“Well, no, sir—that wasn’t the reason either.”
“Well then, what was the reason?”
“Well, you see,” and here for lack of previous thought on this subject as well as lack of wit to grasp the essentiality of a suitable and plausible answer quickly, Clyde hesitated—as every one—first and foremost Belknap and Jephson—noted—and then went on: “Well, you see—if I had to go away, even for a short time as I thought I might, I decided that I might need whatever I had in a hurry.”
“I see. You’re quite sure it wasn’t that in case the police discovered who Clifford Golden or Carl Graham were, that you might wish to leave quickly?”
“No, sir. It wasn’t.”
“And so you didn’t tell Mrs. Peyton you were giving up the room either, did you?”
“No, sir.”
“In your testimony the other day you said something about not having money enough to go up there and take Miss Alden away on any temporary marriage scheme—even one that would last so long as six months.”
“Yes, sir.”
“When you left Lycurgus to start on the trip, how much did you have?”
“About fifty dollars.”
“ ‘About’ fifty? Don’t you know exactly how much you had?”
“I had fifty dollars—yes, sir.”
“And while you were in Utica and Grass Lake and getting down to Sharon afterwards, how much did you spend?”
“I spent about twenty dollars on the trip, I think.”
“Don’t you know?”
“Not exactly—no, sir—somewhere around twenty dollars, though.”
“Well, not let’s see about that exactly if we can,” went on Mason and here, once more, Clyde began to sense a trap and grew nervous—for there was all that money given him by Sondra and some of which he had spent, too. “How much was your fare from Fonda to Utica for yourself?”
“A dollar and a quarter.”
“And what did you have to pay for your room at the hotel at Utica for you and Roberta?”
“That was four dollars.”
“And of course you had dinner that night and breakfast the next morning, which cost you how much?”
“It was about three dollars for both meals.”
“Was that all you spent in Utica?” Mason was taking a side glance occasionally at a slip of paper on which he had figures and notes, but which Clyde had not noticed.
“Yes, sir.”
“How about the straw hat that it has been proved you purchased while there?”
“Oh, yes, sir, I forgot about that,” said Clyde, nervously.
“That was two dollars—yes, sir.” He realized that he must be more careful.
“And your fares to Grass Lake were, of course, five dollars. Is that right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then you hired a boat at Grass Lake. How much was that?”
“That was thirty-five cents an hour.”
“And you had it how long?”
“Three hours.”
“Making one dollar and five cents.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And then that night at the hotel, they charged you how much? Five dollars, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And then didn’t you buy that lunch that you carried out in that lake with you up there?”
“Yes, sir. I think that was about sixty cents.”
“And how much did it cost you to get to Big Bittern?”
“It was a dollar on the train to Gun Lodge and a dollar on the bus for the two of us to Big Bittern.”
“You know these figures pretty well, I see. Naturally, you would. You didn’t have much money and it was important. And how much was your fare from Three Mile Bay to Sharon afterwards?”
“My fare was seventy-five cents.”
“Did you ever stop to figure this all up exactly?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, will you?”
“Well, you know how much it is, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir, I do. It was twenty-four dollars and sixty-five cents. You said you spent twenty dollars. But here is a discrepancy of four dollars and sixty-five cents. How do you account for it?”
“Well, I suppose I didn’t figure just exactly right,” said Clyde, irritated by the accuracy of figures such as these.
But now Mason slyly and softly inquiring: “Oh, yes, Griffiths, I forgot, how much was the boat you hired at Big Bittern?” He was eager to hear what Clyde would have to say as to this, seeing that he had worked hard and long on this pitfall.
“Oh—ah—ah—that is,” began Clyde, hesitatingly, for at Big Bittern, as he now recalled, he had not even troubled to inquire the cost of the boat, feeling as he did at the time that neither he nor Roberta were coming back. But now here and in this way it was coming up for the first time. And Mason, realizing that he had caught him here, quickly interpolated a “Yes?” to which Clyde replied, but merely guessing at that: “Why, thirty-five cents an hour—just the same as at Grass Lake—so the boatman said.”
But he had spoken too quickly. And he did not know that in reserve was the boatman who was still to testify that he had not stopped to ask the price of the boat. And Mason continued:
“Oh, it was, was it? The boatman told you that, did he?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well now, don’t you recall that you never asked the boatman at all? It was not thirty-five cents an hour, but fifty cents. But of course you do not know that because you were in such a hurry to get out on the water and you did not expect to have to come back and pay for it anyway. So you never even asked, you see. Do you see? Do you recall that now?” And here Mason produced a bill that he had gotten from the boatman and waved it in front of Clyde. “It was fifty cents an hour,” he repeated. “They charge more than at Grass Lake. But what I want to know is, if you are so familiar with these other figures, as you have just shown that you are, how comes it that you are not familiar with this figure? Didn’t you think of the expense of taking her out in a boat and keeping the boat from noon until night?” The attack came so swiftly and bitterly that at once Clyde was confused. He twisted and turned, swallowed and looked nervously at the floor, ashamed to look at Jephson who had somehow failed to coach him as to this.
