THE PROSECUTION AND THE PRISONER
The next day was Sunday, and I passed it in restless impatience over the enforced idleness, occupying myself as far as I could with the newspaper reports of the Coroner's hearing.
I found much to read, but little to please me in them. With few exceptions they accepted the police version of the case, treating Winters almost as a convicted criminal and praising unstintedly, in some cases fulsomely, the work of the Inspector's department.
It was only necessary to scan their columns to learn that:
Winters bore a bad reputation, and had long been known to the police; that:
It was one of the most brutal murders in the annals of crime; that:
"The assassin coolly scanned his sleeping prey"—with an illustration of Winters peering in the window at White asleep on the divan; that:
"The foul deed was perpetrated while the unconscious victim slept"—with illustration; that:
"The prisoner stood mute under the fearful accusation"—with illustration; that:
It would be the first execution by the new sheriff, etc.
The maxim of the law—"that each man shall be deemed innocent till proved guilty"—was entirely disregarded by these tribunes of the people. Like bloodhounds on the trail, they gave tongue to notes that incited all men to the chase, including those who were to sit as judges without prejudice on the life of the quarry: they assumed Winters guilty till proved innocent and the possibility of such a contingency they did not even suggest.
I finally pushed the papers away from me in angry protest and spent the remainder of the day in vain effort to forget the subject.
Early Monday morning I hurried to the office eager to resume my work on the case.
I found awaiting me there a member of a law firm who gave me the not very welcome news that White had made me the sole executor of his will, a copy of which he handed me. I made an appointment with him to submit it for probate, and he left me to its perusal.
A few minutes sufficed for this, as it was simple and brief. After the usual clause, providing for payment of his debts, etc., he left all the rest of his property unconditionally to his cousin, Henry Winters, and then followed the unusual explanation that he did so, "as a late and imperfect reparation of a wrong."
In reflecting over this statement, I recalled that it had occurred to me on several occasions when White seemed worried and anxious to make a confidant of me that he was possibly remorseful over the injustice he fancied had been done Winters by the unequal division of his father's property, but for such striking evidence of the feeling as this expression evinced, I was not prepared.
This phase of the matter was of short interest to me, however, when I considered how seriously the words might affect Winters's chances of acquittal. In an apparent confession by the victim of a wrong done to the accused was furnished the strong motive of revenge, and if knowledge of the contents of the will could be brought home to him, the additional incentive, to the crime, of a much larger gain than a few hundred dollars.
Little had poor Arthur thought when he made that will, honestly trying, I was sure, to repair what he felt to be an injustice, that its consequences might prove so fatal to the man he meant to help. I put the paper away with a sigh: it was no time for unavailing regrets, if Winters was innocent and was to be saved, action was needed.
I received a summons at this moment from the District Attorney and went to his office in response. I found closeted with him Inspector Dalton and Detective Miles. A consultation over the case, which had now become of chief concern to the office, was in progress.
"Dallas," the District Attorney said to me, "I have just been congratulating the Inspector upon the excellent work of his department in the White murder case. I have read the report of the evidence before the Coroner's jury and find it very complete and strong. The Inspector tells me," he continued, "that the case is practically ready for trial, as seems true, and he urges prompt procedure. I have, therefore, ordered the case sent to the Grand Jury to-morrow, and we must then bring it to trial without unnecessary delay. In cases as serious as this one," he concluded, "the public as well as the reputation of this office demand quick justice and I mean to make an example of it."
"Winters," I suggested, "should be allowed a reasonable time in which to engage counsel and make preparation for his defence."
"Preparation for his defence," he answered, "can only mean the manufacturing of one, for he is evidently guilty: and while of course he must have time to secure a lawyer, it is not worth while to afford him time to work up an alibi or other plausible lie. A fortnight, I think, will be more than enough for all his purposes and I will arrange for such date with the court."
It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him I was not entirely satisfied of Winters's guilt and would not be until at least all the missing money should be accounted for, but I remembered the deprecating indulgence with which he had received a similar suggestion about the ulster and refrained from commenting on it to him, I did, however, ask the Inspector how he accounted for the three missing bills.
He looked surprised at the question and a little taken aback, I thought, but replied confidently that White had most probably put them in the pocket of his ulster and left them with it at Belle Stanton's house.
"But," I said, "I did not understand from the testimony that they had been found there."
"No," he answered, "the housekeeper denied any knowledge of them when questioned on the subject, but that is hardly surprising and I think they will yet be traced to some inmate of that house."
"Well," said the District Attorney, "that seems reasonable enough, and I have no doubt will prove the case: and now, Dallas, if you will take hold of the case in conjunction with the police department and prepare it for trial, I will look after its early assignment and be ready to conduct the prosecution. You will of course assist me in it."
I said, "Of course," nothing else occurring to me at the moment, but I had grave misgivings regarding the duty.
