“Classy work, Dick,” Viggman heard one of his captors say to the tramp who had delivered him from Winniston lockup. “The old man’ll be tickled stiff. Now out of the State with him and into St. Paul.”
In a jiffy Viggman was whisked into the waiting automobile, his wrists shackled together by bright steel handcuffs, and sixty seconds later they were purring westward along a broad highway at a terrific clip. As for Viggman’s thoughts, they were chaotic — and yet clear. The whole escapade had been a carefully contrived job set in motion by the 10,000-dollar reward offered for his capture. And he had fallen, neatly, blindly.
They crossed the Mississippi river into Minnesota at about three-thirty in the morning, and it was barely dawn when after a further terrific ride over hills and valleys and past innumerable small towns they bowled into the outskirts of St. Paul. The machine stopped a little distance in from the outskirts of the city, and Viggman, in a dull stupor of recrimination, was conscious that the detective who had enticed him out of the Winniston lockup was slipping out of the machine. Then it sprang forward again, leaving the other waving a gleeful hand in the rear, and did not stop again until it drew up in a high narrow alleyway in the business section, at the side entrance of what must be an office or business building. Morning had not even fully come yet, for Viggman, whisked through corridors and up in a freight elevator, found the hall empty and dark; and only one room was ablaze with electric light.
Through the door of this room he was rudely thrust, and then jammed down into a straight wooden chair. In a swivel chair in front of him sat a huge beefy man with jet-black hair.
“Well, Mr. Considine, here he is,” one of Viggman’s two captors was saying. “Picked him up forty miles out of St. Paul — in the State of Minnesota. It’ll not be a bad job for the Considine agency, eh, Chief?”
“I’ll say so,” said the big man in a cruel voice. “A mighty good job, Hendrix.”
He raised himself from the chair and locked the door of the room. The two detectives stripped off their coats and rolled up their sleeves. Viggman’s face blanched. The big man laid his own coat slowly across the back of the swivel chair and rolled up the sleeves from a pair of mighty muscular arms.
“Now, you son of a mule,” he roared, thrusting his face within an inch of the twitching countenance of Viggman, “where’s those hocks you got in that stickup?”
Viggman opened his mouth. His words were feeble. “Me — I — don’t know nothin’ about ‘em. I ain’t — ”
Smash! Smash! His features were being rapidly battered into a pulp. He felt the terrific oxlike blows catapulting against his nose, his cheekbones, his lips, his eyes, his chin. His hands went to his bleeding nose, his closing eyes, and his knees caved in beneath him.
“God, Chief!” he screamed, “lay off o’ me! Lay off o’ me. I’ll tell you — I’ll tell you — anything — anything you want to know!”
CHAPTER XVIII
THE MAN FROM LIVERPOOL
IT was Thursday, September 22, when the second trial of Archibald Chalmers opened. Crosby, seated next the defendant, found himself pondering uneasily at the smiling, confident face of Rudolph Ballmeier, whose blue-bow tie once more proclaimed to the world that he would hang Archibald Chalmers on this, his last, case before retiring from office to engage in private practice. The newly sworn-in jury sat still and uncomfortable in its box, and from the widely varying physiological maps there depicted Crosby’s eyes wandered to the prisoner who sat at his side, dressed more quietly than at any of his former appearances in court, with face a little more deep, more grim, more manly than before. From here Crosby’s eyes wandered for the dozenth time to the front row of spectators. There she was again: the veiled woman of last April, dressed this time not in furs, but in a light summery silk, still sitting slightly apart at the seat on the aisle, her head barely inclined forward in the position she had held all through the dull picking of the jury. And more than ever Crosby wondered who and what in that trial she was interested in.
Ballmeier’s initial speech to the jury was almost identical with that he had made in April, and Crosby’s address was even more brief and pungent than the one he had then delivered. These preliminaries over, Ballmeier stood up, and taking from his portfolio what appeared to be a sheaf of yellow telegrams, addressed himself to the judge.
