Chapter XIII: Part VII (2)

(A burst of yells and imprecations from the men in the room.) “Don’t give us any more of that!” the Inspector went on as soon as it was quiet. “Just the idea out of your head that you can put that kind of birdseed over on us! From now on no more trances and rappings and slates and the whole bag of tricks! We know these games—every one of ’em, an’ they don’t go here! _They don’t go here, Mrs. Belden!_ Now you tell me straight, where did you get that information about the witness on Collamore Street?”

“I didn’t get it at all.”

“You mean you told them all that—told them just where to find a man—the very street—the very number—the very apartment—the very pipe he smoked—and didn’t know any of those things yourself?”

“Oh yes—it’s so strange, isn’t it! When I’m in a——”

“None o’ that now!” (From the Inspector, speaking above a general murmur of protest from the police and detectives.)

Mrs. Belden smilingly held her peace.

The Inspector, McCurran, paused a moment in order to increase the impressiveness of his next question.

“Mrs. Belden,” he began, in a lower voice and with overpowering solemnity, “do you realize the position in which you are placing yourself by your refusal to answer this question?”

“Why, I’m afraid you don’t like it at all!”

“Not _like_ it, madam! I can assure you that it’s a great deal worse for you than NOT LIKING IT! We are compelled to conclude that for some reason known only to yourself you are SHIELDING the person or persons WHO ARE GUILTY OF THIS FIENDISH CRIME!”

“Dear me! Why, who do you think it is?”

“You apparently have no idea what such a thing may mean to you!”

“No sir.” (She was so interested that she was leaving her smile alone to get along the best it could without her.) “I’m almost sure I haven’t!”

“A person who shields one guilty of murder is an ACCESSORY AFTER THE FACT!”

“Mercy! Am I—am I one of those?”

“It certainly begins to look like it, madam!”

“Why how _perfectly_ dreadful!”

“Now before you’re arrested and tried on that charge we’ll give you one more chance to clear yourself! You understand—one more chance and that’s the last!”

“Well that’s—I’m sure you’re very kind! Is it something you want me to do?”

“That’s what it is, madam, and your only chance is to DO IT NOW! Tell us where you got your information about the witness on Collamore Street!”

“But how can I when I didn’t get it anywhere? It was whoever was in control that had it. That man there who read it said Cynthia was the name.”

“Well then, where did Cynthia get it?”

“Oh, well,” (the smile spreading) “I’d like to know that myself!”

And so it went on hour after hour, Mrs. Belden cheerful and unmoved, her questioners more and more wearied; bored beyond words by her dense and unshakable simplicity and maddened by her invulnerable smile; until finally they had to give it up and tell her to go home. Smiling pleasantly, she thanked them and said she’d enjoyed it very much.

Though it seemed that some mysterious person or persons—dead or alive—were framing Augustus Findlay, the Grand Jury had indicted him for murder, and the evidence against him was seemingly overwhelming.

As for Findlay himself, his state of mind was pitiable. He had no doubt whatever that he had fired the shots that killed Charles Haworth, and Mr. Forbes (of Houston, Forbes & McAllister), the Defense Attorney, had all he could do to keep the frightened wretch from confessing in the hope of having mercy shown him. A prospect of life imprisonment gave him no uneasiness; what appalled him was the thought of death. And it certainly looked black for him as the day set for his trial drew near.

Then late one night the Associated Press took a hand—or rather let us say extended a hand—from the wind-swept reaches of Chicago. Mr. Harcourt Sidney was a well-established materializing medium doing business in that city. Through his efforts and ministrations some remarkable spirit phenomena had taken place, and he had a choice and well-to-do clientele—the well-to-do feature being by far the more important one to him. This man Sidney was not only clever in the line of materialization, but he was a trumpet medium as well, and many of his other-world communicants appeared to find this an assistance in getting through.

In the practice of his profession, as Mr. Sidney conducted it, there would be specially arranged private meetings at the houses of those belonging to the circle; and Mr. Sidney, securely tied into a plain kitchen chair with stout ropes, and his thumbs and fingers wound with easily breakable thread, would bring—or let us say persuade to come—from the spirit world, many friends or relatives of those present, so that they seemed to be actually there in the darkened room, able to converse freely in their own voices, and often with other characteristics of their earthly existence easily distinguishable.

These sittings or séances were entirely private, and I don’t have to tell you that no admission fee was charged. But if any of those who attended felt that their enjoyment had been of quite unusual dimensions either in the way of witnessing absorbingly interesting phenomena or in having departed friends or relatives actually speak to them, sometimes even allowing shadowy glimpses of themselves like faint half-luminous clouds to be seen shimmering about in the darkness, they were at liberty to send to Mr. Sidney any little token of esteem that they felt like offering.

Quiet and select little spiritistic gatherings like this were started all over the country, when the extraordinary revival of interest in such things came along carrying some very big names at the top of it. And I want to tell you that there’s millions of dollars coming to the people owning these names if a commission on the business they brought in for the mediums could be collected.

At these private sittings, with Mr. Sidney in the chair, so to speak, not only the friends and relatives of those present, but also quite a number of distant acquaintances, or even just fellow townspeople, would occasionally drop in; a few came at nearly every meeting for a bit of a chat. It was almost as if they enjoyed talking things over with their mundane fellow citizens—and for all I know they did.

