The Bellamy Trial (American Mystery Classics)

by Frances Noyes Hart

  “Mrs. Stephen Bellamy?”

  “Yes, sir, through Mrs. Stephen Bellamy.”

  “Will you tell us just how that happened, Miss Cordier?”

  “Assuredly. My little younger sister had been sent by an agency three or four years ago to Mrs. Bellamy directly when she land in this country. She was quite inexperience’, you understand, and could not command a position such as one trained could demand; but Mrs. Bellamy was good to her and she work hard, and after a while she marries a young man who drives for the grocer and they____”

  “Yes, quite so, Miss Cordier. My question was, how did Mrs. Bellamy happen to send you to Mrs. Ives?”

  “Yes, that is what I explain.” Miss Cordier, exquisitely unruffled, pursued the even tenor of her way. “Sometime when my sister was there with Mrs. Bellamy I would go out to show her what she should do. For me, I have been a waitress for eight years and am well experience’. Well, then I see Mrs. Bellamy and tell her that if some time she knows of a excellent position in that Rosemont, I would take it so that sometime I could see my little sister who is marrying that young man from the grocer’s. And about two years ago, maybe, she write to me to say that her friend Mrs. Patrick Ives she is looking for a extremely superior waitress. So that is how I go to Mrs. Ives.”

  “Are you still in the employ of Mrs. Ives?”

  “No. On June twentieth I resign, since I am not quite content with something that have happen.”

  “Did this occurrence have anything to do with the death of Mrs. Bellamy?”

  “That I do not say. But I was not content.”

  “Miss Cordier, have you seen this book before? I call your attention to its title—Stone on Commercial Paper, Volume III.”

  Miss Cordier’s black eyes swept it perfunctorily. “Yes, that book I know.”

  “When did you last see it?”

  “The night of June nineteenth, about nine o’clock.”

  “Where?”

  “In the study of Mr. Ives.”

  “What particularly brought it to your attention?”

  “Because I take it out of the corner by the desk to look inside it.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “Because I want to see whether a note I put there that afternoon still was there.”

  “And was that note still there, Miss Cordier?”

  “No, monsieur, that note, it was gone.”

  The prosecutor tossed the impressive volume carelessly on to the clerk’s desk. “I offer this volume in evidence, Your Honor.”

  “Any objections?” Judge Carver turned an inquiring eye on the bulky figure of Dudley Lambert, hovering uncertainly over the buckram-clad repository of correspondence.

  Mr. Lambert, shifting from one foot to the other, eyed the volume as though he were endeavoring to decide whether it were an infernal machine or a jewel casket, and with one final convulsive effort arrived at a conclusion: “No objection.”

  “Miss Cordier, to whom was the note that you placed in the book addressed?”

  “It was addressed to Mr. Patrick Ives.”

  “Was it written by you?”

  “Ah, no, no, monsieur.”

  “Do you know by whom it was written?”

  “Yes, monsieur.”

  “By whom?”

  “By Mrs. Stephen Bellamy.”

  “And how did it happen that you were in possession of a note from Mrs. Bellamy to Mr. Ives?”

  “It was the habit of Mrs. Bellamy to mail to me letters that she desire’ to have reach Mr. Ives, without anyone should know. Outside there would be my name on the envelope; inside there would be a more small envelope with the name of Mr. Ives on it. That one I would put in the book.”

  “You had been doing this for some time?”

  “For some time, yes—six months—maybe eight.”

  “How any notes had you placed there, to the best of your recollection?”

  “Ah, that I am not quite sure—ten—twelve—twenty—who knows? At first once a month, maybe; that last month, two and three each week.”

  “At what time did you put the note there?”

  “Maybe fifteen minutes before seven, maybe twenty. After half-past six, I know, and not yet seven.”

  “Was that your usual habit?”

  “Oh, no, monsieur; it was my habit to put them there in the night, when I make dark the house. Half-past six, that was a very bad time, because quite easily someone might see.”

  “Then why did you choose that time, Miss Cordier?”

