The Best of Mary Roberts Rinehart

by Mary Roberts Rinehart

  But after all, I could not help her much. I could only assure her that he would come back and explain everything, and that he was all right, and that the last time I had seen him he had spoken of her, and had said she was "the best ever." My heart fairly yearned over the girl, and I think she felt it. For she kissed me, shyly, when she was leaving.

  With the newspaper files before me, it is not hard to give the details of that sensational trial. It commenced on Monday, the seventh of May, but it was late Wednesday when the jury was finally selected. I was at the court-house early on Thursday, and so was Mr. Reynolds.

  The district attorney made a short speech. "We propose, gentlemen, to prove that the prisoner, Philip Ladley, murdered his wife," he said in part. "We will show first that a crime was committed; then we will show a motive for this crime, and, finally, we expect to show that the body washed ashore at Sewickley is the body of the murdered woman, and thus establish beyond doubt the prisoner's guilt."

  Mr. Ladley listened with attention. He wore the brown suit, and looked well and cheerful. He was much more like a spectator than a prisoner, and he was not so nervous as I was.

  Of that first day I do not recall much. I was called early in the day. The district attorney questioned me.

  "Your name?"

  "Elizabeth Marie Pitman."

  "Your occupation?"

  "I keep a boarding-house at 42 Union Street."

  "You know the prisoner?"

  "Yes. He was a boarder in my house."

  "For how long?"

  "From December first. He and his wife came at that time."

  "Was his wife the actress, Jennie Brice?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Were they living together at your house the night of March fourth?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "In what part of the house?"

  "They rented the double parlors down-stairs, but on account of the flood I moved them up-stairs to the second floor front."

  "That was on Sunday? You moved them on Sunday?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "At what time did you retire that night?"

  "Not at all. The water was very high. I lay down, dressed, at one o'clock, and dropped into a doze."

  "How long did you sleep?"

  "An hour or so. Mr. Reynolds, a boarder, roused me to say he had heard some one rowing a boat in the lower hall."

  "Do you keep a boat around during flood times?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "What did you do when Mr. Reynolds roused you?"

  "I went to the top of the stairs. My boat was gone."

  "Was the boat secured?"

  "Yes, sir. Anyhow, there was no current in the hall."

  "What did you do then?"

  "I waited a time and went back to my room."

  "What examination of the house did you make--if any?"

  "Mr. Reynolds looked around."

  "What did he find?"

  "He found Peter, the Ladleys' dog, shut in a room on the third floor."

  "Was there anything unusual about that?"

  "I had never known it to happen before."

  "State what happened later."

  "I did not go to sleep again. At a quarter after four, I heard the boat come back. I took a candle and went to the stairs. It was Mr. Ladley. He said he had been out getting medicine for his wife."

  "Did you see him tie up the boat?"

  "Yes."

  "Did you observe any stains on the rope?"

  "I did not notice any."

  "What was the prisoner's manner at that time?"

  "I thought he was surly."

  "Now, Mrs. Pitman, tell us about the following morning."

  "I saw Mr. Ladley at a quarter before seven. He said to bring breakfast for one. His wife had gone away. I asked if she was not ill, and he said no; that she had gone away early; that he had rowed her to Federal Street, and that she would be back Saturday. It was shortly after that that the dog Peter brought in one of Mrs. Ladley's slippers, water-soaked."

  "You recognized the slipper?"

  "Positively. I had seen it often."

  "What did you do with it?"

  "I took it to Mr. Ladley."

  "What did he say?"

  "He said at first that it was not hers. Then he said if it was, she would never wear it again--and then added--because it was ruined."

  "Did he offer any statement as to where his wife was?"

  "No, sir. Not at that time. Before, he had said she had gone away for a few days."

  "Tell the jury about the broken knife."

  "The dog found it floating in the parlor, with the blade broken."

  "You had not left it down-stairs?"

