CHAPTER XX.
TWO STEPS FORWARD AND ONE TO THE REAR.
At the afternoon session Mrs. Arnold was found at her place, stillunaccompanied by her son. Five lawyers had already outlined theirstandpoints to the judge, but still there were new complications instore. Lawyer Howell was Shagarach's earliest opponent, the Goliath ofhis first great duel. He contented himself with stating his intention toattach Floyd's share of the property in behalf of the insurancecompanies and proprietors who had suffered loss through the crime withwhich he was charged. He was of opinion that the evidence offered touphold the will lacked particularity and was insufficient----
"Brother Howell is not here as associate justice." Shagarach was on hisfeet in a flash. "His opinions are impertinences, too manifestlydictated by his interests. Naturally the insurance companies andburned-out proprietors desire to break this will, in order that RobertFloyd may take the $5,000,000 which he does not want and they may jointhe hue and cry of the other conspirators against an innocent man."
Howell was protesting against such a suggestion, when he was interruptedby a roar from one of the learned brethren who had been impatientlywaiting his turn.
"I speak for the murdered girls," he cried, "whose pure young bloodstains the hands of that guilty monster, and in the name of theirbleeding corpses and young lives, ruthlessly done to death, I utter myprotest against the imputation of innocence to their slayer."
The auditors, who had begun to drowse over the technical details of thecase, were stirred to attention at once by this declamatory opening.Even Saul Aronson, sleepy from his restless night, checked a yawn midwaywith his fingers and turned around. The new speaker was a middle-sized,burly man, whose most conspicuous feature was a projection of the fleshbeneath the outer corners of his eyebrows, so as to bury the eyes andgive his whole face an expression almost Mongolian in its cunning. Hisclothes were seedy, and his remarks punctuated by amber-colored shots atthe cuspidor. Altogether it was a decidedly rakish craft and the look onJudge Dunder's face was by no means propitious.
"It is an axiom of law," said the orator, waving his hand and executinga demi-volt toward the spectators, "that no man can take advantage ofhis own tort. I hereby accuse Robert Floyd of the murder of myclients----"
"Who are your clients?" interrupted the judge.
"Mary and Florence Lacy, two virtuous maidens, the sunshine of a happyhome, the pride of a loving and admiring circle of friends"--just herecame one of the orator's punctuation points, which produced a sadlyantithetical effect--"the comforts of a bereaved mother's heart----"
An old lady in the audience burst into tears. Presumably it was Mrs.Lacy. This tribute to his eloquence warmed the orator to a mightyoutburst.
"Woe, I say, to that ruthless hand! Perdition gripe that marbleheart----"
"Will you kindly make your statements relevant?" The judge's manner wasarctic. "We are considering the disposition of Benjamin Arnold'sestate."
"I beg to interpose." Hodgkins had seen a ray of hope in the utterancesof the last two speakers. Slack, the grandiloquent, was a bibulousshyster, who made a precarious livelihood by imposing on just suchvictims as Mrs. Lacy, but at this juncture he might prove a useful ally."Brother Slack is not unnaturally, I may say most creditably, carriedaway by his feelings on behalf of his clients; and I, for one, heartilyjoin him in opposing the efforts which have been made here today to putthe means of redress for those--er--unhappy victims beyond theirreach--or, rather, to reduce them to a paltry $20,000."
"Twenty thousand dollars!" shrieked Slack. "Who dares insult thesanctity of human life by estimating its value at such a bagatelle. Isay not $20,000,000 would recompense that weeping mother for the loss ofthe children of her bosom."
With pointed finger he held up the grief of the now blushing andembarrassed woman to the curious gaze of the crowd. Then, wearied of hisvulgarity, and confident of a case already complete, Shagarach rose andimmediately drew all eyes and ears.
