He paused again, and presently went on, in his slow pensive manner, “I didn’t seem to hear the voice again until I reached the auditorium. Then the voice said, ‘Enter and obey.’ I heard it as plain as I can hear you, only it was kind of a whisper. I felt in my pocket and found I had money there—just about enough for a ticket in the balcony. So I got the ticket and went in. I just sat there listening. I didn’t get mad or anything. I just listened. Then I heard the voice say, ‘Now, my son.’ So I stood up and went to the rear of the balcony, and knelt down and rested the rifle on the back of a seat, and I shot him. I don’t remember having aimed or anything, but I suppose I did. I knew I would kill him with one shot. Then I just stood there, and the ushers came and grabbed me and took the gun away.”
After questioning him at considerable length, the committee went away to confer. Dr. Millard was searching within himself for the essential conviction that he felt was needed, but the rest of the committee plunged without delay into argument. Two of its members—a woman and a man—were certain of John Nobody’s sincerity and took the position that regardless of who he was or what his past, he had been in fact the agent of the Lord. One woman wondered if Nobody might not have been hypnotized, or might not have hypnotized himself. The third woman said she thought the prisoner crazy, but sincere. The only out-and-out skeptic was a physician, who said flatly, “He looks like a sick man, but he’s not sick in mind. He’s just a fake.” Unable to agree, they finally appealed to Dr. Millard for his opinion.
With some hesitation he said, “I am unwilling to believe this is a fake. I am not able to judge what is a miracle and what is not, but what this man did certainly appeared to be the answer of the Lord to a blasphemer. At least we cannot say with assurance that John Nobody was not divinely inspired.”
Starting from this qualified position, as the discussion went on, he found himself gradually becoming more definite in his stand. In the end he and the entire committee approved a public statement which concluded: “The committee, with a single exception, agrees that the law should give every consideration to the fact that ‘John Nobody’ believed himself divinely inspired when he killed Elmo Durgeon, and may have been so inspired.”
This statement made a profound impression not only in Wicheka, but in the nation as a whole. Newspapers, radio, newsreels, magazines—every agency of publicity blazoned it forth to the people. Overnight Dr. Millard, to his astonishment, found himself a national celebrity, hero of the devout, target of the skeptical. Although he refused all offers of personal advantage—radio appearances, magazine articles, and the like—he could not avoid occasional statements, which were oversimplified into such headlines as, Divine Wrath Killed Blasphemer, Says Millard.
His church became a magnet, not only for Wichekans of his own denomination, but for religious folk of all faiths and places, until he had to consent to deliver sermons to special meetings, as well as to his adoring congregation. A wave of religious sentiment in the country was attributed directly to his influence, and John Nobody’s. Locally, it required a hardy spirit to challenge the committee’s findings. The dissenting physician found his practice endangered by public resentment, and the District Attorney was embarrassed by the unpopularity of his prosecutor’s role. He and the police were inclined to postpone court action until they could learn more about their prisoner, but public pressure forced them to set an early date for the trial.
A Committee of Defense was formed, and Dr. Millard was pressed into the chairmanship. Religious people everywhere contributed funds. Into Dr. Millard’s home and into the jail poured envelopes containing checks and currency from all over the United States, and even from abroad. Enough money was received to enable the committee to retain the most successful lawyer in the state, Hector Levatt, for the defense. Dr. Millard felt uplifted by the thought of the good people who were renewing their faith through John Nobody. And his own faith was strengthened and enlarged by theirs.
Not only the generality of God-fearing folk, but the businessmen and politicians of Wicheka threw their support to the defense. For one thing, the fame which the case was giving to their city and the large number of visitors arriving daily had a practical value that could not be ignored. The eyes of an awed and reverent world were on John Nobody and Dr. Millard; and the pocketbooks followed the eyes.
