“Her parents were not aware of this expedition?”
“They were not, sir. They had both gone to New Hampshire to attend the funeral of Mr. Dunne’s mother.”
“Proceed, Mr. Phipps.”
“Miss Dunne seemed so upset over the loss of the box that I finally agreed to go back with her to look for it, though there seemed to me a very slight chance of anyone identifying it, and I did not particularly care to risk arousing anyone who still might be in the cottage. I had a flashlight, however, and we decided to make a hurried search as quietly as possible; so we started back, retracing our steps and keeping a sharp lookout for the box.
“When we got to the dirt cut-off leading to the cottage from the main driveway, we took it and approached as quietly as possible, standing for a moment just at the foot of the steps where the lilac bushes began and listening to see whether we could hear anything within. Miss Dunne said, ‘There’s not a sound, and no light either. I don’t believe there’s a soul around.’
“I said, ‘Someone has closed the windows and pulled down the shades in this front room. It was open when we were here before.’ Sally said, ‘Well, never mind—let’s look quickly and get away from here. I think it’s a horrid place.’ I turned on the flashlight and said, ‘We were much farther back than this.’ She said, ‘Yes; we were beyond these windows. Look! What’s this?’
“Something was glittering in the grass at the side of the steps, and I bent down and picked it up. It was a small object of silver and black enamel. I turned the light on it, and Miss Dunne said, ‘It’s one of those cigarette lighters. Look, there is something written on it. It says, Elliot from Mimi, Christmas.’
“Just then I heard a sound that made me look up. I said, ‘Listen, that’s a car.’ And I no more than had the words out of my mouth when I saw its headlights coming around the corner of the cut-off. I whispered, ‘Stand still—don’t move!’ because I could see that the headlights wouldn’t catch us, as we were standing far back from the road; but Miss Dunne had already pushed back into the shrubbery about the house. I stood stock-still, staring at the car, which had drawn up at the steps. It was a small car—a runabout, I think you call it____”
“Could you identify the make, Mr. Phipps?”
“No, sir; I am not familiar with automobiles. Just a small dark, ordinary-looking car. Two people got out of it—a man and a woman. They stood there for a moment on the steps, and when I saw who they were I came very close to letting out an exclamation of amazement. They went up the steps toward the front door.”
“Were they conversing?”
“Yes, but in low voices. I couldn’t hear anything until he said quite clearly, ‘No, it’s open—that’s queer.’ They went in, and I whispered to Miss Dunne, ‘Do you know who that was? That was Stephen Bellamy, with Mrs. Patrick Ives.’ Just as I spoke I saw a light go on in the hall, and a second or so later it disappeared and one sprang up behind the parlor shades. I was just starting over toward Miss Dunne when there was a crash from the parlor—a metallic kind of a crash, like breaking glass, and the light went out. I whispered, ‘Come on Sally; I’m going to get out of this!’ She started to come toward me, and someone inside screamed—a most appalling sound, as though the person were in mortal terror. I assure you that it froze me to the spot, though it was only the briefest interval before I again heard voices on the porch.”
“Could you see the speakers, Mr. Phipps?”
“No; not until they were getting into the car. I was at this time standing just around the corner of the house, and so could not see the porch.”
“Could you distinguish what they were saying?”
“Not at first; they were both speaking together, and it was very confusing. It wasn’t until they appeared again in the circle of the automobile lights that I actually distinguished anything more than a few fragmentary words. Mr. Bellamy had his hand on Mrs. Ives’s wrist and he was saying____”
Mr. Farr was on his feet, but much of the tiger had gone out of his spring. “Does the Court hold that what this witness claims that he heard one person say to another person is admissible evidence?”
“Of course it is admissible evidence!” Lambert’s voice was frantic with anxiety. “Words spoken on the scene of the crime, within a few minutes of the crime What about the rule of res gestae?”
