For the Press had, of course, been invited, though under conditions specifically set forth in personal calls to each City and News Syndicate Editor—“one man and one only, because of limited available space”...“the trial will be but a formality at best”...“a pushover for the State... no, no world-beater of a ‘mouthpiece’ at the defense helm... just a nonentity... name is E. R. Colby... yes, that’s right... entire trial should not take up over three hours at the utmost, if that!” And thus each paper, and each national news syndicate, was represented by just one man and one only—several with cameras, however, so that later, if needs be, they might he their own cameramen—but all with notebooks, and all obviously restless for something—anything—to start.
There were, in that front row of chairs, Roberts of the News, with rimless spectacles; square-headed Gus Triglett of the Evening Gazette, who had written up so many executions; grey-haired Donaldbury of the Morning Sun, with his inevitable carnation in his buttonhole; Canfield of the Morning Globe, round and pudgy and gazing at the world through thick myopic glasses; Hugh Vann, youthful and alert—no less, indeed, than the District Attorney’s own brother—of the Despatch, seeking some oblique angle of the case that might yet, by the grace of God, be featured so late as tomorrow afternoon; Douglas, of the Associated News, tall and rangy and wearing the very high leather mud-encrusted boots with which he had just come off some strange news-hunting job on the city’s outskirts; and Mollison, of the Amalgamated News, with his black forelock hanging down over his serrated forehead.
Thus, the Press, occupying those seven leftmost seats in that front row of ten exceedingly variegated chairs; while, in the rightmost three, sat three actual witnesses who—if one were to judge from the fact that their seats had likewise been reserved for them in the front row—were very important witnesses who had been given that vantage point for no other reason than that they could pass back and forth to the witness stand, if necessary, for cross-examination, in rebuttal or on recall, without having to walk up and down on other people’s feet. For in the velvet-upholstered chair to the right of Mollison of the Amalgamated News sat a portly yet dignified ecclesiastical gentleman of about sixty-five or sixty-six, in black frock coat and clergyman’s collar—no less, in fact, than Archbishop Stanley Pell of Chicago—looking sadly regretful as though realizing that what he would have to testify to here tonight would affect a man’s life. To his right, in turn, in a comfortable cane-seated armchair, sat a curious stout little man of about forty-six with black eyes, and handlebar-like moustaches which he stroked frequently and emphatically—no less, in fact, than one Professor Andre Mustaire, head of the West Chicago School for the Deaf and Dumb—and who was destined to occupy an equally stellar role tonight with the damning testimony that he was to offer, which testimony was to brand with absolute conclusiveness certain words which the reddish-headed defendant had uttered that day on Adams Street.
And completing that front row of ten individuals, and sitting alone and taciturn at its right-hand end in a stiff kitchen chair, was one about fifty years in age, bulky and muscular in build—no other, in fact, than Inspector Rufus Scott of the Detective Bureau—who was destined tonight to state certain facts about clocks, watches, and time-sheets—identifying those items incidentally, and confirming likewise their readings from his own notes and camera shots—which facts were such as to make it highly necessary for any defendant to the charge of murder of one Adolph Reibach, night watchman, to prove conclusively that he was in Timbuctoo, Hong Kong, or even at the North Pole at 10:43 p.m. the night just gone!
And had there been an eleventh chair in that row, there might, perhaps, have been at Scott’s own right elbow the witness who, instead, sat in the second row just behind Scott, the detective-bureau inspector, for this latter witness at times leaned forward and made low comment to Scott, to which the other would but nod silently. This man in the right endmost seat of that second row was a man of about forty-seven, with a pale face—a face highly intelligent, however; he was no other, as it was to prove to be, than one Professor Clark S. W. Adgate, head of the Crime Detection Laboratory affiliated with Chicago’s Mid-West University and destined tonight to corroborate some of Scott’s findings, i.e. about the identity of certain human yellow hairs which had been stuck bloodily on the sharp corner of a disarranged pendulum clock.