* * *
—
Concealing under a grave demeanor his sense of impending triumph, Mr. Levatt permitted a little pause to follow Dr. Millard’s quiet and factual statement of his interest in the case. When the courtroom was still and expectant, the lawyer said, “Then, Dr. Millard, is it correct to say that your opinion about John Nobody is based on prolonged personal investigation of the facts?”
“That is correct.”
“Now, Dr. Millard, am I correct in stating that having made this personal and unbiased investigation, with all the sincerity and humility for which the world admires you—having made this investigation, you came to the conclusion that the prisoner may, in fact, be considered as acting under a conviction of divine inspiration, and so in that sense, be the agent of divine anger, addressed to the destruction of a blasphemer, as a sign to an unregenerate world?”
Everyone in the court was aware that this was the real climax of the trial. It was a deliberately long and tortuous and leading question, designed to achieve a powerful effect. Mr. Levatt was taking advantage of the fact that the state could not challenge his examination of his revered witness without irritating the jury.
Dr. Millard did not reply at once, and the courtroom waited one second, two seconds, three seconds, until a wave of uneasiness began to rise among the spectators. Then, as if summoning up reserves of strength, the minister lifted his head, and looking directly at Mr. Levatt, said, “I did at one time hold such an opinion, but I no longer hold it.”
Mr. Levatt fell back as if he had been struck a physical blow, and gaped at his witness incredulously. All over the courtroom amazement was visible and audible: on the faces of the staring prisoner, of the jury, even of the District Attorney; and in a rising murmur from the spectators. The judge rapped sharply with his gavel, and Mr. Levatt attempted a chuckle. “Evidently,” he said, “I failed to make my question clear. Did you understand the question, Doctor?” and he muttered under his breath, “Say no!”
But Dr. Millard said, “Yes, I understood your question. It is the deepest sorrow of my life that I must give you this answer. I do not now believe that the prisoner was divinely inspired.”
Bedlam broke out in the courtroom as reporters dashed for the door, and unbelieving voices rose everywhere. The judge pounded for order without avail, while the prisoner was seen to sink back in his chair, breathing heavily, his face twisted in an expression of pain. District Attorney Parnall was on his feet, tense with new hope, ready to challenge any move that Mr. Levatt might make.
The defense lawyer looked coldly at Dr. Millard, and then said, “That is an astonishing statement to come from you, Doctor. I feel certain there is some misunderstanding which can easily be cleared up. In the meantime, if it please the court, since this witness’s testimony will obviously take longer than expected, and the hour is growing late, I ask for an adjournment—”
The District Attorney objected strongly, and the judge refused the adjournment. Mr. Levatt, his face deeply flushed with anger, turned to his witness again, and rasped, “I must ask you, Dr. Millard, to tell the court and jury—and to tell me—what influences have been brought to bear to make you change your expressed convictions at the last minute.”
“Objection!” shouted Mr. Parnall.
There was a brief legal clash, the question was reworded to eliminate its ugly implications, and Dr. Millard answered in a strained voice, “I had my first doubts some days ago.”
“Days ago! If you had doubts why didn’t you mention them before?”
“I was not sure. I could not speak before I was sure.”
>
“Of course.” Mr. Levatt was heavily sarcastic. “You kept these so-called doubts to yourself, you waited until the last moment, so as to be sure of getting all the publicity—”
The prosecution objected, and argument followed. Dr. Millard did not hear it. His eyes had turned again, with infinite sadness, to the prisoner, and his thoughts to the first dreadful moment of suspicion.
* * *
—
He and Levatt and John Nobody had been in the warden’s office at the jail, and had been examining mail addressed to the prisoner from all over the nation. Most of it, offers of money, prayer, or marriage, had been assorted and classified by the warden’s staff; a few letters of unusual character were held apart. Running through these, Dr. Millard found an odd, brief missive that differed from all the others. Printed on plain cheap paper, in sprawling black letters, was the single word, HELP!
He studied the sheet curiously, and glanced at the envelope attached to it. The address was also printed: John Nobody, Wicheka, and the letter had been mailed in Cottersville, a town in the southern part of the state. Tossing it to John Nobody, he said, “This is odd.”
