by Rex Stout
Soon after they came across a clearing at the roadside where even the scrub oak had not found sufficient soil for its tough roots; and Brillon turned the wheels to the left and stopped the motor with a sigh of relief.
“Come on, ’Tomo, break out the grub,” he directed, jumping down. “Here you go, Dora. Gad, I’m hungry! And I haven’t a nerve left in my body. What an infernal road!”
Beyond the clearing they found a grassy spot under some trees, and there Sanétomo carried the hamper and spread out its contents on a dazzling white cloth.
Brillon was in ill-humor, and Dora, badly shaken by the rough and dangerous journey, was enjoying a well-developed attack of nerves; also they were disappointed at being forced to give up the visit to Cotton Pass.
Naturally they took it out on Sanétomo. Nothing was right. Why hadn’t he brought Fantori instead of Megauvin? He should have known that Megauvin will not stand shaking. The bread was too dry; surely he ought to be able to wrap bread properly. And are these the best olives to be procured? Better, a thousand times better, no olives at all!
Sanétomo merely kept repeating: “I sorry,” without the slightest change of countenance, filling and refilling their glasses and plates.
“For Heaven’s sake don’t say that again!” cried Dora suddenly dropping her napkin. “You’ll drive me crazy!”
“Yes,” agreed Brillon; “keep still, ’Tomo.”
“I sorry,” said the Japanese gravely.
“ ’Tomo!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell him to go away,” said Dora crossly. “I wish you wouldn’t bring him along at all Harry. Creepy little yellow thing!”
“Oh, come now—” Brillon began to protest, but she interrupted him:
“Yes, he is! He gets on my nerves.”
“Dora!”
Brillon glanced at Sanétomo, who was gathering up the dishes and bottles without any indication that the conversation concerned him in the slightest degree; so he merely shrugged his shoulders and took another sandwich.
When the meal was finished they lay on the grass for half an hour, Brillon smoking cigarettes and Dora trying to rest, while Sanétomo repacked the hamper and strapped it in the car. Then Brillon rose to his feet, saying that they must make sure of reaching Steamboat Lake before nightfall or they might not reach it at all.
He helped Dora to the tonneau, then took the wheel with Sanétomo at his side.
There was barely room in the clearing to turn the car, and after a great deal of backing and starting Brillon managed to get its nose pointed south. With a sigh he settled to his task, cursing himself for having undertaken a road avoided by everyone else for its discomfort and danger.
As soon as Dora reached her seat in the tonneau she had settled back against the cushions and closed her eyes, as if to say: “Let it come if it’s going to!”
As for Sanétomo, he sat as always with his arms folded, looking straight ahead with stoical eyes, except now and then when he would turn them aside to follow the line of a distant purple peak or one nearer crowned with white.
They crawled along thus for two hours, occasionally speeding up a little as they entered a pass between two cliffs with the walls rising almost perpendicularly above their heads on either side; but for the most part barely going forward as they cautiously followed the narrow road, often no more than a path, coiling around the side of a mountain like a huge snake.
But at least they made better time than they had in the morning, when Brillon had been forced to reconnoiter on foot every mile or so to avoid getting caught in a cul de sac; and five o’clock found them within ten miles of Steamboat Lake, with the worst passed.
They began to liven up a little; Brillon chatted with Sanétomo, and Dora had opened her eyes to follow the wonderful changing colors of the sun on the snowcapped hills to the right. Then a great cliff obstructed her view, and she turned to the other side and looked into the valley far below; not ten feet from the wheels of the car a precipice yawned, its bank so straight that she could see only the jagged edge, with here and there a spot of green where a scrub oak clung stubbornly to the granite with its scanty foot of soil.
But ten feet was enough and to spare—many times that afternoon they had had a margin of only two or three—and the accident that befell them was directly and entirely the fault of Brillon himself.
The contributing cause was his desire for a smoke; and presumably it was overconfidence that induced him to reach in his own pockets for cigarette case and matches instead of getting Sanétomo to do it, as he had done before.
So it happened.
Even after the wheel struck a rock and turned he could have kept the road if he had only retained his presence of mind. But his nerves were already shaken by the trying journey, and his frantic pull at the steering wheel was in the wrong direction.
There was a startled oath, a flying leap, a cry of fright from the tonneau, and the next instant the car had flopped over and was rolling down the precipice.
No one could possibly have told afterward just how it happened, Dora least of all. She tried to jump, but was on the left side of the car and thus could not reach the road. She shut her eyes as the thing went over.
Then she felt blows all over her body and a fearful din in her ears, as something seemed to be pressing her mercilessly against the hard rock. Then she felt herself released, pawing at the air frantically, wildly, and her hands closed on something small and round that seemed to hold. She clung on desperately.
She opened her eyes and saw that she was hanging to a limb of a small scrub oak, suspended on the bank of the precipice. A frightful clatter came from below; it was the automobile rolling to destruction. She felt the branch bending dangerously with her weight.
She called in terror and agony:
“Harry! Harry! Harry!”
Immediately a frenzied voice came from above:
“Dora! Thank God!”
She looked up and saw her husband’s face peering over the edge of the precipice, ten feet away.
