THE PARK SLOPE MYSTERY
The proximity of his office to my studio enabled me to see LeDroit Conners almost daily, and I consequently soon came to be on terms of intimacy with this remarkable man. Yet it was a tragedy which touched my own little family that first cemented our association and made me, in the end, his companion in so many curious adventures. Upon the occasion to which I allude I had finished my morning bath and was standing before the mirror, razor in hand, when a cry from the dining room below startled me. It was followed by such confusion, that before I could collect my startled wits I had inflicted a sharp wound upon my cheek, yet, scarcely conscious of any pain, I ran to the head of the stairs to send down an answering call. Then, razor and all, with my features besmeared with blood and lather, I made my appearance in the breakfast room, where my wife, Jennie, stood with the morning paper in her grasp, and her mother, Mrs Barrister, with pallid face and staring eyes, sat rigid upon the sofa.
‘What is it?’ I asked, excitedly, dashing the razor among the breakfast things and going to Jennie’s side.
She thrust the paper into my hand, indicating an article under black headlines, and seated herself beside her mother. Stripped of its sensational introduction, which naturally ‘featured’ the chief events of the tragedy, the article read as follows:
‘One day last week a handsome woman, nearing middle age, appeared at the Park Slope Police Station, evidently for the purpose of making a complaint. Her face showed traces of tears, and her manner was that of one suffering from fright. Before she could make her wishes known to the sergeant in charge, an elderly gentleman came upon the scene. He arrived in a carriage which was driven hastily to the door, and as he entered and saw the woman an exclamation either of anger or apprehension escaped him. He was recognized by the sergeant as a prominent citizen of the vicinity, and was not interrupted when he drew the woman to one side and conversed with her in a low tone.
‘Mollified or reassured by what was said to her, she recovered her composure and consented to accompany the gentleman from the station. Her companion remained long enough to explain to the officer that the coming of the woman was a mistake, which she regretted, and that both desired no publicity about the matter. These persons were Dr Charles Haslam, an old and well-known resident of the Park Slope, and Mrs Martha Sands, his housekeeper. The significance of this visit will appear when it is learned that last night, at half-past nine o’clock, Dr Haslam shot the woman to death. The murder took place at the handsome residence of the doctor on Banning Street, a fashionable thoroughfare in Brooklyn’s most aristocratic neighbourhood.
‘The crime in its details was as gruesome as though committed by some ruffian in the slums, the head of the unfortunate woman being blown to pieces by a charge from a heavily loaded shotgun.
‘Immediately prior to the tragedy, officers Flynn and Davis were walking up Banning Street towards the Park, when they were startled by the explosion of a gun, evidently in the second story of the Haslam house. They were at that time directly in front of the entrance. Fearful of either an accident or worse, they ran up the steps to make inquiry. The answer to their ring was delayed, but finally Edward Gray, the butler, opened the door. Pale and frightened, in answer to their questions he informed them that he did not know the meaning of the noise; that Dr Jerome Sadler, an adopted son of Dr Haslam, had gone upstairs to investigate, and that he, Gray, had remained behind only to answer the call at the door. Mystified by the man’s demeanour, the officers entered the hall, and immediately encountered Dr Sadler coming down the main stairway, greatly agitated. In a shaking voice he told them that Dr Haslam had killed the housekeeper, the murder having taken place in the study on the second floor.
‘Proceeding at once to the room in which the tragedy occurred, the officers found the body of the unfortunate woman lying upon the floor, the head in a pool of blood. The face was shattered almost beyond recognition, and death must have been instantaneous. The weapon with which the crime had been committed was leaning against an angle of the mantel. All possibility of an accident was excluded by the high state of feeling which had for some time existed between Dr Haslam and the woman, and by the fact that Dr Sadler surprised the murderer standing beside the body of his victim, contemplating his work with malevolent satisfaction.
