Murder at Bayside

by Raymond Robins

  When I arrived at the Prosecutor’s office to plead that the case go to immediate trial, I found I might well spare my oratory, for no sooner did I broach the subject than I found the D. A. of the same mind as Tom.

  “Sure,” he said, “we can bring this case before the judge any day now; I was holding off to give Evans a fair chance to prepare his defence.” He leaned over, unlocked a drawer and took out Tom’s pistol. “Here is my case, right here. I’ve got the gun, I’ve got the bullet from Cyrus Evans’ body, and I’m going to get my man.

  He admits he fired the gun—all I have to do is to prove what he hit.”

  “You have the bullet from Cyrus’ body?” I asked in morbid fascination.

  “Sure, and it was fired from a forty-five caliber pistol. I might pay out a few hundred dollars of the taxpayers’ money for some expert testimony, but why should I? You were everything but an eyewitness to the murder.”

  “Maybe the defence will call expert ear specialists to test my hearing,” I demurred.

  “Say, there is nothing wrong with it, is there?” The District Attorney was thoroughly alarmed. “When did you have your last life insurance examination?”

  “About a month ago.” I had to laugh at my friend’s sigh of relief. “No, my hearing is all right. I just wanted to see if you’d checked up on all the minor points.”

  “Bob, my lad, I don’t hold this job by chucking the State’s fund to the winds. When I’ve got an open-and-shut case like this one, I don’t waste any money on fancy experts; I only do that when I’m worried. Now I’ll go and tell Evans he can hold himself ready to be called in forty-eight hours.” Then his tone changed. “God, I want to get this over with. It’s no pleasant job trying a man of Evans’ standing for a thing like murder. He’s a smart lawyer and a brilliant man, but he slipped up badly this time. It only shows you how the best of them lose their heads at times. Maybe it proves the old proverb about touching pitch—I don’t know. If he’d used the sense about committing a crime he has used in the past getting some of his clients free, it would be a different matter. I might need six months to prepare my case; but I’ve got evidence now that doesn’t depend on eyewitnesses, and no matter how clever a fellow Tom may be, he can’t break down the testimony of circumstances. Don’t you ever go to committing a crime, Williams, just because you’re a lawyer and think you can get away with it. Lawyers are the biggest fools in the world where their profession touches themselves—except maybe a doctor who gets sick.”

  I left the office of the Prosecuting Attorney in a thoughtful frame of mind. The very ease with which the State regarded its case as already won convinced me, had I had any doubts before—and I may as well say right here that I don’t believe I ever had any real doubt of Tom’s guilt, from the moment I heard Trooper Starr’s raincoat brushing against the stair-rail until the extraordinary denouement of the trial. I wanted to disbelieve it, but I couldn’t.

  Yet, when the trial did open, I attempted to put all preconceived ideas out of my mind and give my evidence as a dispassioned observer of what, to say the least, was a curious affair. Each day in the courtroom I pursued my policy of taking voluminous notes to give to my chief on arrival, and each evening I conscientiously scanned the shipping news lest some delay had held up the Gargantua. Finally, on the afternoon of the day when she was due in New York, a little colored boy came to my seat in the courtroom and pressed a note in my hand. As soon as I opened it, I saw in John Patrick’s flowing script: “I shall be waiting at the Oak Tree Inn. Come over after the day’s adjournment.”

  I was overjoyed, for I had scarcely expected to hear of his arrival before the next morning. As soon as I was free, I hastened to my rendezvous, glad to be able at least to discuss this sad business with one whose intelligence and calm serenity I so admired. He met me downstairs in the Inn and escorted me into a small parlor where the fire had been laid. A smallish man, fresh complexion, a fine head of white hair, white mustache and neat goatee, he was the living prototype of the traditional Southern Colonel, provided we overlook the latter’s supposed penchant for pictorial raiment. John Patrick was immaculately tailored in Paris, while his accessories—shirts, socks and the like—all bore the unmistakable print of Saville Row. In manner, he was quiet, low-voiced, yet dominating by sheer force of his personality. One felt the power of this man’s mentality in the most casual contact with him, yet few persons ever understood him. Reticent to a fault himself, he was the repository of secrets from people who confided in him although they scarcely knew him.