Were one to contemplate that battery of witnesses and spectators from the front—as must, perforce, the judge, and the attorneys, and the defendant, and certain others tonight—one would have been struck with the fact that the diversity of the chairs which were lined up in that front row was no greater than the diversity of the faces which looked forth from that second row over the shoulders of those in the front. For next to Professor Adgate, himself at the end of that row, sat a round-faced, round-eyed and rather pretty negress of about twenty-six, dressed soberly in black, with a wisp of black veil dropping from her hat; while next to her, in turn, sat a pale-faced and likewise rather pretty young girl with taffy-colored hair; then, in turn, came a Chinese youth of perhaps twenty-three, clad in loudly checked suit and noisy red tie—plainly the typical modern-day Chinese youth trying to be “all-American,” though unfortunately for any such ambitions on his part, the black eyes which peered forth interestedly and eagerly from tiny ridiculous-looking gold-rimmed spectacles were about the most oblique eyes that the Oriental race had ever produced. At his side was no other than Wah Lung, lonely owner of the rich Inn of the Golden Dragon on Chicago’s Rialto, venerable, bald-headed, kindly-faced, and pudgy; while next to Wah Lung—and it was plainly evident from the way Wah Lung talked first to the youth at his one side, and then to the man at his other side, dividing his remarks and comments almost equally with true Celestial politeness, that both were his guests—was a white man, himself also portly, also about fifty-five years of age, with a curious powerful high-ridged, beak-like nose. Whoever he was, however, he plainly had no connection with a rat-faced, white-visaged man sitting next to him—a man with the close-cropped head of one who had been confined for some time in a penitentiary, dressed in a cheap and obviously prison-made brown suit, and wearing an unmistakable blue denim prison shirt. At this man’s side—but, strangely, neither handcuffed to him nor even watching him—was a man of about fifty, clad in the dark blue and, with the exception of the brass buttons on the cuffs, unobtrusive costume of a penitentiary guard. While next to this man, in turn, sat a boy of no more than six, with a crudely home-cut shock of yellow hair, while next to the boy and plainly in charge of him was a foreign-looking Russian-appearing man with black beard and dour mien.
In like manner was the next row of chairs filled solidly too; while, in the fourth and last row, there were but four individuals only—two sitting far to the right of the middle and talking in low tones to one another—young men both, of the clerk type, and quite nondescript in every way; one—alone in the middle of the row—the witness, incidentally, who had been last of all to arrive—the one, indeed, who had telephoned to say that she had been delayed momentarily by her green taxi colliding with a black one—an Amazonian and absolutely ebony-black negress, of about forty-two, wearing a brilliant plaid waist and long pendant red-glass earrings; and the fourth individual—sitting likewise by himself alone, but far to the other end of the row—wearing a string tie as black and rusty as his rusty black suit, and supporting a black umbrella across his knees. And that this final row of chairs, containing but the four individuals, was not to be further filled tonight was indicated by the words of Mullins, standing in the open door at the right of the huge room, which led to the front hall. The lull of voices in the room stopped, in fact, as Mullins spoke. And in the direction of Lou Vann.
“It lacks but a half minute to eight now, Mr. Vann, which was the hour agreed for the trial to open. I have checked off everybody who is supposed to be here. Have you confirmed your end of things?”
“Yes, Mul—that is, Clerk,” corrected Vann, as one intending
now to be legally precise. “I’ve run over all the faces there—” he nodded leftwise at the assembled witnesses and spectators, “—and every person whom I’ll be wishing to call for the State is here.”
“And, of course, you, Miss Colby—” Mullins looked inquiringly at the diminutive defense attorney.
“Mine also—that is, if I should wish to call them—are here,” she replied curtly.
Mullins’ blue eyes stared helplessly at her, then at his paper. While Vann’s—and those of his assistant, too—swung quickly toward the two guests of Wah Lung, one seated on either side of the elderly Chinese. Mullins folded up his paper and tucked it in his breast pocket.
“Then,” he said, “I will step to my table, and call Court to order. And—” he gazed inquiringly in the direction of Judge Penworth, “—we—we will ignore any rings at the doorbell?”
“Yes, Fre—Mr. Mullins,” said Penworth. “Since everybody is here who should be here—and the Press is fully represented—there is no need to heed any further rings at the door tonight. Though none there will be anyway, I’m sure, since I have few or no visitors. All right, you can convene court.”
Mullins was already closing the door of the room, to exclude, no doubt, as much as possible, some of the sounds of street noises—for the most part, the occasional honking of an auto horn—which noises seemed to have a faculty for coming in by way of the old-fashioned, thick-glassed front doors of the house. After which he crossed the room quickly, threading his way around and past the defendant, and dropped into his seat in front of the low deal table, extracting, as he took up his gavel, from some drawer therein, a pair of very legal looking blue-backed documents, and a pack of stringed tickets in readiness, no doubt, for affixment to official exhibits. He slid his tickets off to one side, his documents to the other, and, rising, rapped loudly on the table.