‘The stricken son, in the face of the early arrival of the officers, made no attempt to shield his erring parent. At the exclamation of horror which Dr Sadler uttered upon entering the room immediately following the crime, the murderer placed the weapon in the position in which it was found, coolly turned away, and, by descending the back stairway, made his escape from the house at the moment the officers entered from the street. A general alarm has been sent out for his apprehension, and he will doubtless be taken before morning. The police feel confident of this, as he was in his dressing-gown and slippers at the moment of departure, and had little time to effect a change of garments or make provision for flight.
‘Dr Haslam is a man of wealth and a physician of large practice. Of late he has been something of a recluse, his failing health having caused a partial abandonment of his professional duties, which were largely assumed by his adopted son. Little is known of the unfortunate woman. She was of unusual personal attraction, English, and, so far as known, had no relatives in this country.’
Here was the story, told with little elaboration, and I stood aghast and, for a moment, speechless. Dr Haslam was the brother of Mrs Barrister and the uncle of my wife.
We were somewhat familiar with his domestic affairs, although there was little cordiality between the fashionable house on Banning Street and my retired residence on Staten Island. The reason lay in Dr Jerome Sadler. A warm affection had existed between Mrs Barrister and her brother, but when Dr Haslam, in his rounds of the hospitals, at which he was a welcome demonstrator, found the young student whom he had taken so closely into his household and subsequently educated, a breach had occurred which had never healed. This, in part, grew out of the fact that the young man became a suitor for Jennie’s hand, and her preference for myself greatly disappointed her uncle. But the young man from the first was odious to Mrs Barrister, and Jennie shared the feelings of her mother.
Of Mrs Sands, the murdered woman, we knew little, and yet her presence in the home of Dr Haslam had been a matter of uneasiness. Neither Mrs Barrister nor Jennie had lost interest in their relative, and, with that feminine observance which is quick to note details, they suspected coming trouble – not trouble in the nature of the horrible event of which we had just been apprised, but in the possibility of an ill-advised marriage to be followed by the consequences of an old man’s folly. They fancied that Dr Sadler feared this, too, and their hope of seeing it averted lay in the fact of his natural opposition to such a union. They knew him to be selfish, suspected him to be base, and, although both detested him cordially, they held him in nothing like the apprehension with which they regarded the woman, whom Mrs Barrister did not hesitate to regard as an adventuress. Deep as was our grief, and firm as had been our confidence in the high character of the man to whom both Jennie and her mother bore the relationship of blood, we had no reason to doubt the facts as told so coolly in the columns of the morning paper.
Gathering my scattered wits together, I sought to calm the weeping women, thinking at the time, with some grimness, of how little there was to say. Mrs Barrister desired to go at once to the scene of the trouble, and Jennie clamoured to accompany her, but to this I would not consent; my wife’s presence could do no good.
Yielding, finally, to my wishes, Jennie helped to make her mother ready, and, oppressed by the gloom of our mission, we set out for Banning Street.
Something of the anticipated horror of our visit was kindly spared us. I had looked forward to a fearful inspection, of the body and a pathetic meeting between Mrs Barrister and her brother – doubtless he was now in custody and would be brought to the scene of his crime. I supposed there might be
some judicial proceedings in which we would be called upon to participate, and which must be necessarily trying for Jennie’s mother.
But upon our arrival we found the house quiet, with only a few curious figures lingering about the corners of the vicinity. Dr Sadler greeted us with a fishy clasp, striving to twist his cold countenance into an expression of sympathy; in the shadow of the tragedy he could afford to be polite. The servants stood about like statues, dazed by the event, and Dr Sadler himself ushered us into the parlour, from which the light was excluded by the closely drawn curtains. But our visit was to be free from any horror; the coroner had held an early inquest, and the body had been taken to the rooms of a neighbouring undertaker. Dr Haslam had not been found.
