Her Forbidden Knight

by Rex Stout

  There was a silence. Driscoll lighted a cigarette, offering one to each of the others, and soon the corner was decorated with spirals of smoke. Finally Dumain spoke, for the first time.

  “I tell you,” said he, “as soon as you feenish this foolishness, what I will do. You know nozzing. I weel ask Siegel.”

  “And what can he do?” demanded Driscoll. “He’ll want to fix up an alibi for her, and she won’t stand for it, and then he’ll try to bully her.”

  But the others signified their approval of Dumain’s suggestion, especially Dougherty, and the little Frenchman was soon on his way downtown to the attorney’s office, while Dougherty left for his daily visit to the Tombs.

  Driscoll strolled over to Lila’s desk and told her that Dumain had gone to consult their lawyer.

  “But he cannot help us,” she faltered. “There is nothing I can do, is there, Mr. Driscoll? Tell me.”

  “You can keep up your courage,” returned the young man. “As Tom would say, be a sport. And this Siegel is a shrewd man; he’ll get us through safely, never fear. Dumain ought to be back before noon.”

  But Lila was completely terrified, and refused to be reassured. The formal phraseology of the subpoena had impressed her with the power of the law; it seemed to her to smell of courts and prisons; and her woman’s mind was affected more by the document itself than by the very real danger it threatened.

  Throughout the remainder of the morning she sat with her eyes glued on the entrance to the lobby. At eleven o’clock Dougherty returned from the Tombs with a note from Knowlton, but an hour later the little Frenchman had not arrived. Lila put on her hat and coat to go to lunch with a heavy heart.

  The day was one of brilliant sunshine, with a saucy, freshening breeze coming in from the bay. Lila ate little and hurriedly, then strolled along the walks of Madison Square.

  The grass plots were beginning to turn green, and the trees were covered with brown, damp buds, and in the center of the square a gardener was raking the newly turned earth. The gladness of the approaching spring was in the air.

  Lila found it intolerable. She returned to the Lamartine.

  Dumain rushed to meet her as she entered the door.

  “Mees Williams! I’ve been waiting for you. Such a plan! Zat lawyer ees a genius!”

  The lobby was accustomed to Dumain, and paid little attention to his gesticulations and shrill, high-pitched tones; but Lila flushed with embarrassment as they walked to her desk. She felt that everyone was in on her secret, wherein she was unjust to the loyalty and discretion of the Erring Knights.

  But this was nothing to the deep, rich crimson that flooded her cheeks as the little Frenchman, in low, excited tones, unfolded to her the plan of Lawyer Siegel. And with it came a smile, curiously tender, as Dumain expressed a doubt as to her willingness to act upon it.

  He finished:

  “You see, he don’t know if you will do eet, and I am to telephone heem at one o’clock; so eef he must—”

  “But I will,” said Lila. “Oh, I will! But are you sure I won’t have to testify? Are you sure?”

  “Positeevely.”

  “Then—couldn’t we do it today instead of tomorrow?”

  “No,” Dumain smiled. “Eet weel take till tomorrow morning to get zee bail for Knowlton. Dougherty ees down to see heem now. Tomorrow afternoon eet will be—remember. I must go to see Siegel for zee bondsman.”

  And he trotted off, leaving Lila with face still flushed and the shadow of a doubt in her eyes, but with her lips parted in a trembling, wistful smile.

  But the plan of Lawyer Siegel, clever and effective as it was, nearly caused a disruption in the ranks of the Erring Knights.

  For Dumain and Dougherty alone were in the secret, which they refused to divulge; and the three others strenuously objected. Booth and Jennings threatened, half in earnest, to go over to the prosecution and tell all they knew, while Driscoll made many pointed and cutting remarks concerning the source of the money they were using. But the little Frenchman and the ex-prizefighter were as adamant.

  “It’s Miss Williams’s secret,” said they, “and it wouldn’t be fair to her to tell it. The fact is, she asked us not to.”