John Nobody glanced up with a smile that he always had for Dr. Millard, a smile which seemed to suggest that they were linked by invisible bonds of mutual faith and understanding, to the exclusion of others. But as he glanced at the letter, Dr. Millard saw a sudden cloud pass over his face, and heard the stertorous breathing that always betokened emotion on the prisoner’s part. Instantly he mastered himself, shrugged, commented, “Just a crank, I guess,” and put the letter in a pile of others. Nothing more was said. But Dr. Millard had an unpleasant impression that the letter had given John Nobody a shock, and held some hidden significance for him.
The doubt, as it met the wall of his determined faith, ebbed away. Probably he had been wrong, he told himself. The prison doctor had said that John Nobody’s health was bad; it was easy to misread the expression of a sick man’s face. Thus repressed, the incident might have dropped out of Dr. Millard’s memory had it not been for something that occurred a few days later, when he and Levatt were questioning John Nobody about certain details of his story. At the end of their talk the prisoner arose and stood, facing the door, his face partially turned from them, awaiting the guard who would take him back to his cell. Levatt chose this moment to remark to Dr. Millard in a low voice, “I don’t think we’ll have to put him on the stand. Looks to me like an open and shut proposition, just with your testimony.”
Glancing at John Nobody, Dr. Millard saw that he was close enough to hear, and was startled at an expression of exultation on his profile. It was gone quickly, but it stayed in the minister’s mind. He was certainly not disposed to judge any man by a fleeting change of countenance, and it seemed absurd to magnify anything so trivial by speaking of it. Nevertheless, the incongruity between the John Nobody he had glimpsed then and the John Nobody he had helped to present to the world was a challenge and a disturbance.
Something else had been working obscurely in his brain, during his weeks of reflection about the prisoner—John Nobody’s curious mannerism in moments of strain—that movement of his fingers in the air, just at the level of his collar. It had struck Dr. Millard that the gesture was not unfamiliar, yet for the life of him he had been unable to identify it. Not until a night just before the opening of the trial did an explanation come to him. He was trying to fall asleep at the time, and the flash of realization brought him bolt upright in bed.
The gesture was that which bearded men habitually make when they stroke their beards.
The implications of his discovery startled him. If John Nobody had worn a beard, that might account for the failure to identify the published photographs showing him clean-shaven; for the police had promptly shaved off the heavy stubble he had worn when arrested.
Dr. Millard told himself that he was assuming too much. He might be wrong about the beard; or even if he were right, it was possible that John Nobody had forgotten in his amnesia that he had once worn a beard, while retaining the mannerism. Nevertheless a terrible suspicion stayed with Dr. Millard. The prisoner’s constrained response to the enigmatic letter; the sudden revelation of his eyes when he heard Levatt speak of certain victory; the possibility that a bearded man came beardless to Wicheka—all this suggested something untold and perhaps sinister in John Nobody’s background.
Early the next morning he went to the jail and saw John Nobody alone. Sitting face to face with the prisoner, Dr. Millard said abruptly, “John, did you ever wear a beard?”
The hand started toward the chin, and stopped in mid-motion; the rhythm of the heavy breathing broke; but when John Nobody spoke he said calmly, “I don’t think so, Doctor. I don’t remember ever wearing a beard.”
Dr. Millard reflected, and said, “John, I think you know I am your friend. I have believed in you. I want you to realize something. You are no longer just an individual. You are a symbol of hope and faith for millions of good and kind people all over the world. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do, Doctor.”
“You would not betray all those people, would you? No matter what it cost you? You would not lie to me?”
The small brown eyes met Dr. Millard’s gaze steadily. “No, sir. I wouldn’t do that, Doctor.”
“Tell me—do you remember that letter—the little note that said, HELP?”
“Note?”
“Yes, it was in the mail, last Wednesday, I think. I showed it to you.”