One of these few who made an occasional spirit call, was a man well known not only to everyone in that circle, but to nearly everybody in the United States as well; he had been a renowned—you might almost say world-famous—detective, a great part of whose life had been spent in Chicago. A most entertaining talker he was, and seemed to enjoy the opportunity of conversing with those he had left on earth when he passed over, as the saying is.

At one of these private séances on an evening along about the time I’ve just been speaking of, they’d been having visits from various dead ones (dead in an earthly sense I mean) for upwards of an hour, when the medium announced the approach of this well-known man, and in a moment the trumpet was seized in a strong grasp and a visit with him of more than usual interest followed. Some one in the circle alluded to the Haworth case in Boston, which had become, by this time, owing to the unusual occurrences connected with it, quite the talk wherever you went.

Then a man on the other side of the circle asked Mr. P. (which is what we’ll call this spirit) if he’d be willing to say anything about that singular affair. “Certainly singular,” he said, talking through the trumpet, which made his voice loud and clear; “an’ I notice that several people on this side have got excited about it.”

“But can’t you give us anything about the case yourself?” was the next question. And I’ll tell you beforehand that his answer was in the morning edition of every newspaper in the country, as well as Canada. It was about like this as I got it from the papers.

“Well now,” Mr. P. objected at first, “I can’t say I like talking about that. What would I do, butting in?”

But many in the circle now began begging him to give them just a hint of what his opinion was—what he said to be treated as strictly confidential.

“Well,” he finally said, “if you’ll just consider it a private matter between ourselves an’ leave my name out of it, I’ll say this: While I have every respect for those Boston boys, they’ve got it doped out wrong. I didn’t see the thing done, but as soon as I heard about it I went over there an’ took a look around. The trouble is they’ve got it set in their minds the shots were fired from outside. Everything was fixed to look that way, but, heavenly Jerusalem! that’s what’s the matter with it—_it was fixed_! They’d ought to take a look at those front window blinds no matter if the vines _are_ growing over ’em. You can do a great deal with vines if you give your mind to it. Also they’ll find a bullet struck one o’ the elms out in front. If they want it they can get it about fifteen feet up. The feller was firing high, whoever he was.”

That was all Mr. P. would say on the subject, except that you couldn’t expect any sort of good work in these days with a pack of yelping newspaper hounds worrying the life out of you and giving away anything they could get hold of so the man you were after could act accordingly. After a few anecdotes about how they kept things quiet in his day, on the principle that when your man was working in the dark against you you ought to be let alone to do the same by him, he said good night and was gone. Instantly the meeting broke up, and everybody was buzzing about. Two or three jumped into a car and made for the Loop District to talk it over with a couple of managing editors they knew, and the conclusion quickly reached was to transmit the message to the Boston police and also let the Associated Press have it—this without making use of Mr. P.’s name. The result was that it went out to the press as a Mediumistic Message from a Celebrated Detective.

It’s hardly necessary to state that the reporters at headquarters wanted to know this and that, and what you might call a press rush was made for Torrington Road. But the police were already making an investigation, and the newspaper men were kept out of the grounds until it was finished.

* * * * *

The outside blinds to the front window of the room on the left—which were flat against the wall on each side—had the appearance of having been undisturbed for years. Tangled Virginia creeper grew so densely over them that they could hardly be found. Yet when it came to the work of clearing these vines away it was discovered that hardly any effort was required. The blinds had evidently been opened as wide as possible and the vines hung over them.

When brought to view, these shutters told their gruesome tale. Two smashing bullet holes far up near the top where no one standing on the ground outside could have reached,—one splintering a slat of the left-hand shutter, the other cutting a fairly clean hole through the frame of the one on the right, and both giving unmistakable evidence of having come through from the inside (of course when the shutters were closed) submitted their silent evidence.

The murderer, whoever he was, had evidently failed to think of the blinds until it was too late, and they were shattered by the bullets that had killed Charles Haworth. Then, with no time to otherwise dispose of them, the mass of vines had been torn away from the wall on each side until the shutters could be opened back against it, and the vines then pulled over them. All this was a trick to make it appear that the shots were fired from outside the front window—or at any rate to avoid anything that conflicted with that idea. Again that mysterious framing for the conviction of Findlay.

In either event the shattered window blinds and one of the bullets found embedded in the trunk of an elm tree a few feet away, plainly indicated that Findlay could not have fired the shots, even though he may have thought he did.

Added to this was the significant fact that the detectives had been unable to find any trace of a bullet on the walls at the inner end of the room, where they should have been if fired from outside the front window. The District Attorney was obliged to enter a _nolle prosse_, and that was the end of it.

Augustus Findlay was a free man.

* * * * *

His Attorney, Mr. Archibald Forbes, was waiting for him in the corridor, and with a muttered “Come along, quick!” hurried him out to a taxi. The windows of this vehicle were covered with newspapers pasted to the inside, and a man with a heavy and obtrusive jaw was seated within.

When the door was opened and Augustus saw this man, he hesitated, but Mr. Forbes shoved him aboard and got in after him. The instant the door closed, the taxi dashed down the street. The three men were shaken and tumbled about as they rattled on at what, to Findlay, appeared to be breakneck speed. The papers pasted to the windows prevented his seeing where they were going.

It was something like half an hour before the machine stopped.

“Be careful!” warned Mr. Forbes in a hoarse whisper. “We get out here and you’ve got to keep between us! If they find out we’ve got you away, they’ll nab you!”

