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Master Hand

<h2>CHAPTER IX</h2> <h3>A CLUE AND A CONFERENCE</h3> A week had elapsed since the happening of the events related in the last chapter, and I sat with Littell and Van Bult in one of the private rooms of a quiet downtown restaurant, where we had been lunching together by my invitation. For some time past I had seen little or nothing of these two friends. Van Bult had been off again somewhere, and I had been too busy to look up Littell, for my whole time and attention had been given to investigation of the White case: but now being at the end of my resources I had summoned them to this gathering that I might advise with them. I must advise with somebody, and it seemed to me that these two were the most available. They were necessarily interested in the case and more or less familiar with the facts, and besides they were both cleverer than the average of men, while one of them at least was an experienced and astute lawyer. I felt, therefore, or perhaps only hoped, that where Miles and myself had come to a halt in our work from sheer inability to make further progress, these two, building on what we had done, and fresh and new to the subject, might supplement our efforts and carry them on to some definite result. During the preceding week, the detective and myself had not been idle nor had we worked altogether to no purpose, for we had secured one bit of additional evidence that seemed to open a new field for investigation, and it was this new matter with the other occurrences that led up to it that I was now submitting to my friends. The day after our interview with Mrs. Bunce, which resulted in the finding of the missing money, Miles and I had resumed our work upon the case, but from a new standpoint. After a consultation we had concluded, as he had suggested, that we must look for the motive of the crime in some object less commonplace than theft. To assume that White had been murdered for the money and that it had been abandoned almost immediately afterwards and without any apparent occasion, was too unlikely to be tenable. To find another motive for the crime, however, seemed next to impossible. If the object of the murderer was not theft, then he must have had a personal interest to subserve in the removal of White: but such an assumption involved the recognition of some grave secret in the life of White and anything of that kind was inconsistent with the life and habits of the man. I had known him long and intimately, and knew no one whom I thought in character less devious or secretive. His life had been that of any other idle man of means about town. It had not even had a serious side to it that I had ever observed, and I could not conceive of his having had an enemy who could cherish animosity, much less a design upon his life. Under these circumstances, as may be understood, it was with faint hope that I undertook the new line of work; but there was no alternative, for, as Miles had said, if I was right in my belief in Winters's innocence, there must have existed some mystery in White's life to explain his death, and if we were to save Winters, we must discover it. Yielding to the force of this argument, therefore, I had sought another interview with Benton and probed him upon every subject that could throw any light upon White's private life or associations: but further than some additional details of the intimacy with Belle Stanton, I learned, as I had anticipated, nothing of any importance. If White had either enemies or secrets Benton either had no knowledge of them or was unwilling to disclose it. In the meanwhile the detective had sought Belle Stanton and interrogated her to the same end, but with no better success. She talked very freely on the subject and apparently told all she knew, but this was little or nothing of importance. She admitted, however that for some time past, White had seemed worried and nervous, which condition had been steadily getting worse. He had also, she said, complained of not sleeping and being worried about some person or something, but he had never mentioned in her hearing any name. Failing thus with both Benton and Miss Stanton, the only two persons who seemed likely to know anything of White's private life, we next had recourse to inanimate sources. By the detective's advice, we determined to make an exhaustive search of his rooms. The authorities had, of course, already done this, but it was just possible something had been overlooked. In pursuance of this plan we had visited the premises, and thoroughly examined everything. I had even gone through the pockets of his clothes while Miles had ransacked every drawer, vase, and other receptacle that by any chance might contain anything. It had all, nevertheless, proved in vain, and we were about abandoning the work, when Miles picked up a piece of paper, a corner of which had been barely visible, protruding from under the writing desk. He glanced at it, at first indifferently, then with a closer interest, and at last took it to the window and scrutinized it under the light, while I, too impatient to wait on him, studied it at the same time over his shoulder. That which he had found was a torn bit of a letter without either address