“Oh, positive. She ask, ‘What, Luigi, you do not go to New York?’ ”
“How did she know that you were going to New York?”
“Because already before dinner I have ask permission from Mr. Bell’my if I can go to New York that evening to see a young lady from Milan that I think perhaps I marry, maybe. Miz’ Bell’my she is in the next room and she laugh and call out, ‘You tell Marietta that if she get you, one day she will find herself marry to the President of these United State’.’ I excuse myself for what may seem like a boast, but those are the words she use.”
And suddenly, as though he found the memory of that gay, mocking young voice floating across the heavy air of the courtroom more unbearable than all the blood and shame and horror that had invaded it, Stephen Bellamy’s face twisted to a tortured grimace and he lifted an unsteady hand to lowered eyes.
“Look!” came a penetrating whisper. “He’s crying, ain’t he? Ain’t he, Gertie?”
And the red-headed girl lowered her own eyes swiftly, a shamed and guilty flush reaching to the roots of her hair. How ugly, how contemptible, one’s thoughts could sound in words!
“What reply did you make to Mrs. Bellamy?”
“I tell to her that I think maybe I had better not go, as that afternoon I have invest my money in a small game of chance with the gardener next door and the investment it have prove’ unsound. I say that how if I go to New York to see my young lady, it is likely that I must request of her the money to return back to Rosemont—and me, who am proud, I find that indelicate. So Miz’ Bell’my she laugh out and look quick in the little bag that she carry and give me three dollar’—to make the course of true love run more smooth, she say—and then she call back over her shoulder, ‘Better hurry, Luigi, or you miss that train.’ So I hurry, but all the same I miss it—by two small minute, because, chiefly, this watch he is too eccentric.”
In spite of its eccentricity, he returned it tenderly to his vest pocket, after a final flip in the direction of the harassed Farr and the enraptured audience.
“Did you notice anything else in the bag when Mrs. Bellamy opened it?”
“Oh, positive. The eyes of Luigi they miss nothing what there is to see. All things they observe. In that bag of Miz’ Bell’my there are stuff, stuff in two, three letters—I dunno for sure—maybe four. But they make that small little bag bulge out so—very tight, like that.” Mr. Orsini’s eloquent hands sketched complete rotundity.
“You never saw Mrs. Bellamy again?”
“Not evair—no, no more—not evair.”
For a moment the warm blood under the swarthy Southern skin seemed to run more slowly and coldly; but after a hasty glance at the safe, reassuring autumn sunlight slanting across the crowded room, the color flowed boldly back to cheek and lip.
“You say that you missed the train to New York. What did you do then?”
“Then I curse myself good all up and down for a fool that is a fool all right, and I go back to my room in the garage and get into my bed and begin to read a story in a magazine that call itself Honest Confession about a bride what____”
“Never mind what you were reading. Did you notice anything unusual on your return?”
“Well, maybe you don’t call it nothing unusual, but I notice that the car of Mr. Bell’my it is no longer in the garage. That make me surprise’ for a minute, because I have heard Mr. Bell’my tell Nellie, the house girl, that it is all right for her to go home early to her mother, where she sleep, because he will be there to answer the telephone if it should ring. But all the same, I go on to bed. I just think he change his mind, maybe.”
“What time did you get back to the garage?”
“At twenty-two minutes before nine I am in my room. That I verify by the alarm clock that repose on the top of my bureau, and which is of an entire reliability; I note it expressly, because I am enrage’ that I have miss’ that train by so small an amount.”
“Orsini, do you know what kind of tires Mr. Bellamy was using on his car?”
“Yes, sair, that, too, I know. There are three old tires of what they call Royal Cord make—two on back and one on front. On the left front one is a good new Silvertown Cord, what I help him to change about a month before all these things have happen. For spare, he carry a all new Ajax. And that is all there is.”
“You’re perfectly sure that the Ajax wasn’t on?”
“Oh, surest thing.”
“When did you last see the car?”
“When I go down to the gate, round half-past seven.”
“And the Ajax was still on as a spare?”
“That’s what.”