“What is it—what are you——”

“Sh!” warned the lawyer, impressively.

The two men ran across the walk, Augustus between them, and as they did so the door of the house before which the taxi had stopped was opened from the inside, and they dashed madly up the steps and plunged in, the door being instantly closed after them.

It was a vacant house and without furniture of any kind. Findlay was taken to a dark room in the basement where coal had been kept. It contained bins and piles of rubbish which could be sat upon in an extremity.

“You going to do something to me?” Findlay managed finally to stammer out.

“Shut your mouth!” from the man with the jaw.

“Now listen to me,” began Mr. Forbes in a low voice. “I got you off by a fluke, but they’ll be on to it in an hour or two. Mr. Sugden here’s a Department detective and he’ll get you by the police to-night and put you on a train. Also he’s got a wad of money for you—subscribed by friends. Now I’m done with you! I said I’d get you off and by God! I’ve done it! But if they ever get you again you’re finished—remember that!” Having said which Mr. Forbes went up stairs and left the house.

Augustus stood silent. After a time he roused himself and glanced about. His eyes fell on Mr. Sugden and a pathetic look came into them.

“Say,” (his voice trembling) “you look like a decent sport—that might help a feller out.”

“What the hell do ye want? Ain’t I get’n’ ye by the cops?”

“Yes—yes—but I——You see, it’s this way. I’m feeling pretty sick—an’ if you could manage to get me a drink somewheres——”

“Listen here, Topsy!” Sugden spoke unfeelingly. “You’re going to Canada—didn’t you know that? _Canada_, you fish bait, where you can swim in it!”

Shortly after this the detective left, reappearing again about nine o’clock with a few things that Findlay had left at the Charles Street jail, and in addition a heavy winter overcoat which he made the frightened wretch put on. Somewhere about a quarter to eleven o’clock they cautiously left the house, got into a taxi that was waiting, and were driven to the Trinity Place Station of the Boston and Albany. Sugden took Augustus down to the platform for the west-bound trains, and arriving there, shoved him to one side where they were in the shadow.

“Listen here,” he growled in a low voice with warning in it. “You’re goin’ to take the night train for St. Louis, due here in about one minute. But ye don’t stay on that train—get me? There’ll be a bull waitin’ fur ye at the Union Station out there if ye do. You’re goin’ to side-step at Albany—see? It’ll be five in the morning. Keep to the shadows an’ slouch on to the Montreal train at seven. Ye change at Rouses Point, an’ that helps throw ’em off. When ye hit Montreal, lay low! Get a bunk at some joint. Monkey with that mug o’ yours. Raise a crop o’ hay on it; an’ whatever ye do, don’t be seen with a paper from the States in yer han’s or they’ll cop you. After about two weeks climb on a steamer for England. You’ll find a fake passport in with the railroad ticket in that pocket” (touching Findlay’s overcoat on the right breast). “There’s another name on it. You ain’t Findlay any more. There’s a wad o’ money sewed in the linin’. Lose yerself over there. An’ if yer life is worth anything to ye don’t cross back to this side again. There’ll be a big reward out for ye an’ there’s sharp guys here that makes a hell of a livin’ keepin’ tabs on boobs like you. I’m one of ’em. An’ if ever ye _do_ take a fancy to come back I hope I’ll be the guy that puts the nippers on ye. There’s yer train!” (With an ugly jerk of his head toward it). “Now on with ye, an’ I’ll keep back any cops that’s followin’.”

Augustus hurried into the coach, and Sugden stood close to the steps until the train moved on—which was in a few seconds, as the stop at Trinity Place is brief in the extreme.

Of course you’ll realize that all this elaborate framing was for the purpose of getting Findlay permanently out of the Western Hemisphere. After the _nolle prosse_ there was nothing in the world they could hold him for. Who it was that had got Mr. Forbes and Mr. Sugden to carry out this scheme did not at the time, appear.

* * * * *

Following at once on the collapse of the case against Augustus and his discharge from custody, came the arrest of James Dreek, the butler, and the holding of him for the murder.

In his avid eagerness for every detail that can be found (or manufactured) in murder cases, the newspaper addict skips with perfect ease from one suspect to another, often seemingly glad of the change. In this instance, however, the very unusual interest had been aroused, not so much by the hunt for the person or persons guilty of the crime (though that feature was rapidly becoming absorbing) as by the extraordinary manner in which the evidence in the case was being brought to light. Everybody knew of that celebrated detective in Chicago not long deceased, and his brief and characteristic comments on the Haworth case through the mediumistic services of Mr. Harcourt Sidney, and his calling attention to the shattered window blind and the bullet in the tree, made not only a sensation, but a strange and alluring one.