“Hold on, hold on!” he was shouting. “I’ll make a rope of something Just a minute, dearest! For God’s sake hold on!”
“Yes—” she shouted back, then stopped. She became suddenly aware of a form on her right, not five feet away.
It was Sanétomo, clinging to the same branch as herself!
She looked at the little yellow man dangling there beside her, and, while her arms were aching with the strain and her ears rang with her husband’s shouts of encouragement from above, an irresistible desire to laugh seized her. He looked so funny hanging there! There they were, like two vaudeville acrobats on a trapeze!
Suddenly Sanétomo’s eyes met hers. She felt the branch giving way as it bent under their weight. An ominous snap sounded. She felt herself going down, slowly down. Another snap!
“My God!” she cried in horror.
She heard Sanétomo’s calm voice:
“It break. We too heavy.”
She looked into his eyes as if fascinated. And as she looked there appeared in them a sudden flame of passion that seemed to leap out and scorch her.
It was all in an instant; it must have been, for the branch was cracking and snapping now under their hands. It was all in an instant, but the impression of those glowing eyes was imprinted on her brain forever.
Then Sanétomo’s voice came clearly:
“For the master—seppuku! Sayonara!” (“Suicide! Good-by!”)
Dora met a gleam of wild joy from his eyes; she saw his hands loosen their grasp, and his body dropped like a shot from her sight. She heard noises on the rocks below, and she grew so faint and sick at the sound that she nearly lost her own grip and followed Sanétomo in his fall to death.
But by that fall she was saved. The branch, relieved of half its load, held firm; it even sprang up a little. And two minutes later she was dragged to safety by a line made from strips of cloth from her husband’s coat.
It was eight o’clock when they reach
ed Steamboat Lake after a walk of nearly ten miles, tired, bruised, and sore.
The following morning Brillon took some men from the village and went to look for Sanétomo’s body. And when they found the mangled and shapeless heap at the foot of the precipice, the master gave his faithful servant the tribute of a few tears before they covered the little grave on the mountainside.
But he never learned how and why the little yellow man had saved the life of the one dearest to him: Dora Brillon never told. In the flame of Sanétomo’s eyes, in the greatness of his sacrifice, her dislike for him was burned up, and from its ashes rose an admiration that would not sully the memory of a hero.
For is he not a hero who at the cost of his own life gives back to one he loves the life of another—whom he hates?
Justice Ends at Home
Chapter One
The Plea
THE COURTROOM OF NEW YORK County General Sessions, Part VI, was unusually busy that April morning. The calling of the calendar occupied all of an hour, delayed as it was by arguments on postponements and various motions, with now and then a sound of raised voices as opposing attorneys entered into a wrangle that colored their logic with emotion.
Judge Fraser Manton cut off most of these disputes in the middle with a terse, final ruling on the point at issue. He seemed to have been made for the bench of justice. Rather youngish-looking for a judge of New York General Sessions, with bright, dark eyes and clear skin, he possessed nevertheless that air of natural authority and wisdom that sits so gracefully on some fortunate men.
Perched high above the others in the great leather chair on the dais, black-gowned and black-collared, his was easily the most handsome face in the room. He was liked and admired by lawyers for his cool, swift decisions and imperturbable impartiality; and he was even more popular off the bench than on, for he was a wealthy bachelor and somewhat of a good fellow. He was a prominent clubman, and came from a family of high social position.
The first business after the calling of the calendar was a batch of indictments sent over from the Grand Jury.
Three gunmen, accused of holding up a jewelry store on Sixth Avenue, entered a plea of not guilty; they were represented by a large, jovial individual who was known to be high in the councils of Tammany. Then the attorney of a little black-haired Italian who was alleged—as the newspapers say—to have planted a bomb in his neighbor’s hallway, asked permission to withhold his plea for twenty-four hours, which was granted. Two others followed—a druggist charged with illegal sales of heroin, and a weak-faced youth, whose employer had missed a thousand dollars from his safe. The clerk called out the next case, and a seedy-looking man was led to the bar by a sheriff’s deputy, while Arthur Thornton, assistant district attorney, arose from his seat at a nearby table.
The prisoner—the seedy-looking man—was about forty years of age, and his clothing seemed nearly as old, so worn and dirty was it. His face, shaven that morning in the Tombs, had the hollow and haggard appearance that is the result of continued misery and misfortune, and his gray eyes were filled with the heroic indifference of a man who knows he is doomed and cares very little about the matter.
He gave his pedigree to the clerk in a low, even voice: William Mount, no address, age thirty-eight, American born, occupation bookkeeper.
Judge Fraser Manton, who had been gazing with keen interest at the prisoner during the questioning, now cleared his throat.
“William Mount,” he said, “you have been charged before the grand jury with the murder of your wife, Mrs. Elaine Mount, known as Alice Reeves. Do you wish the indictment read?”
The prisoner looked up at the judge and the eyes of the two men met.
“No, sir; I don’t want to hear the indictment,” Mount replied.
“Very well. You are brought before me to enter a plea. You understand, this is not a trial, and you are not expected to say anything except a plea to the indictment. Are you guilty of the crime charged?”