We met this statement with an exclamation of surprise, and Mrs Barrister sobbed her relief. Dr Sadler had a theory; he stated it in a colourless voice and with a demeanour which I sought to attribute to the influence of the horrible crime. The papers had spoken truly, he observed, when they said that Dr Haslam was unprepared for flight; and he could, of course, find no one to harbour him from the authorities. He had made his way to the river, so he believed, and the police would find him when the waters gave up their dead.
The conclusion was a natural one, although it added to Mrs Barrister’s grief. Vainly she sought the cause of such a tragedy in the life of such a man as her brother. What had happened so to change a nature that had been always kind? Was it true that the man had become infatuated with the unfortunate woman whom he had slain?
She plied young Sadler with questions, but he was dumb and stolid. He was as surprised, he said, as she was; he could not understand it; naturally, he shared her grief, and had not yet been able to consider the matter calmly; it was almost useless to find excuses in the light of the horrible facts; he did not know whether his adopted father had left a will, but he did know that there was no insurance; when he could bring himself to think upon the subject he would give these things his attention.
So he answered her, speaking with scarcely a trace of feeling; and, even in my own confusion, I regarded him with increased aversion. He was a hypocrite – but that mattered little.
In response to questions from me, he spoke with more directness. Mrs Sands had been an inmate of the house prior to his coming there; it was only recently that he had suspected an infatuation for her on the part of his adopted father. He had ventured on one occasion to mention the matter to Dr Haslam, but the suggestion had been received with indignation. He dared say no more, but mentioned the matter to the butler – the servants had observed nothing. The tragedy had fallen upon all like a thunderbolt.
Our visit was over. Dr Haslam had probably little need of the sympathy or affection of a sister. We returned to our home, and the two women sank under the sense of disgrace which they fancied the tragedy brought upon them. They held a portion of the stain of blood-guiltiness because of their nearness to the murderer, and although I strove to move them from such a feeling, my efforts were without avail. The gloom of the affair oppressed my own spirits in spite of my struggle to throw it off, and for days I remained closely at home, anxious to be near Jennie, who clung to me like a child frightened at the dark.
The papers dealt further with the Park Slope murder, as it came to be called, because of the prominence of Dr Haslam. Those who had known him best could not reconcile this frantic deed with any propensity of his past life; a man of scrupulous and Christian character, the crime of murder was the last of which they would have suspected him to be guilty. His disappearance also caused wonder, for no trace of him could be found. From the frightful moment when he had slipped into the night from his house, the gloom seemed to have swallowed him. The house and stable on Banning Street had both been searched with a thoroughness which satisfied the police that he had not lingered near his home. The lakes in the Park were dragged until no spot was left unexplored. In all the throngs that intervened between his dwelling and the river, or the sea, no eye could be found that had seen an elderly man, strangely garbed for the street, fleeing in gown and slippers from the scene of his crime.
The search of the police brought to light other facts as revealed by the papers, but scarcely essential in view of the known details of the murder and the motive. Dr Haslam had been ill during the week preceding the crime, and confined closely to his room, this indisposition following his visit to the police station in search of Mrs Sands. There had been high words between himself and his adopted son growing out of this trouble with the housekeeper; the servants had heard the discussion, and the young man admitted it with sorrow. Dr Haslam, under the influence of his passion, had been growing irritable. Certain improvements in the stable had necessitated the laying of a cement floor, and the teamsters, in hauling material into the yard, had broken down one of the concrete stone gate-posts at the side entrance. The doctor was furious, exhibiting unusual rage. He stormed about the premises until the servants were frightened, but under the entreaties of Dr Sadler he finally grew calm. The young man had promised to see personally to the reconstruction of the damaged post, and at once to order the making of a mould in which the great stone should be cast, with which to replace the broken member of the gate.
