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Master Hand

<h2>CHAPTER VII</h2> <h3>AN EVENING AT THE CLUB</h3> Upon the conclusion of the hearing I left at once and, avoiding any chance of interruption, went directly to my rooms. Once there I pulled my chair up to the fire, lighted my pipe, and sat down to think it all over. If I were going to work intelligently upon this case I must understand it, and if I meant to proceed upon the theory that the accused was innocent and try to establish that fact, I must have good reason for such course. Hasty conclusions would not do. They must be deliberate and be logically deduced from the evidence. I realized that I was now in possession of sufficient facts to draw some conclusions if only, tentative ones, and I felt, indeed, that there was great doubt if any further light would be thrown upon the case before the trial, so that I might as well study the situation as it was. The police believed they had established their case against Winters and all their future efforts would be directed against him. If, therefore, his conviction was to be avoided, it would most likely have to be through such analysis of facts arrayed against him as should demonstrate the possibility of another theory of murder and not by direct evidence of his innocence, for such would probably not be forthcoming. Could I do this? Would an analysis of the facts and testimony afford the opportunity? I could but try. My thoughts were in confusion, and I was unable for a time to direct them or to clearly define for contemplation the different elements in the case. After a while, however, as the personalities of the different witnesses faded from my mind and the vivid impression I had brought away from the scene of the court-room grew dim, I succeeded in concentrating my attention on the subject in the abstract. I now concluded to review the whole case and to determine upon what, if any, reasonable theories Winters could be innocent. The strength of the case against him was plain. The Inspector's method of procedure had been such as to present it strongly and allow of no part being overlooked; and I recognized also that the evidence had probably all been true and that any effort to reach a different conclusion would have to be premised upon an admission of his facts and be made consistent with them. I had set myself a hard task, but its very difficulties only incited me to greater effort. While the evidence against Winters was very strong it was not conclusive. This much I felt, and I, therefore, meant to proceed upon the theory of his innocence. The facts were that he had been at White's house that night and that he had possession of one of the bills Van Bult had left on the table, but it did not necessarily follow from them that he had killed White. He might have taken the money, while he slept, and without disturbing him. Such an hypothesis was consistent at the same time with the facts and with Winters's innocence. Such being the case why should he not be innocent? These two facts, his presences at the house and possession of the bill, were in reality all that had actually been proved against him, although as the evidence had been presented at the hearing, it had seemed almost conclusive of his guilt. Having reached this conclusion it still remained necessary, in order to make his innocence a reasonable hypothesis, to demonstrate in some way that some one else had probably been there that night also; and thus make possible another theory of the murder. There was one fact in the case that I thought did suggest—sufficiently at least for argument—the presence of a second person on the scene. Van Bult had left four fifty-dollar bills on the table, and of these only one had been traced to Winters, and the remaining three were missing and unaccounted for. If it could be demonstrated with reasonable certainty that Winters had not taken them, it must follow that some one else had done so, and the presence of this other party would thus be established. Under these conditions, until such person could be found, and his innocence shown, the chances of Winters's guilt or innocence of the murder would be equally divided. Of course I recognized the fact that Winters might have taken them all, but it seemed very unlikely. It was clear from the evidence that between the time the officer saw him leaving the vestibule and the time he rejoined his friend in the saloon on Sixth Avenue but a very brief period could have elapsed, not enough under any ordinary circumstances to account for the disposal of a hundred and fifty dollars. There was no suggestion that he had spent any while with his friend before they visited the gambling house, and he had lost but one of the bills there. If, then, he had secured more than one of them, he must have kept the balance in his possession; but to admit this was to conclude that he had abandoned his gaming while he had plenty of money in his pocket, which was highly improbable in a man of Winters's habits and temperament; such was not the way with his kind. I concluded, therefore, that it was not unreasonable to assume that he had not taken all the bills and that some one else had probably been on the scene that night, in which case the police must either negative this assumption or find that other person, and establish his innocence, before they could with any certainty establish Winters's guilt. At least so I reasoned. As I further reflected, however, there occurred to me another explanation of the disappearance of the money that did not involve the intervention of a third party. White had apparently gone out that night. Why should he not have disposed in some way of all but the one bill during his absence? It was possible, just as possible as any other hypothesis, and would undoubtedly suggest itself to the prosecution when the question arose. There would still, of course, remain some doubt as to the true explanation of their