“Did you see Mr. Bellamy again on the evening of the nineteenth?”
“Yes, that evening I have seen Mr. Bell’my again.”
“At what time?”
“At five before ten.”
“Was he alone?”
“No; with him there was a lady.”
“Did you recognize her?”
“Yes, sair, I have recognize’ her.”
“Who was this lady, Orsini?”
“This lady, sair, was Miz’ Patrick Ives.”
At those words, pronounced with exactly their proper dramatic inflection by that lover of the drama, Mr. Luigi Orsini, every head in the courtroom pivoted to the spot where Mrs. Patrick Ives sat with the autumn sun warming her hair to something better than gold. And quite oblivious to the ominous inquiry in those straining eyes, she turned toward Stephen Bellamy, meeting his startled eyes with a small, rueful smile, lifted brows and a little shake of the head that came as near to saying “I told you so” as good sportsmanship permitted.
“You are quite positive of that?”
“Oh, without one single doubt.”
“How were you able to identify her?”
“Because I hear her voice, as clear as I hear you, and I see her clear as I see you too.”
“How were you able to do that?”
“By the lights of Mr. Bell’my’s car, when she get out and look up at my window, where I stand and look out.”
“Tell us just how you came to be standing there looking out, please.”
“Well, after a while, I began to get sleepy over that magazine, and I look at the clock and it say ten minutes to ten, and I think, ‘Luigi, my fine fellow, to-morrow you rise at six to do the work that lies before you, and at present it is well that you should sleep.’ So I arise to turn out the light, which switch is by the window, and just when I get there to do that I hear a auto car turn in at the gate. I think, ‘Ah-ha! There now comes Mr. Bell’my.’ And then I look out of that window, for I am surprise’. It is the habit of Mr. Bell’my to put away that car so soon as he come in, but this time he don’t do that. He stop in front of the house and he help out a lady. She stand there looking up at my window, and I see her clear like it is day, but it is all dark inside, so she can see nothing. Then she say, ‘I still could swear that I have seen a light,’ and Mr. Bell’my he say, ‘Sue, don’t let this get you. I tell you that there is no one here—I saw him headed for the train. Maybe perhaps it was the shine from our own lamps what you see. Come on.’ And she say, ‘Maybe; but I could swear____’ And then I don’t hear any more, because they go into the house, and me, I stand there like one paralyze’, because always I have believe Mr. Bell’my to be a man of honor who love____”
“Yes—never mind that. Did you see them come out?”
“Yes, that I see, too. In five-ten minutes they come out and get quick into the car, and drive away without they say one word. They start off very fast, so that the car it jump.”
“Do you know at what time Mr. Bellamy returned that night?”
“No; because then I wake only half up from sleep when I hear him drive that car into the garage, and I do not turn to look at the clock.”
“It was some time later?”
“Some time—yes. But whether one hour—three hours—five hours, that I cannot say. What I am not sure of like my life, that I do n
ot say.”
“Exactly; very commendable. That’s all, thanks. Cross-examine.”
Orsini wheeled his lustrous orbs in the direction of Mr. Lambert, whose ruddy countenance had assumed an expression of intense inhospitality, though he managed to inject an ominous suavity into his ample voice. “With those vigilant and all-seeing eyes of yours, Mr.—er—Mr. Orsini, were you able to note the garments that Mrs. Bellamy was wearing when she went past you at the gate?”
“Oh, positive. A white dress, all fluffy, and a black cape, quite thin, so that almost you see through it—not quite, maybe, but almost.”
“Any hat?”
“On the head a small black scarf that she have wrap’ also around her neck, twice or mebbe three time. The eyes of Luigi____”
“Exactly. Could you see whether she had on her jewels?”
“Positive. Always like that in the evening, moreover, she wear her jewels.”
“You noticed what they were?”
“Same like always—same necklace out of pearls, same rings, diamond and sapphire, two on one hand, one the other—I see them when she open that bag.”
“Mr. Bellamy was a person of moderate means, wasn’t he, as far as you know?”
“Oh, everybody what there is around here knows he wasn’t no John P. Rockfeller, I guess.”