Strangely subdued, Dr Haslam had retired to his chamber, and there seemingly lost interest in the work which had before engrossed his attention. It progressed to completion, and, though he remained indifferent, he consented to accompany Mrs Sands and Dr Sadler to inspect it. Confined to his room for several days, they had been anxious to persuade him to take the air. The workmen had gone, but the coachman was present when the three entered the stable, and spoke with them. He also heard the old gentleman give directions to Dr Sadler as to the demolished post, the stone for which was ready. It lay upon the floor beside the cement barrels and concrete from which it had been fashioned, and with which the stable paving had been done. It was a circumstance that the coachman had absented himself for two days from that time, and the butler deposed that this was Dr Haslam’s last appearance to any member of the household except the murdered woman, until the moment his adopted son had come upon him, standing above the body of his victim.
Meantime, Dr Sadler announced the finding of a will among the papers in the study safe, which he had turned over to the family lawyer. No one doubted that the young man was the heir, but the question of the disposition of the property of the fugitive must wait upon the legal knowledge of his death. While his complete disappearance gave colour to the belief that he had made away with himself, the police were puzzled, and again searched every nook of his dwelling from attic to cellar.
Personally, I was resentful that Dr Sadler, an intruder as it seemed to me in a household where he had no moral right, should sit quietly in possession of property in which my people should have had a share. We had inherited the shame and the disgrace, and it seemed unfair that the law should deprive us of some portion of the worldly goods. Of this, Jennie and Mrs Barrister took no thought, but they continued in a state of such depression that I went with them for a trip South, remaining away for several weeks. The journey brought some of the colour back to Jennie’s cheeks, and in a measure benefited Mrs Barrister, so I returned with something of the gloom lifted from my spirits, and finally reappeared at my office.
After greeting Jeffries, and looking at the mail which had accumulated on my desk, I stepped along the hall and opened the door of Conners’s studio. An unfinished picture sat as usual on his easel, but he was not before it. The paintings, glowing in all the colours of his fancy, looked at me from the walls, and the raven poised above the bust of Poe seemed to extend to me a grim greeting. Alone, I found myself wondering at his fancy for the apostle of the pessimistic, and studying the countenance that he had given to the three pictures near the statue. They were three conceptions of the Chevalier Dupin, a character he much admired.
As I stood waiting he entered from his bedroom and came forward with a smile. His face expressed his welcome, but I k
new from his serious eyes that he understood my absence, and had thought of me with sympathy.
‘Back at last, my dear fellow?’ he cried, cheerily. ‘You have been missed, of course. I know the anxiety you have experienced, and should have sought you if you had been alone. But I could not intrude upon your family circle. As the trouble was mainly theirs, I let you bear it in their company. I endeavour to avoid women.’
I glanced again at his pictures, where sylph and siren, Venus in nature with Venus à la mode, showed every phase of beauty to the eye. He saw my gaze, and understood it.
‘These do not count,’ he smiled, as he waved his hand about him. ‘You recall the temptation of St Anthony? I hold discipline to be good for a man. These I may love – none other.’
I looked at him curiously, struck by the sudden gloom of his manner; but almost immediately his demeanour changed.
‘Where have you been?’ he inquired.
I told him, and, cheered by the sympathy which looked from his eyes, I spoke of the grief of my wife, and how deeply the matter of our trouble had affected Mrs Barrister. He listened in silence until I had finished.
‘I know it all,’ he said, finally. ‘I have the papers here; every detail has been noted, while the articles are arranged in order. I have studied the matter carefully, wondering how much you knew of it.’
‘I believe all is known,’ I replied, ‘except the fate of my wife’s unfortunate uncle.’
‘Sit down,’ he said, kindly, looking at me with eyes which now displayed another and deeper interest. ‘You cannot understand how strongly such matters appeal to me. It is a faculty with me almost to know the solution of a crime when the leading circumstances connected with it are revealed. I form my conclusion first, and, confident of its correctness, hunt for evidence to sustain it. I do this because I am never wrong. It is not magic, telepathy, nor any form of mental science; it is a moral consciousness of the meaning of related facts, impressed upon my mind with unerring certainty.’
American Sherlocks Page 15
