In appearance he was more Continental than American. A slight figure, grayish rumpled hair, sallow skin, and a prominent Adam’s apple, made him a caricature of the traditional professor; but there was an air of dignity, of authority, about him which protected him from ribald mockery. He wore a wing collar with a small black tie sitting askew beneath it, dark trousers and a tailed morning coat. I did not see his hat, but I should have been not at all surprised to find it a tall silk topper.
Tom rose to qualify his witness. His manner was astonishing in its self-possession, considering the gravity of the situation. He swiftly and deftly alluded to the witness’ reputation, thus setting at rest the wonderment of those who did not know the little doctor, and adding to the bewilderment of the knowing ones in the courtroom, who were completely nonplussed by the sudden appearance of the ballistician. I glanced at the cohorts for the prosecution; the delegation from the D. A.’s office was obviously surprised and absolutely in the dark as to the purport of this new development.
“Now,” said Tom after he had established Jonathan Lewisholm as an expert, “I shall ask some questions about the identification of bullets fired from a particular gun. Suppose you have before you one bullet fired from a forty-five caliber pistol. You have also in your possession a pistol, forty-five caliber. Can you state definitely whether or not that particular gun fired that particular bullet?”
“Certainly,” replied the witness, “beyond all question of doubt.”
“Doctor Lewisholm, will you please explain the process of identification to the court.”
The prosecuting attorney leaped to his feet. “I object on the grounds of irrelevancy.”
The judge looked at Tom. “Is this testimony relevant to the case?”
“It most surely is, Your Honor. I seek to prove certain specific facts about a certain specific gun. I wish to get the complete testimony of this witness before the court in a manner that is intelligible to the veriest layman utterly unfamiliar with fire-arms.” There was a ring of Tom’s old dramatic manner in these words.
“Objection overruled,” droned the judge and, with a slight smile, the witness continued. Listening to Lewisholm’s words, I was struck by the simplicity of his testimony and his easy diction, obviously the result of Tom’s careful coaching, since he wished to put the ballistician’s words across to the public with none of the technicalities that so confuse the average expert’s testimony. With this witness Tom had unquestionably struck his stride, but whither was he going?
The savant adjusted his pince-nez. “The identification of fire-arms,” he began, “falls into several well-defined methods. Having the cartridge-case, it is possible to tell the type and make of fire-arms from which it was discharged; having the bullet, it is possible to obtain the same information; and, as in this case, having either the discharged cartridge-case or the bullet, it is possible to determine, not only the make and type, but the particular individual weapon in which the cartridge was fired, provided that weapon is available. Conversely, it is also possible, by using the same methods, to determine that any particular weapon did not fire any particular cartridge-case or bullet, if such be the truth.”
He paused and gulped convulsively, as if he had just become aware of his audience. Then he continued: “The science of interior ballistics began its so-called modern development about the middle of the last century. Before that time, we had smooth-bore weapons, which fired a round, ball-shaped bullet which had no rotation or spin to it. In order to get greater accuracy at long range than was possible with the ball-shaped bullet, the projectile was elongated with a point at one end and a flat surface at the other. Then, by giving the bullet a spinning motion when it passed through the gun, a gyroscopic effect was produced, which caused the projectile to maintain a relatively stable flight as it passed through the air, point foremost.
“Next, how was this spinning motion imparted to the bullet? It was done by means of small, raised spirals in the barrel, which are called lands. The spaces between the lands are called grooves. In all rifled guns the diameter of the projectile is slightly greater than the diametrical distance between the lands; therefore, when the gun is fired and the bullet is forced through the barrel, the lands cut into the soft surface of the bullet in a manner rather similar to the way that an ice skate cuts into the ice. Now, in spite of the fact that the rifling is done by some of the finest modern machinery, there will be many slight variations; and, as the bullet rushes through an automatic pistol at the speed of about ten miles per minute, these variations will be engraved in the soft surface of the bullet by the irregularities in the barrel.”
As the doctor’s voice ceased, Tom said quickly, “Will you please indicate to the court something of the manner in which the identification of the markings is done, in order that the jury may follow the tests which I am going to ask you to make in their presence?”
Lewisholm complied at once. “The characteristic markings on a bullet may be divided into two classes; class characteristics, which were determined by the maker and which can be controlled by man, such as the number of lands, their depth, the width of the grooves, etc.; and accidental characteristics, which are determined after manufacture and which have a random distribution beyond the control of man. It is by use of this second class of characteristics that we are able to state positively that a certain bullet was fired from a certain weapon. Accidental characteristics may be caused by wear, abuse, erosion, corrosion, mutilation, neglect, rust pits, or dimensional variations in class characteristics within or outside of the tolerance allowed during manufacture. Any of the foregoing causes will result in certain definite markings on a bullet fired from a gun, and any other bullet, fired at approximately the same time from that gun, will have the same identical set of markings; in other words, the weapon engraves its signature on every bullet it fires. The arrangement of these accidental characteristics is subject to such infinite variety as to preclude by all laws of probability any chance the coexistence of a weapon capable of producing similar markings.