  "No, sir. I had used it up-stairs, the night before, and left it on a mantel of the room I was using as a temporary kitchen."

  "Was the door of this room locked?"

  "No. It was standing open."

  "Were you not asleep in this room?"

  "Yes."

  "You heard no one come in?"

  "No one--until Mr. Reynolds roused me."

  "Where did you find the blade?"

  "Behind the bed in Mr. Ladley's room."

  "What else did you find in the room?"

  "A blood-stained towel behind the wash-stand. Also, my onyx clock was missing."

  "Where was the clock when the Ladleys were moved up into this room?"

  "On the mantel. I wound it just before they came up-stairs."

  "When you saw Mrs. Ladley on Sunday, did she say she was going away?"

  "No, sir."

  "Did you see any preparation for a journey?"

  "The black and white dress was laid out on the bed, and a small bag. She said she was taking the dress to the theater to lend to Miss Hope."

  "Is that all she said?"

  "No. She said she'd been wishing her husband would drown; that he was a fiend."

  I could see that my testimony had made an impression.

  CHAPTER XII

  The slipper, the rope, the towel, and the knife and blade were produced in court, and I identified them all. They made a noticeable impression on the jury. Then Mr. Llewellyn, the lawyer for the defense, cross-examined me.

  "Is it not true, Mrs. Pitman," he said, "that many articles, particularly shoes and slippers, are found floating around during a flood?"

  "Yes," I admitted.

  "Now, you say the dog found this slipper floating in the hall and brought it to you. Are you sure this slipper belonged to Jennie Brice?"

  "She wore it. I presume it belonged to her."

  "Ahem. Now, Mrs. Pitman, after the Ladleys had been moved to the upper floor, did you search their bedroom and the connecting room down-stairs?"

  "No, sir."

  "Ah. Then, how do you know that this slipper was not left on the floor or in a closet?"

  "It is possible, but not likely. Anyhow, it was not the slipper alone. It was the other things and the slipper. It was--"

  "Exactly. Now, Mrs. Pitman, this knife. Can you identify it positively?"

  "I can."

  "But isn't it true that this is a very common sort of knife? One that nearly every housewife has in her possession?"

  "Yes, sir. But that knife handle has three notches in it. I put the notches there myself."

  "Before this presumed crime?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "For what purpose?"

  "My neighbors were constantly borrowing things. It was a means of identification."

  "Then this knife is yours?"

  "Yes."

  "Tell again where you left it the night before it was found floating down-stairs."

  "On a shelf over the stove."

  "Could the dog have reached it there?"

  "Not without standing on a hot stove."

  "Is it not possible that Mr. Ladley, unable to untie the boat, borrowed your knife to cut the boat's painter?"

  "No painter was cut that I heard about The paper-hanger--"

  "No, no. The boat's painter--t
he rope."

  "Oh! Well, he might have. He never said."

  "Now then, this towel, Mrs. Pitman. Did not the prisoner, on the following day, tell you that he had cut his wrist in freeing the boat, and ask you for some court-plaster?"

  "He did not," I said firmly.

  "You have not seen a scar on his wrist?"

  "No." I glanced at Mr. Ladley: he was smiling, as if amused. It made me angry. "And what's more," I flashed, "if he has a cut on his wrist, he put it there himself, to account for the towel."

  I was sorry the next moment that I had said it, but it was too late. The counsel for the defense moved to exclude the answer and I received a caution that I deserved. Then:

  "You saw Mr. Ladley when he brought your boat back?"

  "Yes."

  "What time was that?"

  "A quarter after four Monday morning."

  "Did he come in quietly, like a man trying to avoid attention?"

  "Not particularly. It would have been of no use. The dog was barking."

  "What did he say?"

  "That he had been out for medicine. That his wife was sick."

  "Do you know a pharmacist named Alexander--Jonathan Alexander?"

  "There is such a one, but I don't know him."