  This last was not true, but Dougherty knew they wouldn’t ask Lila.

  “And all we’re good for, I suppose, is to sit round with our hands in our pockets,” said Driscoll bitterly. This was on the day after the plan had been consummated. “You get Knowlton out on bail and don’t show up in the lobby for a day at a time, and when you come back expect us to clap you on the back and tell you how well we like you. It’s not a square deal.”

  “Now, listen here,” said Dougherty; “don’t be a sorehead. The trial is day after tomorrow; can’t you wait that long? Besides, you fellows have had your share. You’ve been bringing her to work every morning and taking her home every evening, and, believe me, that’s some job.

  “And here’s another. If Knowlton gets out—and he will—there’s going to be a little dinner for him and Lila in Dumain’s rooms Friday evening. The trial can’t last more than one day. We’ll leave that dinner to you and Booth and Jennings. When Dumain comes in this afternoon he’ll give you the keys to his flat and all the money you need. Go as far as you like.”

  “For how many?”

  “Seven. Us five and them two.”

  Driscoll grunted, and departed to consult with Booth and Jennings.

  On Thursday evening, the day before the trial, Miss Williams was escorted to her home by Dougherty himself. She was depressed and nervous, and his repeated attempts to rally her spirits were unsuccessful. They dined at a little restaurant on Columbus Avenue, and from there walked to One Hundred and Fourth Street.

  “Brace up,” said Dougherty, as they stopped at her door. “This time tomorrow night you’ll be ready to start on your honeymoon. Don’t you like the idea?”

  “What do you think he is doing now?” asked Lila, with apparent irrelevance. She had learned to talk to Dougherty as to a chum.

  “Reading your letters,” said the ex-prizefighter with conviction. “He always is. And now you go up and get to bed and sleep. None of this endless night business.”

  Lila was standing in the open door.

  “I’ll try,” she promised, smiling. “Good night, and thank you. I’ll be waiting for you in the morning.”

  CHAPTER XVII.

  The Trial

  “MAY IT PLEASE YOUR HONOR, MR. FOREMAN, and gentlemen of the jury—”

  The speaker was a United States assistant district attorney; the scene, a Federal courtroom in the post office building on Park Row. John Knowlton, alleged counterfeiter, was on trial before twelve of his peers.

  The room was old and dingy—the building itself has been called the ugliest in New York. The jurybox, the benches, the railings, were blackened by time and use; the clerk appeared to have been fastened to his desk for many years. A dreary, melancholy room.

  The spectators’ benches are by no means filled; most of the faces are familiar ones. In a group at the right are Detective Barrett and his two men, with Billy Sherman. Seated side by side on the front row of benches are Driscoll, Booth, Dumain, Jennings, and Dougherty. Toward the rear of the room Lila is seen, and by her side—Mrs. Amanda Berry! There are some dozen others—hangers-on, sensation-seekers, and young lawyers.

  Knowlton, who was seated by the side of his attorney and engaged in a whispered consultation with him, looked up quickly as the prosecuting attorney rose to address the court and jury. The clock on the wall pointed to half past eleven; ninety minutes had sufficed for the preliminaries, including the selection of the jury. Lawyer Siegel had proven extraordinarily easy to please, thereby earning the gratitude of the judge.

  “May it please your honor, Mr. Foreman, and gentlemen of the jury—”

  The assistant district attorney proceeded with his opening speech. He was a young fellow—perhaps eight and twenty—and he spoke with the earnest enthusiasm of youth, with forceful, sou
nding phrases.

  The prisoner felt his cheeks burn more than once at their sting. He wound up with the assertion that he would produce sufficient evidence to convict ten times over.

  Lawyer Siegel turned and whispered to his client:

  “He didn’t let anything out—he’s a slick one.”