“Well,” bawled Mason, “any explanation to make as to that? Doesn’t it strike even you as strange that you can remember every other item of all your expenditures—but not that item?” And now each juror was once more tense and leaning forward. And Clyde noting their interest and curiosity, and most likely suspicion, now returned:
“Well, I don’t know just how I came to forget that.”
“Oh, no, of course you don’t,” snorted Mason. “A man who is planning to kill a girl on a lone lake has a lot of things to think of, and it isn’t any wonder if you forget a few of them. But you didn’t forget to ask the purser the fare to Sharon, once you got to Three Mile Bay, did you?”
“I don’t remember if I did or not.”
“Well, he remembers. He testified to it here. You bothered to ask the price of the room at Grass Lake. You asked the price of the boat there. You even asked the price of the bus fare to Big Bittern. What a pity you couldn’t think to ask the price of the boat at Big Bittern? You wouldn’t be so nervous about it now, would you?” and here Mason looked at the jurors as much as to say: You see!
“I just didn’t think of it, I guess,” repeated Clyde.
“A very satisfactory explanation, I’m sure,” went on Mason, sarcastically. And then as swiftly as possible: “I don’t suppose you happen to recall an item of thirteen dollars and twenty cents paid for a lunch at the Casino on July ninth—the day after Roberta Alden’s death—do you or do you not?” Mason was dramatic, persistent, swift—scarcely giving him time to think or breathe, as he saw it.
At this Clyde almost jumped, so startled was he by this question and charge, for he did not know that they had found out about the lunch. “And do you remember, too,” went on
Mason, “that over eighty dollars was found on you when you were arrested?”
“Yes, I remember it now,” he replied.
As for the eighty dollars he had forgotten. Yet now he said nothing, for he could not think what to say.
“How about that?” went on Mason, doggedly and savagely. “If you only had fifty dollars when you left Lycurgus and over eighty dollars when you were arrested, and you spent twenty-four dollars and sixty-five cents plus thirteen for a lunch, where did you get that extra money from?”
“Well, I can’t answer that just now,” replied Clyde, sullenly, for he felt cornered and hurt. That was Sondra’s money and nothing would drag out of him where he had gotten it.
“Why can’t you answer it?” roared Mason. “Where do you think you are, anyhow? And what do you think we are here for? To say what you will or will not answer? You are on trial for your life—don’t forget that! You can’t play fast and loose with law, however much you may have lied to me. You are here before these twelve men and they are waiting to know. Now, what about it? Where did you get that money?”
“I borrowed it from a friend.”
“Well, give his name. What friend?”
“I don’t care to.”
“Oh, you don’t! Well, you’re lying about the amount of money you had when you left Lycurgus—that’s plain. And under oath, too. Don’t forget that! That sacred oath that you respect so much. Isn’t that true?”
“No, it isn’t,” finally observed Clyde, stung to reason by this charge. “I borrowed that money after I got to Twelfth Lake.”
“And from whom?”
“Well, I can’t say.”
“Which makes the statement worthless,” retorted Mason.
Clyde was beginning to show a disposition to balk. He had been sinking his voice and each time Mason commanded him to speak up and turn around so the jury could see his face, he had done so, only feeling more and more resentful toward this man who was thus trying to drag out of him every secret he possessed. He had touched on Sondra, and she was still too near his heart to reveal anything that would reflect on her. So now he sat staring down at the jurors somewhat defiantly, when Mason picked up some pictures.
“Remember these?” he now asked Clyde, showing him some of the dim and water-marked reproductions of Roberta besides some views of Clyde and some others—none of them containing the face of Sondra—which were made at the Cranstons’ on his first visit, as well as four others made at Bear Lake later, and with one of them showing him holding a banjo, his fingers in position. “Recall where these were made?” asked Mason, showing him the reproduction of Roberta first.
“Yes, I do.”
“Where was it?”
“On the south shore of Big Bittern the day we were there.” He knew that they were in the camera and had told Belknap and Jephson about them, yet now he was not a little surprised to think that they had been able to develop them.
“Griffiths,” went on Mason, “your lawyers didn’t tell you that they fished and fished for that camera you swore you didn’t have with you before they found that I had it, did they?”
“They never said anything to me about it,” replied Clyde.
“Well, that’s too bad. I could have saved them a lot of trouble. Well, these were the photos that were found in that camera and that were made just after that change of heart you experienced, you remember?”
“I remember when they were made,” replied Clyde, sullenly.
“Well, they were made before you two went out in that boat for the last time—before you finally told her whatever it was you wanted to tell her—before she was murdered out there—at a time when, as you have testified, she was very sad.”
“No, that was the day before,” defied Clyde.
“Oh, I see. Well, anyhow, these pictures look a little cheerful for one who was as depressed as you say she was.”
“Well—but—she wasn’t nearly as depressed then as she was the day before,” flashed Clyde, for this was the truth and he remembered it.