  I was excused, and Mr. Reynolds was called. He had heard no quarreling that Sunday night; had even heard Mrs. Ladley laughing. This was about nine o'clock. Yes, they had fought in the afternoon. He had not overheard any words, but their voices were quarrelsome, and once he heard a chair or some article of furniture overthrown. Was awakened about two by footsteps on the stairs, followed by the sound of oars in the lower hall. He told his story plainly and simply. Under cross-examination admitted that he was fond of detective stories and had tried to write one himself; that he had said at the store that he would like to see that "conceited ass" swing, referring to the prisoner; that he had sent flowers to Jennie Brice at the theater, and had made a few advances to her, without success.

  My head was going round. I don't know yet how the police learned it all, but by the time poor Mr. Reynolds left the stand, half the people there believed that he had been in love with Jennie Brice, that she had spurned his advances, and that there was more to the story than any of them had suspected.

  Miss Hope's story held without any alteration under the cross-examination. She was perfectly at ease, looked handsome and well dressed, and could not be shaken. She told how Jennie Brice had been in fear of her life, and had asked her, only the week before she disappeared, to allow her to go home with her--Miss Hope. She told of the attack of hysteria in her dressing-room, and that the missing woman had said that her husband would kill her some day. There was much wrangling over her testimony, and I believe at least a part of it was not allowed to go to the jury. But I am not a lawyer, and I repeat what I recall.

  "Did she say that he had attacked her?"

  "Yes, more than once. She was a large woman, fairly muscular, and had always held her own."

  "Did she say that these attacks came when he had been drinking?"

  "I believe he was worse then."

  "Did she give any reason for her husband's attitude to her?"

  "She said he wanted to marry another woman."

  There was a small sensation at this. If proved, it established a motive.

  "Did she know who the other woman was?"

  "I believe not. She was away most of the day, and he put in his time as he liked."

  "Did Miss Brice ever mention the nature of the threats he made against her?"

  "No, I think not."

  "Have you examined the body washed ashore at Sewickley?"

  "Yes--" in a low voice.

  "Is it the body of Jennie Brice?"

  "I can not say."

  "Does the remaining hand look like the hand of Jennie Brice?"

  "Very much. The nails are filed to points, as she wore hers."

  "Did you ever know of Jennie Brice having a scar on her breast?"

  "No, but that would be easily concealed."

  "Just what do you mean?"

  "Many actresses conceal defects. She could have worn flesh-colored plaster and covered it with powder. Also, such a scar would not necessarily be seen."

  "Explain that."

  "Most of Jennie Brice's décolleté gowns were cut to a point. This would conceal such a scar."

  Miss Hope was excused, and Jennie Brice's sister from Olean was called. She was a smaller woman than Jennie Brice had been, very lady-like in her manner. She said she was married and living in Olean; she had not seen her sister for several years, but had heard from her often. The witness had discouraged the marriage to the prisoner.

  "Why?"

  "She had had bad luck before."

  "She had been married before?"

  "Yes, to a man named John Bellows. They were in vaudeville together, on the Keith Circuit. They were known as The Pair of Bellows."

  I sat up at this for John Bellows had boarded at my house.

  "Mr. Bellows is dead?"

  "I think not. She divorced him."

  "Did you know of any scar on your sister's body?"

  "I never heard of one."

  "Have you seen the body found at Sewickley?"

  "Yes"--faintly.

  "Can you identify it?"

  "No, sir."

  A flurry was caused during the afternoon by Timothy Senft. He testified to what I already knew--that between three and four on Monday morning, during the height of the flood, he had seen from his shanty-boat a small skiff caught in the current near the Ninth Street bridge. He had shouted encouragingly to the man in the boat, running out a way on the ice to make him hear. He had told him to row with the current, and to try to steer in toward shore. He had followed close to the river bank in his own boat. Below Sixth Street the other boat was within rope-throwing distance. He had pulled it in, and had towed it well back out of the current. The man in the boat was the prisoner. Asked if the prisoner gave any explanation--yes, he said he couldn't sleep, and had thought to tire himself rowing. Had been caught in the current before he knew it. Saw nothing suspicious in or about the boat. As they passed the police patrol boat, prisoner had called to ask if there was much distress, and expressed regret when told there was.

