“Well, let it go,” said Ballmeier gruffly. “The next fifty years will see a vindication of a much-maligned man — a man who was falsely used as a political goat between the Whigs and Tories in 1698 and 1699. So much for that, then. Now in writing this article, how did it happen that Mr. Leslie van Slyke, a cousin of the dead man living right here in Chicago, was not shown up as the other living descendant of Kidd?”
“Because,” said Mr. Hickey quite firmly, “my investigations showed that Mr. Leslie van Slyke was only legally adopted into that branch of the family. I was portraying only the descendancy of Kidd’s actual blood.”
“Well, speaking of money for a change, instead of blood,” said Ballmeier, suddenly changing his tack, “how much money did you demand of Rupert van Slyke on condition that you destroyed this article to which he had the most legitimate reason in the world to object?”
“Not a cent,” said Mr. Hickey calmly. “He couldn’t have bought that story for 10,000 dollars. It was too — er — juicy a titbit, speaking in newspaper terms.”
“And isn’t it a fact, Hickey, that what he really said to you over the phone was: ‘You ought to be killed if you publish that article’?”
“He did not. He distinctly said he would kill me, and named the method of my demise and the place where it would take place.”
“Excused,” said Ballmeier, turning to his papers.
And Mr. Hickey stepped down from the witness-stand quite unruffled. The court-room lapsed into silent expectation, and Crosby looked up from his papers.
“My next witness,” he said quietly, “will be Mr. Rudolph Ballmeier.”
Ballmeier turned and surveyed his opponent with amazed and suspicious eyes. The hush in the court-room became even more marked than ever. Judge Lockhart stared curiously down from his bench. Twelve pairs of eyes in the jury-box opened wider.
“Calling me?” snapped Ballmeier suddenly, coming to life.
“If you please.” In Crosby’s voice was a tone which said: “Step lively, please. You’re delaying the trial.”
The little bullet-headed prosecutor who had sent a score of men to the gallows and a pair to the more recently installed electric chair as well, arose slowly from the table. Closing his portfolio so that none of his papers would be exposed or blown to the floor by any stray draughts, he climbed to the stand.
“Mr. Ballmeier,” said Crosby, as soon as the preliminaries of swearing in were over, “we will now leave the Spanish Main and return to that other great unknown terrain, the streets of Chicago’s 450 square miles. Did you, Mr. Ballmeier, after the preparation of this case was put in your hands by the police department, dispatch investigators to every private and public garage in Chicago, as well as every taxicab company, using the authority invested in your office by the police department to secure the following report: the movement of every taxicab and hired vehicle in Chicago on the night of the murder between 6 p.m. and midnight?”
Ballmeier looked at his opponent cunningly.
“I did.”
“I have but one more question to ask you,” said the younger man pleasantly. “Among the comprehensive and lengthy reports you were able to secure by your investigators, covering the movement of every cab in Chicago that night between those hours, did you find one single trip, or combination of trips, or description of a fare, or the conduct of a fare, which would serve as an indication that Archibald Chalmers rode from the south side to the north side in a hired vehicle that night for any purpose whatsoever?”
Ballmeier leaned back in his chair. He stroked his chin reflectively. His little round face showed that he was checkmated and that he knew it and that he was trying very calmly and coolly to decide whether to answer the question or to make his opponent withdraw it. The fact that he had admitted the existence of such a report and that he had offered not a single item of it as circumstantial evidence of any individual such as Chalmers crossing the city, showed only too plainly that no such evidence could be found in the report. He remained silent for so long that the spectators shuffled uneasily. At length, after what seemed an eternity, Ballmeier found what must have been the lesser of two evils which perched upon his head.
“No,” was his reluctant answer.
“Excused,” said Crosby. And a sigh went up in the court-room as Ballmeier, hesitating the barest instant as though considering whether to proceed with the burlesque of cross-examining himself, evidently suddenly thought better of it and clambered to his seat at the lawyer’s table.
