by Rex Stout
“Call your next witness, Mr. Leg,” said Judge Manton sharply.
Luckily Mr. Leg had one—a Mr. Rafter, of the firm by whom Mount had been employed as bookkeeper. He was followed by two men who had known the prisoner in his earlier and happier days, and who testified to his good character and mild temper. At that point court was adjourned till tomorrow.
Mr. Leg missed his dinner that evening. Long after darkness had fallen and windows had begun to make their tens of thousands of little squares of light against the huge black forms of the skyscrapers, the lawyer sat in his office talking with Dan between patches of silence, trying to invent something that could be applied as a desperate last resort.
Jim Dickinson, chief of the best detective bureau in the city, whose men had been employed on the case for the past month, was called in by telephone, but he had nothing to suggest, and soon left them. The lawyer had told Dan of the failure of the prosecution to cross-examine Mount, observing bitterly that their case was so strong they could afford to appear compassionate.
Trinity’s chimes rang out for ten o’clock. Mr. Leg arose and put on his hat.
“Well, I guess we’re done for,” he observed. “We’ve only got two more witnesses, and they don’t amount to anything. Three hours for the summing-up; it will probably go to the jury by three o’clock tomorrow afternoon. It’s no use, Dan. You’re taking it too hard; it’s not your fault, my boy. See you in the morning. Good night.”
After his employer had gone, Dan sat motionless at his desk with his eyes on the telephone. He felt that it had betrayed him. Curious, how confident he had felt that the wire would bring him the word he awaited!
“Bum hunch,” he muttered.
The little black instrument was distasteful to his sight. He hated it. An impulse entered his mind to seize the thing, jerk it from its cord, and hurl it out of the window; an impulse so strong that he actually got up from his chair and walked over and sat down on the cot for fear he would give way to it. He sat there for some time. Finally he bent over and began unlacing his shoes preparatory to lying down. The knot was tight and he jerked angrily at the string.
As he did so the telephone bell rang.
He hastened to the desk, took up the telephone, placed the receiver to his ear, and said “Hello!”
“Hello!” came a female voice. “Is this Rector 11902?”
“Yes.”
“Wait a minute, please. This is long distance. Albany wants you.”
There was a moment’s wait, while Dan trembled with impatience. Then a man’s voice came:
“Hello! Is this Simon Leg’s office?”
“Yes,” Dan replied.
“The lawyer, Broadway, New York?”
“Yes.”
“This is the Royal Theater, No. 472 Jefferson Avenue, Albany. Four, seven, two Jefferson Avenue. I’ve got your man, Patrick Cummings.”—“Yes, I tell you, I’ve got him. He’s here—wait—wait a minute—I’m afraid he’ll beat it—”
The last words came faintly. There was a buzzing on the line, a series of clicks, and the wire sounded dead. Dan moved the receiver hook frantically up and down; finally he got a reply from the local operator, who informed him that Albany had rung off. Yes, she could get them again, probably in a quarter of an hour; would he please hang up his receiver?
He did so, but took it off again immediately and asked for Grand Central Station. From the information bureau he learned that there would be no train to Albany for two hours, and then a slow one. Dan grabbed up his hat and, without stopping even to turn out the light, dashed from the office. He ran all the way to the subway station, where he boarded an uptown express train. At Fourteenth Street he got off and rushed up the steps to the sidewalk three at a time, and started east at breakneck speed, knocking over pedestrians and leaping across the path of streetcars and automobiles. Two minutes later he appeared, breathless and trembling, before two men who were seated in the entrance of a garage near Third Avenue.
“The fastest car in the place!” he hurled at them. “Quick!”
He thrust a bunch of twenty-dollar bills under the nose of one of the men.
“Don’t look, get busy!” he commanded. “The fastest car you’ve got, and a chauffeur that can drive!”
Finally they were moved to action. Lights were turned on in the rear of the garage, a limousine was wheeled to one side, disclosing to view a big touring car, and a sleepy-looking young man, wearing a cap and drab uniform, appeared from somewhere.