  “Oh, but I do not choose. You see, it was like this: That night, when MacDonald, the chauffeur, bring in the letters a little bit after six, this one it was there for me, in a envelope that was write on it Urgent. On the little envelope inside it say Urgent-Very Urgent in letters with lines under them most black, and so I know that there is great haste that Mr. Patrick Ives he should get that letter quick. So I start to go to the study, but there in the hall is all those people who have come from the club, and Mrs. Ives she send me quick to get some canapés, and Mr. Dallas he come with me to show me what he want for the cocktails—limes and honey and all those thing, you know.” She looked appealingly at the prosecutor from the long black eyes and for a moment his tense countenance relaxed into a grim smile.

  “You were about to tell us why you placed the note there at that time.”

  “Yes; that is what I tell. Well, I wait and I wait for those people to go home, and still they do not go, but I dare not go in so long as across the hall from the study they all stay in that living room. But after a while I cannot wait any longer for fear that Mr. Patrick Ives should come and not find that most urgent note. So very quiet I slip in when I think no one look, and I put that note quick, quick in the book, and I start to come out in the hall; but when I get to the door I see there is someone in the hall and I step back again to wait till they are gone.”

  “And whom did you see in the hall, Miss Cordier?”

  “I see in the hall Mr. Elliot Farwell and Mrs. Patrick Ives.”

  “Did they see you?”

  Miss Cordier lifted eloquent shoulders. “How do I know, monsieur? Maybe they do, maybe they don’t—me, I cannot tell. I step back quick and listen, and after a while their voices stop and I hear a door close, and I come out quick through the hall and into the door to the kitchen without I see no one.”

  “Did you hear what Mr. Farwell and Mrs. Ives were saying?”

  “No, that I could not hear even when I listen, so low they talk, so low that almost they whisper.”

  “You heard nothing else while you were there?”

  “Yes, monsieur. While I stand by the desk, but before I take out the book, I heard mademoiselle go through the hall with the children.”

  “Mademoiselle? Mademoiselle who?” The prosecutor’s voice was expressionless enough, but there was a prophetic shadow of annoyance in his narrowed eyes.

  “Mademoiselle Page.”

  “You say that she was simply passing through the hall?”

  “Yes, monsieur—on her way to the stairs.”

  “You had not yet touched the book?”

  “No, monsieur.”

  “You waited until she passed before you did so?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was Mrs. Ives in the hall at the time that you placed the note in the book?”

  “Ah, that, too, I do not say. I say only that she was there one minute—one half minute after I have put it there.”

  “Could she have seen you place it in the book from the position in which you saw her standing?”

  “It is possible.”

  “Was she facing you?”

  “No, monsieur; it is Mr. Farwell who face’ me. Mrs. Ives had the back toward me.”

  Again that shadow of fierce annoyance, turning the blue eyes almost black. “Then what makes you say that she might have seen you?”

  The dark eyes meeting his widened a trifle in something too tranquil for surprise—a mild, indolent wonder at the obtuseness of the huma
n race in general, men in particular, and prosecutors more particularly still. “I say that because it might well be that in that little minute she have turn’ the back to me, or if she have not, then it might be that she see in the mirror.”

  “There was a mirror?”

  “But yes, on the other side of the hall from the study door there is a long, long chair—a what you call a bench—where the gentlemen they leave their hats. Over that there hangs the mirror. And it was by that bench that I see Mr. Farwell and Mrs. Ives.”

  “And the desk and the bookcase were reflected in the mirror?”

  “Yes, monsieur.”

  “I see. Now did you notice anything at dinner, Miss Cordier?”

  “Nothing at all; everything was as usual, of an entire serenity.”

  “It was at the usual hour?”

  “At quarter past seven—yes.”

  “Who was present?”

  “Mrs. Patrick Ives, Mrs. Daniel Ives, Mr. Ives, as usual.”

  “Do you recall the conversation?”

  “Oh, no, monsieur, I recall only that everyone talk as always about small things. It is my practice, like an experience’ waitress, serious and discreet, to be little in the dining room—only when serving, you understand.” The serious and discreet waitress eyed her interrogator with a look of bland superiority.