Mr. Farr made an unpleasant little noise. “A few minutes? That’s what you call three quarters of an hour? When ejaculations made within two minutes have been ruled out after res gestae has been invoked?”
“It has been interpreted to admit whole sentences at a much____”
“Gentlemen”—Judge Carver’s gavel fell with an imperious crash—“you will be good enough to address the Court. Am I correct in understanding that what you desire is a ruling on the admissibility of this evidence, Mr. Farr?”
“That is all that I have requested, Your Honor.”
“Very well. In view of the gravity of this situation and the very unusual character of the testimony, the Court desires to show as great a latitude as possible in respect to this evidence. It therefore rules that it may be admitted. Is there any objection?”
“No objection,” said Mr. Farr, with commendable promptness, rallying a voice that sounded curiously flat. “It has been the object—and the sole object—of the state throughout this case to get at the truth. It is entirely willing to waive technicalities wherever possible in order that that end may be obtained. . . . No objection.”
“You may proceed, Mr. Phipps.”
“Mr. Bellamy was saying, ‘It makes no difference how innocent we are. If it were ever known that we were in that room tonight, you couldn’t get one person in the world to believe that we weren’t guilty, much less twelve. I’ve got to get you home. Get into the car.’ And they got into the car and drove off.”
“And then, Mr. Phipps?”
“And then, sir, I said to Miss Dunne, Sally, that sounds like the voice of prophecy to me. If no one would believe that they were innocent, no one would believe that we are. Nevermind the lunch box; I’m going to get you home too.’ ”
“You were aware that a murder had been committed?’’
“A murder? Oh, not for one moment!” The quiet voice was suddenly vehement in its protest. “Not for one single moment! I thought simply that for some inexplicable reason Mr. Bellamy and Mrs. Ives had been almost suicidally indiscreet and had fortunately become aware of it at the last moment. It brought my own most culpable indiscretion all too vividly home to me, and I therefore proceeded to escort Miss Dunne back to her home, where I left her.”
“Yes—exactly. Now, Mr. Phipps, just one or two questions more. On your first visit to the cottage, when you heard the woman’s voice cry, ‘Don’t dare to touch me,’ both the front and the rear of the cottage were under your observation, were they not?”
“At different times—yes.”
“Would it have been possible for an automobile to be at any spot near the cottage while you were there without your attention being drawn to the fact?”
“It would have been absolutely impossible.”
“It could not have stood there without your seeing it?”
“Not possibly.”
“Nor have left without your hearing it?”
“Not possibly.”
“Did you hear or see such a car on that visit to the cottage, Mr. Phipps?”
“I saw no car and heard none.”
“Thank you, Mr. Phipps; that will be all.”
“Well, not quite all,” said Mr. Farr gently. Mr. Phipps shifted in his chair, his eyes under their dark brows luminous with apprehension. “Mr. Phipps, at what time did you reach your home on the night of the nineteenth of June?”
“I did not return to my home. It was closed, as my family—my wife and my two little girls—were staying at a little place on the Jersey coast called Blue Bay. I had taken a room at the Y. M. C. A.”
“At what time did you return to the Y. M. C. A.?”
“I di
d not return there,” said Mr. Phipps, in a voice so low that it was barely audible.
“You did not return to the Y. M. C. A.?”
“No. By the time that I had left Miss Dunne at her home I decided that it was too late to return to the Y. M. C. A. without rendering myself extremely conspicuous, and as I was not in the least sleepy, I decided that I would take a good walk, get a bite to eat at one of the hand-out places in the vicinity of the station, and catch the first train—the four-forty-five—to New York, where I could get a boat to Blue Bay and spend Sunday with my family.”
“You mean that you did not intend to go to bed at all?”
“I did not.”
“And you carried out this plan?”
“I did.”
“What time did you leave Miss Dunne at her home, Mr. Phipps?”
“At about quarter to one.”
“What time did you start from the Orchards for home?”
“We started from the lodge gates at a little before eleven.”