“Do you believe that the stones were genuine?”
Mr. Orsini, thus appealed to as an expert, waxed eloquent and expansive. “Oh, positive. That I know for one absolute sure thing.”
“Tell us just how, won’t you?”
“Well, that house girl, Nellie, one night she tell me that Miz’ Bell’my have left one of her rings at the club where she wash her hands, but that Miz’ Bell’my just laugh and say she should worry herself, because all those rings and her pearls they are insure big, and if she lose those, she go out and buy herself a new house and a auto car, and maybe a police dog too.”
“I see. Had it ever occurred to you that Mrs. Bellamy was using the cottage at Orchards for other purposes than piano practice, Mr. Orsini?”
Orsini’s smile flashed so generously that it revealed three really extravagant gold fillings. “Well, me, I don’t miss many things, maybe you guess. After she get that key three-four times, I think to myself, ‘Luigi, it is funny thing that nevair she give you back that key until the day after, and always those evenings she go out by herself—most generally when Mr. Bell’my he stay in town to work.’ So one of those nights when she ask for that key I permit myself to take a small little stroll up the road in Orchards, and sure thing, there is a light in that cottage and a auto car outside the door. Sufficient! I look no further. Me, I am a man of the world, you comprehend.”
“Obviously.”
“Just a moment, Mr. Lambert,” interrupted Judge Carver. “Is your cross-examination going to take some time?”
“Quite a time, I believe, Your Honor.”
“Then I think it best that we adjourn for the noon recess, as it is already after twelve. The Court stands adjourned until one-ten.”
“Well, here’s where we get our comic relief,” said the reporter with unction. “That son of sunny Italy is going to give us an enviable imitation of a three-ringed circus and a bag of monkeys before he and Lambert get through with each other, or I miss my guess. He’s got a look in his eye that is worth the price of admission alone. What’s your mature opinion of him?”
“I think that he’s beguiling,” said the red-headed girl somewhat listlessly. Little shadows were under her gray eyes, and she curled small limp paws about a neglected notebook. Something in the drooping shoulders under the efficient jacket suggested an exhausted baby in need of a crib and a bottle of hot milk and a firm and friendly tucking in. She made a halfhearted effort to overtake an enormous yawn that was about to engulf her, and then surrendered plaintively.
“Bored?” inquired the real reporter, his countenance illuminated by an expression of agreeable surprise.
“Bored?” cried the lady beside him in a voice at once scornful and outraged. “Bored? I’m half destroyed with excitement. I can’t sleep any more. I go back to the boarding house every night and sit up in front of a gas stove with an orange-and-magenta comforter over my shoulders that ought to warm the dead, writing up my notes until all hours; and then I put a purple comforter over my knees and a muffler over my nose, and get an apple and sit there alternately gnawing the apple and my fingers and trying to work out who did it until even the cats stop singing under my window and the sky begins to get that nice, appealing slate color that’s so prettily referred to as dawn. And even then I don’t know who did it.”
“Don’t you, indeed?” inquired the reporter severely, looking irritated and anxious. “Haven’t you any sense at all, you little idiot? Listen, I know a place just two blocks down where you can get some fairly decent hot soup. You go and drink about a quart of it and then trot along home and turn in, and I’ll do your notes for you to-night so well that your boss will double your salary in the morning—and if you’re very good and sleep eighteen hours, I may tell you who did the murder.”
The red-headed girl, who had shuddered fastidiously at the offer of fairly decent soup, eyed him ungratefully as she extracted a packet of salted peanuts from the capacious pouch that served her as handbag, commissary, and dressing table.
“Thank you kindly,” she said. “My boss wrote me two special-delivery letters yesterday to say that I was doing far the best stuff that was coming up out of Redfield—far. He said that the three clippings that I sent him of your stuff showed promise—he did, honestly. . . . I think that soup’s terrible, and this is the first time in my life that I’ve been able to stay up as late as I pleased without anyone sending me to bed. I’m mad about it. . . . Have some peanuts?”
“No, thanks,” said the reporter, rising abruptly. “Anything I can get you outside?”
