FIVE
I had hoped that the inquest might be an informal affair, taking place at Bayside itself where the quiet dignity of the house might subtly influence an obsequious jury into rendering an open verdict; for by this time I was beginning to fear the results of a too-direct inquiry into the matter of Cyrus Evans’ death. I did not wish to stifle Justice but, on the other hand, I would not be the one to advocate snatching the bandage ruthlessly from her eyes. There is a certain decorum to be preserved in such affairs.
To my surprise and against my advice, Tom acquiesced to the police suggestion, to hold the inquest in the neighboring village; Cyrus Evans’ body reposed in the mortuary there, and the troopers advised that such a course would be both natural and convenient. But it was not the undertaking parlors which were to be the setting for the next act of this drama—indeed, no less a place than the town hall had been selected by the Coroner for his great opportunity.
In my branch of the profession we must study personalities, as well as the law. The Coroner I knew from hearsay as a peculiar and difficult sort of a person. The adjective, heavy, comes into my mind whenever I think of him now—it describes him physically and summarizes his mental equipment very accurately. A lumbering, dour doctor, more able at politics than at medicine, he was accustomed to rail against those more fortunate than himself, claiming it was luck and unfair practices which kept him down, permitting others to rise above him. This inquest was to him a heaven-born chance to bask in the limelight of publicity, so dear to his soul, and I knew he would heckle and bully his witnesses as far as he dared, thinking such tactics would redound to his credit and yield him kudos in the eyes of the public. No open verdict would he give, for thus would he lose his chance to see his name blazoned in the papers.
I reached the town hall early, choosing to ride over with the police rather than accompany any of the family. The musty ante-chamber where the inquest was to take place was on the floor above the town jail. The only prisoner, a big, shiny, buck negro, serving his usual sentence for drunken and disorderly conduct, had been released on the occasion to serve as usher and ceremonial guide. I was rather amused at the novel idea of a parole, but after all the jailer was justified in his action, for why should his charge use his temporary freedom to make a permanent escape, when he was privileged to take part in the most exciting affair the town hall had seen in a decade?
When the jury filed in after viewing the body, I scanned their faces closely. They were Maryland homesteaders all, sons of the soil, heavy-handed and slow thinking perhaps, but neither dull nor stupid. Righteous to the point of bigotry, intolerant of outlanders whom they would not try to like or understand, they would make short shrift of any of the Evans’ household should suspicion point even slightly in their direction.
Murder was to them a blot on the jealously guarded honor of their fair state and must be avenged promptly and severely.
By reason of the great latitude allowed a Coroner and the unfettered procedure of his court, I knew this jury would prove as truly a trial jury as any other body of men who might later pass on the guilt or innocence of the alleged murderer, and I could feel already their lack of sympathy for any of the Evans’ family. The dwellers at Bayside were too arrogant and too wealthy to gain any friendship among the country people. Furthermore, Tom had a tale to tell, which I feared would never be accepted by these six men who had their homes in this peaceful countryside. Had he still been able to claim it was Hirstein who had attacked him, it would have been one thing, but to endeavor to convince them that an ordinary tramp, such as they had all at one time or another driven away from their own homes, had turned and fired a gun—right there was the crux of the whole affair, and if I found it difficult to believe myself, I feared these jurymen would feel their intelligence insulted at being asked to put their faith in such a shaky story. Meanwhile, events marched inexorably on.
The first person to be called was the trooper who had found the body. “While cruising around in the new radio-equipped car recently issued to the State Police,” he began with pardonable pride in the up-to-date methods of his troop, “we were directed by radio to proceed at once to Bayside, as the report had come in that Jim Hirstein had been sighted on the estate.
The time of the call was four-forty. Approximately twelve minutes later, we reached the lodge gates and there picked up one James Davis, colored. We then drove up to the house, arriving just at five o’clock. Almost as soon as we entered, Mr. Thomas Evans called us to come up to his study.”
“Whom do you mean by us?” asked the Coroner.
“Sergeant Lyttle, Trooper Starr and myself. Starr was driving and we had the Sergeant along for a trial trip.”
“Continue.”
“Mr. Evans informed us that he had been walking down by the pheasant house when he saw a tramp he took to be Hirstein.”
“Just a moment,” the Coroner interrupted, “we will get all this from Mr. Evans himself. You, I take it, were sent out to look for this—er—tramp?”
The trooper agreed. “Starr and I walked down to the pheasant huts and saw nobody. So we walked around some more.”
“Again cruising around on the tax-payers’ money,” put in the Coroner. “How far is it from the house to the pheasant yard?”
“Not more than an eighth of a mile, and the Sergeant told us to walk around to see if we—”
“All right.” The Coroner frowned. Quite evidently he wished matters to be brought out in their proper dramatic sequence and was determined to discourage any premature revelations. “Go ahead. What happened then.”
“We came upon the deceased.” Brown brought this phrase forth with great unctuousness.
“Indeed, and how did you know it was the deceased?”
