“Mr. Venson,” began Crosby, “did your master, Rupert van Slyke, ever discuss with you any of the facts of his ancestry?”
“No facts, sir, other than that he was Captain Kidd’s only living descendant.”
“Ever mention a name — Captain Josiah Quarlbush — which formed part of the complicated and multi-coloured pirate picture of the late 1600’s?”
“Never, sir.”
“Very well, then. That disposes of that. Now before this syndicated article was published all over the United States revealing that Captain Kidd had one living descendant, Rupert van Slyke of Chicago, did Mr. van Slyke then freely admit he was Kidd’s descendant?”
“I could not very well say as to that. I was not with him, you see, until after the article was published and the facts were then public property.”
Crosby gazed down at his folder. “That’s right — you’re correct, Mr. Venson. You came to work for him, I see, directly after the article was published. From Cincinnati, I believe?”
“Yes, sir. I worked for Mrs. Daniel Eggerston, the widow of the famous Schoolbook publisher of that city.”
“Where was the advertisement published which you answered in getting the van Slyke job? That is, not which specific paper, but in which city, Cincinnati or Chicago, did the ad. appear?”
Venson paused a moment. He was a bit apologetic “Neither city. There was no ad.”
“You got the position through an employment agency?”
“No, sir.”
“But we are not to infer that you went to an unknown door, knocked, and asked for a job like a beggar might ask for alms?”
Venson did not get angry at the imputation, but made a definitely negative gesture with his head indicating that the lawyer was overlooking more logical interpretations of his testimony. “I did neither, sir. I had seen the article in Cincinnati; so when I came on to this city I got an interview with Mr. van Slyke and told him that I knew of a man in Cincinnati who had a log-book from one of Kidd’s voyages. He was very, very interested. Naturally when I also added that I was out of work and looking for a houseman’s job in Chicago, he gave me a berth at once.”
“Did the log-book turn out to be satisfactory? Genuine, and all that?”
“Well, sir, it didn’t materialize. After Mr. van Slyke ran it down, he found that the man I spoke of had sold it, and the new owner’s name wasn’t known.”
“But come now, Venson, be frank with us, as we are trying to be fair with you. Just to save yourself embarrassment, don’t complicate the problem by tossing in a log-book or any other article. As man to man, isn’t it a fact that you made up this story about the Kidd log-book in order to get a job with a man who would naturally be interested? Isn’t it a fact that you got some friend in Cincinnati to help you out by claiming to have owned such a relic?”
Venson pondered for a long moment, as though deeply considering the pros and cons of the thing. When he at last did answer, he answered with the reluctant capitulation of one who saw the futility of trying to maintain now the story he had given to van Slyke. “Well, sir, I will be fair with you. I testified just a moment ago only as to what I told Mr. van Slyke. That was true. As a matter of real fact, I did use the log-book story as a lever to get a berth.”
But his mild admission, destroying as it did the existence of the Kidd relic, brought from Crosby a next question whip-like in its speed.
“You possess a particular interest in piracy, Mr. Venson, that you are able to fabricate stories of log-books and so forth?”
“No, sir. Neither piracy nor the doings of the people of the 1600’s are of any interest to me.”
“Then why did you give up a berth in Cincinnati and come to Chicago within one week of the date you read about a descendant of Captain Kidd living here? What morbid fascination drew you to give up security for insecurity?”
“No morbid fascination at all,” replied Venson with imperturbability. He made a resigned gesture with his hands. “I gave up my position in Cincinnati because old Mrs. Eggerston was getting cantankerous. I went to work for him for less than I worked for Mrs. Eggerston, and I’ll say that even when he was drunk he was more satisfactory to get along with than she was.”
“All right, Venson,” Crosby grinned. “After this is published in to-night’s papers, don’t ever try to go back to Mrs. Eggerston. She’ll have you tossed out.” The spectators laughed. “So you have no interest in the 1600’s or piracy. Ever have any relative arrested in any city for highjacking a truck of liquor on the broad highway? I have records of all such arrests, by the way, so be frank with us!” Crosby glared as balefully as he could at his witness, realizing that the amount of records of such possessed by him could be written on a match-head.