“I see. But just the same, look at these other pictures. These three here, for instance. Where were they made?”
“At the Cranston Lodge on Twelfth Lake, I think.”
“Right. And that was June eighteenth or nineteenth, wasn’t it?”
“On the nineteenth, I think.”
“Well, now, do you recall a letter Roberta wrote you on the nineteenth?”
“No, sir.”
“You don’t recall any particular one?”
“No, sir.”
“But they were all very sad, you have said.”
“Yes, sir—they were.”
“Well, this is that letter written at the time these pictures were made.” He turned to the jury.
“I would like the jury to look at these pictures and then listen to just one passage from this letter written by Miss Alden to this defendant on the same day. He has admitted that he was refusing to write or telephone her, although he was sorry for her,” he said, turning to the jury. And here he opened a letter and read a long sad plea from Roberta. “And now here are four more pictures, Griffiths.” And he handed Clyde the four at Bear Lake. “Very cheerful, don’t you think? Not much like pictures of a man who has just experienced a great change of heart after a most terrific period of doubt and worry and evil conduct—and has just seen the woman whom he had most cruelly wronged, but whom he now proposed to do right by, suddenly drowned. They look as though you hadn’t a care in the world, don’t they?”
“Well, they were just group pictures. I couldn’t very well keep out of them.”
“But this one in the water here. Didn’t it trouble you the least bit to go in the water the second or third day after Roberta Alden had sunk to the bottom of Big Bittern, and especially when you had experienced such an inspiring change of heart in regard to her?”
“I didn’t want any one to know I had been up there with her.”
“We know all about that. But how about this banjo picture here. Look at this!” And he held it out. “Very gay, isn’t it?” he snarled. And now Clyde, dubious and frightened, replied:
“But I wasn’t enjoying myself just the same!”
“Not when you were playing the banjo here? Not when you were playing golf and tennis with your friends the very next day after her death? Not when you were buying and eating thirteen-dollar lunches? Not when you were with Miss X again, and where you yourself testified that you preferred to be?”
Mason’s manner was snarling, punitive, sinister, bitterly sarcastic.
“Well, not just then, anyhow—no, sir.”
“What do you mean—‘not just then’? Weren’t you where you wanted to be?”
“Well, in one way I was—certainly,” replied Clyde, thinking of what Sondra would think when she read this, as unquestionably she would. Quite everything of all this was being published in the papers every day. He could not deny that he was with her and that he wanted to be with her. At the same time he had not been happy. How miserably unhappy he had been, enmeshed in that shameful and brutal plot! But now he must explain in some way so that Sondra, when she should read it, and this jury, would understand. And so now he added, while he swallowed with his dry throat and licked his lips with his dry tongue: “But I was sorry about Miss Alden just the same. I couldn’t be happy then—I couldn’t be. I was just trying to make people think that I hadn’t had anything to do with her going up there—that’s all. I couldn’t see that there was any better way to do. I didn’t want to be arrested for what I hadn’t done.”
“Don’t you know that is false! Don’t you know you are lying!” shouted Mason, as though to the whole world, and the fire and the fury of his unbelief and contempt was sufficient to convince the jury, as well as the spectators, that Clyde was the most unmitigated of liars. “You heard the testimony of Rufus Martin, the second cook up there at Bear Lake?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You heard him swear that he saw you and Miss X at a certain point
overlooking Bear Lake and that she was in your arms and that you were kissing her. Was that true?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And that exactly four days after you had left Roberta Alden under the waters of Big Bittern. Were you afraid of being arrested then?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Even when you were kissing her and holding her in your arms?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Clyde drearily and hopelessly.
“Well, of all things!” bawled Mason. “Could you imagine such stuff being whimpered before a jury, if you hadn’t heard it with your own ears? Do you really sit there and swear to this jury that you could bill and coo with one deceived girl in your arms and a second one in a lake a hundred miles away, and yet be miserable because of what you were doing?”
“Just the same, that’s the way it was,” replied Clyde.
“Excellent! Incomparable,” shouted Mason.
And here he wearily and sighfully drew forth his large white handkerchief once more and surveying the courtroom at large proceeded to mop his face as much as to say: Well, this is a task indeed, then continuing with more force than ever:
“Griffiths, only yesterday on the witness stand you swore that you personally had no plan to go to Big Bittern when you left Lycurgus.”
“No, sir, I hadn’t.”
“But when you two got in that room at the Renfrew House in Utica and you saw how tired she looked, it was you that suggested that a vacation of some kind—a little one—something within the range of your joint purses at the time—would be good for her. Wasn’t that the way of it?”
“Yes, sir. That was the way of it,” replied Clyde.
“But up to that time you hadn’t even thought of the Adirondacks specifically.”
“Well, no sir—no particular lake, that is. I did think we might go to some summer place maybe—they’re mostly lakes around there—but not to any particular one that I knew of.”
“I see. And after you suggested it, it was she that said that you had better get some folders or maps, wasn’t it?”
An American Tragedy Page 94