“Your honour,” were his words, “in view of the fact that you presided at the former trial of this man, you may recall the remarkable and puzzling fidelity with which two of his alibi witnesses — Oscar Okerburg, his valet, and Mrs. Morely, his housekeeper — were able to maintain a certain story as to his whereabouts at ten o’clock, January 21, the night Rupert van Slyke was killed in the library of his home on North Oakley Avenue, even to the point of answering fifty questions specially prepared by myself, one of the two witnesses being out of the hearing of the other. We know that one witness in cases at law can tell a perjured story and get away with it, but that two seldom, if ever, can do this. Yet these two managed to do it. How? I am pleased to say that I have unearthed the explanation and will present it in this trial; namely, that these two witnesses did not fabricate a single word of their story, but by mutual agreement suppressed one small fact which enabled their stories to tally in spite of all my efforts to break them. But of this you will learn more when I place upon the stand my first witness.
“This, in turn, brings me to the matter of this Mr. John Carrington, whose testimony alone should have hanged Archibald Chalmers at that last trial if not checkmated by Chalmers’ alibi in which I believe his valet and his housekeeper believed implicitly, in spite of their suppression of a certain fact. Now, with your honour’s permission, I shall read aloud two telegrams which will convince any man in this room that fraud, conspiracy, criminality — and now I believe murder itself — has been resorted to to free that man sitting over there in the defendant’s box.”
His honour stared down at Ballmeier, and Crosby, tense, on guard, leaned forward in his own chair so as not to lose a word of what was coming.
“State your facts, Mr. Ballmeier,” ordered Lockhart.
“Well, your honour, I have seen this Mr. John Carrington, whose testimony has been so vital to the State, on and off throughout the summer, and each time have been assured by him that he would be present on the opening day of the trial-proper to repeat the testimony he then gave, and which could not be shaken by the defence in its full half-day’s grilling. I now read to you, and propose to offer as an actual exhibit, the following telegram purporting to be from Carrington, and received by me at my offices yesterday noon.”
Ballmeier cleared his throat and fastening his gaze upon one of the telegrams in his hand, proceeded to read it aloud:
RUDOLPH BALLMEIER, Asst. State’s Attorney.
Have left for New York City on unexpected business trip, but expect to be back in Chicago on Friday morning or Monday morning at latest to testify if called in Chalmers case.
JOHN CARRINGTON,
HOtel Knickerbocker.
Ballmeier looked up and gazed about him. “The telegram with its address of Hotel Knickerbocker,” he stated, “was sent from the telegraph office in the Knickerbocker Hotel. I called up Mr. Carrington’s daughter at their home on 4,062 Parkside Avenue to ask her if we could anticipate his prompt return, but she could give me no information other than that he had telegraphed her from the depot that he was unexpectedly called to the East.”
“Do I understand from this,” asked Judge Lockhart, “that you expect an adjournment of the case after the jury is picked, sworn in, and your opening address has been made?”
Rudolph Ballmeier shook his stocky head. “No, indeed, your honour. I shall proceed with the trial without any of my former witnesses, if necessary. But this is what I wish to relate” — he turned to the jurymen — “and to you gentlemen also. Last evening I had what we commonly call a hunch that this telegram might not have come from John Carrington at all, and so I telegraphed him at the Hotel Knickerbocker with a pai
d reply. Their answer showed that no such person by that name was or had been registered there. I immediately got off a lengthy wire to the New York State’s attorney’s office which is indebted to this office in several ways, asking that an immediate search be made of all New York and Brooklyn hotels, as well as even hospitals. This was their reply which arrived this morning.”
Ballmeier raised up a second telegram and read off:
Complete examination of all hotel registers in New York and Brooklyn made by patrolmen as per your request. No John Carrington registered during past week. Same all hospitals. No unidentified persons this description.
New York State’s Attorney’s Office.
Ballmeier looked up. “There, your honour, is the situation in a nutshell. The State’s principal witness has been spirited off, and I shall not be surprised to learn ultimately that there is murder again in this case.”
He sat down.
Crosby was on his feet instantly. His tone was scornful. “I object to all this alleged telegraphic testimony of which the attorney for the State is making so much. I do not wish to question the authenticity of the telegrams he has received, but he overlooks the fact that the movements of his very valuable witness may perhaps be guided by motives of privacy. There is something for the honourable State to think about. Just because its principal mainstay for hanging an innocent man fails to show up at this trial, it strikes me that rather sensational tactics are being used on the State’s part in attempting to show conspiracy out of it, and in using the word murder in connection with it.”