disappearance; and every doubt, no matter how small, was a cloud upon the State's case; but I felt it would be insufficient to weigh against the other evidence unless corroborated by additional facts. I was thus compelled to look further for the evidence I sought. The only other tangible factor in the case that seemed to suggest in any way the presence of a third party was the ulster. My former theory that its absence from the scene—since it had not been taken by Winters—proved the presence of a third party, failed now since it had evidently been worn out by White himself, and apparently left by him at Belle Stanton's; but this last conclusion I was not yet quite prepared to admit. Of course, Belle Stanton's home was a place where White might well have left it, had it been likely that he would have left it anywhere; but I thought it highly improbable that any man would have walked back nearly two blocks on such a rainy night, and in evening dress, without an overcoat; that is, unless he was out of his mind, and White was certainly not that when I had parted from him less than an hour earlier. Furthermore, I reasoned, if he had done so his clothes must have shown the effect of exposure to the weather and as far as I recalled, they were immaculate when I saw him the following morning. On the whole I was not ready to admit that White had left the ulster there. Assuming, therefore, that he had not done so, I turned my thoughts to the consideration of some other means by which it could have gotten there. It must have been taken out by some one with intimate knowledge of White's habits and private life, and also by some one having access to his several establishments, to at once secure the ulster and dispose of it in a place so suggestive of the action of White. The very conditions of the problem suggested the answer. I knew of but one man who possessed the knowledge and opportunities required. That man was Benton. With the recognition of this fact came a very disagreeable sensation. I was anxious to establish Winters's innocence, but I recoiled from the thought of hunting down another man in his place, especially when I realized that while the conclusion of my reasoning might raise a doubt as to Winters's guilt, it was entirely insufficient to do more than cast an awful suspicion upon Benton. I sat long in reflection over the situation. I was at first inclined to abandon the whole thing, but then I recognized the obligation to fulfil a duty I had undertaken, especially since it had disclosed a theory of the murder that might be the means of saving an innocent man's life. Could I, to spare the feelings or even to spare the reputation of another man who might be either innocent or guilty, leave Winters to the fate I felt must overtake him if I did not interfere? My duty was plain; miserable as was the task, I must go on with it to a conclusion one way or the other, but I determined that so long as I could, I would pursue the investigation alone, and thus spare Benton trouble and mortification if it should develop that he was innocent. Time enough to submit it to the police when I had something more tangible to go upon than mere speculation based on the fitting of acts to opportunities. Furthermore, I knew the police would not be grateful to me for upsetting or even casting doubt upon their well-worked-up case, and would depart upon the investigation of a new clue with very little enthusiasm for the work. At this point my reflections were interrupted by a servant who came to tell me that Benton would like to see me. I almost jumped from my chair. What irony of fate had brought this man—the one I wished least of all to see—to me at this moment? I felt guilty at the mention of his name. How should I treat him? What should I say to him? At first I was inclined to refuse to see him, but then I reflected that it was as well to have an interview with him now as another time. I need ask him no direct questions, do nothing to alarm him, but could listen to what he might have to say. The interview being unsolicited, on my part, he could have no idea of my suspicion and might therefore be led to talk freely. My determination thus taken, I told the servant, who had been patiently waiting on me, to bring Benton to my room. By the time he appeared I had composed myself and was prepared to take advantage of any opportunity that might offer to further my investigation. On entering he was so eager to impart his news that barely waiting for me to signify my readiness to hear him, he began telling it in a hurried and nervous manner. "I came, Mr. Dallas," he said, "because after I saw at the trial this afternoon that the police had caught Winters and that he was the man, I thought I ought to tell you at once what I know about it. I would have told it when I testified, but did not think of him at all then. Mr. Winters," he continued, "was always coming to Mr. White's rooms, at all times of the day and often late in the evening, too, and he always wanted money, and Mr. White always gave it to him; sometimes a good deal, and sometimes a little, just according to what he had with him; and he had generally been drinking, more or less, and sometimes he would beg and cry, and sometimes, when Mr. White didn't have as much money to give him as he wanted, he would get mad, and say it was all his money by right anyhow, and that Mr. White had as good as robbed him of it and such like; but Mr. White would never say much to him, but just give him the money and be kind to him, and tell him to come again when he needed more; and indeed it seemed to me he was always coming, sir, and it used to bother Mr. White, I am sure, for he seemed worried and out of sorts after Mr. Winters had been there." He paused for a moment and then went on. "That is all I wanted to say, but I thought I ought to tell you, sir. I tried to see you after the trial, but you got away too soon, and so I thought I would wait until you