“Another point, the different markings, scratches, lines, whatever you wish to call them, become more pronounced and individual as the gun grows older with usage. Neglect is another factor, likewise improper cleaning or exposure to moisture. Thus it is easiest to identify a bullet which has been fired from an old gun; but no matter the age or condition, it is still possible to identify which gun, out of several, fired a given bullet.”
The doctor looked inquiringly at Tom, and the latter asked: “Will you demonstrate this point with the bullet known as ‘Exhibit A’?”
Now “Exhibit A” was the bullet which had been recovered from Cyrus Evans’ body. Some legal wrangling went on as to the propriety of this procedure as the doctor unhurriedly set up his double-barreled microscope. The judge’s ruling was favorable to Tom’s requests, and soon the exhibit lay under the microscope with the D. A.’s cohorts looking on as if they feared a substitution were to be made. Tom, sensing this, kept well away from the controversial piece of lead, strolling around with his hands in his pockets. I knew the savant’s reputation too well to credit his being party to any unscrupulous act, and I began to feel that Tom was staking everything on a brilliant coup. Yet ruling out legerdemain, the proceedings still savored of necromancy.
“This bullet,” said the doctor, “was fired from a forty-five caliber Colt automatic, usually known as the Army automatic; the engraving of the lands is shallow and indistinct, thus indicating that the bullet was fired through a badly-worn barrel. There are additional markings, which in all probability were caused by pitting or rust spots, showing that the weapon which fired this bullet was subject to neglect as well as to abuse.”
It suddenly struck me that Tom’s guns were never neglected. I recalled in a flash his methodical and frequent cleanings and all the care he gave them. But Tom was on his feet now, making a speech that held the courtroom in the grip of silent astonishment.
“Gentlemen of the jury, I wish to point out that th
e prosecution has proved that the gun before you, known as ‘Exhibit B,’ was in my possession on the afternoon of November tenth—the afternoon when my father, Cyrus Evans, met his death mysteriously in the fog and darkness. I admit I held in my hands the gun before you; I have never denied it. The prosecution has told you I fired the gun once, just once, and then brought it indoors with me, in order that I might clean it. Mr. Williams has told you that he was not surprised at my action in immediately cleaning my gun; I always exercise just such care with every weapon I ever use. The District Attorney’s office even went so far as to permit Mr. Williams to bring out the fact that the gun before you was the only gun I could possibly have had in my possession. I’ll pass by this point for the moment, only pausing long enough to say that, if I had succeeded in eluding the wary vigilance of the State’s own witness and had concealed somewhere another weapon, I could not very well have fired it, since the State has established most expertly that one shot, and only one, was heard. Now, mark well, gentlemen of the jury, up to this point in the evidence, I do not dispute the case—I had the weapon with me on the fatal afternoon and I had no other; I fired it once and only once.
“But the District Attorney’s office has put before you the bullet extracted from Cyrus Evans’ body, the bullet which actually killed him, and which now lies here on this table before you marked ‘Exhibit A.’ And the State asks you to believe that this bullet came from my gun. There, I cannot agree. My witness has told you that ‘Exhibit A’ was fired from a weapon badly worn, probably rusted, certainly neglected—and they ask you to believe it was my gun, even though their own witness has told you that he has knowledge I never neglected my pistol. Upon this point hangs my life, as I am well aware. Therefore, gentlemen, I think you will agree with me when I say that it is my firm opinion we should request an immediate testing of the gun, the simple test already described to you by the learned Doctor Lewisholm, which will determine finally and irrevocably whether or not my gun fired the bullet which killed my father. In other words, I propose that my gun be fired here and now, and the markings on the bullet be compared with the markings on ‘Exhibit A.’”
There was a tremendous sensation in the courtroom at this sheer melodrama—the request to adjourn the court, while the judge and jury, the prosecution and the defence, should attend the test. So it came about to the stunned surprise of every one that the scene of the trial was shifted to the basement of the building, where an impromptu shooting gallery with bales of waste to receive the six experimental bullets was being made ready. These bullets would then be photographed through the microscope, the resulting picture to be enlarged and thrown on the screen in the courtroom.
These preparations took time—about four hours, as nearly as I can remember. The State meanwhile summoned a considerable force of their own ballisticians, hastily mustered into service, none of them men of Lewisholm’s standing. I think by this time that even the D. A.’s office believed the test to be bona fide and were willing to take the results that Tom’s expert obtained, but they felt it looked a little better to protect themselves with their own men. As an impartial observer and referee, my chief, John Patrick Vaile, was functioning, which delighted me since it gave me entree into the whole performance. All other spectators were excluded, even the newspaper men, these last at the special request of Lewisholm, who apparently feared he might shoot one of them. They fumed outside, unable to decide how much or how little to wire their papers until the final results were known.
Long as the wait must have seemed to the lads of the Fourth Estate, it was not long enough for me to fathom the meaning of this new maneuver of Tom’s. Tom must be very sure of what the results of the test would be, for he had admitted it would be an irrevocable answer to the questions propounded before the court—yet, the D. A.’s force had been so positive that they had not even bothered to test-fire the pistol when it was in their possession.