  He owed his name to John Calhoun and Patrick Henry, from both of whom he derived descent. Born in a family whose men had made early history of Virginia, and whose women had been reigning belles of the South, he had grown up in the tragic era following the Civil War. His dynamic personality had prevented him from succumbing to the enervating forces overshadowing his childhood; by hard work and perseverance he had gotten himself a legal education, and by the brilliance of his mind and ability in his chosen profession he had raised himself to fame and affluence. At an age now when most men think longingly of retirement, he was none the less avid for work. He was no friend of leisure, for he got his recreation from the pleasure he derived from his work. Never an acquisitive sort of person, he despised those who made collections their hobby, Cyrus Evans’ armory, for instance, had always been a source of amusement to him. He knew five times as much about each weapon in the museum as did its owner, yet he would have scorned to buy and keep any of them.

  “I am a collector of human nature,” he used to say, “and you can’t keep my specimens under glass.”

  As soon as we were seated, I began to talk. “I did not expect you until tomorrow at the earliest. The Gargantua did not dock until noon, did she?”

  John Patrick shrugged his shoulders. “I got off at Quarantine and took a seaplane down; now, that I see you, I think I was right to make all haste possible. You look very worn, as if the trial had subjected you to a prolonged strain.”

  “I am tired,” I admitted, “and not a little glad to see you back. The responsibility has been very heavy in these past two weeks.”

  “Ever since I arrived I have been reading the notes you sent to meet the boat, and I fancy I am sufficiently well up on everything happening before the trial. Suppose you tell me what has happened in court, and then we can put our heads together for some purpose, I think.”

  “Nothing has happened in court,” I said wearily. “The prosecution has stated its case and called its witnesses and Tom has begun his defence, but still nothing has happened. It is the inquest all over again.”

  John Patrick lifted his eyebrows quizzically. “So. No wonder you are distressed. Your position as chief witness for the State is resting heavily on your conscience lest your testimony is being used to convict an innocent man. In the face of your evidence, you can’t believe Tom is innocent, yet you can’t conceive how as clever a man as he undoubtedly is would depend on an alibi as tenuous as his, if he had really planned to murder his father.”

  “You have stated the facts as accurately as if you could read my mind,” and I smiled for the first time in three days. “You get the same feeling I do from simply reading my account of the inquest?”

  “Never mind what feelings I get until you give me a summary of what has gone on. I’ll try to refrain from comment until I have it all.”

  “I’ll begin with the State’s case. They have advanced as the motive, not only the desire for money to pay the huge indebtedness, but also they claim it was imperative for Tom to conceal the whole affair from Cyrus. It seems that Tom had already been in trouble on account of some previous gambling debts, which Cyrus had settled on the understanding that Tom was never to gamble again. They have produced witnesses who claim to have the knowledge that Tom stood to be disinherited if he disobeyed the old man in this respect.”

  I looked at my chief, but he would not respond, so I continued: “The means he used, of course, was the gun now in the State’s possession.
He expected to throw the police off the scent by his strategy, of sending for them before the murder was done, but he was forestalled, not only by the unlooked-for speed which the police made in answering the call, but also by the fact that Hirstein was already in jail when he claimed to have seen him on the estate. Then, the further fact that I heard one shot, and only one, and identified it as coming from down by the dock, when Tom was trying to convince the troopers it came from the opposite direction, quite finally upsets the defence. By the way, did you know that the troopers tested my hearing by means of shots they fired from the two spots under question? They did it so well that I never suspected it was a test at the time.”

  John Patrick looked up with what in a person of lesser dignity would have been a grin, but he didn’t say a word. I recalled that I had faithfully recorded the conversation Lyttle had with me in my room on the day following the murder, and had mentioned the shots which interrupted us.