“Here’s a hundred dollars!” cried Dan to one of the men, thrusting a roll of bills into his hand. “If that isn’t enough, I’ll pay the rest when I get back.”
He scrambled into the tonneau and the chauffeur mounted his seat in front. The powerful engine began to throb.
“Where to?” asked the chauffeur.
“Albany,” replied Dan as the car started forward. “And there’s a fifty-dollar bill in it if we get there by four o’clock!”
Chapter VII
The End
Mr. Simon Leg arrived at his office early the following morning. After reaching home the night before he had stayed up for four hours working on his address to the jury, though he felt it to be a hopeless task, and when he did go to bed, he slept fitfully. That was the explanation of his red eyes and general appearance of discomfort as he opened his office door.
He found Miss Venner with her hat and coat still on, gazing at the cot in the corner.
“Where’s Dan?” demanded Mr. Leg, stopping short after a glance around.
“I don’t know.” The stenographer turned a troubled countenance on him. “He wasn’t here when I came in.” She pointed to the cot. “The covers haven’t been disturbed. I guess he didn’t sleep here. And the electric fights were all turned on.”
The lawyer grunted. “Strange. I left him here late last night, and he intended to stay then. There’s no message anywhere?”
“No, sir; I looked.” Miss Venner appeared to hesitate, then continued: “You don’t think—he’s done anything, do you, Mr. Leg? He acted queer yesterday. I know he felt responsible, somehow, about Mr. Mount. I—I’m afraid, sir.”
Even Mr. Leg, who didn’t pretend to be a student of human nature, realized suddenly that the quiver in the stenographer’s voice and the expression in her eyes betokened more than ordinary concern. He crossed over and laid a fatherly hand on her shoulder.
“Don’t you worry, Miss Venner,” said he. “Nothing has happened to Dan and nothing is likely to happen. He’s fully able to take care of himself, and someone else into the bargain.”
And then, as Miss Venner caught the significance of his last words and began to flush indignantly, he speedily retreated into the other room.
He looked through the drawers of his desk, thinking Dan might have left a message there, but there was nothing. He glanced at his watch; it was 8:20, and court was to convene at nine.
“I suppose I ought to go over and have a talk with Mount first,” he thought as he sat down at his desk and began to stuff some papers into a portfolio. “Poor devil! Well, we’ve tried, anyway. I wonder where the deuce Dan can be? At that, I’ve got a pretty fair speech here, though I don’t suppose it will do any good. It isn’t possible Dan has gone somewhere after—but there’s no use trying to guess.”
A little later he departed for the courthouse, leaving Miss Venner alone in the office.
The door had no sooner closed behind him than the stenographer rushed to the telephone and asked for a number.
“Hello, Mrs. Culp?” she said presently. “This is Miss Venner, at the office.”—“Yes. I—that is, Mr. Leg wants to speak to Dan.”—“He isn’t there?”—“I didn’t know, only he went uptown some time ago, and I thought he might have gone home.”—“You haven’t seen him for four days?”—“Yes, I know he has been sleeping in the office.”—“Yes, it’s dreadful; I’m so glad it will be over today.”—“Yes. Thank you, Mrs. Culp.”
Slowly she got up and returned to her own desk, wher
e she sat gazing at the cot in the corner. “I wish Mr. Leg never had got a case,” she said aloud vehemently. She took out her embroidery and started to work on it. The minutes passed draggingly. She felt that an hour must have gone by when the sound of chimes entered at the open window. “Good Heavens, it’s only nine o’clock!” she thought.
She went to the window and stood for some time looking down into the street far below, then returned to her sewing. Suddenly she stopped and gazed in astonishment at what she had done, then threw the thing down on her desk with a gasp of irritation. She had embroidered two whole figures on the wrong side of the cloth.
“I don’t care!” she snapped. “I don’t see how I can expect myself—”
She was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone bell.
She sprang to the instrument. “Hello.”
“Hello,” came the response. “Is this you, Miss Venner?”
“Oh!” The light of joy that leaped into her eyes! “Oh, Dan, it’s you!”
