for me?" interrupted North. "Certainly, but you don't call him much of a lawyer, do you? I tell you, John, you want a good lawyer; what's the matter with Marsh Langham?" "Watt will do for the present. He can tell me the one or two things I need to know now," rejoined North indifferently. "All right, I'll send for him then." The sheriff quitted the room, closing and locking the door after him. North heard his footsteps die out in the long passage. At last he was alone! He threw himself down on the cot for manhood seemed to forsake him. "My God,—Elizabeth—" he groaned and buried his face in his hands. The law had lifted a sinister finger and leveled it at him. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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