  “There is only one more point and that lay in the doctor’s testimony. Cyrus Evans was killed not more than an hour before the doctor saw the body. That means he was killed after I arrived at Bayside.” My voice hesitated. “I touched the body and it was just barely cold when we found him.”

  John Patrick nodded in sympathy with the horror I strove unsuccessfully to keep out of my words. He answered in a very matter-of-fact tone, “Dead certainly not more than twenty minutes or half an hour. Yes, Bob, we’ve known from the first that the murder was committed during the time you were in the house.” Then, mindful of his promise not to interrupt, he said politely, “But I said I wouldn’t comment until you were all through. Is that all?”

  It was—the State’s case was as simple as all that, and as correspondingly hard to defeat.

  “All right, we’ll go over it point by point. As for the motive, I agree with the prosecution. Money alone would never have been sufficient to urge Tom to do murder, for he knew, if he sat tight and behaved himself, it would all come to him some day. However, I know all about the old quarrel he and Cyrus had on the subject of gambling. It happened before Charles and Edwin went to live with their uncle, and Tom was there all alone. You know how Cyrus had to keep his finger on everything going on—well, Tom got into debt, for at that time his law practice was just lucrative enough to give him a taste for more money. At least, that was the way Cyrus read it, but I’ve always suspected it was an innate love of gambling which first led Tom to the tables. Be that as it may, the old man might have understood and applauded a successful coup, while a loser was something he couldn’t stomach. So Tom was in very real danger of being thrown out of house and home, if this latest indiscretion of his came to light.”

  “It would have, I think,” I asserted gloomily. “It was just a question of time before his I. O. U.’s would be brought to Cyrus’ attention.”

  “Exactly. And you mustn’t forget how much more it would mean to Tom than just the money end of it. He could not afford to forget that he was only an adopted son, without family or background, and yet position and security meant more to him than they do either to you or me who have never been in danger of losing them. You know our people—blood counts and, failing a good birthright, you must have an established position. Tom stood to lose everything worthwhile in his life, if Cyrus threw him out.”

  John Patrick paused to light his pipe and smoked thoughtfully a moment. “But when it comes to the element of surprise in the sudden appearance of the troopers, while I am forced to admit it is a nice point for the State to make, and ought to go far to justify the increased expenditures for the new cars in the eyes of some of the penny-pinching taxpayers, I can’t quite credit it with having much importance. True, Tom didn’t have time to clean his gun before the police arrived and was, therefore, forced to account some way for its having been fired, but he had shown absolutely no reticence in letting you see it before he went out. Both you and James knew he had it, and heaven knows, it was easy enough to identify. And that brings me to the point I can’t understand and the prosecution hasn’t explained. Am I wrong in thinking it quite possible that Tom knew all along you might very well come down on that early train?”

  I had been doing some thinking on this subject myself. “He greeted me as if he were surprised to see me,” I said, “but later on in the evening he happened to mention that he had called up his office. Now, Miss Ellesworth knew I was coming down on the three o’clock, and I think it most unlikely that she would fail to mention it.”

  “Curiouser and curiouser. Even after he sees you, shows you his gun and permits you to be in a position to recognize the weapon, he still persists in his plan of murder, providing himself with an ear-witness and one who has proved to be most detrimental to his interests. Let’s hear his side of the case now.”

  “It is the same as he advanced at the inquest. He did make one attempt to discredit my story by asking me to describe his appearance as he stood in the lower hall. When I said he had on a pair of white duck trousers and a polo shirt and was fairly well soaked by the wet, the D. A., on reexamination, asked me if Tom could have concealed another gun on his person. Of course, he could not, not possibly.”

  “I see,” my chief said. “Tom’s sole attempt to confuse the issue. If he could prove that any other gun was fired, it would necessitate two shots and throw out your testimony.”

  “Impossible,” I scoffed. “The police did some very neat ground-work there. There is one weapon in this case and one only, the pistol Tom Evans had in his hand when he went out.”

  “Next, how is Tom going to get around the fact that Hirstein was in jail when he identified him so positively as being on the estate?”