From the first intimation that somebody was framing Augustus Findlay—which flashed upon them when Mr. Rathbun told of the fight for the revolver under his window in Collamore Street—the detectives had fastened their eyes on Dreek. There were already a few things that didn’t look well for the young butler. They’d found a loaded revolver under a lot of soiled linen on the floor of a cupboard in the butler’s pantry. One or two letters they got out of his trunk had an ugly look. Worst of all was the finding of his footprints on each side of the front windows of the room on the left, these imprints overlapping those of Augustus Findlay—thus showing that he’d been there after Findlay had run away. These Dreek footprints had not meant so much before, as Findlay was known to have been at the window when the shots were fired, and therefore Dreek arrived afterward. But now that it was proved that the firing was from within the house, it involved Dreek in several ways, two of them being serious. Not only was he the only one in the house with Haworth, according to all the evidence (excepting his own), and therefore apparently the only one who could have fired from the inside, but the footmarks showed unmistakably that he was the one who went round after the murder and opened the shutters back against the wall, replacing the vines over them in such a way that they would give the appearance of not having been disturbed at all. He was now, on account of this, definitely in the position of trying to throw the guilt on an innocent man. This was corroborated by a number of small items—the marks of a house stepladder outside under each shutter, the finding of a house stepladder in the back entry which fitted into these marks, and the fingerprint people reporting that Dreek had been the last one who had handled it. He had insisted most emphatically in his earlier testimony that he had gone out of the rear door several minutes before the shooting and wasn’t in the house when it occurred. But there was nothing to show that this was the case. On the contrary there was every reason to suppose that he had not left the house with the stepladder until after the shots were fired.

Of course he was in for a fearful ordeal. I’m not going to describe it to you, but only give you my word that they third-degreed Jamie Dreek good and plenty.

Precisely in the midst of these painful proceedings the Associated Press again took a hand in the game—or to put it more accurately, played a hand that had been dealt to it.

It was the day following the second night of Dreek’s torment. The police had kept him awake for twenty-nine hours with their shouted questions and punching-up process and rough handling. The job was nearly done. He was “ripe” (put that in quotes) to sign anything or confess anything. And then came the noon editions with big front page headlines on top of A. P. dispatches from San Francisco.

It seems a well-known medium out there by the name of Waverley Bentick was doing his turn—or whatever’s the right name for it—at one of the specially high-class Spiritistic assemblies, held in a large hall commonly alluded to as their “church,” and situated some considerable way out Golden Gate Avenue. Mr. Bentick was passing out messages to people in the auditorium, when, as he was in the midst of a communication for a woman sitting in the second row, he suddenly stopped and called out, “Wait a moment, please, and let this lady finish!—Just a moment, I say!—You mustn’t break in like that!”

There was a pause. Then the medium resumed in an altered tone, speaking to the assemblage: “I’m sorry, but a man has pushed in, in spite of everything my control can do!—Tall—heavily built—grizzled gray hair—pointed beard—looks as if he might be a doctor.... No—says he isn’t one. Only keep us a moment—been trying to get through in Boston—too many in the way. It’s about some murder case over there—the Howard case, is that it?... No—that isn’t it! He doesn’t speak very distinctly.... What?... All right, go on.... H-a-w-o-r-t-h. Oh, the Haworth case! Yes, we’ve heard of that! I should think so!”

Instantly there was intense interest shown—people craning forward to listen, and calls of, “Go on—go on!” For the extraordinary developments in the case had by this time made it known everywhere,—especially among those of the Spirit Sect—if that is a proper way to refer to them.

“He says he wants to speak of something now—while they’re third-degreeing a man—as it may apply to him. Something about money—yes—some money—large amount—paid to victim a few hours before he was shot. Thirty-five thousand dollars.... Is that right?... Yes—thirty-five thousand. Police haven’t been able to trace it.... If they want thirty-four thousand five hundred of it—old barn—old barn.... Yes, we understand—old barn. What about it?... He says follow butler’s footprints.... northwest corner in foundation wall under sill timber.... Take out loose stone.... That’s all.... Good-by.”

In this case the Boston police got a rush wire from San Francisco that gave them nearly a forty-five minutes’ start. Inside of twenty after it came in, a Department automobile was speeding through Centre Street, Jamaica Plain, and four minutes later was turning in at the old Cripps gate from Torrington Road.

Perhaps you’ll have noticed that the attitude of the authorities toward messages from the other world had undergone something of a change. Even if the Inspector and others still entertained the notion that these communications were founded on trickery of some kind, they were obliged to admit that it was trickery with a hell of a kick to it, and that made all the difference in the world.

It wasn’t exactly child’s play—nor even adult’s recreation—to trace out James Dreek’s footmarks between the flag paving at the rear of the house and the old barn farther back. But the old weed-grown drive up which he’d gone was fairly soft, and they finally succeeded, arriving at the northwest corner of the barn and finding the loose stone in the foundation wall just under the sill timber. The thirty-four thousand five hundred was in the cavity behind it.

This happened in the small hours. Close to four o’clock in the morning it was—on account of the three-hour difference in time. The papers got it for their afternoon editions. But the police treated it as an old story. “Oh yes, we got the money some time ago!” “Yes, pretty good guess from San Francisco, but a bit late!” “Of course it’s a bad thing for Dreek!” That was about the gist of answers to the frantic inquiries from the reporters at headquarters.

* * * * *

That same morning about eleven o’clock James Dreek was nearing the point of breakdown that the police were working him for. The gang that took him on at noon (they worked in shifts) had it in for him. Even then the pitiable wretch was trying to answer as best he could, but he found it difficult to remember anything at all or even to understand what his persecutors were talking about. Furthermore, his voice was nearly gone, and his tongue so swollen and dry that he couldn’t speak with any sort of distinctness.

“Ye say ye ran out o’ the house before the murder was committed—that’s what ye say, is it? Answer! What’s the matter with ye! Answer the question! Answer the question!”

Dreek tried to say “Yes,” but could hardly more than move his lips. It must have been the eight hundred and sixty-eighth time they’d asked him that.