“Well, I knew he was dead,” said the trooper, abandoning hastily his attempt at erudition. “I sent Starr up to the house to fetch the Sergeant and he came with Mr. Williams and Mr. Thomas Evans, who identified the body.”
Brown was dismissed and the police surgeon called. The new witness was permitted to testify in peace, professional courtesy no doubt, that Cyrus Evans had been killed by a shot in the back which penetrated his heart and caused instant death. He had been dead between twenty minutes and an hour when the doctor examined him at five-thirty.
The Coroner girded up his loins, metaphorically speaking, for the real fray. Thomas Evans was called and questioned concerning the intruder. I was eager to hear his story. Now that he knew Jim Hirstein had been in jail all that day, would he attempt to slur over his definite identification of the trespasser?
Tom stood still, regarding the Coroner almost insolently for a full minute before he began to speak. “I left the house to inspect the pheasant runs—we rarely speak of them as houses, Brown, and never as yards,” turning to the Coroner. “At any rate, I saw a hulking form and, realizing that Bayside would make an ideal place for a criminal to hide out, I went back to the house to arm myself before going any farther.”
“Would you arm yourself to chase off a petty thief?” inquired the Coroner, running his eye over Tom’s six feet; of brawn and muscle.
“I might,” replied the latter coolly. “However, since I asked Williams to call up the police, when I reached the house, you may take it that I considered the person I saw no ordinary tramp.”
“Were you aware that the police had one of their new-fangled cars in operation?”
Tom hesitated for a fraction of a second. “No, I don’t believe I gave it a thought one way or the other.”
“So you expected it would be forty minutes instead of fifteen before the police assistance came?”
“Well, say thirty.” Tom wasted an engaging smile on the bleak, hostile atmosphere.
“Go on,” grunted the Coroner. “It takes me forty minutes to get to Belton.”
“Oh, but the police don’t have to observe speed regulations,” Tom pointed out politely. “At any rate, James got me my gun and I departed at once.”
“Alone?”
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br /> “Yes, alone. You see, I had the gun now. As I approached the pheasant runs, I saw a man jump up and dart away. He ran toward the estate boundary with me following; as he was about to go over the fence, he suddenly turned and fired a pistol. About fifty yards separated us at the time and, although I fired back, both his shot and mine were complete misses.”
“Did you see the gun before he actually turned to fire on you?”
“No.”
“You say he turned. Could you see his face?”
“Yes.”
“Did you recognize him as any one you had seen before?”
“I did. As Jim Hirstein, my former client who recently escaped from jail in Baltimore.”
“Well,” said the Coroner acidly. “It is unusual to find a tramp carrying a gun and willing to fire at his pursuer when he is in no danger of being caught, don’t you think?”
“Not if it were Hirstein,” Tom pointed out. “He was a convicted killer who had escaped from prison while under sentence of death. He would fire to discourage pursuit, if for no other reason.”
“It could not have been Hirstein, Mr. Evans. Every one in this room is aware of the fact, if he reads the papers at all, that Hirstein was in jail in Washington when you saw this person on your father’s estate.”
“Which doesn’t affect the fact I thought it was Hirstein and took my gun to go after him.”
“I see. But it doesn’t explain why the tramp took his gun and, what is more astounding, used it.”
“I rather imagine it does, if he had just killed my father down by the dock. He would shoot rather than be apprehended in that case.”
“We have not proved he had been down by the dock, nor have we proved that he killed Mr. Evans,” returned the Coroner ominously. “Now, how much time elapsed, do you think, while you were at the house getting your gun?”
“Oh, I don’t know. James had to go upstairs for it. Maybe three or four minutes.”
“And yet when you came out of the house you saw this mysterious stranger in the same spot where you had left him? Do you think that is natural conduct for a man who, according to your idea, has just committed a murder and in a few minutes is about to risk shooting you in order to make good His escape?”
“I did not say he was in the same place. I said he was hanging around the pheasant runs. I think he was waiting for a chance to get away in the cruiser.”
“How far away was she anchored?”
“About a quarter of a mile. Say a third of a mile, that’s more like it.”
“Then you believe he shot Cyrus Evans within a few feet of the cruiser, walked six hundred yards, dawdled around until you got your gun and then fled, running in the opposite direction from which he knew the boat was lying, off to the other end of the estate, shooting at you as he was about to get clean away?” Tom shrugged. “It sounds incomprehensible when you put it in words, I’ll admit, but I am telling you what actually happened.”
When the Coroner summed up Tom’s story, it sounded worse than incomprehensible; it sounded so absurd I began to believe it must be true, if for no other reason than its palpable absurdity. But I perceived I was the only person in the room who saw the thing in such a favorable light. Perhaps if I had not had my own estimate of Tom’s mental ability, regardless of what I thought of his probity, I might have felt differently. Every one was very silent, as if in disapproval and tacit rebuke of the witness’ incredible tale. The Coroner gave Tom one more chance—he could afford to be magnanimous, since by his attitude he clearly denoted what an amazing tissue of lies he thought Tom was forging.