or signature, but the latter was unnecessary as I recognized the handwriting of White. The paper was about the following shape, and contained these broken words and sentences: <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/note.jpg" alt=""/></div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> We turned the sheet over, but the reverse side was blank: evidently the letter had been concluded on another page, if it were ever concluded, and all else was missing. We renewed our search, peering into every nook and corner of the room and moving the furniture, but there was nothing more. Probably the other pieces had been thrown into the waste-paper basket which stood beside the desk, and this scrap, by a lucky chance, had escaped its destination. We sent for the landlady and interrogated her as to the disposition made of the sweepings of the room. She in turn sought the hired girl, who remembered "fixing up the room" and emptying the basket the morning before White's death, but she had put the sweepings in the ash-can and they had long since been removed in the usual way. We deemed it of the greatest importance that we find the other pieces of the letter if possible, and to that end Miles had sought out the ash-man for the district, and had the dump where he unloaded his cart thoroughly searched for them, but in vain. The rest of the letter was hopelessly lost. In it we both believed was contained a clue to the mystery we were trying so hard to unravel, but we were compelled to accept the inevitable in this instance and make the most of what we had secured. It was a good deal, too, though very incomplete. It might not trace the crime to any particular individual, but at least it showed a secret in the life of the murdered man that affected him deeply and in which another had an intimate share, and it showed, further, that all was not in accord between the two. There had evidently been a bitter contest going on, for how long or what about was not disclosed, but it had existed and should be explained. I had tried to complete the lines that were mutilated, but some of them were so incomplete and susceptible of so many different interpretations that the results were not sufficiently reliable to be useful or safe to work upon. I did, however, satisfy myself that the substance of the first seven lines had been something like the following (the words in parentheses are supplied): <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> "longer, my conscience will not" (let) "me rest—I must, I will" (do) (so-) "mething about it in" (spite of) or (stead of) or (place of) "you;—If you will" (oppose) or (thwart) or (not help) "me, then I will" (ask some one) or (appeal to some one) or (confide in some one) or (tell some one) "else—We" (have been together in) "all this" </div> </div> Further than this it was useless to try to fill in the broken sentences. This much was all we had accomplished and the situation was critical. With the day set for the trial less than a week distant, I had not only failed to find definite evidence that could direct attention to any one else than the prisoner, but so far had even failed to secure the services of a lawyer to defend him. There were plenty to be had among those who made a specialty of criminal practice, but I did not consider such qualified for the service: the best of them were so well known in that capacity that their methods and arguments were received with incredulity by the average juror: while of those who were engaged in civil practice, I found none of such parts as I sought inclined to take the case. Whoever defended Winters would have an uphill fight to make. The prosecution would be supported by the press and by public sentiment and the jurors would probably take their seats in the box with every disposition to deal fairly by the prisoner, but with an underlying conviction that he was guilty and the trial but a legal formality. To successfully combat such odds, to even command a serious hearing, would require not only a lawyer of ability and standing, but a man possessed of the quality of personal magnetism: for it is this that is most potent in saving desperate cases. To find that man, however, seemed next to hopeless. Such, then, was the status of things at the hour of which I write, when having submitted the facts and the difficulties, together with my theories of the case, to my companions, I sat waiting expectantly for some expression from them on the subject: but there ensued only discouraging silence. Littell sat tipped back in his chair, smiling a little to himself and reflectively watching the smoke curl slowly up from the cigar held daintily between his fingers: while Van Bult, leaning forward, contemplated the tips of his shoes, elevated apparently for the purpose, and whistled a plaintive tune. My position was not an agreeable one. I felt my friends were trying to determine in their own minds just how best to deal with a man whom they considered suffering from temporary mental aberration, and as I waited for the decision, the silence seemed to grow thick around that melancholy ditty of Van Bult's. At last, unable longer to stand it, I said with sharp interrogation: "Well!" It had the desired effect, and relieved the situation, at