Venson laughed a bit bitterly. “I’m glad you have,” he said. “For I’ve no living relatives whatever. None whatever.”
Crosby accepted the other’s covert thrust in good spirit. Cross-examination was give and take, more often than not. “Ever read the nickel novels about pirate life on the high seas when you were a boy?”
“I object!” shouted Ballmeier, “to the defence attorney’s badgering of the witness. It’s all done, your honour, to string the testimony out in the newspapers and reproduce his own name more times — to squeeze publicity for himself out of this trial. Anyway, the only lines of nickel novels ever issued were Buffalo Bill, Diamond Dick, Old Sleuth, Old King Brady, Nick Carter, Frank Merriwell, and The Liberty Boys of ’76. There were no nickel novels about pirates.”
The judge half-smiled. “Objection sustained.”
Crosby smiled too. “I’m content then to let the question ride, in view of the State’s attorney’s wide literary accomplishments and his own answering of it.” He turned to the witness. “All right then, Mr. Venson. We’ll drop this unfruitful line of questioning, and get back to our mutton — as they say — the night of the murder.” He pondered a second. “Mr. Venson, when the murderer came rushing down the stairs, what was the first thing that impressed itself upon your vision? The red hair, I presume?”
Venson, mollified by the conciliatory tone, nodded. “Yes, sir. The red hair.”
“But not until you grappled were you really close enough to get a good survey of the cast of features?”
“You have about stated it, sir.”
Crosby reflected a moment. “Now, Mr. Venson, the only acceptable theory which either the State or the defence has yet been able to construct in this case is that the murderer, after beating his way past you, skipped down the front steps and around through the gangway at the side of the house, dropping his stickpin in this manœuvre. Would you consider that your grappling with him was the factor which caused it to come loose?”
“Might have been, but I would not say for sure,” said Venson calmly.
Crosby turned to the court clerk. “May I now request for a few seconds the stickpin which was entered in the first trial as Exhibit No. 1.” He paused, until the clerk handed to him a glittering stickpin from which he first removed a huge numbered tag. Crosby then turned to Venson with the pin in his hand. “Now, Mr. Venson, I am going to ask you to be kind enough to show the court exactly how you grappled with the fleeing man, using the defendant himself, stickpin and all, to make the conditions as much like the original circumstances as possible.” He leaned over the prisoner, fastening the stickpin loosely in his neat black-tie. “Go to the witness-box, Mr. Chalmers.” The entire court-room leaned forward. A hush like that of the stillness of the woods dropped upon the room.
Venson, confronted in the witness-box with the man he had identified, glared at him in unfriendly mien. For a second he surveyed the other sullenly, and then, leaning forward, but lowering his body appreciably so that his own head came slightly under the head of the other, placed his hands gingerly and loosely on the throat of his opponent. “It was this way,” he said. “He was a step or two above me. He reached out to strike me in the face, and I tore at his collar.”
He held the posture
. The court and the audience gazed on in silence.
“You gazed upwards as you clinched?” asked Crosby.
Venson nodded.
“Show the court exactly how you looked upward.”
Venson demonstrated, his face gazing steadfastly into the face above him. It was plain that neither man liked the procedure.
“Was your thumb as close to the stickpin as you have it now?” asked Crosby curiously. “Please note the relative position of the two well, Mr. Venson.”
Venson surveyed both his thumb and the stickpin. “Might have been,” he said. “I don’t remember.” He loosed his grasp on his opponent’s neck.
Crosby nodded toward the witness-box and inclined his head back to the table. “That’s all, I guess, Mr. Chalmers. You can take your seat.” And within the fraction of a minute Venson was again alone in the box. Crosby leaned over and withdrawing the pin from the necktie of the man who had now returned to his side, held it in his hand as he talked to Venson.
“What points in particular about the defendant’s face, Mr. Venson, so impressed themselves upon your mind as you grappled that you were able to identify him in court here at both trials? Will you enumerate each and every one without omitting any.”