“Hear ye—hear ye,” he intoned, “—all stand, please!—” The spectators and witnesses were arising, singly and in groups, and only thanks to the huge rug under the feet of all was a most stupendous shuffling noise avoided! “—The Criminal Court of Cook County, Branch 2”—Miss Angelina Swarthmar’s pencil was flowing across the front page of one of her notebooks—“is now open—this day of Wednesday, October the 23rd, this year of our Lord—at and around the hour of 8 p.m.—in the Courtroom of Judge Hilford Penworth—in the case of the State of Illinois versus John Doe—in the matter of burglary and murder—as specifically set forth in Cook County Grand Jury Indictment No. 42,666—of date October 23rd, the year of our Lord—Attorney Louis J. Vann, assisted by Attorney Leo R. Kilgallon, representing the State—Elsa R. Colby, appointed by the court, representing the defendant. And be it also heard—” went on Mullins’ mechanical intonation, “—and recorded—that the original indictment—No. 42,666—is now, and hereinupon, in the hands and possession of the Honorable Clerk of the Court—as well as the signed order for trial on said indictment—and the signed acceptances of said trial by prosecutor and defendant—respectively. Hear ye—hear ye—”
All were standing by this time. And Mullins, gazing sternly from one side to the other to see that not one had failed, rapped once sharply. The sign for all to sit.
“Court is in session!”
And all sat down.
The trial of John Doe was under way!
CHAPTER VII
The Embarrassment of Harry Seeong!
A tense silence filled the room as Louis Vann arose and commenced speaking.
“I present tonight, Your Honor—and also ladies and gentlemen comprising the audience of this court—” And turning, Vann bowed gravely to the block of witnesses and spectators, the while the younger and lighter-hued negress, clad in mourning, in the second row, smiled ever so faintly “—I present a defendant—a criminal—caught so virtually red-handed in his crime that I find it highly difficult to conceive that, after my twenty or so witnesses have been heard, and my exhibits likewise presented to this court, that the judge of this court will not give this man the utmost penalty of the Law. This trial is, I am constrained to state—and thanks partially to the manner in which that indictment is couched—one of the most important trials that has ever taken place in Cook County. Or ever, in a sense, in all America. For upon its outcome tonight—or whenever it shall reach its conclusion—which outcome I cannot conceive to be other than certain—will one of the lowest, rottenest, and most villainous scoundrels in all modern criminal history—one Gus McGurk, kidnapper and murderer—and God knows what else in his chequered history—go to the electric chair. For only upon the conviction of the defendant in this case rests the completion of a corpus delicti which, ten years ago, could have—nay, would have—sent this rat McGurk to the chair. And it is because this trial is the actual keystone for the arch of a far more important trial yet to take place, God willing!—far more important, yes, so far as society goes!—that the District Attorney himself presides here tonight in person, in a prosecutorial capacity, in a quite simple criminal affair which, ordinarily, he would delegate to one of his seven or so Assistant District Attorneys.
“But merely because the outcome of this trial is virtually to determine the entirely proper reward of a real scoundrel, makes the crime in this case that is under trial tonight no less a crime—and not one whit less punishable. For this crime happens also to be murder! Ruthless murder, as I shall prove. The murder of an innocent, kindly nightwatchman who, disgusted with Hitlerism, came to these shores several years ago from Germany, never dreaming that America would deal out to him the sort of fate which it has. And though for purposes of conviction of the man McGurk, quite all I shall need in this case will be a single simple verdict, with respect to the defendant in this case, of ‘guilty’—and not any specific sentence dealt out to him—I shall nevertheless ask, on behalf of society, that the Honorable Judge of this court will, after—and if, to be sure—he declares that verdict, give the defendant the utmost penalty. Which is death in the electric chair. And I shall even further ask—I ask it here and now, indeed, before even my closing address—that if the Honorable Judge so finds the defendant guilty—and so renders that only possible sentence—that the Honorable Judge will also, at the same time, set the actual execution date—and that that execution date, as under the new laws of Cook County, will be exactly ten days from today.”
Vann paused a bare second, as though giving the bench the chance to comment, should it so desire.
“The Court, Mr. Vann,” said Penworth, “is entirely in accordance with the new laws lessening the delays obtainable by criminals found guilty of major crimes. This Court will, should it deem the defendant guilty—and without mitigating circumstances—make the verdict the maximum penalty; and the Court will furthermore, in such event, set the date for the carrying out of that verdict at ten days hence. But, Mr. Vann—this is a bit too soon in advance to discuss the eventuality of a particular termination of a case. Much less the further eventualities contingent on that one! Thus far, please remember, so far as this Court knows, the defendant in this case could be quite inno—But proceed, Mr. Vann.”