“Yes.” It was indeed Dan’s voice, eager and rapid. “Has Mr. Leg gone to court yet?”
“Yes, half an hour ago. Where are you?”
“Yonkers. In an automobile. I’ve got Patrick Cummings.”
“No!”
“Yes, I have. Found him at Albany. I got a call at the office last night, and I certainly didn’t lose any time getting there. Made it in a little over four hours. A fellow named Saunders, manager of a moving picture theater, had him locked up in his office. Saunders was certainly out for that five thousand, and he deserves it. I would have been down there when court opened only we were held up near Peekskill for speeding. Fool policeman wouldn’t listen to reason.”
“But, Dan, have you really got that Cummings? The right one?”
“I sure have. Listen, Miss Venner, here’s what I want you to do. Go over to the courthouse as fast as you can—take a taxi—and tell Mr. Leg I’m coming. Tell him to hold things off—put some more witnesses on, do anything—till I get there. I’ll come as fast as the police let me.”
“All right, I’ll hurry. Oh, Dan, I’m so glad!”
“So am I. Good-by.”
Miss Venner hung up the receiver and sprang to her feet. Her eyes, dancing with excitement, and her flushed and joyous face were good to look at as she ran to the closet and took down her coat and hat. Of course, she had to examine herself in the mirror above the washbasin, but nevertheless she was out of the office and on the street in less than five minutes after Dan’s last words had come over the wire.
She found a taxi in front of Raoul’s and gave the driver the address of the courthouse. North, they crawled on Broadway; the crowds of hurrying people on the sidewalk, the noise of the traffic, and the May sunshine, all answered to Miss Venner’s mood and made her feel that she was a part, and not the least important, of this busy world. She leaned forward and spoke over the driver shoulder:
“I’m in a hurry, you know.”
He nodded and made a quick turn to the left to get around a slow-moving truck. Skillfully and swiftly he made his way through Broadway’s crowded traffic as far as Grand Street, where he turned east, and after that it was easier. Soon he drew up at the entrance of a large, gloomy building whose granite pillars had been blackened by time.
“Thank you, miss,” said he, touching his cap as his fare alighted and handed him a dollar bill.
Inside the courthouse, Miss Venner was forced to ask the way of a uniformed attendant, who obligingly accompanied her up two flights of stairs and down a long, dark corridor, finally halting before a pair of double swinging doors bearing the inscription in plain black letters: “General Sessions, Part VI.”
“There you are,” said the attendant.
She pushed the door open and entered. At first she was bewildered by the unexpected spaciousness of the room as well as the throng of people—men and women—seated on the benches and chairs; but finally she saw Mr. Leg. He was standing at one end of the attorneys’ table, listening to a reply to one of his questions from the witness in the chair, who was a young woman in a blue dress.
Miss Venner timidly made her way up the aisle, feeling two hundred eyes staring at her, and through the little swinging gate in front of the public benches. There she halted, hesitating, wondering what would happen to her if she dared interrupt Mr. Leg while he was examining a witness. Finally she sat down at the table, on which were lying some scattered sheets of paper, pulled a pencil from her hair, and scribbled a few lines.
She walked over and handed the paper to Mr. Leg. He took it with a glance of surprise at finding her there. He motioned her to a chair and she sat down, not ten feet from the prisoner. But she didn’t notice that, for she was busy watching Mr. Leg’s face as he read the slip of paper. It expressed doubt, stupefaction, incredulous joy; his face grew pale at the unexpectedness of it, and he stood looking at the paper, hardly believing his eyes.
“Go on with the witness, Mr. Leg,” came the voice of Judge Manton from the bench.
“Yes, your honor—I—what—” the lawyer stammered. “That is, I’m through with the witness, your honor.”
The prosecuting attorney bobbed up from his chair to say that he would not cross-examine, and sat down again. Mr. Leg hastened over to whisper to Miss Venner, pointing to the slip of paper:
“Is this true, is it possible?”