Venson stroked his chin.
“Well, in the first place,” he said at length, “the pin itself, if you want to consider that. There was the brilliant red stone surrounded by the circle of little green emeralds, which I understand was identified as Mr. Chalmers’ stickpin afterward. Then I could see, considering we was both under the gaslight, the white scar over his right eyebrow, gleaming like a piece of thread. And as he turned his head to throw me off, I could see that the lobe of his left ear — well, that it didn’t have any lobe like an ordinary ear. That — and the bright red hair — well, that’s about all.”
Crosby turned to the table. “Prisoner, rise.”
The man between him and Casey arose. Again that tense suffocating stillness covered the court-room.
“Mr. Venson, this stickpin which you just identified as being in the tie of the red-haired man with whom you grappled, and which you think I took from the court clerk over there, happens to be a pin which was made at four o’clock this morning at a jewellery store on Division Street. As you say, it’s a red stone surrounded by green brilliants.” Crosby held up his other hand which thus far had been clenched. “But here’s the one which was found in the gangway and which the clerk just handed me — a pearl surrounded by topazes set in silver. Now as to that scar over the left eyebrow and the missing lobe of the ear — well, Mr. Chalmers is marked in neither of those two ways. You have just identified a man who at the time of the murder was in the hospital. Mr. Venson, Mr. Ballmeier, and your honour, this man is Jordan Jones, an employee of the United States post office, a former member of the United States Marines, and sometimes known as Mr. Chalmers’ double. His auburn hair was made in a West Madison Street wig shop at dawn to-day.” And with these surprising words Crosby reached forward and snatched from the supposed defendant’s head a bright red wig, leaving a much embarrassed young man standing there with closely cropped coal-black hair, yet a remarkable picture of Archibald Chalmers in his face at least.
Crosby pointed his finger at the man Venson. His voice thundered now, thundered so loud that the man in the box cringed.
“Venson, I’ve got you. I’ve got you dead to rights at last. It’s been hard work, but I’ve got you, my man. It’s you, you vile perjurer, who have been the real liar in this entire case. You never grappled with any man at the foot of that staircase. It’s you who fired that shot — who killed Rupert van Slyke in cold blood — you with your cracked brain actuated by a hatred whose source no one in this room but the defence knows at this moment. No — wait — wait,” Crosby warned, holding up a hand as the man in the box half-rose to his feet, five white fingers clutching the rail, eyes staring forth in bewilderment. “I’m not done, my man. Don’t cast about in that brain of yours for a way out, because your opportunity’s gone — and there is none. You, Venson, will never know what led me last night to be practically certain that your story of the red-haired intruder must necessarily be a fairy tale; to send you that anonymous message — yes, Venson, I’m the author of that message which scared you into breaking your own story to-day by your too painstaking efforts to prove it true, and yet kept you from fleeing the town because you thought that detectives were watching you. Your story? It’s broken Venson, by a red wig, a spurious scarfpin and a facial double. Your alibi? Ah — broken also now, Venson; jerked out from under you. In a few minutes I’m going to put on the stand Andrew McTaggett, the switchboard man at the 32nd Precinct station, who will show by the records posted in the book there that on the night of the murder, on which McTaggett’s substitute was on duty at the switchboard, Noonan rang in his six, seven, eight, nine and ten o’clock calls not at six seven, eight, nine and ten, but at exactly twenty minutes to six, seven, eight, nine and ten! Noonan’s watch was fast that night, Venson, and if you left him by five minutes after ten by his timepiece, then when that shot was fired you were back in the house alone with van Slyke. But the motive? Heavens, Venson, how I gave you your chance to-day, to come clean about your morbid interest in pirates — and particularly Captain Kidd or his descendants. But you cunningly thought you were safe and took a fool’s refuge in denying all such morbid interest. No interest, eh? Then it would be of interest to you, Venson, to learn that since that last trial I have had genealogical investigations made of everybody who has had any business or social relations with