“Mr. Evans, since you presume the curious behavior of the trespasser was motivated by the fact that he had shot your father, can you advance any motive for which this mysterious stranger might have committed the crime?”
“Not knowing his identity, I cannot.”
“Have you any suspicion as to his identity or his motive?”
“My father had made enemies.”
“So do many men. Can you be more specific?”
Tom remained silent a moment. “I can tell you nothing definite.”
The Coroner tried a new tack. “Did you hear the shot which killed your father?”
“No.” This was a very decided negative.
“You are sure the tramp fired on you?”
“I am.”
“And you fired back.”
“I did.”
“Making two shots in all?”
“Quite right.”
As I listened to the interchange of question and reply, I knew what had become of the notes Lyttle had made so industriously. The Coroner must be familiar with every bit of the ground the troopers had covered in their preliminary work.
The next person to give evidence was James. As I expected, the Coroner drew from him exactly the information the butler had already given to Lyttle, and he was permitted to sit down without any heckling. My turn came next and I loathed the thought of the story I must tell. My first answers were merely in corroboration of James as to the meeting in the lower hall and the procuring of the gun. Then I was asked the question I had been dreading.
“Did you at any time during the afternoon hear any shots fired?”
“I did.”
“Tell us about it, please.”
“I had gone to my room, undressed and was about to get into my tub when a shot rang out. I glanced at my watch, which I had forgotten to remove, and noted it was exactly four-fifty.”
“Did you hear a second shot?”
“No.”
“Was this shot that you heard fired at four-fifty, the only one you heard? There was, say, no sound of firing as you stood in the front hall, or even as you drove up to the house?”
“I heard none.”
“Could two shots fired close together cause you to believe that only one shot was fired?”
“If they were fired simultaneously by two persons standing very close together, I suppose so.” I admitted this cautiously, for I could not believe such had been the case the other afternoon.
“Can you think of any other plausible reason why you should have heard one shot and not the other?”
“I can think of no plausible reason why I should have heard one shot and not the other,” I retorted tartly, for although I did not want to let Tom in for any trouble that was not coming his way anyhow, I was fed up with this constant hammering on what I had heard. I could not explain it, but I knew I had heard one, and only one, shot fired, and I was beginning to wish some one would take my word for it.
The Coroner was not yet through with me. “You have heard Mr. Evans tell where he stood when he fired on the tramp. Did the shot you heard seem to come from that direction?”
“It did not.”
“Where did you think it did come from?”
“Over by the boat-house.”
“In other words, almost diametrically opposite the point where the other witness says he stood and fired on the tramp?”
“Yes.”
“Then what your story amounts to is this—you heard the sound of a pistol being fired at about the time Mr. Evans admits he fired his, only the shot you heard came from the spot where the body was afterwards found.”
There was no denying that this was a substantially true summary.
The Coroner was thoughtful. “Just what, Mr. Williams, was the reason for your presence at Bayside the afternoon of November tenth?”
“I came down on an invitation from Mr. Cyrus Evans to go duck-shooting the following day.”
“Was Mr. Thomas Evans aware of the invitation?”
“That question I cannot answer. The invitation was delivered to me personally by Mr. Charles, and my natural presumption would be that the. entire family knew who was invited for the shooting.”
“I see.” The Coroner drummed his fingers on the table before him and scowled slightly. It suddenly struck me that my choice of words was unfortunate.
“The duck-shooting,” I amended, succeeding in making
matters worse.
“Quite.” The Coroner’s tone was frigid. “Wasn’t four-thirty in the afternoon an unusual time to arrive to go duck-shooting?”
“Yes,” I replied. “But my car is laid up for repairs and the only later train would have put me in too late for a good night’s rest—”
“I understand,” the Coroner helped me out. “In other words, it was just by chance you arrived at that particular hour.”
I nodded. I realized the question of my presence being accidental or expected was important but, although I had been doing some thinking on the subject myself, not for the life of me could I reach a satisfactory conclusion. Then one of the jurymen spoke.
“Will Mr. Williams tell us how he happened to call the police?”
For the moment I did not understand the question. “Why, since Bayside is without the city limits, it is within the jurisdiction of the State Police, so I simply called the nearest barracks.”
The juryman explained, “Mr. Thomas Evans said he gave you directions to ‘phone the station?”
“Oh, yes.” But the Coroner had caught the drift of these questions.
“When you were at the telephone, you heard for the first time that the troopers with their radio-equipped car were near at hand?”
I agreed. The Coroner went on, “Then, instead of receiving police help at the end of half an hour, you actually had the police there about fifteen minutes after the call, or, shall we say, ten minutes after the shot was fired?”
I assented again. The jury professed itself satisfied. The aim of these questions was obvious; they tended to show that the murderer had not expected my presence at the house but, seeing me there, had set me to summon and wait for the police who, as far as he knew, could not be expected to arrive for another half-hour. That is to say, the whole court was sure that Tom had committed the murder.
Murder at Bayside Page 6