“Wednesday. No, I don’t seem to remember it, Doctor. There has been so much mail.”
When Dr. Millard left the jail, he found that he could not shake himself free from gnawing doubt. He tried to tell himself it was too late to do more than pray that the Lord’s will be done. For even if John Nobody knew something more than he had told, would it not be better to let it remain hidden, rather than risk shaking the faith of the devout men and women who were giving the prisoner their spiritual and financial support? But the trouble worked ceaselessly in the minister’s mind. Early the next morning, without explaining his purpose to anyone, he left the city on a southbound train.
Cottersville was a small and sullen town in a backward rural area. Dr. Millard promptly sought out a fellow minister, a young man named Kinter, to whom he said, “I should not like to have it known that I am here. My mission is rather curious and delicate, and I cannot as yet reveal much about it. May I ask you to take me on faith, and give me your co-operation?”
The young minister, a little overwhelmed at the presence of the celebrated Dr. Millard in his house, freely offered his services, and voluntarily pledged himself to secrecy.
“In brief,” explained Dr. Millard, “I should like to know whether you can tell me of any bearded man in this vicinity who has not been seen for the past two months.”
The Reverend Kinter looked at him with surprise, but staunchly repressed his curiosity. “No,” he said reflectively, “I can’t think of anyone like that. Beards aren’t very common in these parts. But I’m not the best person to ask. The man who really knows everybody around here is Charlie Gifford, the Town Clerk. Would you like me to take you over to him?”
If Dr. Millard’s question had surprised the Reverend Kinter, it had also sounded grotesque to the Doctor himself. He was glad of the negative answer, more than willing that his quest prove fruitless and that his suspicions be revealed as the products of a fatigued mind. Now that he was in Cottersville, the motive for his coming was no longer as clear to him as it had been. Surely the association of a postmark with a presumptive beard was a tenuous piece of reasoning. He sighed as he reflected that he was getting old and foolish. However, now that he had gone so far, he would do what he could to make peace with his own unworthy mind.
The Town Clerk, whom they found in his barren office, turned out to be an ancient, wrinkled, but keen, long-memoried and garrulous man. To the re
quest made of him for information and secrecy, Mr. Gifford eagerly assented, after which Mr. Kinter somewhat reluctantly left them. When Gifford heard Dr. Millard’s question, he looked up sharply, and at that shrewd glance all the minister’s senses sprang to attention.
“Funny you should ask that,” said Mr. Gifford. “Only a couple of days ago I was out Mills Point way. That’s in this township, about seven miles from here. I had some other business there, so I thought I’d drop in and see these people named Cullen. They got a little house out there. Matter of taxes they haven’t paid. Thought I’d better ask ’em about it before I had to sick the law on ’em.”
He cocked his head humorously. “Maybe I was a little curious, too. They tell me I’m a gossip. About all I got to live for is what other people do, ’cause I can’t do much myself.” He chuckled heartily. “Well, these Cullens. I been wondering about ’em. They keep to themselves. Don’t think I’ve seen Cullen more’n a couple of times since he’s been here. Funny, hey? Don’t come into town much except for shopping, and the wife does that. Drives in about once a week in their little jalopy. Or did until the grocer and butcher stopped giving her credit.”
Scratching his head reflectively, he added, “Cullen’s got a beard. Big and heavy. Hair all over his face.”
Dr. Millard said tensely, “Has he left Cottersville?”
“That’s what I’m saying. When I called, there wasn’t only Mrs. Cullen. I asked her where he was, and she said he was away—abrupt. ‘Been away long?’ I asked her, ’cause I hadn’t heard about it, and she says to me, ‘What do you want?’ Hard, like that. She ain’t a bad-looking woman, so I figured maybe she thought I was getting fresh”—he cackled—“so I told her quick I was just calling about the taxes. She said her husband’d pay the taxes soon. I told her to remind him ’cause he was bad overdue, and I had to let it go at that.”
The Big Book of Reel Murders Page 155