“Now go on an’ tell us why ye run out? Why? Why? What was it started ye out? Was ye sick? Whad did ye run out for?... Punch ’im up Lucas!... Whad did ye run out for? Whad did ye run out for?”

“I—I thought——” His dry mouth and swollen tongue made it almost impossible to form words.

“Go on—go on—go on! Whad did ye think?”

“Something terrible—going—happen!”

“_Goin’_ to happen! How in hell’s name could _you_ know something was _goin’_ to happen unless you was goin’ to MAKE it happen! It _did_ happen, by God, an’ it was you made it happen—an’ then ye ran out o’ the house so’s you could FRAME SOMEBODY ELSE FOR IT!”

“No! No!” (With much difficulty and shaking his head.)

“What was it, then? What was it? What made ye run out?”

“Nos—noises!” His tongue seemed to get in his way.

“What kind o’ noises?... Punch ’im up Lucas!... What noises?”

“Noises—cellar—lights out—scared—ran for police.”

“Oh—police! Ye ran fur the police!”

Dreek nodded, and his bloodshot eyes rolled heavily from one to another of his burly questioners.

“Did ye have to take a ladder with ye to find ’em?”

“Laddle—laddle—ladder?”

“Don’t try any funny business with us—we know what ye did! Now what about that ladder, eh? WHAT ABOUT IT?”

“Oh—ladder—yes! Misser Ha’orth ass me open blin’s—front winnow. So I—I—I was——” He broke off as his head fell forward in sleep.

“Punch him up Lucas! Keep ’im on the job, can’t ye!... Listen here, Dreek—that ladder was to open the blinds, ye say. Now what did ye want ’em _open_ for—tell me that! TELL ME THAT!”

“Yes——” (with a great effort to keep awake). “Always Misser Ha’orth like blin’s open—always!”

“Then what the hell was they SHUT for? What was they SHUT for?... Punch ’im up Lucas—put a dig in ’im!... Now answer the question! WHAT WAS THEY SHUT FOR?”

Dreek struggled to remember, but finally shook his head.

“Now I will ask ye something. What about that money? Ye wouldn’t answer lass night, but now we got it on ye! You saw that money! What?”

“I—I——”

“You saw it, I say! You saw that big pile o’ bills they had out on the table? Why don’t ye answer? I’ll tell you why—YE’RE AFRAID TO TELL!”

“No” (shaking his head) “not afraid! I saw—yes.”

“What was ye do’n’ sneakin’ round spyin’ on ’em like that when they had money in sight? Why didn’t ye stay in the kitchen where ye belong?”

“I—I don’ know——Oh—now—yes! They rang—they ass me—sign paper—witness!”

“A fine witness you was, all right, all right!”

Every detective in the room roared with laughter. The man who’d been questioning turned suddenly on Dreek. “When did ye crib that money?” he demanded.

“When did I——”

“You got it! Don’t ye s’pose we know you got it? Now _when_? _When?_ D’ye hear? WHEN DID YE CRIB THAT MONEY?”

The muscles of Dreek’s throat went through the spasmodic motions of swallowing.

“I—promised not to——”

“Not to what? Whad did ye promise—eh?”

“Not to—say—anything——”

“Who did ye promise that to?”

“Miss’r Ha’orth.”

“How did that happen?”

“He handed—money—me.”

“Oh, _handed_ it to ye, did he? Made a little present o’ thirty-five thousand to ye, I s’pose!”

Dreek tried to speak but couldn’t manage it.

“Whad did ye do with it?”

Again Dreek couldn’t get the words out—it would take so many to explain it.

“I’ll tell ye what ye did with it—_ye put it in the barn behind a loose stone_! D’ye deny that?”

“No.”

“Oh, ye _don’t_ deny it! _Ye did it!_ Ye stole that money from Charles Haworth an’ then, by God! ye hid it in the wall o’ that barn! D’ye confess you hid it there?”

“He ass me pu’ there—safe place!”

“So! Now ye got it out! Now, by God, we got yer story an’ a pretty one it is! What ye’ve told us is jus’ the same as a confession ye shot the man yerself! Yes, by God! ye jus’ as good as said it! Now, the way it stan’s, yer one chance is to spit out the truth in plain words! The truth is ye shot Haworth yerself—ye hid the money yerself—an’ ye went out an’ opened the shutters yerself so people ’u’d think a man outside done the shootin’! Put that in plain words an’ sign it an’ ye got some chance! Ye got a chance o’ mercy from the court if ye confess ye did that! W’at about it—eh?”

The “No” Dreek tried to say couldn’t be forced through his parched mouth, so he shook his head.

“The story ye’ve told’ll put ye in the chair—give ye the grand burn—see?—shock the guts out o’ ye! YE HEAR w’at I say?”

Dreek made no attempt to answer.

“They’ll find ye guilty in ten minutes! That story ye told is the end o’ ye! THAT’S YOUR FINISH, BY GOD!”

Another persecutor started in on him—an enormous man with a rumbling, bellowing voice: “Didn’t you open those shutters, Dreek? Didn’t you open ’em back against the wall and put the vines over ’em? Didn’t you take that ladder out there and do that thing? Aren’t you the one who did it? Answer that! AREN’T YOU THE ONE?”

“Yes——” Dreek got out in a whisper and nodded his head a little.

“That convicts you! That convicts you!”