“Yes,” said Vann, “I will! This defendant was caught dead to rights, in broad daylight, with certain stolen goods—goods constituting no less than invaluable legal evidence in another criminal matter—on his actual person, and, under an obvious misapprehension as to the professional identity of someone questioning him, acknowledged the identity of those goods, and that he had himself, moreover, broken into the safe of a certain man—incidentally myself—to obtain those goods. Merely facetious he was, no doubt! Except that in view of the fact that his extremely specific utterances were made about two and a half hours before the Press, the Public, the Police, the Coroner, and everybody else even knew that a man had been killed, or a safe knocked in, or even some goods of some certain character stolen, his ‘facetiousness’ was a bit premature! While the sad fact that on his person were the very goods themselves—
as we shall conclusively prove—which he specified in his utterances—well—” Van shook his head ironically. “But this, I think, is all I shall have to say in making formal introduction of the State’s presentation of the case of the State of Illinois versus John Doe. I am, in fact, going to put upon the stand my first witn—let me see—” He bent over and surveyed that curious pattern of inter-connected circles where each contained a microscopically written name. “I think I shall call—yes—Archbishop Stanley Pell, who will testify to the fact that—”
“I—I object,” said Elsa Colby, “to—to the State’s Attorney testifying to what his witness is going to testify to.”
Van smiled broadly, while Judge Penworth looked sagely down at the girl.
“Attorney Vann,” he said kindly, “has the right to state specifically, or in general, what any of his witnesses is going to testify to, Miss Colby—though not to what yours might to going to testify to. Proceed, Mr. Vann.”
Elsa Colby’s face flushed. It was plain that she had just received public reproof for a lack of knowledge of courtroom technique.
“And this first witness of mine, Archbishop Stanley Pell of Chicago,” Van continued, “will first testify to the fact that he knows little or nothing—as would naturally be expected of a man in his eminent position—of criminal argot; that the first time he ever in his life, so far as he recalls, heard of a safe being called a ‘pete’—much less the entering of one, whether by nitroglycerine, tools, or manipulation, being called ‘cracking it’—was when Mr. Daniel Kilgallon, a city patrolman and incidentally father of my own personal assistant here at my elbow—confided to Archbishop Pell, shortly after noon-time today, that such entry of such a—er—safe had been effected last night. And that legal evidence of a particular nature, in a criminal affair which, for purposes of the record here tonight, we may set down as ‘State of Illinois versus Gus McGurk et alia in re matter of the kidnapping and alleged murder of one Wah Lee’—had been taken; the evidence being, as Patrolman Kilgallon confided to Archbishop Pell, no less than the skull of the corpus delicti of that case. Archbishop Pell will testify also to the fact that he speaks and writes and understands eight languages, and is, at the very least, auditionally attuned to words spoken to him and in his direction, and clearly, as he will testify these words were. And he will then testify to the fact that when he came up to this defendant here—at the behest of Officer Kilgallon to whom this defendant had just a few moments before rendered, in response to questioning about himself, but a laconic ‘No spik Englize,’ and said to the defendant courteously, ‘I’m Archbishop Pell—what have you in the box?’ that the defendant, surveying him cautiously—and likewise noting that the territory around them was devoid of all persons except a putative deaf and dumb man—that the defendant, as I started to say, replied, ‘Wah Lee’s skull; I cracked Vann’s pete!’ After which,” Lou Vann continued, without a stop, “I shall place in that witness chair that putative ‘deaf and dumb man,’ who happens not at all to be either deaf or dumb, but who is one Professor Andre Mustaire, head of a deaf and dumb school, and a man of unimpeachable standing; and Professor Mustaire will testify that he has read, during his life, for diversion, countless detective and crime stories, and that, quite unlike Archbishop Pell—who conceivably might possibly be misled by words that are a bit strange to him—he, Professor Mustaire, recognized criminal argot immediately. Not to omit mention of my own name which had just a minute before been the subject of a conversation between Officer Kilgallon and Archbishop Pell. In short, Professor Mustaire will corroborate Archbishop Pell one hundred per cent—both as to exactly what was said to the defendant by Archbishop Pell, and what was replied by the defendant. These are important witnesses whom I think—yes—I shall offer first, with the idea of presenting my evidential arch from its keystone downw—”
The Case of the Lavender Gripsack Page 4