“How far is it from there to Miss Dunne’s home in Rosemont?”
“Just short of four miles.”
“It took you an hour and three-quarters to traverse four miles?”
“Yes. The last bus from Perrytown to Rosemont goes by Orchards at about quarter to eleven. We missed it by five or six minutes and were obliged to walk.”
“It took you over an hour and three quarters to walk less than four miles?”
“We walked slowly,” said Mr. Phipps.
“So it would seem. Now, did anyone see you leave Miss Dunne at her door, Mr. Phipps?”
“No one.”
“You simply said good-night and left her there?”
“I said good-night,” said Mr. Phipps, “and left her at her door.”
“You did not go inside at all?”
Mr. Phipps met the suave challenge with unflinching eyes. “I did not set my foot inside her house that night.”
“Your Honor,” asked Mr. Lambert, in a voice shaken with righteous wrath, “may I ask where these questions are leading?”
“The Court was about to ask the same thing. . . . Well, Mr. Farr?”
“I respectfully submit that it is highly essential to test the accuracy of Mr. Phipps’ memory as to the rest of the events on the night which he apparently remembers in such vivid detail,” said Mr. Farr smoothly. “And I assume that he is open to as rigorous an inspection as to credibility as the defense has seen fit to lavish on the state’s various witnesses. If I am in error, Your Honor will correct me.”
“The Court wishes to hamper you as little as possible,” said Judge Carver wearily. “But it fails to see what is to be gained by pressing the question further.”
“I yield to Your Honor’s judgment. Did anyone that you know see you after you left Miss Dunne that night, Mr. Phipps?”
“Unfortunately, no,” said Mr. Phipps, in that low, painful voice. “I saw no one until I reached my wife in Blue Bay at about eleven o’clock the following morning.”
“Did you tell your wife of the events of the night?”
“No. I told my wife that I had spent the night in New York with an old classmate and gone to the theatre.”
“That was not the truth, was it, Mr. Phipps?” inquired the prosecutor regretfully.
“That was a falsehood,” said Mr. Phipps, his eyes on his locked hands.
Mr. Farr waited a moment to permit this indubitable fact to sink in. When he spoke again, his voice was brisker than it had been in some time. “How did you recognize Mr. Bellamy and Mrs. Ives, Mr. Phipps?”
“They were standing in the circle of light cast by their headlights. I could see them very distinctly.”
“No, I mean where had you seen them before.”
“Oh, I had seen them quite frequently before. Mrs. Ives I saw often when she was Miss Thorne and I was tutoring at Orchards, and I had seen her several times since as well. Indeed, I had been in her own house on two occasions in regard to some welfare work that the school was backing.”
“You were aware then that Mrs. Ives was a very wealthy woman?”
Mr. Phipps looked at him wonderingly. “Aware? I knew of course that____”
“Your Honor, I object to that question as totally improper.”
“Objection sustained,” said Judge Carver, eyeing the prosecutor with some austerity.
“And as to Mr. Bellamy?” inquired that gentleman blandly.
“Mr. Bellamy was a director of our school board,” said Mr. Phipps. “I was in the habit of seeing him almost weekly, so I naturally recognized him.”
“Oh, you knew Mr. Bellamy, too, did you?” Mr. Farr’s voice was encouragement itself.
“I knew him—not intimately, you understand, but well enough to admire him as deeply as did all who came in contact with him.”
“He was deeply admired by all the members of the board?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“It will do you no damage with the board, then, when they learn of your testimony in this case?”
“Your Honor____”
“Please,” said Mr. Phipps quietly, “I should like to answer that. Whether it would do me damage or not is slightly academic, as I have already handed in my resignation as principal of the Eastern High School. I do not intend to return to Rosemont; my wife, my children, and I are leaving for Ohio tomorrow.”
“You have resigned your position? When?”
“Last night. My wife agreed with me that my usefulness here would probably be seriously impaired after I had testified.”