At last all was ready and the Doctor showed the pictures on the screen. Even an untrained eye could read the story. Photographs of six identical bullets, the shots fired downstairs, and one, the one removed from Cyrus’ body, as different from the others as day and night. “Exhibit A” did not resemble the others in the least.
A surprise? The word doesn’t half convey the feeling I had. I was stunned. I could not believe it. Nor could I rejoice at Tom’s freedom, I was so astonished. Oh, he was acquitted all right. The prosecution, in attempting to provide proof against the accused, had made a chain of evidence permitting them now, in their turn, no escape. There was no possible about face for them from the moment they had entered, as evidence, the fact that Tom could not possibly have concealed another gun on his person when he was clad in white duck trousers and a polo shirt. Indeed, the D. A.’s office did not want to admit the existence of any other gun, perhaps hidden in the wood-pile. They stressed the identification of the gun, the fact it had been fired but a short while before, and only one shot heard. Another gun predicated another shot, or a corpse lying in the wet far longer than the autopsy revealed. The prosecution would have been willing to withdraw from the case immediately after Lewisholm’s test, but Tom was not willing to accept a nolle prosequi, and the judge sided with him. Tom had scaled the whole edifice so painstakingly erected by the prosecution, scaled it in one leap. The only verdict was an acquittal and it was duly given.
As we drove home, John Patrick delivered a homily on the folly of trusting entirely to circumstantial evidence.
“The District Attorney,” he concluded, “made a serious mistake in overlooking the necessity for test-firing the gun.”
“He didn’t overlook it,” I protested, “he thought he had the case so sewed up as to render such proceeding wholly useless and a waste of money. After all, he had my testimony and that wasn’t circumstantial evidence.”
“It certainly seems to have been,” my chief returned.
“Don’t you believe me?” I asked, astounded.
“Of course; but remember I wasn’t as certain of Tom’s guilt as the rest of you were.”
“I wonder who did kill Cyrus?” I speculated. “It seems incredible to think that Tom’s story of the tramp turned out to be true, after all.”
“The police will have to concentrate on finding him now: however, I think that you and I will have to take a hand in the affair.”
“Oh, I don’t think so. Our best course is to settle up the estate and keep out of the other business.”
John Patrick sighed. “The mystery will not be solved easily, and I fear we shall be drawn into it regardless of our wishes. My idea is to take up our residence at Bay-side—Cyrus transacted all his business from there, so it is the logical place for us to stay while we wind up his affairs. Then we shall be right on the ground and able to do a little investigating on our own.”
I kept silent. After a minute, my chief continued lightly, “Has it occurred to you that you are an awfully logical suspect yourself? You might be planning to get control of the Evans’ fortune and abscond with it. On that theory, we could discard your testimony with great ease.”
“I disagree,” I countered, much amused. “I’m not clever enough with money for any such course of action. Now you would be much more likely to think up such a scheme.”
John Patrick gave me a mock bow. “You do me too much honor. Fortunately, my English friends can give me an alibi.”
On this light note our interview ended, but my mind was to return to it several times in the very near future and I was to wonder with a sinking heart, how many people had already followed John Patrick’s line of reasoning. For even as my chief tried to warn me, I was the next to be suspected of the murder at Bayside.
NINE
Shortly after Tom’s return home, John Patrick and I went down to Bayside with the avowed purpose of settling up the estate. So far as our host was concerned, we ignored the events of the past ten days as much as possible and occupied ourselves with business affairs, which we hoped to get straightened out by the first of the
year, although so diverse were the holdings and so involved the interests of the late millionaire, that to complete our task in the time set would mean working at top speed. Yet we were determined to labor conscientiously and well, but never lose sight of our own secret object—to find some clue by which we would be led to the final solution of the mystery. If it hadn’t been for this determination of ours, I, for one, could never have stuck it out during all the weeks I did, living down there on the Evans estate, surrounded by bickering, quarreling and, finally, open fear and tragedy.
To begin with, Edwin and Charles elected to stay on until the estate should be settled and they should get their money. Unwelcome as their presence was to Tom, he seemed unwilling to rid himself of them, probably realizing that to do so would be to stir up a hornet’s nest; after one inquiry as to how long we would be in the completion of our work, he seemed content to let things remain in status quo for the time being. He had undoubtedly been under a terrific strain at the time of the trial, and now he was beginning to show the effects of it. He kept out of the way of all of us, preferring solitude to our society so plainly that it was only at dinner-time we saw him at all. Inasmuch as John Patrick and I spent most of our time in the suite allotted for our use, it was these dinners each evening which united the inmates of Bayside. United, did I say? The word expresses my meaning very poorly. Fancy the five of us, one man just acquitted of patricide under circumstances so startling as to leave the rest of us unable to grasp the sudden turn in affairs; the two brothers disliking Tom and never losing an opportunity to bait him, yet reluctant to take themselves away; my chief and I, convinced there was a murderer loose at Bayside and ever watchful to trap him in some betrayal.
Murder at Bayside Page 9