A little light appeared in the prisoner’s eyes, but speedily died out as he replied simply:
“I didn’t do it, sir.”
“Then you plead not guilty?”
“Yes, sir.”
The judge turned to the clerk to instruct him to enter the plea, then his eyes went back to the prisoner.
“Are you represented by counsel? Have you a lawyer?”
The shadow of a scornful and bitter smile swept across Mount’s lips.
“No, sir,” he replied.
“Do you want one?”
“What if I did? I couldn’t pay a lawyer. I haven’t any money.”
“I suppose not. Just so.” The judge appeared to be examining the prisoner with attentive curiosity. “It’s my duty, Mount, in the case that a man charged with a capital crime is unable to retain counsel, to assign an attorney to his defense. The attorney will be paid by the State, also all legitimate and necessary expenses incurred by him up to a certain amount. The State takes this precaution to safeguard the lives and liberties of its children. I will assign counsel to your case this afternoon, and he will probably see you tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir,” replied the prisoner without a show of interest. It was evident that he expected little assistance from any lawyer.
Judge Manton beckoned to the clerk, who handed him a file to which two or three sheets of paper were attached. The judge looked over them thoughtfully, then turned to the assistant district attorney.
“I’ll set this case for May eighteenth, Mr. Thornton. Will that be all right?”
“Perfectly, your honor,” replied the prosecutor.
“Well. Mount, you will be tried on Tuesday, the eighteenth day of May. Your counsel will be notified to that effect. That’s all.”
As the prisoner was led from the courtroom his face wore exactly the same expression of resigned hopelessness that it had shown when he entered twenty minutes before.
Late that afternoon, in his chambers adjoining the courtroom, Judge Fraser Manton was enjoying a cigar and a chat with his friends, Hamilton Rogers, proprietor and editor of the Bulletin, and Richard Hammel, police commissioner, when his clerk approached with some letters and other documents to be signed.
“By the way,” observed the clerk as he blotted the signatures, “there will be another, sir. Who are you going to give the Mount case to? He must be notified.”
“Oh, yes,” replied the judge. “Why, I don’t know; let me see. I looked the list over this afternoon, and I thought of assigning it to Simon Leg.” He hesitated. “Yes, give it to Leg. L, E, G, Leg; you’ll find his address in the book.”
“What!” exclaimed Police Commissioner Hammel; “old Simmie Leg?”
The clerk had stopped short on his way out of the room, while an expression of surprise and amusement filled his eyes.
“Yes, sir,” he said finally as he turned to go. A minute later the click of his typewriter was heard through the open door.
Chapter II
The Attorney for the Defense
In a nicely furnished office, consisting of two rooms, on the eighteenth floor of one of New York’s highest buildings, situated on Broadway not far south of City Hall, a stenographer was talking to an office boy at nine o’clock in the morning. (Heavens! How many stenographers are there talking to office boys at nine o’clock in the morning?) This particular stenographer was, perhaps, a little prettier than the average, but otherwise she held strictly to type; whereas the office boy appeared to be really individual.
There was a light in his eyes and a form to his brow that spoke of intelligence, and he was genuinely, not superficially, neat in appearance. He was about twenty years of age, and his name was Dan Culp. As soon as the morning conversation with his coworker was finished, he took a heavy law volume down from a shelf and began reading in it.
The door opened and a man entered the office.
The office boy and the stenographer spoke together:
“Good morning, sir.”
“Good morning, Mr. Leg.�
�
The newcomer returned their greetings and hung his hat and spring overcoat in a closet. He was a middle-aged man of heavy build, with an elongated, sober-looking countenance, which formed an odd contrast with his pleasant, twinkling eyes.
“Any mail, Miss Venner?” he asked, turning.
“Yes, sir.”
He took the two letters which the stenographer handed him and passed into the other room. The office boy returned to his law volume. Miss Venner took a piece of embroidery from a drawer of her desk and started to work on it. From within came various small sounds as their employer opened his desk, pulled his chair back, and tore open his mail. Silence followed.
Presently his voice came:
“Dan!”
The office boy stuck a blotter in his book and went to the door of the other room.
“Yes, sir.”
“Come here.” Mr. Leg had wheeled himself about in his swivel chair and was gazing with an expression of puzzled astonishment at a typewritten letter in his hand. “Just come here, Dan, and look at this! Of all the—but just look at it!”
The youth’s face took on a sudden expression of eager interest as he read the letter through to the end.
“It’s a murder case, sir,” he said with animation.
“So I see. But why, in Heaven’s name, has it been assigned to me? Why should any case be assigned to me?”
The youth smiled. “It is surprising, sir.”
“Surprising! It’s outrageous! There’s no reason for it! A murderer! Why, I wouldn’t know how to talk to the fellow. They know very well I haven’t had a case for ten years. Dan, it’s an outrage!”
“Yes, sir.”
“I won’t take it.”
“No, sir.”
Mr. Leg got up from his chair with a gesture of indignation and walked to the window. Dan stood regarding him hesitatingly, with eagerness in his eyes, and’ finally inquired diffidently:
“Would that be ethical, Mr. Leg?”