least for me. Van Bult ceased whistling and Littell put his cigar back in his mouth and both looked at me. "I really don't see, Dallas," Van Bult said at length, "why you are bothering yourself about this man's fate. It cannot differ so much from many other cases you have come in contact with." "It does, though," I answered, "because Winters and I are old friends, were college boys together, because by White's will I am left in charge of all the means he has, and above all, because I don't believe him guilty." "Those are good reasons," he replied, in a more serious tone, "particularly the last one, and if I can help you, I will do so." Then he turned to Littell and asked him if he also thought Winters was innocent. "I am inclined to think so," Littell answered thoughtfully. My pulse jumped with delight, but again subsided at Van Bult's discouraging response. "Well, I confess," he said, "I cannot quite take that view of it: it seems to me that Dallas has been creating doubts out of his own inner consciousness, but I am willing to assume he is correct for the sake of his case, as he has given it more consideration than I have: and now what is to be done?" "There is unfortunately little time for anything at this late hour," I replied, "except to try and find the right lawyer, and put him in possession of what facts and materials we have for the defence. We can hardly expect," I continued, "to secure any important additional testimony within the few days that remain to us before the trial." Van Bult studied over my words and then, looking from Littell to me, said: "You say you have tried and failed to secure such a lawyer as you deem necessary: one with reputation, ability, and personal magnetism, I think you said." "Yes," I acquiesced, "that is what is needed." "If that is all," he then continued, with an amused twinkle in his eye, "it seems to me we have not far to go for our man!" and he put his hand significantly on Littell's shoulder. "Here he is," he said, "ready made to hand. A lawyer possessing all your requirements, and with faith in the innocence of the client besides!" I accepted the suggestion with joy, and was only surprised that it had not occurred to me, but Littell was evidently taken aback and none too well pleased. "No, no! Van, it cannot be," he said, "it is impossible," and he got up and walked to the window and stood looking out with his back to us. "You know, Dick," he continued, "that I have not practised in ten years, and I am getting old and rusty, and unfit for such a great responsibility: you are the proper man, not I, and you had better resign from the District Attorney's office and take the case yourself." "I cannot," I answered. "Such a proceeding would be unprecedented, and besides I am too deeply interested in the case to handle it as dispassionately as is necessary." Van Bult, who had been listening to our colloquy with evident amusement, here interrupted: "If I were a lawyer, I would take it myself," he said; "but as I am not, it remains for one of you to do so, and as you cannot agree about it, I am going to cast the deciding vote. Will you both consent to abide by my decision?" There was no other alternative that I could perceive, and much as I feared his choice might fall upon me, I said I would do so. "And you, Littell," he asked. The latter hesitated and resumed his seat before he answered, but finally assented. Then said Van Bult: "I choose Littell." I gave a sigh of relief. Winters's case was at last entrusted to good hands and the wisdom of my judgment in confiding in my friends was confirmed, but when my first selfish feeling of satisfaction had passed, I realized we were asking a great deal of Littell. He was no longer a young man and, as I knew, all his tastes and feelings must revolt against the nature of the task we had put upon him, and I looked over with some sense of regret for my action, but he sat there serenely smoking his cigar, and sipping his brandy as though nothing unusual had occurred. With his never-failing philosophy he had already resigned himself to the inevitable and whatever misgivings he may have had, they were evidently not going to affect his course from then on. I felt like a man from whom a great load had been lifted. Not only had I found some one to share the burden I had been staggering under for two weeks and which was daily growing heavier, but it was that one in whom before all others I placed the greatest confidence. It was Littell who recalled me from my abstraction to the consideration of the serious business we had in hand. Looking at his watch, he said: "It is four o'clock and I am ready to begin my work. You, Van!" he continued, "cannot be of any assistance just now, but Dick can take me to my client, for I want to talk with him and hear his story." "Do you wish to go now?" I asked. "There is no time to be lost and as you know I have no other serious duties to occupy me," he answered. Van Bult gazed at him with evident appreciation of the sacrifice he was making. "It is good of you, Littell," he said, "and I fancy the world will think none the less of you for the sacrifice you are making for a poor fellow who is nothing to you." Littell shook his head impatiently; he was never a man who liked compliments. "I