“You’re fur the chair!” another detective joined in. “You’re fur the chair! You’re done fur now, by God!”

“That’s the end o’ you!” “You’re in for the dead house!”

They’d all come up with a rush and were standing close about him. Painfully he turned his eyes from one to another as they spoke, all joining in with violent exclamations as to his finish.

“There’s only one thing that’ll save you now!” roared the man with the bellowing voice. “Only one thing to do now if you want mercy: sign a confession an’ they’re bound to treat you fair! YOUR ONLY CHANCE ON EARTH!” He snapped his fingers and a stenographer (plain-clothes man) entered from the inner office and handed him a typewritten sheet. “Here it is,” he went on. “He’s written it out—just what you told us—just what you told us.”

“Wha—wha—what I——” (A weak whisper.)

“Just that. For Christ’s sake can’t you see we’re trying to get you off the death sentence? It may be prison, but what’s that? A few years an’ then some damn Governor that wants women’s votes pardons you out! Here it is—put your name there. See that line?”

Dreek was holding a pen clutched awkwardly in his hand, having no idea where it came from. He managed to shake his head a little.

“Not—not if it says I killed—— ... no—no ... not that—not——”

“Here Lucas——” And all the detectives in the room turned as if to leave. “Put the next watch on him. One more night of it’ll change his mind!”

“No!—Oh no!” Dreek made hoarse and breathless noises, “O my God!—not another—not another! O my God!”

The big detective swung round to him suddenly.

“Sign here—right under here—see?” pushing the paper under his eyes, while another man seized the pen and dipped it in nearby ink. “Sign here—on that line! IT’S THE ONLY THING THAT’LL SAVE YOU!”

Other detectives gathered close round, shouting to him to go on and sign, and yelling threats in his ears of what would happen if he didn’t.

James Dreek, gasping and mumbling incoherently and with shaking hand, made marks with the pen which were as near his written name as he could manage.

The late editions that afternoon had a wealth of display headlines (the Department had seen to it that the Associated Press got the news at the earliest possible moment) which ran—in slightly varying forms to—this effect:

FULL CONFESSION IN THE HAWORTH CASE

JAMES DREEK THE ASSASSIN

THEFT THE MOTIVE

STOLEN MONEY RECOVERED BY POLICE

BRILLIANT WORK OF DETECTIVES

At last the Department had things coming its way—for which reason much relief was felt.

* * * * *

As James Dreek had made a confession and signed it, the tide of public interest and curiosity began to ebb. There was no longer a mystery. The young butler had done the deed. Robbery was the motive. He had got hold of that thirty-five thousand dollars and hidden it. Some spirit in California had told the police where to look for it. This in itself was of course an odd occurrence, but the riddle of guessing who the guilty man was and why he did the appalling deed no longer existed. This being so, the bulk of the inhabitants of Boston and its environs began looking eagerly in their daily papers for the next killing. As to the sensation-guzzlers in other cities, they no longer had their attention diverted from their enthralling local atrocities. The amazing behavior of the spirits remained as something to be spoken of when the subject of ghosts and haunted houses came up.

* * * * *

As the date set for the Dreek trial approached, it appeared to those who kept in touch with spiritistic affairs, that extreme restlessness regarding the Haworth case was prevalent in higher spheres—if what came through via various mediums could be taken as a truthful indication.

A wire from Providence, Rhode Island, stated that a private séance in that town had been considerably upset by the insistent demands of a disembodied soul claiming to be that of the father of young Dreek, that something be done—and done damned quick—to rescue his son, who was absolutely innocent, from the clutches of the blackguards and bullies who posed in Boston as police, but who were simply low-lived thugs and dirty bums. The press dispatch giving an account of the affair went on to say that the language proceeding from his apparition had grown so violent that two elderly ladies felt obliged to quit the room where the séance was being held, although it must be conceded that they were later seen to be listening just outside the door. It was really quite thrilling while it lasted, this flow of expert profanity, and a few knowing ones were aware that this spirit used expressions and dialect prevalent among a certain class of crooks practising in what is known as “The Gay Nineties.”

The Press paid little attention to the Providence message and the police none whatever, owing to the fact that nothing was included in it which substantiated its claims that Dreek was innocent. This communication, though, was followed by a disembodied statement—if I may put it that way—which reached the earth via a New Orleans trance medium, to the effect that the fools in Boston had third-degreed an innocent man to his death, adding that no surprise could be felt by those who remembered how the police had recently treated the entire populace of that unfortunate town.

Dubuque, Iowa, sent in something of the same kind, and others began to crop up from places quite remote. All of which went far toward creating the impression that the next world was considerably dissatisfied with the proceedings of this one in the matter of the murder on Torrington Road, and that the inhabitants thereof were not averse to letting their feelings relating thereto become generally known.

The members of the private circle in Chicago (recently alluded to, and since then greatly increased in numbers) wished beyond anything else that Mr. P., the famous detective not long deceased, would return and let them have his views upon matters as they now stood in the Roxbury case. But it was their third meeting after the one at which he had advised the examination of the window shutters and the extraction of bullets from trees, before he dropped in again; and when he did come he gave the impression of trying his utmost to avoid the subject. Finally, upon being asked point-blank if he wouldn’t please let them know just his personal opinion as to the guilt or innocence of James Dreek, the reply came back through the trumpet that he thought it would be just as well to go easy on that young man. Those were his final words. When another question was put to him it was found that he had quietly slipped away; not even those very near heard the trumpet fall when he released it.