  Before Knowlton could do more than nod in response Siegel had risen to his feet and begun the opening speech for the defense. It was surprisingly short; it entered not at all into details, or even the nature of his evidence, and amounted, in fact, to little more than a general denial. But as he stated that the accused would not be called to the stand in his own defense Knowlton perceived a swift, almost imperceptible, expression of doubt and disapproval flit across the faces of the jurors.

  As Siegel sat down the prisoner turned for a fleeting glance at Lila; she smiled at him brightly.

  The prosecuting attorney called his first witness:

  “James Barrett!”

  The detective had little to tell. He identified Knowlton and gave an account of his arrest, dwelling pointedly on his flight to the rear of the flat as they entered.

  Siegel, for the defense, did not cross-examine.

  The second witness for the prosecution was Billy Sherman.

  “What is your name?”

  “William Sherman.”

  “Your business?”

  “Journalist.”

  “Your address?”

  He gave a number on West Thirty-fourth Street.

  There followed some questions concerning the length of Sherman’s acquaintance with the prisoner and the amount of time he had spent in his company; then the prosecuting attorney asked:

  “Did you ever see Knowlton pass, or offer to pass, counterfeit money?”

  Instantly Siegel was on his feet with an objection.

  “Sustained,” said the judge.

  This was the beginning of a battle royal between the two lawyers. Time and again the prosecuting attorney tried to make his point, approaching it from every possible angle; and time and again Siegel objected that the witness was incompetent to answer.

  Finally the judge himself became impatient and addressed the assistant district attorney with some severity:

  “Mr. Brant, this witness has not qualified as an expert. You must give up this line of questioning or dismiss him.”

  Siegel seated himself with a triumphant smile. The prosecuting attorney frowned and cleared his throat. Knowlton cast a glance over his shoulder at the spectators’ benches and sent a smile to Lila.

  Dougherty leaned over and whispered to Driscoll:

  “I don’t know what the deuce they’re talking about, but that cagey little guy looks like he’d just stopped a swing on the jaw and was hanging over the ropes.”

  But young Mr. Brant had another cartridge in his belt. He asked that an exception be noted on the ruling of the court, then turned to the witness:

  “Mr. Sherman, where were you on the evening of the 11th of December last?”

  “At the rooms of Pierre Dumain, a palmist.”

  “Where are those rooms?”

  “In West Twenty-first Street.”

  “What is the number?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Who was there with you?”

  “The defendant, Knowlton, and four or five others.”

  “What are the names of the others?”

  “Tom Dougherty, Pierre Dumain, Bub Driscoll, Sam Booth, and Harry Jennings.”

  “What were you doing there?”

  The witness hesitated a moment before he answered:

  “Having a fight. You see—”

  “No; answer my questions,” interrupted the lawyer. “Were you fighting?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Who was?”

  “Knowlton and Driscoll. Knowlton knocked him out.”

  “And then?”

  “Then Knowlton and Dougherty fought. It lasted ten or fifteen minutes and—”

  “Now tell the court and the jury exactly what happened.”

  “Well, Knowlton was getting the better of Dougherty and had him up against the wall, when all of a sudden somebody threw a piece of bronze or something at Knowlton and hit him on the head. He dropped like a shot.”

  “Then what did you do?”

  “I ran over toward the door, where Knowlton was lying on the floor, and so did the others. As I was standing near him I saw a wallet sticking out of his hip pocket, and I knew they—”

  “You mean Knowlton’s pocket?”

  “Yes. And I was afraid one of the guys might take it, so I stooped down when no one was looking and pulled it out of his pocket—it was nearly out already—and put it in my own, thinking to keep it for him. Dumain had sent somebody—”

  Mr. Brand interrupted.

  “Never mind the others. What did you do?”

  “I waited till the doctor came, and when he said Knowlton’s injury was not serious I went home. I believe Knowlton stayed at Dumain’s rooms all night. When I got home I put his wallet away—”

  “Why didn’t you return it to him before you left Dumain’s rooms?”