“You are a wealthy man, Mr. Phipps?”
“On the contrary, I am a poor man.”
“Yet you are able to resign your position and go West as a man of independent means?”
“Are you asking me whether I have been bribed, Mr. Farr?” asked Mr. Phipps gravely.
“I am asking you nothing of the kind. I am simply____”
“Your Honor! Your Honor!”
“Because if you are,” continued Mr. Phipps clearly over the imperious thunder of the gavel, “I should like to ask you what sum you yourself would consider sufficient to reimburse you for the loss of your private happiness, your personal reputation, and your public career?”
“I ask that that reply be stricken from the record, Your Honor!”
The white savagery of Mr. Farr’s face was not an agreeable sight.
“Both your question and the witness’s reply may be so stricken,” said Judge Carver sternly. “They were equally improper. You may proceed, Mr. Farr.”
Mr. Farr, by a truly Herculean effort, managed to reduce both voice and countenance to a semblance better suited to so ardent a seeker for truth. “You wish us to believe then, Mr. Phipps, that on the night of the nineteenth of June, for the first time in over ten years, you went to the gardener’s cottage at Orchards at the precise moment that enabled you to recognize Susan Ives and Stephen Bellamy standing in the circle of their automobile lights?”
“That is exactly what I wish you to believe,” said Mr. Phipps steadily. “It is the truth.”
Mr. Farr bestowed on him a long look in which irony, skepticism, and contemptuous pity were neatly blended. “No further questions,” he said briefly. “Call Miss Dunne.”
“Miss Sally Dunne!”
Miss Sally Dunne came quickly, so tall, so brave, so young and pale in her blue serge dress with its neat little white collar and cuffs, that more than one person in the dark courtroom caught themselves wondering with a catch at the heart how long it had been since she had coiled those smooth brown braids over her ears and smoothed the hair ribbons out for the last time. She was not pretty. She had a sad little heart-shaped face and widely spaced hazel eyes, candid and trustful. These she turned on Mr. Lambert, and steadied her lips, which were trembling.
“Miss Dunne, I just want you to tell us one or two things. You heard Mr. Phipps’ testimony?”
“Yes, sir.” A child’s voice, clear as water, troubled and innocent.
“You were with him on the night of June nineteenth from eight until one or thereabouts?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Was his testimony as to what happened accurate?”
“Oh, yes, indeed, sir. Mr. Phipps,” said the little voice proudly, “has a very wonderful memory.”
“You were with him on his first visit to the cottage?”
“I was with him every minute of the evening.”
“You saw no car near the cottage?”
“There wasn’t any car there,” said Miss Dunne.
“You saw Mr. Bellamy and Mrs. Ives on your second visit to the cottage, some time after ten o’clock?”
“Just when they came out,” said Miss Dunne conscientiously. “I didn’t see their faces when they went in.”
“Did you hear them speak?”
“I heard Mr. Bellamy say, ‘Sue, no matter how innocent we are, we’ll never get one person to believe that we aren’t guilty if they know that we were in that room, much less twelve. I’ve got to get you home.’ ”
“Yes. Are you engaged to be married, Miss Dunne?”
“I don’t know,” said Miss Dunne simply. “I was engaged, but my—my fiancé didn’t want me to testify in this case. You see, he’s studying for the ministry. I think perhaps that he doesn’t consider that he’s engaged any longer.”
“Were you yourself anxious to testify?”
“I was anxious to do what Mr. Phipps thought was right for us to do,” said Miss Dunne. “But I am afraid that I was not very brave about wanting to testify.”
“Were you in the habit of going on these—these picnic expeditions with Mr. Phipps?”
“Oh, no, sir. We had taken only two or three quite short little walks—after school, you know. He was helping me with my English literature because I wanted to be a writer. The party that night was a farewell party.”
“A farewell party?”
The Bellamy Trial (American Mystery Classics) Page 31