  “Nothing struck you as unusual after dinner?”

  “No, no.”

  “You saw no one before you turned out the lights for the night?”

  “Oh, yes, I have seen Mrs. Daniel Ives at that time, and she ask me whether Mrs. Ives have return, and I say no.”

  “No one else?”

  “Only the other domestics, monsieur. At a little past ten I retire’ for the night.”

  “You went to sleep immediately?”

  “Yes, monsieur.”

  “Breakfast was just as usual the next morning?”

  “As usual—yes.”

  “At what time?”

  “At nine, as on all Sundays. Mrs. Patrick Ives have hers at half-past nine, when she gets home from church.”

  “Nothing unusual in that?”

  “Oh, no; on the contrary, that is her habit.”

  “And after breakfast, nothing unusual occurred?”

  “I do not know whether you call it unusual, but after breakfast, yes, something occurred.”

  “Just tell us what it was, please.”

  Miss Cordier spent an interminable moment critically inspecting a pair of immaculate cream-colored gloves before she decided to gratify this desire: “It was just so soon as Mr. Ives and his mother have finish’ breakfast, a few minutes before half-past nine. Mr. Ives he go directly to his study, and I go after him with the Sunday papers and before I go out I ask—because me, I am desirous to know—‘Mr. Ives, you have got that note all right what I put in the book?’ And he say____”

  “Your Honor, I object! I object! What Mr. Ives said____”

  This time there was no indecision whatever in the clamor set up by the long-suffering Lambert, and the prosecutor, eyeing him benevolently, raised a warning hand to his witness. “Never mind what he said, Miss Cordier. Just tell us what you said.”

  “I said, after he spoke, ‘Oh, Mr. Ives, then if you have not got it, it is Mrs. Ives who have found it. She have seen me put it in the book while she stood there in the hall.’____”

  The prosecutor waited for a well-considered moment to permit this conveniently revelatory reply to sink in. “It was after this conversation with Mr. Ives that you decided you would no longer remain with Mrs. Ives?”

  “No, monsieur, it was later in the morning that I decide that.”

  “Something occurred that made you decide it then?”

  Miss Cordier’s lacquer-red lips parted, closed, parted again. “Yes.”

  “What, Miss Cordier?”

  “At half-past eleven I have heard that Mrs. Bellamy have been killed.” The dark eyes slipped sidelong in the direction of the quiet young woman who had not so long since been her mistress. There she sat, leaning easily back in the straight, uncomfortable chair, ankles crossed, hands linked, studying the tips of her squarely cut little shoes with lowered eyes. The black eyes travelled from the edge of the kilted skirt to the edge of the small firm chin and then slid slowly back to the prosecutor: “When I heard that, I was not content, so I no longer stayed.”

  “Exactly.” The prosecutor plunged his hands deep in his pockets and cocked a flagrantly triumphant eye at the agitated Lambert. “You no longer stayed. That will be all, Miss Cordier. Cross-examine.”

  “Miss Cordier, you knew perfectly that if for one second it came to Mrs. Ives’s attention that you had been acting as go-between in the alleged correspondence between her husband and Mrs. Bellamy you would not have remained five minutes under her roof, did you not?”

  Miss Cordier leaned a trifle farther over the edge of the witness box to meet the rough anger of Lambert’s voice, something ugly and insolent hardening the creamy mask of her face.

  “I know that when Mrs. Ives is angered she is quick to speak, quick to act—yes, monsieur.”

  At the fatal swiftness of that blow, the ruddy face before her sagged and paled, then rallied valiantly. “And so you decided that you had better leave before Mr. Ives questioned her about finding the note and you were turned out in disgrace, didn’t you?”

  “I have said already, monsieur, that I leave because I have heard that Mrs. Bellamy have been murdered and I am not content.” The ominously soft voice pronounced each syllable with a lingering and deadly deliberation.