I then suggested that I see Winters and warn him to be prepared. This was agreed upon, and the Inspector, Miles, and myself departed together, leaving the District Attorney to give his time to some one of a hundred other important matters that demanded his attention.
The Inspector parted from us outside; Miles, at my request, accompanying me on my visit to Winters at the Tombs.
I wanted Miles with me, because I wished to consult him about some features of the case that I considered important, and which were not yet clear to me, and I meant to discuss them with him as we proceeded. I had been impressed not only with the natural cleverness of this man, but also with his disposition to be fair, and I felt sure that if he had observed the details that I had overlooked, no matter what their bearing might be on the case, he would give me truthful and unreserved answers.
I had the incident of the ulster in mind and thought if it should appear, as I expected, that White had worn it home that night when he returned after going out as the officer testified that I would then have gone a long way toward creating a doubt of Winters's guilt. So much indeed seemed to depend upon the answers to my questions that I put them with some trepidation as to the results.
After consideration I concluded it was best to let the detective see what was my purpose, so I opened the conversation by calling his attention to the fact that in the event that White, by any chance and contrary to the accepted opinion, had worn the ulster upon his return to the house, then some one else than he must have taken it to Belle Stanton's. I saw at once that Miles had grasped the full purport of the suggestion, and that it was unnecessary to enlarge upon it, so I continued:
"It was raining and if White returned without any outer covering it should have been evident from the condition of his clothes. How about them?" I was watching the detective while I talked and saw that he was giving me close attention and had anticipated my question.
After a moment's thought, he said: "What you have been saying, Mr. Dallas, had occurred to me too and I did observe his clothes as I always do in such cases, and they showed no signs of exposure to the weather. In fact, I did not believe he had been out that night without some protection. Knowing, therefore, that though he had worn the ulster when he went out, he had apparently not worn it when he returned, I examined his umbrella, which stood near the door. This though unwrapped, suggesting recent use, was dry, but as it probably would have dried in the meanwhile in any case, I could draw no conclusions from the fact."
I interrupted him here to ask if White had had the umbrella with him when the night-officer saw him, and he said the officer reported that he had been in the act of raising an umbrella as he passed him.
After a pause, he continued: "I did not stop, however, with the examination of his clothing and umbrella, but looked at the light patent-leather shoes he had on. They were new and the soles not even soiled. They had not, I am sure, been worn on wet streets. Next I looked for and found his overshoes nearby the umbrella: they had evidently been worn in rough weather and had not since been cleaned, but they too were dry and so did not prove anything."
"But," I asked, "what bearing could that have on the question any way? He had certainly been out that night, for the officer saw him."
"Yes, the officer thought he saw him," he replied, "but officers are sometimes mistaken."
I saw his drift and also his oversight, as I thought.
"I am afraid you are off the track a bit, Miles," I said, "when you try to reason that the officer was mistaken and that White was not out that night. We have both for a moment overlooked a factor in the case that proves the contrary. Admitting," I continued, "that the officer might possibly have been mistaken as to the identity of the man he saw leave the house, he was not mistaken about the ulster for it was taken by some one to Belle Stanton's, but whoever wore the ulster also wore the cap that matched it for the officer saw that too, and as the cap was back in the room in the morning, the wearer of it must have returned."
Miles nodded his assent. "Such being the case," I concluded, "the wearer must have been White, because no one else, certainly not the murderer, would have returned to the scene."
"That is true," Miles admitted; "I had forgotten about the cap."
"That being so then," I said, "I also maintain that he wore not only the cap, but the ulster when he returned, and that the ulster must therefore have been taken to Belle Stanton's by some one else, and at a later hour."
The detective shook his head. "I hardly think you have satisfactorily established the last proposition," he said, "for he might have returned with the cap though without the ulster."
"Well, we will see who is right," I answered, for I was not willing to abandon my theory.
Nothing more was said, and during the remainder of our journey I was absorbed in the intricacies of the case, and I think Miles was similarly engaged, for he seemed in a deep study. I was glad to think it so, for I wanted to thoroughly engage his interest, as I had determined to make him an ally. I felt that I could not handle the matter alone, for while I was willing and able, as I thought, to reason out all the abstractions involved, I must have expert assistance in the detective work to furnish me the material of facts with which to really accomplish anything.
I had no hesitation in using Miles in this way, for while I realized that its end was to establish, if possible, the innocence of the accused, which was contrary to the usual attitude of a prosecuting officer, I, nevertheless, felt at that time and feel now that it is not the single duty of the prosecution to convict, but also, and even more importantly, its duty to see that each accused have every opportunity to prove his innocence and that there be no conviction if there be reasonable doubt of guilt. Sentiment has no place with the prosecution: charity should be dealt out with a sparing and discriminating hand, but justice should always be guarded, and above and before all, no innocent man should be convicted.
Upon arriving at the Tombs we were promptly admitted, and saw the superintendent, who at my request directed that Winters be brought from his cell to the private office for our interview with him.