"Brother Slack has unwittingly uttered the strongest argument of the dayin favor of the request which I make--a request, be it understood, forpostponement only, until sufficient time elapses to permit the contentsof this will to be demonstrated. Brother Slack assumes the guilt of myclient in a criminal cause now pending. Brother Howell assumes it;Brother Hodgkins, in asking you to exclude him from theadministratorship, also assumes it. This is a new doctrine of law, toadjudge a man guilty without according him an opportunity for defense. Iask your honor to consider the stigma which the choice of Harry Arnoldas sole administrator would cast upon Robert Floyd, and the prejudice itwould work him in the cause I have mentioned.
"But, aside from this, I ask you to consider the chain of evidencepresented as to the will itself. Let us keep in mind that will is onlylegalized wish. I am aware that great particularity is required in suchcases as ours. But when your honor reviews the statements of MarthaGreeley, of Mrs. Christenson, of the six superintendents of institutionsof charity, and of Dr. Silsby--yes, and I will add the letter to BrotherHodgkins, who, it now appears, was to stand as executor only of thatsmall residue of the estate which did not go to the founding of theArnold academia--when your honor reviews these I am convinced that youwill agree that the disposition of this vast property is not a matter tobe hastily determined.
"My brother has referred to the supposed advantage reaped by Floyd fromthe destruction of the will. Floyd is not here to speak for himself, buthe has contended consistently that the reduction of his legacy to$20,000 was made at his own request, and that even that small sum was inexcess of his wishes. Read as I read them, the expressions of endearmentin the letter to Dr. Silsby support this statement. They are not thelanguage of an irate testator, used in reference to a disinherited heir.Allow me, moreover," Shagarach was now looking straight at Mrs. Arnold,"to point out that Robert Floyd was not the only gainer by thedestruction of Prof. Arnold's will. What atom of evidence has beenadduced to show that the testator remembered Harry Arnold?"
Mrs. Arnold started and reddened at the mention of her son's name. Thenshe put her handkerchief to her lips and coughed nervously. Shagarach'sglance was just long enough to avoid attracting general attention towardher.
"For these reasons I ask that your honor schedule a second hearing ofthis important cause, to take place after a complete survey of theevidence shall have demonstrated that not Robert Floyd but another isresponsible for the death of Mary and Florence Lacy."
Mrs. Arnold's trembling was painfully apparent, and there was nothing inHodgkins' feeble and desultory reply to give her hope.
"I will take the matter under consideration," said Judge Dunder, when hehad closed, and Shagarach knew that a severe blow at Robert'sreputation, as well as a timely relief to the Arnold purse, had beenprevented by that morning's work.
There were fewer clients than usual in the office when he returned. Oneof them, a large man, immediately arose.
"I am Patrolman Chandler," said he.
"What can we do for each other?"
"Not much, perhaps." The policeman drew an envelope from his pocket andshowed a lemon-colored glove inside. "Will that help you any?"
"Perhaps. It has a story?"
"A short one. That glove's been in my pocket ever since I was taken tothe hospital when the girl fell on me. Never thought of it; hardly knewit was there. Had broken bones to think of, you know."
"I read of your bravery at the fire."
"Pshaw! Well, here's the history of that article. I know Floyd; haveknown him ever since I took that route. Things look blue for the boy,but I never heard harm of him before, and says I to myself, yesterdaywhen I found the glove, perhaps Mr. Shagarach can turn this to goodaccount, and perhaps he can't. It's worth trying, and if it savesFloyd's neck, why, it's no more'n I'd like to have him do for me if ourpositions were just right about."
"That's the golden rule, stated in the vernacular. Where did you findthis?"
"On the stairs in the Arnold house."
"After the fire?"
&nb
sp; "When I went into the house at the beginning."
"How was it lying?"
"About the middle of the staircase, I believe."
"A little to the left, with the fingers pointing to the door?"
"Exactly--close to the wall."
"It is a right-hand glove. He was carrying it in his left hand anddropped it when running downstairs." Shagarach said this sotto voce, asif to himself.