The ascension of Crosby’s next witness caused a further craning of necks in the court-room; for when, in response to his nod, the clerk called Joseph Skoggins, what appeared to be the blackest, burliest, toughest-looking negro south of the Black Belt climbed up on the stand. The sporty-checked suit with the brown chequered vest seemed to proclaim to all that Mr. Skoggins was no slow member of his race.
“Mr. Skoggins, what business relationships have you had with Mr. Chalmers?” Crosby asked.
“Ah have know Mistah Chalmahs fo’ three yeahs. Ah am the ownah of th’ Joe Skoggins Garage at 830 East 42nd Street, neah wheah Mistah Chalmahs lives. We accommodates seven cahs at my place. Mistah Chalmahs has kep’ his F’unay Speedstah in mah place evah since he has lived on Drexel Boulevard.”
“When did Mr. Chalmers part with his Fernay Speedster and how?”
“He done tell me ‘bout two weeks befo’ this heah murder come up that he think he sell his cah and get anothah one providin’ he get a purchaser. He ask me to put up a sign in mah window adve’tisin’ his cah, an’ offah me anything ah can get ovah eighteen hundred dollahs. Some strangah — ah don’t know his name — come in, look the cah over, and buy it fo’ eighteen hundred and fifty dollars. Ah calls up Mistah Chalmahs, he comes ovah and we puts fru de deal. He taked de eighteen hundred he axed, an’ I gets de fifty dollahs ovah. That was jes’ a week befo’ this yeah murder.”
“Then you can testify that Mr. Chalmers had no car the night of the murder, his former car being sold and no new one having been installed in its place?”
“Perfackly. Ah done stop Mr. Chalmahs’ garage rent by dis heah ledgah on Janooary 14, an’ befo’ we evah get a chance to staht it again he wuz arrested an’ not have no opp’tunity to buy no moh cahs.”
“Excused, Mr. Skoggins.” Crosby glanced at Ballmeier “Cross-examine?”
“None here,” proclaimed the prosecutor.
There was a disappointed look on the spectators’ faces as well as a puzzled one. But it changed to interest as the clerk called the name of G. G. Griswold. Mr. Griswold, ascending the stand, was a brisk man of perhaps thirty-eight. He seemed to be a combination of business man and engineer, and so his examination quickly proved him to be.
“Your name?”
“Gregory G. Griswold.”
“Your occupation?”
“Traction superintendent, Chicago Elevated Railway. Former traction superintendent, Chicago Surface Lines.”
“Will you state to the court the shortest route followed and the shortest time consumed by a man travelling from Mr. Chalmers’ apartment house at 4240 Drexel Boulevard to Mr. Rupert van Slyke’s residence at 4020 North Oakley Avenue, a distance on the Chicago maps of eight and one-half miles?”
“At what hour of the day or night?” asked Griswold.
“At such a time of night that he could arrive on North Oakley Avenue around ten o’clock and commit a murder at ten sharp.”
Mr. G. G. Griswold rattled forth his answer with such authority and speed that the court reporters leaned forward on their note-books till their noses almost touched the leaves.
“Elevated: Cottage Grove to Indiana Avenue via Kenwood Local 9½ minutes, to 12th Street via express 10½ minutes, to Kinzie via Loop 18 minutes, to Belmont via express 12 minutes, to Western Avenue via local 11 minutes: total 61 minutes. Surface: 42nd Street to Wabash and Randolph via Cottage Grove 45 minutes, to Lincoln and Belleplaine via State and Clark 50 minutes: total 95 minutes.”
“T
hen, ignoring completely the time taken in walking to and from cars, and also ignoring completely the figures upon the very slow surface traction, if a man were alleged to have committed a murder at exactly ten o’clock at the north address, he would have had to start out from the south address at a minute to nine and would arrive home at a minute after eleven?”
“If he could spring from his house to the L platform, catch his car immediately, commit his murder in a second at the other end, and at once turn around and come back, he would still be using up two hours and two minutes for the round trip,” asserted Griswold.
“Excused, Mr. Griswold,” said Crosby. He turned to his papers.
The jury was watching Crosby attentively now, as though wondering what structure he was erecting bit by bit — what structure behind which the ever silent defendant was to sit in his silence and defy the State.