got through your dinner, and had time to see me. So I came around now." He had rattled on till he was out of breath, and now stood in some embarrassment waiting for what I might have to say. I sat looking at him. I was puzzled as to his character. Either the man was simple and straightforward in nature and worked up at the moment to a high pitch of nervous and pleasurable excitement over the murder, as is apt to be the case with his class; or else he was a worse man and a deeper one than I had conceived him to be. "Sit down, Benton," I said at last, pointing to a chair opposite me; "what you have told me is of much importance, and I want to talk to you further about it." "Yes, sir," he said, and sat down obediently. I felt I had a delicate task in hand. I must on no account alarm him or in any way arouse his suspicion, and yet the opportunity of questioning him was too good to lose. "It is very important," I continued, "that I should learn all I can of Mr. White's habits. I knew him well, of course, but as his servant, you knew more about him than any one else. How long, now, had you lived with him?" "More than a year," he answered. "Did you know this Miss Stanton, who testified to-day?" I continued. "Yes, sir, I did; he had been going with her ever since I knew him." "Do you know whether he was in the habit of visiting her house often late in the evening?" "I think so, sir, but I do not know just how often. I used to take notes for him to her house, and sometimes she would come to his rooms and take supper with him." "Did she have any key to his rooms?" was my next question. He said he did not think so, because she always rang for admission when he was there. I inquired then if he knew of any one who had keys to White's room. He said he did not think any one had except, probably, the landlady and himself. "I think," I said, "you testified that you found the door unlatched when you went to the rooms the morning of Mr. White's death. How do you mean it was unlatched?" "I mean," he answered, "that the catch was so fixed that it could be opened from the outside without a key. This was hardly ever the case that I remember, and never before over night." I asked him how the catch was fixed when he left, and he answered that he could not say because the door was open, and Mr. Davis still in the room. "And you did not go back that night?" I asked. "No, sir," he answered promptly, "certainly not. You saw me going home yourself." "So I did," I admitted; "and how about the front door when you left, was that unfastened, too?" He said that he had closed the door after him when he went out, but did not know whether it was fixed to open from the outside or not as he had not tried it, but that it was fastened when he returned in the morning because he had to use his key to get in. "Had Winters a key?" I asked. "No," he admitted, "I am very sure he hadn't." "Then in case the door was locked," I said, "how could he have gotten in?" He looked puzzled for a moment, but brightened up, and suggested that Mr. White might have let him in, as he never refused him admission. "But in that case," I suggested, "Mr. White would have been awake and he was apparently asleep when he was killed." He had nothing to say to this, except to suggest rather doubtfully that Mr. White might have laid down and gone to sleep again while Winters was there. "Do you think that likely?" I inquired. "No," he said, "I do not." "Then," I continued, "why do you feel so sure that Winters killed him?" After looking at me in a surprised way, he asked: "If he didn't kill him, sir, who did?" I admitted I did not know, but suggested that we ought not to be too hasty in our conclusions. "Well, sir," he answered, "perhaps he didn't, but everybody thinks he did, and I think so too." I felt that the examination was at an end, and that I had not made very much of it. If Benton was guilty he had successfully avoided giving evidence of it, and if he was innocent, then his attitude was a pretty fair sample of the estimate the average man or juror would be apt to place upon my conjectures and theories. "You may go," I told him; "I am much obliged to you for coming, and you must tell me anything more you may learn or that occurs to you about the case." "I will, sir. Good-night, sir," he answered, and went out promptly and quietly, like the well-trained servant he had always been. If it had not been for my horrible suspicions I should have liked to engage him myself. A man such as Benton is a great comfort to a bachelor—that is, under ordinary circumstances—but not when you think he may have murdered his last master. When he was gone I looked at the clock, and saw it was after eleven. I had been in my room with my thoughts and with Benton for three hours, and I could not say that either companionship had been altogether pleasant. I determined to go downstairs now and see what was going on. It was the time of the evening when the club was likely to liven up with men returning from the theatre or other places of amusement for an hour of cards or gossip, and I hoped to find diversion in their society. As I descended the stairs, Ned Davis was standing in the hall, and he immediately locked his arms in mine and began talking of the case. "Extraordinary, isn't it," he said, "that Winters should have done it? Awful clever of the police, too, to ferret it out so soon, don't you think so?" I was annoyed at this unhesitating assumption of Winters's guilt, and somewhat out of humor also, I have no doubt, and I asked him sharply: "How do you know Winters did it?" "Why, you haven't any doubt about it, have you?" he asked. "Certainly," I said, "it isn't proven yet." "Well, if it isn't proven, I never saw a case that was." "Look here, fellows!" he called out to a lot of men who were seated nearby talking and who looked up inquiringly at his hail; "Dallas don't believe Winters did it." I realized at once that a man holding my office could