Judge Lockhart pondered.
“I agree with Mr. Crosby,” he pronounced at length. “These telegrams of yours, Mr. Ballmeier, have no direct bearing on this case. If Mr. Carrington were abducted or murdered, as you suggest, they would be testimony, but in another case entirely. Therefore I will rule them out of the records of this trial.” He nodded to the court stenographer.
And thus ended a little flurry with the prosecutor both a problematical winner and a dubious loser. But his confident smile never faded from his round face.
He arose. “Then this being disposed of for the time being,” he said sneeringly, “the State will call its first witness.” He turned to a bailiff. “Bring in Harry Bronson.”
A stir in the court, and everybody’s eyes followed the movement of the bailiff, who went into a tiny room off the balustraded portion of the court-room and presently reappeared, at his heels walking a young fellow of medium build, poorly dressed, with ragged shoes, ruddy healthy complexion, blue eyes, and, although he did not resemble Archibald Chalmers at all, a head appeared with the flaming red-hair of the same shade and intensity as that of the prisoner. But, unlike the young society man who had spent his last three months under a jail ruling which prescribed “jail barber or none at all,” and who, as a result, presented a shaggy red mane, this young drifter of the streets, as he appeared to be, was carefully shaved, neatly barbered, his red-hair cut cleanly by means of the clippers about his neck and ears.
“What is your name?” asked Ballmeier.
“ ‘Arry Bronson,” was the witness’s reply, with the accent of a Cockney Englishman. “But sometimes they calls me Red Bronson.”
“Your home?”
“Me ‘ome is Liverpool, England, but I’ve been in this country for a couple o’ years.”
“Will you look at the defendant sitting over there at that table and state if you have ever seen him before?”
The witness’s bright blue eyes wandered casually over Archibald Chalmers’ form, and then travelled back to the prosecutor.
“I ‘ave, sir.”
“Will you tell the jury in your own words where you first met this man, and what relations you had with him?”
CHAPTER XIX
IN AND OUT OF THE DOOR
AS the man who was to deliver this damning testimony began his story, told in his Cockney dialect, a sudden stillness fell upon the whole court-room. As for Crosby, he turned his head and lowered it close to Chalmers.
“Know this fellow on the stand?” he asked hastily and in a low voice.
Chalmers turned his face to that of his attorney. In his eyes was stark, staring despair. “I’m — I’m done for,” he said in a half-choked whisper. “They’ve — they’ve got him — and I thought he was in Liverpool.” Then he closed his lips on his teeth in a tight hard line, and over his face came the look of the animal who is brought to bay by a pack of dogs.
Crosby gave but one fleeting look at the face of his client. His own thoughts for a second were chaotic. Then, as the man on the stand began to speak, he seized his pencil and notebook and began taking rapid shorthand notes of this new development against his case.
“I first meets Mister Chalmers,” Bronson began, addressing the jury as though trained by the prosecutor how to deliver his testimony, “down on Lodgin’ ‘Ouse row, West Madison Street, Chicago. I’m sittin’ one night in January in the Johnny Bull ‘Ouse, a flop wot catches th’ Canadian an’ English sailors off th’ lyke steamers, wishin’ I could get back to Liverpool, and regrettin’ the d’y I come over on a freighter to this country. While I’m ponderin’ on w’ether to strike west and go to work in the Hamerican mines, I seen ‘im come in the door, an’ size up every one o’ th’ ‘oboes an’ sailors careful-like that was sittin’ around the plyce. W’en ‘is eyes lights on me, ‘e seems to strighten up like ‘e ‘as an idea. Str’ight over ‘e comes and gets into a conversytion with me. I thinks ‘e were some sort o’ uplifter, wantin’ me to be a mission bloke or so’thin’, but ‘e tells me ‘e’s a man that wants to ‘elp the down-and-houter. He awsks me what could be done to better me condition, an’ I says that before Gawd all I wants is a ticket back to N’York an’ Liverpool, and I’ve seen enough o’ this country f’r all time.