  Tim was excused. He had made a profound impression. I would not have given a dollar for Mr. Ladley's chance with the jury, at that time.

  CHAPTER XIII

  The prosecution produced many witnesses during the next two days: Shanty-boat Tim's story withstood the most vigorous cross-examination. After him, Mr. Bronson from the theater corroborated Miss Hope's story of Jennie Brice's attack of hysteria in the dressing-room, and told of taking her home that night.

  He was a poor witness, nervous and halting. He weighed each word before he said it, and he made a general unfavorable impression. I thought he was holding something back. In view of what Mr. Pitman would have called the denouement, his attitude is easily explained. But I was puzzled then.

  So far, the prosecution had touched but lightly on the possible motive for a crime--the woman. But on the third day, to my surprise, a Mrs. Agnes Murray was called. It was the Mrs. Murray I had seen at the morgue.

  I have lost the clipping of that day's trial, but I remember her testimony perfectly.

  She was a widow, living above a small millinery shop on Federal Street, Allegheny. She had one daughter, Alice, who did stenography and typing as a means of livelihood. She had no office, and worked at home. Many of the small stores in the neighborhood employed her to send out their bills. There was a card at the street entrance beside the shop, and now and then strangers brought her work.

  Early in December the prisoner had brought her the manuscript of a play to type, and from that time on he came frequently, sometimes every day, bringing a few sheets of manuscript at a time. Sometimes he came without any manuscript, and would sit and talk while he smoked a cigarette. They had thought him unmarried.

  On Wednesday, February twenty-eighth
, Alice Murray had disappeared. She had taken some of her clothing--not all, and had left a note. The witness read the note aloud in a trembling voice:

  "DEAR MOTHER: When you get this I shall be married to Mr. Ladley. Don't worry. Will write again from N.Y. Lovingly,

  "ALICE."

  From that time until a week before, she had not heard from her daughter. Then she had a card, mailed from Madison Square Station, New York City. The card merely said:

  "Am well and working. ALICE."

  The defense was visibly shaken. They had not expected this, and I thought even Mr. Ladley, whose calm had continued unbroken, paled.

  So far, all had gone well for the prosecution. They had proved a crime, as nearly as circumstantial evidence could prove a crime, and they had established a motive. But in the identification of the body, so far they had failed. The prosecution "rested," as they say, although they didn't rest much, on the afternoon of the third day.

  The defense called, first of all, Eliza Shaeffer. She told of a woman answering the general description of Jennie Brice having spent two days at the Shaeffer farm at Horner. Being shown photographs of Jennie Brice, she said she thought it was the same woman, but was not certain. She told further of the woman leaving unexpectedly on Wednesday of that week from Thornville. On cross-examination, being shown the small photograph which Mr. Graves had shown me, she identified the woman in the group as being the woman in question. As the face was in shadow, knew it more by the dress and hat: she described the black and white dress and the hat with red trimming.

  The defense then called me. I had to admit that the dress and hat as described were almost certainly the ones I had seen on the bed in Jennie Brice's room the day before she disappeared. I could not say definitely whether the woman in the photograph was Jennie Brice or not; under a magnifying-glass thought it might be.

  Defense called Jonathan Alexander, a druggist who testified that on the night in question he had been roused at half past three by the prisoner, who had said his wife was ill, and had purchased a bottle of a proprietary remedy from him. His identification was absolute.

  The defense called Jennie Brice's sister, and endeavored to prove that Jennie Brice had had no such scar. It was shown that she was on intimate terms with her family and would hardly have concealed an operation of any gravity from them.