They were soon to glimpse the shape of that structure when a slight titter running about the court-room marked the ascension to the stand of a little bald-headed man, with a stout paunch, puffy pop-eyes, and a fussy nervous manner, who answered to the name of “Isadore Katzenberger.”
“What is your business, Mr. Katzenberger?”
“I am dailor, your honour?”
“I am not the judge,” explained Crosby dryly. He paused for the tittering to die down. “What business relationships have you had with Mr. Chalmers?”
“Vot beezness relationshibs?” said Mr. Katzenberger. “Yes; id iss in my shob on 43rd Street vere Mr. Chalmers hass his cloding gleaned and bressed alvays, now going on dree year. I haf der bestest shob in dose vicinity. I was assistant to der kink of — ”
“Yes,” interrupted Crosby, as a further ripple of amusement ran lightly round the room, and the jury smiled as though one man. “Mr. Katzenberger, tell these gentlemen what happened on the night of January 21?”
Mr. Katzenberger turned to the jury. “I vos oud collecting mine pills because of mine rent being due, and I come by Meester Chalmers’ flat at yoost nine o’clock, mine last call. I ring dot bell and go upstairs and to der old lady vit vite hair vot answer dot door I gif mine pill for dree dollar and seexty cent. She go unt I vait in der hall. In a minute back she come mit a cheque fillt out mit dree dollar und seexty cent, und I mark dot pill ‘Received bayment Isadore Katzenberger’.”
“Will you describe the exact condition of that cheque and tell the words this old lady spoke to you?”
“Sait she: ‘Loog oud. Mr. Chalmers haf signed dot cheque, but he haf not blotted it. Vatch out for not to blot dot signature.’ “
“And what was the condition of the signature?”
“It vere vet mit ink, und I stand down in der vestibule und vafe it in der air to dry it. Den I folt it up and put it avay.”
“When did you cash the cheque?”
“I gash him next morning. I pay him in mit mine rent money.”
“Did the cheque ever come back to you as being a forgery?”
Mr. Katzenberger was indignant. “Vell I should say not. Mr. Chalmers was made no forcheries.”
“No, hardly.” Crosby handed up to the witness a slip of crisp salmon-coloured paper. “Have you seen this before? And if so, will you tell where?”
“He iss der cheque vot I receef by der door, und on der back of him is der indorsement uf me to my landlord in mine own handwriting.”
“You are excused, Mr. Katzenberger.” And as Mr. Katzenberger began to step off the stand, Crosby added: “Except to answer a few questions from this other gentleman.”
Katzenberger halted his flight long enough to answer Ballmeier’s few but rapid-fire questions.
“How do you know this happened on the night of January 21, Mr. Katzenberger?”
“Because mine rent is due by der Janooary 22 alvays, unt I gotta get dot money somehow. I get him all dot night, und pay him next morning.”
“Did you simply take the housekeeper’s word that the signature was still wet, or did you see it with your own eyes?”
“Oy yess, I see him all vet, like shine black ink. He glisten in der hall-light, und I can’t folt dot cheque up and put him avay until I vafe him downstairs in der cold night air.”
“Excused,” said Ballmeier, and his face was perhaps the only face in the entire court-room which did not seem to be highly amused by Mr. Katzenberger’s ascension and descension.
The smiles had not yet faded when Crosby, signalling the court clerk, had called to the stand Howard Norwalk, the Fort Dearborn bank-teller who the previous Friday had been testifying for the prosecution. Ballmeier appeared to be in an angry mood.
“Will the clerk kindly correct his term of ‘fifth witness for the defence,’ “he ordered. “Mr. Norwalk is being called in rebuttal.”
“No,” said Crosby coolly, “Mr. Norwalk is being called for the defence.”
“But Mr. Norwalk — ” began Ballmeier. He turned to Judge Lockhart. “Your honour, I confess I’m little surprised when one handwriting expert climbs down from the stand with the cryptic statement that he expects to appear again shortly as witness for the defence and then the defence proceeds to call still another one of the prosecutor’s experts and call him a witness for the defence.”