Rupert van Slyke, sole descendant of Captain Kidd? I see it does, Venson. Those bulging eyes of yours show me it does. And so you must guess the truth that those investigations brought me only too easily back to your grandfather Rodney Pettigrew, a butler of Cincinnati, and in turn back through his mother Celia Hargreaves to her grandmother in Edinburgh, and thence as easily to Marley Quarlbush of Folkestone, England — the son of Captain Josiah Quarlbush. Ever hear of Captain Josiah Quarl — ah yes, Venson, you heard about him here to-day, didn’t you? The sea-going individual whom the State’s attorney spoke of as the gentleman with the pickled hand! At least, Venson, you were kind enough to admit that you had no living relatives. And right you were there. For you were the only living descendant yourself of the man who hated Captain Kidd as much as anybody ever did in this world. And you came down yourself from a poor and impoverished family that has never had a shilling, didn’t you? And so we’ve got the third angle of our triangle — the motive — a feud of the Indian Ocean carried ten generations down by a penniless, worthless descendant of a worthless family who always considered themselves as ruined by Captain Kidd, against the wealthy and affluent scion of Kidd himself. God knows, Venson, it’s a bizarre enough motive, but it’s made worse because you hid it — because you concealed it. And in the triangle of which that is but one corner, we’ve two other corners now to back it up. Don’t forget that! In fact before you leave this court-room, two detectives from police head-quarters will be here with a warrant charging you with murder in the first degree.” He turned to the two blue-coated attachés of the court-room, and his voice rose to an even more dramatic pitch than at any portion of his amazing presentation of facts. “Kelly, Rourke, arrest Edward Venson for murder as he steps down from that witness-box. The warrant is on its way.”
CHAPTER XXVI
ACROSS THE CENTURIES
THE man Venson who, even at the beginning of Crosby’s terrific arraignment, had half risen in the witness box, now, at the end of that denunciation, stood at his full height, his hand clutching his own coat lapel fiercely, his eyes bulging from his head as he stared at the two blue-coated attachés of the court-room who moved forward. His reply came forth almost in a scream of panic.
“It’s — it’s — a lie, damn you, it’s a lie. I — I — I didn’t kill him. I was with him when he was shot dead — yes. But I didn’t do it. You can’t — you can’t arrest me. I — I — ” He clawed wildly at his clothing, rippi
ng open both the coat and inner shirt. His claw-like fingers emerged carrying a soiled folded sheet of paper. He waved it wildly, steadying himself with his other hand on the rail of the box. “His letter — here’s his letter — in — in his own handwriting. It was on the table. That letter’ll prove that it wasn’t me. And — and I can prove the rest. I’m not a murderer. I never killed nobody. I — I only wanted the bonds — I knew the secret — I knew they were there — I wanted ‘em for myself — I was only waiting my time to buy the safe in — oh, God — I — I tell you I didn’t murder him. I’ll prove it. I’ll prove it all. I’ll — ”
“Just what is it you’re going to prove? “admonished Judge Lockhart, appearing very much staggered at the turn the trial had taken.
“I’ll prove who killed him,” the witness shouted, now in a veritable panic. “At least I’ll prove it wasn’t me. And that’s — that’s enough. Give me — give me a cold chisel — a hammer — ” He climbed down off the witness-chair. The bailiffs edged towards the swinging wooden gate of the court which hemmed in the principals in this strange trial, but the witness made no attempt to escape. Striding across the open space to where the big Chinese safe stood in front of the clerk’s desk, and panting a bit as though from a heart overtaxed by fear and shock, he pointed tremblingly to it. “Put it — put it — put it up on there,” he gestured clumsily with his right hand, “with — with the top pointing this way.”
The court-room had suddenly grown less light as the clouds outside became larger and obscured the sky for longer periods. At Venson’s queer command the clerk suddenly galvanized into action, with a glance at the judge, who nodded gravely, stepped out from behind his desk. Beckoning to three blue-coats, the four men lifted the giant safe and laid it on its right side across the very desk which it had fronted. Its top faced the court-room as Venson had directed. A bailiff appeared as by magic from the outer corridor.
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