“Yes, sir,” she whispered back. “He just telephoned from Yonkers. I came right over—”
She was interrupted by the voice of Judge Manton:
“Call your next witness, Mr. Leg.”
He had just one left—a young woman who, like the preceding witness, had known Mrs. Mount during the time she had lived with her husband, and whose function it was to testify to the prisoner’s excellent character during that period and the unfailing tenderness and affection he had shown his wife, even when she had begun to neglect her home. Mr. Leg asked many questions; he made them as long as possible, and he drawled his words.
In the past two days he had learned something about the art of killing time, and though the testimony of this particular witness would ordinarily have occupied barely fifteen minutes, he succeeded in keeping her on the stand almost an hour. Finally he was forced to stop, and the witness was dismissed.
“Have you any more witnesses?” asked Judge Manton.
Mr. Leg hadn’t, but he did have an idea.
“I would like to recall Mount for a few questions, your honor.”
The judge nodded impatiently, and the prisoner was summoned to the witness chair. Mr. Leg began questioning him concerning the disappearance of his wife four years before. Then he switched to the night of the murder, and once more Mount told of his entry into the apartment house, of the man he saw in the hall, and of the finding of his wife’s body. This consumed some time, until finally an interruption came from Judge Manton:
“This has all been gone over before, Mr. Leg.”
“Yes, your honor, I—”
The lawyer stopped and turned. His ear caught the sound of the almost noiseless opening of the swinging door of the courtroom. Every eye in the room followed the direction of his gaze, and what they saw was the entrance of a little, gray-haired man with a scraggly mustache, followed by a twenty-year-old youth, who had a firm grip on the other’s arm.
Mr. Leg turned to address the court:
“I am through with the witness—”
Again he was interrupted, this time by a cry of amazement from the lips of the gray-haired man who had just entered. There was an instant commotion; the spectators rose to their feet and craned their necks to see the man who had uttered the cry, and who was now saying to the youth:
“You didn’t tell me—you didn’t tell me—”
The face of Judge Manton had turned pale with irritation at this disorder in his court. He rapped on the desk with his gavel and called out sharply:
“Order! Silence! Sit down!”
But by this time Mr. Leg had met Dan’s eyes and read their message of as
surance and triumph. He turned to the judge:
“Your honor, that man is my next witness. I apologize for the disturbance.” Again he turned to look at Dan.
“Patrick Cummings to the stand!”
The spectators sat down again, though whispers were still going back and forth over the room. The prosecuting attorney was leaning back in his chair with the amused and bored smile he had worn throughout the presentation of the defense. (It must be admitted that Mr. Leg had shown himself a fearful tyro.) William Mount was looking indifferently across the table at Miss Venner; as for her, she was gazing with bright eyes at Dan as he led Patrick Cummings up to the rail and turned him over to the court attendant, who conducted him to the witness chair.
Dan crossed over to Mr. Leg and murmured in his ear:
“Just get him started on his story. He’ll do the rest. I’ll prompt you if you need it.”
Then he took a chair at the lawyer’s elbow.
The witness gave his name to the clerk and was sworn in. His voice trembled, his hands were nervously gripping the arms of the chair, and his eyes were shifting constantly from side to side with an expression of fear. In answer to Mr. Leg’s first question, he said his name was Patrick Cummings, his address No. 311 Murray Street, Albany, and his occupation janitor, though he was not working at present.
“Did you ever work in New York City?” asked Mr. Leg.
“Yes, sir.”
“As janitor?”
“Yes, sir.”
“At what address?”
“No. 714 West One Hundred and Fifty-seventh Street.”
“When did you start work there?”
The witness thought a moment.
“I don’t know exactly; but it was sometime in July 1912.”
One of the jurors in the last row interrupted to say that the witness was not speaking loud enough for him to hear. Judge Manton, who had been gazing directly at Cummings ever since he took the chair, admonished him to speak louder.
“Where did you work before that?” continued Mr. Leg.
“In Philadelphia, sir. That was my first job in New York.”
“How long were you janitor at No. 714 West One Hundred and Fifty-seventh Street?”