* * * * *

In Boston there was displayed rather more of this spirit restlessness than elsewhere, for a considerable number of mediums about the city and its suburbs were getting communications from their controls protesting Dreek’s innocence and begging that something be done about it.

More than any of the others were Mrs. Belden’s sittings (she was giving “private circles” now with great success) pervaded by this sort of thing, and it was the spirit of the hysterical Cynthia which created most of the disturbance. She took possession of the medium at every opportunity and was more often than not incoherent from excitement—or whatever it may be that appears so often to afflict the souls of people who have successfully emancipated themselves from the thralldom of their bodies.

At several of Mrs. Belden’s séances (which were always held in private houses), Cynthia had occupied much of the time and without result—although owing to the great interest in the spiritistic features of this case, none of the persons present made objections to the delay. On the contrary, they all waited with eager interest, hoping that this spirit, which was the one through whom the revelation as to Mr. Rathbun and the fight for the revolver had come, would eventually disclose something else of equally startling importance.

At these appearances of Cynthia—or more correctly at these times when she got the floor, as you might say—she occupied much of the time in mourning over the plight of poor Dreek and begging people to help in his rescue. Then, toward the end, the sitters could make out that she was desperately anxious to see somebody—a woman, it appeared, but so far she’d been unable to get the name across. “Bring her here! Oh, bring her! She’s the only one—the only one who knows! The only one! The only one!” And so on.

On that, some one would ask the spirit for the name of the person she wanted so much, and always the answer came back from Cynthia: “Oh, I don’t know it! Not now—not now! It’s gone! I knew it before, but they’ve taken it away from me! Don’t you know who I mean? Oh, you must know! Can’t somebody tell?” And that sort of thing, trailing off into moans and inarticulate sounds of pity. And soon after that she would vacate the medium.

* * * * *

Dreek’s trial had been going on four days before Cynthia’s spirit was able to overcome whatever influence was holding her back—much as it had been on a former occasion—and then the whole thing poured out on them like a flood released.

Mrs. Amelia Temple was the woman she wanted. Mrs. Temple could save him. Couldn’t they bring her at once? Oh, quickly! She wanted to talk to her! When reminded by one of the circle that the old woman had, from the beginning, refused to say anything, she said: “No matter—bring her—bring her—bring her! Don’t waste time!” And went on that way till she came near to hysterical shrieks. But even while she was carrying on like that people had gone out to try and find the old woman.

It was late in the evening—something after eleven—when Mrs. Temple was brought to the house. There had been no difficulty in persuading her to come. It appeared that she had once had an experience. Quite far back in her life she had lost her mother, the only one dear to her at that time, and her loneliness and yearning had drawn her to spiritist gatherings where, she had heard, departed ones are able to come back and speak to those they have left behind. To her unspeakable joy she found that this was so, and became, forthwith, an intense devotee. But after about two ecstatically happy months of it her faith was rudely shaken, for, at a séance where materializations were being accomplished, she suddenly saw something that looked to her like evidence of fraud. At the next of these séances she became satisfied that there was fraud. It was a cruel blow to her. Many times she wished she hadn’t found out. From that time she never attended another séance or spiritist meeting of any kind.

That was long ago. And now, after reading the newspaper accounts of the developments in the tragic affair which so deeply concerned her (she read everything about it that she could find), the extraordinary spirit communications that had been received in connection with it, all but convinced her that, if there had been fraud in that long ago experience of hers, it must have been only because of an untrustworthy medium and did not in any way affect the system or belief itself. One had only to see what marvels it was responsible for in this case, to be made certain that the spirits of the dead are here with us and doing what they can for our welfare.

And so, upon being told that the spirit of Cynthia Cripps Findlay (she very well knew who was meant by that) was begging, through the mediumship of Mrs. Henrietta Belden, that she come and let her speak to her, she dressed immediately—for she’d gone to bed—and went with the two women who’d come from the séance to fetch her.

The spirit of Cynthia began to talk the moment Mrs. Temple entered the dimly lighted room, and continued while she was being silently conducted to a chair near the medium.

“Oh, you’re here! Thank you so much for coming, Mrs. Temple! Oh, I _do_ thank you! And you _will_ help us—you _will_! You couldn’t refuse—you’re so tender-hearted to anyone in distress! And some one _is_ in distress! Oh, some one _is_—terribly! It’s the poor Dreek boy, the butler who was with Mr. Haworth, and he’s being tried for murder at this very moment—and perfectly innocent as you know—as you know _so well_, Mrs. Temple. Why, the poor fellow never raised a finger to hurt anyone or steal anything—but there’s no way to save him unless you will tell them what you saw—just what you saw—that’s all we ask! It’s for his mother, his poor old mother, ill in New York! And, oh, listen to me—your mother is here—she’s here with me because she wants so much to help us, but she can’t speak to you herself—she’s one of those who can’t get through. She tried it long ago, as you may remember. So she asks me to tell you that she’s sure you’ll help us save this innocent boy—for her sake if nothing else. And oh, will you please wait a moment, Mrs. Temple?”

A short pause. Perfect stillness in the room. Then the spirit of Cynthia spoke again.