“That seems to intrest ‘im,” continued Red Bronson, “and as I learns afterward, that was w’y ‘e went to the Johnny Bull ‘Ouse, knowin’ he’d be sure to find plenty of ‘omesick Britishers there any time. Anyw’y, he awsks me to come hout with ‘im and ‘ave a talk; says m’ybe ‘e’ll put me into a w’y to myke some money and reach Liverpool again; so out we goes, gets a taxicab, and up town to a decent ‘otel, w’ere ‘e p’ys for a room and ‘as a dinner sent up.
“We talks f’r a long time that night, and I sort o’ tykes to the man, m’ybe because ‘e knows old England, and even though ‘e were a toff like. I sees ‘e ‘as somepin on ‘is mind — some sorta proposition ‘e wants to spring, but instead ‘e spends most of ‘is time pumpin me about meself. An’ that night he parts with me, leavin’ me arf a crown in Hamerican money and tellin’ me ‘e wants to see me again the next night.”
Bronson mopped his forehead and gazed about him. His speech was painful work to him as could be easily seen.
“So as ‘e says, ‘e comes to my room again next night, and this time ‘e puts ‘is proposition hinto words. ‘E says: ‘Bronson, I was lookin’ f’r a bloke like you las’ night w’en I strolled into th’ Johnny Bull ‘Ouse. An’ I think you’re the man that can do somethin’ f’r me that’ll be easy money for you an’ land you ‘ome in Liverpool in six d’ys with a good piece of money in your pocket — money w’at you carn’t myke in a year. An’ the reason, Bronson, is that you got ‘air the colour and shyde o’ mine, heyes the syme bright blue as mine, you’re my ‘eight within a hinch and about th’ syme w’ight an’ build.’
“I’m curious at that,” Bronson explained naïvely, “but give ‘im a chawnce to spring ‘is proposition, he sorta bein’ frightened like, lest ‘e have the wrong bloke, don’t ye know. So pretty soon, hout comes the proposition, point-blank. ‘E wanted me to tyke ‘is plyce in ‘is rooms for some two hours on th’ night o’ January 21 to ‘elp ‘im myke w’at they call a halibi, seein’ as ‘e ‘ad a little personal job ‘e ‘ad to pull off in ‘igh society life. And ‘ere was the conditions that was to ‘elp us for to work it.
“As a lad ‘e’d seen service in th’ British Army durin’
th’ last six months o’ the Big Fuss. Seems, ‘e sez, that a couple o’ weeks before the Armistice, when we all goes back to Blighty, ‘e got a stunnin’ rap on the cheekbone with a piece o’ shrapnel, wot ‘it th’ nerve, yet never even cut th’ skin — a bloomin’ doc’d know more’n me about wot took plyce. For months in Blighty ‘is fyce was paralysed on one side — then it gets all right again. But a few months before all this wot I’m a-tellin’ ‘appened, ‘e’d begun to note that towards afternoon every d’y the muscles on one side of ‘is fyce was saggin bad, an’ off ‘e goes to a nerve doc. ‘It’s that nerve callin’ for ‘elp,’ sez th’ doc, ‘an’ f’r six months I’m going to myke you wear a rubber fyce mask — a regular complexion mask — from the time you gets ‘ome in the evening till th’ time you goes aw’y in the mornin’.’
“Well,” Bronson continued, “Mr. Chalmers didn’t like it, but ‘e followed orders. And there ‘e was, comin’ ‘ome early every night, massagin’ them cheek muscles on th’ right side, puttin’ on some solution th’ doc giv’ ‘im wot’d draw up th’ muscles of his fyce tight an’ snug, and puttin’ on one of them complexion masks — them thin rubber fyce masks you sees in beauty parlours, wot ‘as ‘oles for the heyes, ‘oles for the norstrils, an’ a slit f’r the mouth. ‘E’d wear it all night while ‘e slept, an’ w’en ‘e ‘ad it on, all you could see was ‘is blue eyes lookin’ through the heye-’oles, ‘is for’ead and his red hair habove. And that, together with th’ fact ‘e wasn’t supposed to do no talkin’ w’en ‘e ‘ad it on, was th’ backbone o’ his scheme.
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