“Let me know what you wish, and I shall telephone for it,” Miss Semple said. “There is an excellent delivery service on Melinda Street.”
June called for a ham and swiss cheese on rye and black coffee, and Paget thought he would like a chicken salad on brown, and milk. He looked as baffled as Massingham. Miss Semple went to her own office to phone.
“Mr. Grant,” Paget said, “I simply can’t understand how Neil Whitney’s apartment comes into this thing. I’ve known the Whitneys for years. Helen is a very old friend of my wife’s.”
“Never mind that,” Sidney said. “You’ve got a question to answer. Did you write to Herbert Jackson, authorizing him to sell old Mr. Beattie’s shares in Minerva Mines, just before Mr. Beattie died?”
“No, I did not. Furthermore, Mr. Beattie didn’t own any Minerva. Edgar made an absolute killing in Minerva, and he had tried to urge his father to buy some as well. But…”
“But?” Sidney said.
“But…he was dissuaded. Very well, I dissuaded him. I am always opposed to gambling in these penny stocks, and I told Edgar it was absolute nonsense. Mrs. Beattie supported me, and old Mr. Beattie said, ‘All right, I’ll be a good boy.’ ”
“When was that?” Sidney asked.
“Oh, four or five years ago. Edgar hung on and made a killing, and of course I never heard the end of it from my wife.”
“Mr. Charles Beattie was not a good boy,” Sidney said. “He bought thirty thousand shares of it and sold it three days before it left the launching pad. Herbert Jackson’s authority for selling it was a letter from you, on Superior Trust letterhead, saying that you were acting under power of attorney and you wanted the stock sold at market—to close out Mr. Beattie’s account.”
“That is a goddamned lie!” Paget said.
“Uncle Ralph, Uncle Ralph,” June said, “if the rector could hear you, he’d ban you as a sidesman for six months. You wouldn’t be allowed to take the collection…”
“Shut up, June,” he said. “Mr. Grant, you be damn careful…”
“I will,” Sidney said. “Either you are lying, and you will be hanged, or Herbert Jackson forged your signature. Did you ever write to him on Superior Trust letterhead?”
“Yes, I did. I had power of attorney. I wrote to ask him if my father-in-law had an account in his branch; they had been good friends at the club, and I thought it possible. We were trying to get things in order because the end was approaching.”
“And what did Jackson say?”
“I don’t remember exactly, but it was to the effect that Mr. Beattie had no account at that branch.”
“Then, sir,” Sidney said with a sweeping gesture of the arm, “I apologize for the dark suspicions I have been harboring. By golly, your chicken salad on brown has arrived. Georgie, pay for it from petty cash and put it on Wes’s bill, multiplied by ten. Mr. Paget, it’s all over but the shooting.”
Seventeen
MR. HERBERT JACKSON WAS known as a real salesman, a man with personality, a great kidder, a hot sport and a number of other things. When he appeared in the corridor at City Hall he looked merely like a worried man with gray hair.
“Mr. Grant,” he said, seizing Sidney by the arm, “I wish I could help you, but I don’t think there’s really anything I can do. Wes was a great boy until he went off the rails, and his grandfather was a curling buddy of mine…”
“I thought you might be a character witness,” Sidney said.
“Oh, great!” Jackson said. “But honestly, I don’t see how it can help. I mean, he was no great shakes around the bank…I can only say that he never actually borrowed from the till.”
“Even that will be useful,” Sidney said. “They’ve built a powerful case against him. You will be excluded for a few minutes, and then we’ll call you. There’s a room for excluded witnesses to wait in.”
Long meetings of the senior executives were one of the occupational hazards of the bank, and Mr. Jackson had not had time even to read the early editions of the papers.
“Go with him and keep him in conversation,” Sidney whispered to Georgina Semple. “I want him to come to the witness box fresh and innocent.”
Miss Semple smiled archly and followed Jackson to the witness room.
The court room was unusually hushed as proceedings opened for the afternoon. The defense evidence had, up to that point, proved nothing, but suggested much. Massingham looked blank, the judge was puzzled, the jurors and spectators were ready to hang onto every word.