  “I can’t see how he can at all. There’s where his whole case falls down. No man on the jury but has chased a tramp off his property at some time or other, and they simply will not believe in the presence of an armed vagrant at the moment when Cyrus Evans was killed.”

  “It is pretty thin,” my chief agreed. “Of course, if the tramp really killed Cyrus, he was armed, obviously, with a forty-five; which, by the way, as I suppose the prosecution has not failed to bring out, is an unusual weapon for a hobo to be carrying about. But even if Tom’s story were probable, if you grant it for the sake of argument, it still doesn’t make it any less remarkable to find an armed tramp roaming around Bay-side, first here, then there. Besides, Cyrus’ murder then becomes perfectly pointless, supposing it to be done by a marauder who immediately disappears without collecting anything on his apparently purposeless killing.”

  “You do believe Tom guilty then?” I queried.

  John Patrick shook his head slowly. “I can’t say as quickly as all that.”

  My face fell and, noticing it, my chief went on kindly, “But, Bob, I believe you heard the shot which killed Cyrus, and I think you are perfectly justified in telling your story. Indeed, there is no other course open to you, and you must not feel it can be used to convict an innocent man. The prosecution has an iron-clad case. They have a motive unquestionably adequate for a man of Tom’s personality and determination; he had the opportunity, and the testimony of your hearing, proved by the police to be clear and true, remember, indicates he used his opportunity. The only explanation Tom can advance for the undeniable fact that his gun was fired is so thin that no one will believe it. The very ridiculousness of his story makes you and me doubt not only that it actually happened but, knowing Tom as we do, we marvel that he could hope to make a jury believe it really occurred. The next step is to think Tom innocent—otherwise, he would have worked up a better story. We must not do that, Bob; perhaps the police are right and he intended to have a credible tale ready, only they arrived too soon for him. On the other hand, maybe his error lies in being too subtle—perhaps he hopes to raise a doubt in the mind of some juryman on the ground that his tale is too weak to be other than the truth.”

  “Then—the alibis of the other two boys,” I ventured. “I don’t think they were any too conclusive.”

  “No,” John Patrick
answered thoughtfully. “At the same time, there is nothing to connect them with the crime. You see, Tom was there, his gun was fired, and if some one else committed the murder, then perforce you accept Tom’s account of his own actions. Right now, you can’t do it. Well, the trial isn’t over yet.”

  “Very nearly,” I replied moodily. “Edwin told me today that there was just one more witness: a surprise one, and he has made all the arrangements with great secrecy. Tom is calling Jonathan Lewisholm.”

  My chief sat up with a start of surprise. “The great Lewisholm, the ballistician? What an extraordinary move! Now, if he were the State’s witness—“ he broke off and took a deep puff on his pipe. “Well, that will be a grand finish for the case. Whatever Lewisholm says, I for one shall believe, if for no better reason than because he says it.”

  EIGHT

  When John Patrick and I took our seats in the courtroom next day, we were both in a puzzled frame of mind, wondering what this last witness of Tom’s would contribute to the case. My chief, after expressing himself anent Jonathan Lewisholm’s probity and general reputation, would discuss the case no further, but I was secretly sure he was not a little mystified by this latest development. Vaile’s arrival in the courtroom, by the way, caused more of a stir than had been manifested since the early days of the trial. Old friends of the bar, social acquaintances, and even the newspaper men came up to welcome him home. When the judge entered and took his seat, he caught sight of him and nodded genially.

  The court was opened and the surprise witness took the stand. I craned forward in common with the rest of the room to gaze upon the great doctor, for, though Jonathan Lewisholm’s name stood for fame and authority wherever people or nations gathered to discuss powder and explosives, I had never caught before a glimpse of the renowned ballistician. As Vaile had phrased it last night, whenever the learned doctor made a statement, that statement was accepted as fact by virtue of his having said it. So far as I knew, this was the first time Lewisholm had ever come forward at a criminal trial; rumor had it he was a reticent soul, wrapped up in his laboratory and quite impervious to events around him.