have undertaken it, and that is all there is to it," he said. "Well," Van Bult replied, "we won't say anything more about it, but before I leave you, let me offer a suggestion that does not seem to have occurred to Dallas with all his theorizing." "What is that?" I asked. "Only that it seems to me if you be right in your opinion that Winters is not guilty, and the criminal some person who was involved in trouble with White or bore ill-will to him, that in such case the most likely person from whom to seek information should be Belle Stanton." He paused, but seeing that we were expectantly waiting for him to go on, continued: "She must know what person, if any, was likely to have left the ulster at her house, that is if she did not do so herself. She probably had a key to White's room. If he had a secret she more likely than any one else shared it with him; and if his affections for her were waning or straying, she could well have felt both the spirit of hate and revenge. 'Hell knows no fury like a woman scorned,'" he finished, impressively. "All you say is true," I answered, "and most of the arguments you have advanced occurred to me, and for that reason, as I have told you, I had Miles interrogate her closely, and you know the result; he believes she knows nothing of the murder." "I believe she does, nevertheless," he replied. "You are wrong, Van," Littell put in, "for, even admitting the force of your arguments, the woman must have been mad to have taken the ulster home with her after the deed; she would sooner have dropped it on the street than have left such tell-tale evidence on her own premises." Van Bult shrugged his shoulders as he replied: "You men overreach yourselves with your refinements of reasoning, and attribute to criminals red-handed from crime the same cleverness that you display yourselves when calmly analyzing their acts. A woman who has just committed a murder is apt to lose her mental balance and to do many irresponsible things. I do not mean to say, however," he continued, "that she is guilty, for it still looks to me as though Winters were, but if you and Dallas are right in your belief in his innocence, then you will find that it is through that woman you must trace the criminal. If White did not leave the ulster at her house, she did or knows who did!" and giving us no time to argue further with him, he left us. Littell and myself, without continuing the discussion, then took our way to the Tombs to see Winters. It was not a pleasant visit to make and I would willingly have escaped it, but I had to comply with Littell's wish. When we reached the building and had been admitted, I introduced my companion to the warden, explaining that he was to defend Winters. The warden looked him over with interest, saying as he shook hands: "Not an easy job of yours, I fear, sir"; and then addressing me: "You will not find the prisoner looking any better since your last visit." "Is he any worse than he was?" I inquired; "for I had expected to find him improved by his rest and confinement." "Yes," he replied; "he is in a bad way, I fear." When Winters made his appearance, I appreciated the meaning of the warden's statements. He had grown pale and thinner since his confinement and seemed weaker. Of course the immediate effects of dissipation had disappeared, but behind them they had left the evidence of a man really ill. He recognized me with evident pleasure, but showed little interest in Littell even after I had explained the occasion of his visit. "It is no use," he said, "I can see by the papers that everybody thinks I am guilty." "But I don't!" said Littell promptly. "I feel sure you are not guilty and that is why I am going to defend you." The strong confident tones of Littell acted like a tonic on the man. He braced up and seemed to shake off much of his despondency. "And you have read all about it too?" he asked. "Yes," Littell said, "and I am here now to hear the truth about it from you, so tell me everything." Winters then repeated carefully his whole story as he had told it to me. It differed in no particular from the previous recital, and satisfied me more than ever of his innocence. Littell listened closely and when he had finished asked him, in a conversational way, many questions about details; questions that seemed natural and innocent in themselves, and which were promptly and freely answered, but questions that, I felt, would have confounded and tripped up a guilty man or an untruthful one. When the interview was concluded and we were on our way uptown, Littell said to me: "That man is starving for hope and sympathy, for freedom and sunlight. He is innocent, too, Dick! and we must save him." I concurred heartily in his opinion; "And what further can I do to help you?" I asked. "Nothing more just now, I think," he answered. "There is too little time left for you to take up any new lines of investigation. We will devote ourselves to thoroughly digesting and mastering the facts we have so that we may make the most of them at the trial." I assented, and with my arm locked in his we walked the rest of our way engaged in earnest discussion of the defence. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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