Sidney recalled Sergeant Reid, the police fingerprint expert, who produced a new Stravinsky recording and said he had found it in the apartment of Dr. E. Neil Whitney. He had found on it a latent print of the right forefinger of the accused, Wes Beattie, during a visit to the apartment during the morning. The record was entered as an exhibit.
Dr. Whitney was then called, and he stated that the recording had been purchased the day before he and his wife left for England in the previous September. Since Wes Beattie had been under arrest since before their return, the conclusion was obvious to all, namely, that the print had been made during their absence.
Massingham did not question either witness.
And then Sidney Grant called Herbert Jackson, who entered the court with Georgie Semple. He was a grayhaired man, with a certain distinction, and a nose which proclaimed his long attachment to good whisky. He had a certain urbanity, and he nodded in a friendly fashion to the accused in the dock, but the most casual observer could have seen that he was under a great strain.
When he had been sworn, Sidney commenced to examine him in a businesslike way.
During his days as a branch manager, had he had as a customer Mrs. E. Neil Whitney?
Yes.
In the previous September had he sold her some American Express traveler’s checks and made other travel arrangements for her?
Yes.
Had he written a letter of introduction to the bank’s London, England, branch for her?
Yes.
The air of anxiety increased steadily when Jackson saw the direction in which Sidney Grant was heading.
“Now, before she went away for her trip to England, did Mrs. Whitney leave some keys with you, and did she give you instructions as to their disposal?”
“Yes sir,” Jackson said.
“And did you, acting on those instructions, pass on those keys to another party?”
“Yes sir.”
“Do you remember the name of this other party?”
Jackson couldn’t remember exactly. Beauchamp, perhaps, or some such name. He could only vaguely remember the man’s appearance. Tall, fair, English. The man had given him money to deposit in Mrs. Whitney’s account. Had he also posted a bond? Well, yes, at least he had satisfied Mr. Jackson as to his financial responsibility, and he had returned the keys to Mr. Jackson two weeks later.
“Very good,” Sidney said. “Now did you also have, as a customer, Mr. Charles Beattie, grandfather of the accused?”
“Yes sir.”
“And did you hold certain stock certificates belonging to Mr. Beattie as collateral security against an overdraft?”
“Yes sir.”
“And did you sell those shares and credit the account of Mr. Beattie with the proceeds?”
“Yes sir.”
“On whose instructions did you do that?”
Jackson looked at Ralph Paget, stern-faced in the front row of spectators, and he was like a trapped animal. “We always have power of attorney to sell stocks held as collateral,” he said. “In case the stock is dropping on the market, we can sell out—that’s the way we can secure our loan.”
“Very good,” Sidney said. “Now, did the accused question you about this account of his grandfather’s which had been closed out, at a time when the accused was employed by the bank in your branch?”
“We discussed it, yes.”
“And did you tell him that he should not discuss it with the executors of his grandfather’s estate?”
Jackson was trembling slightly, and he glanced at Wes in the dock.
“I believe I told him that any information should be passed through official channels and not in an informal way.”
“Did you ever write to Mr. Ralph Paget, telling him that Mr. Charles Beattie did not have an account at your branch?”
“Yes sir. After the account was closed, I wrote to Mr. Paget, in reply to a letter from him, and told him we no longer had an account in old Mr. Beattie’s name.”
“Did you say ‘no longer’ or did you just say that he had no account?”
“I don’t remember the exact wording. But I certainly told him that there was no account in Mr. Beattie’s name at that time.”
“Now, at a later date did the accused bring you a check for one hundred and eighty dollars, drawn on that closed-out account by Mr. Charles Beattie before his death?”
“Yes sir.”
“And did you burn that check in the presence of the accused, and did you pay it out of your own pocket?”
“Yes sir. Mr. Beattie and I were great friends. I had made a bet with him, which I hadn’t been able to pay. So that was the way I paid it.”
“Very creditable,” Sidney said. “Now then, in May of last year, did you attend, as a representative of the bank, a mining convention at the Royal York Hotel?”