“How is this, Mr. Crosby?” inquired Lockhart.
“The defence has merely employed the same experts as the State,” declared Crosby simply. “It sounds odd, but the fact nevertheless remains. I protest against these witnesses even being termed rebuttal witnesses. They are witnesses for the defence now.”
An animated discussion between lawyers and judge followed, ended at last by Lockhart’s opinion, the jurors in the meanwhile lapsing back in their chairs appreciably bored.
“A witness can function for one side on one particular piece of testimony and for the other on another piece of testimony. If Mr. Norwalk’s testimony is along lines different than those used for the prosecution, he is then a witness for the defence. The same applies to Mr. Queed. Let the case proceed.”
Crosby, with an ingratiating smile towards his opponent, began his brief questioning.
“Mr. Norwalk, I hand you this cheque given to Mr. Katzenberger at nine o’clock in the evening just outside the door of Mr. Chalmers’ flat, with the signature still wet. You have already had this cheque for close examination with the books of the Fort Dearborn Bank. Will you state to the jury whether it is good or a forgery?”
Mr. Norwalk, with a cursory glance at the salmon-coloured slip of paper, turned to the jury. “The cheque is bona fide.”
“In your opinion it was signed in that flat by Archibald Chalmers himself?”
“Absolutely.”
“Excused,” said Crosby.
He bowed slightly towards Ballmeier. Now for the first time Crosby could enjoy seeing in his opponent the discomfiture which the previous Friday had been part of himself. Ballmeier was checkmated as he, Crosby, had been. It was evident to the veriest neophyte in the court-room that should the prosecutor attempt to discredit the expert opinion of the witness, so did he thus discredit his own witness and the salient handwriting testimony on which the State was trying to prove that Chalmers at ten o’clock that fateful night had been skulking along the bill-boards on Western Avenue, a block to the rear of van Slyke’s residence. Ballmeier opened his lips and closed them again. “Excused,” was his succinct reply.
And when Alonzo Queed, still clad in his old-fashioned habiliments, took the place of the bank-teller on the stand, he backed up that young man’s testimony so conclusively that it began to be fairly evident that Chalmers at nine o’clock on the south side had signed a perfectly good cheque whether or not he signed anything at around ten o’clock on the north side. Again checkmated, Ballmeier was forced to let the witness descend without a single question reflecting upon the latter’s integrity and professional knowledge.
Did Archibald Chalmers, his speedster sold, make a long rattling trip on the Elevated railroad after signing that cheque? If so, he would have reached the north side far too late to
have committed the murder. And yet it would appear that he had nevertheless reached there in time to sign John Carrington’s subscription-book. Where did the discrepancy lie?
CHAPTER XI
“NEVER OUT OF OUR SIGHT”
SIMULTANEOUSLY with the opening of the afternoon session of court, a violent grey cloud storm came up — a storm which presaged one more snow before the spring should come. Every incandescent in the court-room had to be lighted up. The hundreds of bulbs illuminated the form of a young man with high cheek-bones, light hair, the face of the Norse races, sitting back quietly in the witness-chair.
“What is your name?”
“Oscar Okerburg.” The witness’s voice appeared to be the voice of frankness.
“How long have you worked for Archibald Chalmers?”
“I have worked for him for three years as valet, both in Chicago and his other home, London; and am still employed in his service, although he has been incarcerated in the county jail.”
“Where were you on the night Rupert van Slyke was killed?”
“Lying in Mr. Chalmers’ Chicago bedroom on a cot near the fireplace.”
“What was the reason for this?”
“I had had pneumonia, and was just convalescing. The boiler of the Covington Arms, where Mr. Chalmers’ flat is, was being changed, and all steam heat had been cut off for four days. The only fireplace in the flat was in Mr. Chalmers’ bedroom.”
“What time did he come in that evening and what did he say?”
“He came in with his Iatchkey at about eight o’clock and said: ‘How are you, Oscar? Feeling any better?’ And then chatted along one or two subjects while he undressed and got into his pyjamas and bathrobe.”
“Undressed, did he?”
“Yes, sir.”
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