“Your mother—I was speaking to her—oh, you can’t have any _conception_ of how dear she is—she’s just waiting till you come—and she wants me to say that she loves you as always—it will never change—it couldn’t change—oh, _it couldn’t_ Mrs. Temple! And she’s been with you almost all the time—just staying near—that’s all she could do. And she’s so happy that you’re still keeping the old bonnet she used to wear—she sees it there in your trunk whenever she’s with you in the room—and she knows you’ll think of this poor young man’s mother the same as she does, and what a terrible thing it would be for her if her son—who never did it—was found guilty of such a _fearful_, _awful_ crime. It isn’t death (as you call it) that matters, but _such a death_! Oh, Mrs. Temple, think what it would mean to his poor mother, and for her sake and for your own mother’s sake, tell them what you saw—just tell them—oh—tell them!—Oh!...” The voice of Cynthia, uttered through the expert mediumship of Mrs. Belden, trailed rapidly away to nothing and the spirit was gone.

* * * * *

Mr. Forbes (for the defense) was unable to bring in Mrs. Temple’s testimony as a surprise. Though the séance was a strictly private one and held in a private residence and with no reporters admitted, the Inspector had insisted on having a representative at any “spirit circle” in which Mrs. Belden officiated; and although the representative in this case—a plain-clothes man—had seen to it that there were no listeners behind doors or otherwise concealed, and had afterward instructed the medium and all those present not to give away anything that had been said or done, and furthermore had had every one of them shadowed by detectives both in the house and after they left it, the papers next morning had full accounts of the appeal of the disembodied spirit of Cynthia to the still-embodied spirit of Mrs. Temple, and the court room was packed with an eager multitude, rabidly craving excitement.

When her name was called, the crowd, as one person, held its breath, and strained its eyes to see and its ears to hear.

The old woman was given a chair in the witness box, and the usual form of preliminary questioning gone through. After that, she was led by Mr. Forbes to describe how she’d been at one of the side windows of the room where the murder was done, a short time before it took place, and was trying to see in, but owing to its being pitch-dark inside, she was unable to make out anything, though she heard strange and alarming noises; how she then hurried to the rear of the house and tried to get in there, but every door—even the basement—was locked, and she had to give it up; and how, more alarmed than ever about Mr. Haworth, she then started, as fast as she was able to go, toward the front of the house again.

“When you were hastening in this way toward the front, Mrs. Temple, did you pass near the window where you’d been trying to look in?”

“Yes sir; the path warn’t more’n a few yards from the side winders, but it was mos’ly growed up with bushes an’ things in between.”

“Could a person among the bushes at one of the windows, see anyone passing along that path?”

“Ef there was any light, they could.”

“What was your object in hurrying toward the front of the house again?”

“I wanted to git down to the road.”

“What did you intend to do there?”

“I was goin’ to find some one to help me—ef I could.”

“You mean the police?”

“Mercy no! They ain’t no earthly use!”

“I object!” shouted the District Attorney, springing to his feet.

“Just answer the question, madam.” (From the Court.)

“And I ask Your Honor that the remark of the witness be stricken from the record.”

This request was granted, and Mr. Forbes went on.

“Where did you expect to find help, Mrs. Temple?”

“If I didn’t find nobody in the road, I was goin’ to try the house on the fur side a ways up. There was some men there.” She put a very slight accent on the word “men.”

“And _did_ you go down to the road?”

“No sir. I was stopped sudden-like by a bright light flashin’ up inside the room as I was goin’ by. It was so bright it lit up the chinks o’ the winders, an’ thinkin’ I could see then if anyone was there an’ what they was doin’, I pushed through the bushes an’ went up clost to one of ’em.”

“Which one did you go to?”

“Why, the first one I come to I seen the roller shade was pulled down, so I went on to the next.”

“That would be the one nearest the front of the house?”

“Yes sir, that was the one.”

“And did you find that you could see anything inside?”

“I found the shade was down there, too, but it warn’t pulled quite to the bottom so’s it left a narrer crack.”

“And could you see into the room through this narrow aperture below the curtain?”

“Not at first I couldn’t—the light dazzled me some—but in a minute I got used to it an’ then I could.”

“Tell the Court what you saw, Mrs. Temple.”

“Mr. Haworth—it was him I seen first. He was settin’ by the table, readin’ a book. After a minute or two he felt in his pocket an’ got his pipe out an’ filled it an’ was huntin’ around fur a match.”

“Was there anyone else in the room?”

“Not as I could see from the winder I was at. But just as he was lookin’ fur the match I commenced to think mebbe there might be somebody behind him in the back part o’ the room, so I hurried through the bushes to the other winder—the one further back. I knew the shade was down, but I thought mebbe there was a crack at the bottom same as the other, an’ I found there was—on’y not so much, but by twistin’ around I could get a look through to the back part o’ the room, an’ there was a man standin’ there, back against the door o’ the butler’s pantry, an’ he had a black thing in his hand that he was pointin’ at Mr. Haworth from behind.”

A moment of tense stillness followed on this, as Mrs. Temple stopped speaking. I don’t suppose there was one person among the spectators in that packed court room who hadn’t stopped breathing.

After letting the pause have its full effect, Mr. Forbes spoke with all the solemnity he could command.

“Mrs. Temple,” he said, “was the man you saw standing behind Mr. Haworth and aiming a black object at him, the accused you now see on trial in this court—James Dreek?”

The old woman shook her head. “No sir, it warn’t him,” she said.

“Are you sure of that?”

“Yes sir.”