“Yes sir.”
“And on Tuesday evening, May ninth, did you go to dinner with some of the delegates at the Rathskeller restaurant?”
“I believe I did. Yes.”
“And who was your host at that dinner?”
“Host? I’m not sure. I think I picked up the tab myself.”
“Was Howard Gadwell a member of that party?”
“Howard Gadwell? Yes, I think he was with us.”
“Will Mr. Wicklow stand up, please?” Sidney said. “Was this gentleman on the party?”
“Yes sir.”
Sidney walked to the registrar and asked him for the picture of Mrs. Wicklow, which he handed to Jackson.
“Do you recognize this woman?” he asked.
Jackson studied it carefully, but his hand was trembling.
“Yes sir. I think that’s Mrs. Wicklow,” he said.
“Was she on the party with you?”
“Yes, I guess she was.”
“And did you conspire with Gadwell and Mrs. Wicklow to steal a driver’s license, lure Wes Beattie to the Midtown Motel and make it appear that he had stolen Mrs. Wicklow’s purse?” Sidney said, raising his voice.
“No, of course not. How—how dare you suggest such a thing?” Jackson tried to be indignant, but it didn’t quite come off.
“On the Thursday of that week—the day on which the accused was arrested for theft—you returned briefly to your branch from the convention. You were there when the accused asked for permission to leave early. The accountant wouldn’t let him go. You overruled him. You gave the accused permission to go—and be framed up on a theft charge. Why?”
The judge looked at Jackson’s face and started to intervene, but checked himself.
“I—the boy seemed anxious to get away early,” Jackson said.
“Now then,” Sidney continued, lowering his voice, “we have heard evidence to the effect that Mr. Howard Gadwell, posing as a telephone repairman, went to the apartment of Edgar Beattie on the morning of the murder or the morning before that.”
Jackson’s face fell apart.
“Did you conspire with Gadwell to remove the telephone from Edgar Beattie’s apartment during that visit and substitute a similar oval-based handset, owned by Gadwell for his boiler-room operations? And did you conspire with him to install the telephone from Edgar’s apartment in the apartment of Dr. Whitney, which you rented to Gadwell, who was posing as Mr. Aubrey Beauclair? And did you arrange for a woman to lure the accused to the Whitney apartment, and to get him to put his fingerprints on that telephone in that place? And did you and Gadwell then remove the telephone and return it, complete with the accused’s fingerprints, to Edgar’s apartment? And did you murder Edgar on that same visit, when you were returning the telephone? Did you, or did Gadwell?”
“Gadwell did it!” Jackson screamed. “I had no part in it. He never told me why he wanted the Whitney apartment.”
“Did you sell Mr. Charles Beattie’s stock to Gadwell, and did you take half the profit on it?” Sidney said.
“It was a legitimate deal. Charley told me to sell it. I had a perfect right to buy it.”
“Charley told you to? He was paralyzed. Didn’t you forge Ralph Paget’s name to a letter ordering you to sell that stock?”
Jackson did not answer. He placed his hands on the rail of the witness box, leaned forward and burst out sobbing.
“Didn’t you frame Wes Beattie on the theft charge to keep him from finding that forged letter in the securities file?” Sidney said. “You thought Wes had been sent to the branch to spy on you. You thought Ralph Paget suspected you and sent Wes to spy on you. You framed him. You thought he’d be charged and remanded—and then the bank would suspend him. But he was convicted. You were safe for a while. Then Edgar started looking for your accomplice, Mrs. Leduc. You were afraid he would find her, and you knew she would break down and talk. Gadwell phoned her and begged her to join him. Where is she? Did Gadwell murder her, too? Edgar had found out too much. You murdered him and framed Wes again…”
“One moment please, Mr. Grant,” the judge said.
Jackson looked up. His nerve had broken, and tears were streaming down his face.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” the judge said, “a matter has arisen which I wish to discuss with counsel in your absence. Will you please withdraw, and you will be recalled in a few minutes.”