  Mr. Lambert eyed her savagely and moved heavily on: “You say that you were cut off from escaping through the hall by the fact that you saw that it was occupied by Mr. Farwell and Mrs. Ives?”

  “That is so.”

  “Why didn’t you go back through the dining room to the pantry?”

  “Because I hear Mr. Dallas and Mr. Burgoyne talking from the dining room, where they try one more cocktail.”

  “Why should they have thought it unusual to have you come from the study?”

  “I think it more prudent that no one should know I have been in that study.”

  “You were simply staying there in order to spy on Mrs. Ives, weren’t you?”

  “I could not help see Mrs. Ives unless I close’ my eyes.”

  Mr. Lambert was obliged to swallow twice before he was able to continue:

  “Did you tell Mr. Ives that Mr. Farwell was in the hall also at the time that you saw Mrs. Ives there?”

  “I do not remember whether I tell him or whether I do not.”

  “Mr. Farwell was facing you, was he not?”

  “Yes.”

  “What made you so sure that it was Mrs. Ives who took the note, not Mr. Farwell?”

  “Because, when I hear the door close, then I know that Mr. Farwell he has gone.”

  “And how did you know that?”

  Once more Miss Cordier raised eloquent shoulders. “Because, monsieur, I am not stupid. I look out, he is standing by the hat stand; I go back, I hear a door close, I look out once more, and he is not there. But that is of the most elementary.”

  “You should be a detective instead of wasting your time waiting on tables,” commented her courtly interrogator. “The plain truth is, isn’t it, that anyone in the house might have gone out and closed that door while Mr. Farwell went back to the living room with Mrs. Ives?”

  “If you say so, monsieur,” replied Miss Cordier indifferently.

  “And the plain truth is that Mr. Farwell was frantically infatuated with Mrs. Bellamy and was spying on her constantly, isn’t it?”

  “It is possible.”

  “Possible! Mr. Farwell himself stated it half a dozen times from this very witness box. It’s a plain fact. And another plain fact is that any one of a dozen other people might have passed through the hall and seen you at work, mightn’t they?”

  “I should not believe so—no, monsieur.”

  “Whether y
ou believe it or not, it happens to be the truth. Six or eight servants, eight or ten guests____ What reason have you for believing that Miss Page herself did not notice something unusual in your attitude and turn back in time to see you place the note after you believed that she had passed?”

  “No reason, monsieur—only the evidence of all five of my senses.”

  “You are a highly talented young woman, Miss Cordier, but you can’t see with your back turned, can you?”

  “Monsieur is pleased to jest,” remarked Miss Cordier, in the tone of one frankly undiverted.

  “Don’t characterize my questions, please—answer them.”

  “Willingly. I do not see with my back turn’.”

  “So it comes down to the fact that ten—twelve—fourteen people might have seen you place this urgent and mysterious note that you so boldly charge Mrs. Ives with taking, doesn’t it?”

  “That is monsieur’s opinion, not mine.”

  Monsieur glared menacingly at the not too subtle mockery adorning the witness’s pleasing countenance.

  “And furthermore, Miss Cordier, it comes down to the fact that we have only your word for it that the note was ever placed in the book at all, doesn’t it?”

  “Monsieur does not find that sufficient?”

  Monsieur ignored the question, but his countenance testified eloquently that such was indeed the case.

  “Just how did you happen to select a book in Mr. Ives’s library as a hiding place for this correspondence?”

  “Because that is a good safe place, where every night he can look without anyone to watch.”

  “What made you think that someone else might not take out that book to read?”

  “That book? Stone on Commercial Paper, Volume III? Monsieur is pleased to jest!”

  Monsieur, scowling unattractively at some openly diverted members of the press, changed his line of attack with some abruptness. “Miss Cordier, you know a man called Adolph Platz, do you not?”

  Miss Cordier’s lashes flickered once—twice. “Of a certainty.”

  “Did you see him in the afternoon of the nineteenth of June?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did you come to know him?”

  “He was for a time chauffeur to Mrs. Ives.”

  “Married, wasn’t he?”

  “Married, yes.”