not afford to be quoted as an exponent of Winters's innocence, and therefore disclaimed any such expression of opinion. "No," I said; "I merely decline to accept his guilt as a fact until he shall be convicted." "That's all right, Dallas," one of them answered, "we all understand you mustn't express an opinion under the circumstances of course, but we all know what you really think, and we hope you will go in and convict the fellow quickly. Sit down and take a drink with us, we were just talking about the case." I declined the invitation, pleading some excuse, and leaving Davis to accept it, walked on to the billiard-room, in the hope of escaping the subject in a game, but it was of no avail, for there, too, it held the floor. As I entered the room I observed collected at one end a group, the personnel of which I at once recognized. It was made up of a class of men such as are to be found in every club, men to whose words attaches no responsibility and who are accustomed to express themselves on all subjects, particularly sensational ones, in exaggerated language. They are of the sort that become especially enthusiastic over a jockey, a prize-fighter, or a detective, and on any provocation will indulge in flights of hero-worship. In such a clique are always to be found certain leaders who assert themselves and their opinions in aggressive tones and to whom the others render admiring homage. It was so now; one of the Solons was on his feet engaged in an argumentative review of the evidence in the case to an admiring audience. The tables were deserted, except for an old gentleman, who always played his "evening game for a little exercise before bed," but who now stood disconsolately leaning on his cue while his partner hung absorbed over the group of listeners. "Now see here, Dallas," said the speaker on observing me, "wasn't that about the finest worked-up case you ever saw? Here was an instance where the police had absolutely nothing to go on but some missing money and a glimpse at a man peering in at a window on a dark night, and yet within forty-eight hours they run down their man and have him safe in jail. There is no doubt of it, we have the finest police force in the world, and I always have said so. That man Dalton is a wonder." "Yes," chimed in another before I had time to assent or dissent, "and what an eye he has; it pierces you like an eagle's when he looks at you. He understands his business." "Indeed he does," the first speaker continued, "and he leaves nothing undone. Did you read the testimony in the 'Extra' this evening? He has seized and exhausted each clue systematically. He hasn't left a loophole of escape for Winters." To which ultimatum, all assented heartily. "So you think there is no doubt of his guilt?" a mild little man, anxious for a word, next ventured to ask in a deferential tone. "Doubt of his guilt!" repeated the first speaker, in a tone of pitying indulgence; "why, man, the case is all over." "Of course, the evidence proves that," the little man hastened to explain apologetically, "I only asked to get your opinion." "That's all right," continued the speaker, mollified; "I am glad you asked. There can be but one opinion. Winters was a bad lot anyhow and bound to come to a bad ending." "How soon do you suppose he will be tried?" he added, turning to me again. I said I did not know, but I thought very soon. At which they all expressed satisfaction. Then he began once more: "There is nothing like swift and sure justice," he announced, "and there now remains in the Winters case only the formality of a trial. The work of the Inspector has left nothing more to be found out." He would apparently have gone on in this strain indefinitely, had he not been interrupted by Littell, who had come in unobserved, and now quietly asked the speaker's opinion as to what the Inspector might have done with the other three fifty-dollar bills that had been left in the room. "And pray what has the Inspector to do with them?" was the rejoinder. "I don't know, I'm sure," Littell answered, "but you said the Inspector had exhausted every clue and left nothing more to be found out and I thought perhaps that if the tracing of one bill was sufficient to convict a man, the whereabouts of the other three might be of importance, too. When found, you see," he continued, "they might convict three more men." A dead silence followed this explanation, and I fear I rejoiced maliciously over the evident discomfiture of the crowd while at the same time I was gratified by the apparent confirmation of my own views. "Then you don't think Winters guilty?" some one timidly asked, after a while. I listened eagerly for the answer. "I didn't say that," Littell replied, "I only wanted to find out if there might not possibly be something that the Inspector did not know." He refused to be drawn into further discussion, rather suggesting by his manner that he did not think it worth while; and after an awkward pause, the party moved across the room to a more congenial atmosphere, whence in a few minutes I heard them with recovered assurance again telling one another all about it. Evidently side remarks were not in order, particularly if they savored of incredulity. After they had gone I took the opportunity to ask Littell if he thought the missing bills a serious defect in the case. "I think it is important that they should be found, if possible," he said, "though I doubt if it would alter much the present status of the case. I only suggested their absence to these men, to show them how little they really knew about it, and that the police are not infallible." I turned away disappointed: even Littell did not consider the missing bills of much real importance. Their absence might do to juggle with as a lesson to superficial talkers, but from a practical standpoint, it was immaterial. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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