  “Because he was still half unconscious. He was in no condition to talk to. Then the next afternoon, I think it was—”

  “Aren’t you sure?”

  “Yes,” said the witness, after a moment’s hesitation, “it was the next afternoon. I took the wallet out of the drawer where I had put it away, thinking to take it round to Knowlton’s rooms, and as I put it in my pocket I happened to look into it, just out of curiosity, and I nearly fell over when I saw it was full of counterfeit—”

  Lawyer Siegel sprang to his feet:

  “I object, on the ground that the witness is incompetent.”

  “Sustained,” said the judge.

  “Exception,” said Mr. Brant.

  The judge turned to the witness:

  “Confine yourself to a recital of your own actions.”

  “Did you return the wallet to Knowlton?” asked the prosecuting attorney.

  Sherman answered: “No, sir.”

  “What did you do with it?”

  “I kept it awhile, then I took it to Detective Barrett, of the secret service.”

  The prosecuting attorney took something from a leather case on the desk before him and, handing it to the witness, asked:

  “Do you recognize that?”

  “Yes,” said Sherman. “It’s the wallet I’ve been talking about.”

  “Is it the one you took from Knowlton’s pocket?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Inspect the contents. Are they the same as when you first saw it?”

  There was a pause while the witness examined each of the compartments of the wallet, then he answered:

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Everything the same?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mr. Brant stepped forward and took the wallet from Sherman and handed it to the clerk of the court:

  “Your honor,” said he, “I wish to introduce this wallet as evidence, with its contents. I shall call an expert later to prove that they are counterfeit.”

  This was a blow to the defense which, though not entirely unexpected, appeared to be serious. The Erring Knights looked gloomily at each other, but forbore to speak.

  Lila was scarcely breathing in the intensity of her anxiety, while Mrs. Berry patted her hand soothingly. The accused was whispering excitedly to his attorney, who listened with keen interest, nodding his head with satisfaction at intervals. The result of this conference was to appear later.

  The prosecuting attorney asked his witness a few more questions, for the most part unimportant, then turned him over for cross-examination.

  Lawyer Siegel rose to his feet. He had not an impressive appearance, but as he stepped directly in front of Sherman he shot at him a glance so severe and terrifying that the witness involuntarily recoiled.

  The tone was no less severe:

  “How long did you keep this w
allet before you turned it over to Detective Barrett?”

  Sherman’s answer was low:

  “About two months.”

  “Why?”

  But Mr. Brant objected to the question, and was sustained.

  Siegel resumed:

  “You say somebody hit Knowlton on the head with ‘a piece of bronze or something.’ Who was it that threw that bronze?”

  The witness was silent.

  “Who was it?” repeated the lawyer.

  Sherman stammered:

  “I did.”

  “I see. Had you been fighting with him?”

  “No.”

  The attorney was shouting his questions with great rapidity, giving the witness barely time to answer, and no time at all to think. Sherman was nervously grasping the arm of his chair.

  “Were you standing very close to Knowlton when you threw the bronze at him?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Across the room, weren’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And as soon as he fell Dumain and Dougherty ran over and knelt down by him, didn’t they?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And Jennings stopped you when you started to leave the room, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The questions were coming like the rattle of a Gatling gun.

  “And he forced you back to the corner?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then he went to help the others with Knowlton?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You were over in the opposite corner alone?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And when you found the wallet, was it in the coat or the vest?”

  “The coat.”

  “Which pocket?”

  “The insi—” Sherman began; then, realizing suddenly what he was saying, stopped short with a look of horror.

  He was trapped.

  The reason for his previous story of having taken the wallet from Knowlton’s hip pocket as he lay on the floor could be found only in the tortuous channels of Sherman’s treacherous brain.

  Undoubtedly, he had thought to make his evidence stronger by making it appear that the thing had actually been taken from the person of the accused, and had anticipated the difficulty of proving that the coat was Knowlton’s. And now he was fairly caught.