"Who? Floyd?"
"The incendiary."
"I don't know that I ever saw young Floyd with gloves on except inwinter. Seems too loud for him anyway--more like some swell's."
"You will leave this with me?"
"Glad to, glad if it helps you," said the officer, rising to go.Shagarach took his hand and thanked him, then tried on the glove andstudied it for fully five minutes before admitting his regular clients.If it were Floyd's the case had neither gained nor lost. But he feltthat the kid was too fine, the make too fashionable, for the eccentricyoung radical, who, as Chandler had noticed, never wore gloves exceptfor protection against the cold. There was no hint of identity about it.Had it belonged to Harry Arnold? If so, how did it happen to lie on thestairs of his uncle's house immediately after the fire?
* * * * *
The island fort was a many-angled specimen of ancient masonry, followingthe shore line of an islet in the harbor. It was useless now. No flagstreamed from its pole. Passing vessels no longer saluted it, only alame old sergeant being about to protect the property. By an arrangementwith the local authorities it had been converted into a pleasure-groundand connected with an adjacent peninsular of the city by a pier orbridge of half a mile's length. This was the rendezvous mentioned by theanonymous correspondent.
When Shagarach stepped from the car on his way to meet Mr.Skull-and-Crossbones he found that he was early. It still wanted twentyminutes to the appointed hour. The humanity of the district was justrising from its supper tables in teeming tenements to enjoy the coolliberty of the twilight air, and Shagarach listened to the sayings ofthe multitude whose current he found himself stemming. They were flowingto an open-air concert at some point behind him. The correspondent hadtimed his evening well for a lonely conference.
As he approached the pier the crowd thinned and at last he found himselfwalking near the water alone. Ships were putting into port, with red andgreen caution lights hung aloft. The sea, now violet, melted into thesky and a gathering dimness subdued everything to one tone. Only theblack tree-masses and the outlines of the houses stood out somberlydistinct.
"We violate nature," said Shagarach to himself, "with our angular,unsightly houses, but she puts her own fairer version on all atlast--mosses the manse, curves the beach, litters the ruin, bathes thehard carpentry and mason work of the city with soft twilight balm." Helooked back upon the sad accumulation of misery, amid whose foulest reekhe was doomed to live. A greenish tint hung over it where the sunset hadsunk. It was a rare hue for the heavens to wear--something bizarre yetbeautiful, like yellow roses.
Thus far Shagarach had walked alone. Leaning over the railing on theright, he saw three boys fishing in a dory below. One of them was justlighting a lantern, for the thick dusk had begun to gather. Thepenetrating silence favored their occupation and he paused a moment towatch the silver-bellied mackerel slapping their bodies in the basket. Alittle farther on an oafish monster stood against the railing on theleft. Shagarach thought he leered mirthlessly when their eyes met.
Then at the middle of the pier he came to a closed gate, shutting offaccess to the island.
"No admission to the fort after 7 p. m.----" He had started to read theplacard, when suddenly he felt himself seized from behind. A hand overhis mouth throttled the outcry he launched. It was too late to reachfor the revolver. A brief, fierce trial of strength and he foundhimself forced over the railing into the water. The shock, to one whohad never entered the ocean before, was icy as death.
His senses did not depart from him. He made an effort to lie still onthe surface and to hold his breath. A hideous face projected over therailing, printed itself on his memory, and then disappeared. He knewthat he clutched his assailant's cap in his right hand, and that thelights of the city were dancing before him as he rose and sunk. Then theonly thing he felt was the gurgling of the deep, dark water nearer,nearer, nearer. How to fight it off? His hands wildly strove to push itaway. All the sweetness of the world he was leaving flashed through himin one pregnant second, whereupon his resolution yielded. He opened hislips to utter the fatal "Help!" of the drowning man, and the elementrushed in and made him its own.
The Incendiary: A Story of Mystery Page 20