The jury stood up and commenced to file out. Sidney turned and walked to the dock. Wes leaned forward to hear what he had to say.
“Wes,” Sidney said, “listen carefully. More people get into trouble by not knowing that they’re important than the other way. People love you. Betty Martin, your sister. That makes you important. Don’t treat yourself as a nothing. Keep your dignity. When the end comes, no handclapping and shouts of ‘Goody.’ Act like a grown-up man. Now you’re going to have to face life and truth. Remember that you’re important—too important to make a childish fool of yourself. And if you remember that everybody else is important too, then you won’t swing to the other extreme and become arrogant. Now, boy, sit up straight and start being dignified, and never stop.”
The jury had departed. The judge leaned forward and spoke to the Crown Attorney.
“Mr. Massingham,” he said, “have you any reason why this case should now continue?”
“None whatever, my Lord,” Massingham said.
“Then you will see that this witness is taken into custody, and you will take any other steps which you deem necessary. Recall the jury, please.”
Jackson, broken and quivering, looked up at the judge and then stepped out of the witness box. Massingham motioned to a police official, and Jackson, white and shaken, was led away. The jury filed back to their jury box.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” the judge said, “I now direct you, as a matter of law, to find the accused Not Guilty. You may retire and discuss it, if you wish, or you may discuss it without leaving the box.”
The jurors leaned in like a football huddle listening to the quarterback. They conferred for perhaps thirty seconds, then looked up, all grinning. There followed a brief ritual, in which they returned their verdict in formal style. It was, not surprisingly, Not Guilty.
Until that moment the spectators had sat frozen, listening to the drama as it unfolded. Suddenly a babble broke out in the court, and the judge was forced to call for silence.
“Wesley M. Beattie,” he said, when order was restored, “stand up.”
Wes, pale, but under firm control, stood rigidly to attention and faced the judge.
“Wesley Beattie,” the judge said, “you have been found Not
Guilty of the charge of murder. For this verdict, you have to thank the brilliant work of your counsel, who has performed a great service to justice during this trial. We have heard evidence which suggests that you have been previously the victim of a gross miscarriage of justice. I shall call the attention of the authorities to the circumstances of that conviction so that action may be taken to clear your name of that previous charge. Before I discharge you, I feel obliged to say that, in a certain degree, and in spite of the criminal conspiracy of which you have been a victim, you have been the author of your own troubles. I admonish you in future to rely on the truth, and you will find that it will always stand you in good stead. You are now discharged, and you leave this court without a stain on your character.”
“Thank you, m’lud,” Wes said, standing very straight and demonstrating by the “m’lud” that he was a reader of English crime novels.
A policeman opened the gate of the dock, and Wes stepped down, to be embraced by June, and Betty Martin, and Claudia.
The judge quickly withdrew, and the court became a pandemonium. Sidney Grant slipped away and escaped to one of the less salubrious beverage rooms on Jarvis Street, where he drank a great many glasses of draft beer, all alone in a corner.
Even Snake Rivers couldn’t draw him into his social orbit.
Eighteen
AT THE INSTANCE OF Mrs. Charles Beattie, a special service of thanksgiving was held on the following Sunday, and on the Wednesday of that week there was a dinner party for family and close friends at the Rosedale house. Wes had tried to insist that Betty be a guest at dinner, but nothing could induce her to sit at Mrs. Beattie’s table. She knew her place.
However, she consented to sit in the drawing room after dinner, when many other guests joined the intimate circle for liqueurs and coffee. Dr. Heber, Phelan, the hockey star, the Ledleys, the Whitneys, James Bellwood and Baldwin Ogilvy were there.
When all had been supplied with coffee, Mrs. Beattie spoke in her usual well-modulated voice.
“After all these tragic events, life must go forward,” she said. “We shall never forget the tragedy, but we are very happy that my grandson has been completely cleared. And we have another cause for happiness. A mésalliance has been arranged. Mr. Grant, who has already done so much for our family, is going to marry my granddaughter June.”
The Weird World of Wes Beattie Page 20