“You’re cross!” wailed the red-headed girl, her eyes round with panic and contrition. “You are—you are—you’re absolutely furious. Wait, please—please, or I’ll hang on to your coat tails and make a scene. The real reason I don’t go out and get soup is because I don’t dare. If I went away even for a minute, something might happen, and then I wouldn’t ever sleep again. Someone might get my seat—didn’t you see that fat, sinful-looking old lady who got the Gazette girl’s place yesterday? She wouldn’t go even when three officers and the sheriff told her she had to, and the Gazette girl had to sit on a stool in the gallery, and she said she had such a rushing of rage in her ears that she couldn’t hear anything that anyone said all afternoon. So, you see____ And I would like a ham sandwich and I think that you write better than Conrad, and I apologize, and if you’ll tell me who did the murder, I’ll tell you. And please hurry, because I hope you won’t be gone long.”
“You’re a nice little nut,” said the reporter, and he beamed on her forgivingly, “and I like you. I like the way your nose turns up and your mouth turns down, and I like that funny little hat you wear. . . . I’ll make it in two jumps. Watch me!”
The red-headed girl watched him obediently, her face pink and her eyes bright under the funny little hat. When the door opened to let him out, she plunged her eyes apprehensively for a moment into the silent, pushing, heaving mob behind the policeman’s broad blue shoulders, shivered, and turned them resolutely away.
“If I were convicted of murder to-morrow,” thought the red-headed girl passionately, “they’d shove just like that to see me hanged. Ugh! What’s the matter with us?”
She eyed with an expression of profound distaste the plump lady just beyond her, conscientiously eating stuffed eggs out of a shoe box. So smug, so virtuous, so pompadoured and lynx-eyed____ Her eyes moved hastily on to the pair of giggling flappers exchanging powder puffs and anecdotes over a box of maple caramels; on to the round-shouldered youth with the unattractive complexion and unpleasant tie; on to the pretty thing with overflushed cheeks and overbright eyes above her sable scarf and beneath her Paris hat. The red-h
eaded girl wrenched her eyes back to the empty space where there sat, tranquil and aloof, the memory of the prisoner at the bar.
It was good to be able to forget those hot, hungry, cruel faces, so sleek and safe and triumphant, and to remember that other face under the shadow of the small felt hat, cool and controlled and gay—yes, gay, for all the shadows that beset it. Only—what thoughts were weaving behind that bright brow, those steady lips? Thoughts of terror, of remorse, of bitterness and horror and despair? If you were strong enough to strike down a laughing girl who barred your path, you would be strong enough to keep your lips steady, wouldn’t you?
The red-headed girl stared about her wildly; she felt suddenly small and cold and terrified. Where was the reporter? What a long time____ Oh, someone had opened a window. It was only the wind of autumn that was blowing so cold then, not the wind of death. What was it those little newsboys were calling outside, yelping like puppies in the gray square?
“Extra Extra! All about the mysterious____”
“Well,” said the reporter’s voice at her elbow, tense with some suppressed excitement, “this is the time he did it! No enterprising Filipino and housemaid around this time. Read that and weep!”
Across the flimsy sheet of the Redfield Home News it ran in letters three inches high: Ex-fiancé of Murdered Girl Blows Out Brains. Prominent Clubman Found Dead in Garden at Eleven Forty-five This Morning.
“I’ve got a peach of a story started over the wires this minute,” said the reporter exultantly. “Here, boy, rush this stuff and beat it back for more. I couldn’t get your sandwich.”
“Well,” said the red-headed girl in a small awed voice—“well, then, that means that he did it himself, doesn’t it? That means that he couldn’t stand it any longer because he killed her, doesn’t it?”
“Or it means that he good and damn well knew that Susan Ives did it,” muttered the reporter, shaken from Olympian calm to frenzied activity. “Here, boy! Boy! Hi, you, rush this—and take off the ear muffs. It’s a hundred-to-one bet that he knew that Sue’d done it, and that he’d as good as put the knife in her hand by telling her where, when, and why it should be managed. . . . Here, boy!”
The Bellamy Trial (American Mystery Classics) Page 15