While we waited, I confess to a feeling of some doubt and apprehension as to the result of the interview. I was inclined to think the man innocent, I hoped he was so, and the confirmation or disappointment of my hopes depended to a great extent upon his own statement of the case. Could he and would he explain the circumstances of his part in that night's tragedy consistently with his innocence, or would he establish his guilt by some palpable fabrication, or it might even be by a confession! I felt anything was possible.
We were kept waiting only a short while before one of the guards conducted Winters into our presence.
He showed the severe strain of his recent dissipation, and forty-eight hours of confinement: but he was sober and in the full possession of his senses, as his look of intelligent recognition when he saw me proved. His physically exhausted condition I did not altogether regret, for I felt it made it next to impossible for him to manufacture any plausible story in his defence or to successfully evade direct questions. I shook hands with him and introduced Miles in his proper capacity, and then, as he had dropped wearily into a chair, suspended my questions, intending to give him a moment to recover his strength. He anticipated me, however, by asking abruptly if I believed he had killed Arthur.
I made no direct answer, but replied evasively that I had come to see him to hear what he might have to say on the subject in case he felt disposed to talk.
He rested his head in his hands for a few minutes, apparently reflecting, and then said:
"I did not realize my position or understand the evidence against me until I read of it all in the papers." Then raising his head and looking at me, he continued in a despondent tone:
"I did not kill Arthur and I know nothing about his death, but everything those witnesses testified to concerning me was true just the same. I did go to his house that night, and I went there to try and get money from him. I had been drinking as usual and had no money, and I wanted it to drink and gamble with. Arthur had given me money before, when I asked him for it," he continued, "and I knew if I could find him, he would again. So I went to his house and seeing a light in his room, looked in the window to find out whether he was there and alone or not. I saw him asleep on the sofa—or perhaps he was dead then, I do not know." He stopped a moment to recover his breath, and then went on. "I was about to ring the bell when I saw a policeman observing me, and as it was late I thought I had better wait until he was gone and so went away. After awhile I returned again and started to enter the house when I saw something lying on the flagging in the vestibule. I picked it up, and finding it was a fifty-dollar bill, put it in my pocket and hurried back to the saloon where I had left my friend.
"The rest you know," he continued; "we went to Smith's gambling house, and there I lost the money, and then I went to my room and went to sleep. The next afternoon I read of the murder in the papers and went to Arthur's house, meaning to go in and see him, but I was so ill and nervous that I had not the courage to do it, and after staying around the place for awhile, where you saw me, I returned to my room."
He relapsed into silence and I thought he had finished what he had to say, but he had evidently only been trying to collect his thoughts, for he continued: "I cannot remember very well what I did from then until I was arrested and taken to the station house. I was too ill at the time to think much about it, and I had no idea that there was any belief that I had killed Arthur until the Inspector accused me of it, and I hardly realized it then." He stopped but neither Miles nor I said anything, wishing him to volunteer all he had to tell, and seeing our expectation he added: "That is all I know about it."
After he had finished he sat looking at me inquiringly, almost pleadingly, but I was silent, for I did not know what to say to him. I believed his story: it was simple and straightforward and told without hesitation, but I saw it afforded no satisfactory defence and when told at the trial under the strain and excitement of the ordeal, and apparently with the guidance and coaching of counsel at his elbow, would lose in great part its only strength—the stamp of unpremeditated truth.
What was I to say to this man who was pleading to me with his eyes for encouragement, for hope? I could give him none. Everything he had said but confirmed the testimony against him. His statement that he had found the money would seem puerile to a jury already convinced of his guilt, and what else but denial of the crime would they expect from the accused?
In my dilemma I looked to Miles in the hope of help, but his gaze was turned to the open window in seeming abstraction.
At last, unable to longer bear the strain of his pathetic silence, I yielded to the promptings of my feelings and putting my hand on his shoulder told him that I believed what he said and would help him if I could. The light of hope came into his face at once, and clasping my hand with both of his, he thanked me.
I had not the heart to discourage him at that moment in his new-found hope, though I felt there was little foundation for it, and so, to avoid further questions, asked him if he could suggest any lawyer whom he would like to engage to defend him. He thought a moment but shook his head.
"No," he said sadly, "I have neither friends nor money. How can I get a lawyer?"
"You have money," I told him, "though I don't know how much; for Arthur White has left you his sole heir."
"Arthur has left me his heir!" he repeated after me in a vague way and without any sign of emotion.
"Yes," I said, "and as I am the executor of his will, I will see that a good lawyer is retained for you."
He made no answer, and I added: "If you need anything, let me know and I will attend to it for you."
"I shall not need anything," he replied, "but won't you come and see me sometimes?—I am lonely."
I promised to do so, and feeling that nothing more could be done for him then, closed the melancholy interview by recalling the warden for his prisoner.
I shook hands with him upon leaving, and as I reached the door was glad to see Miles, as he followed me, do the same. Winters kept his eyes fastened on me alone, however, and they had in them a child's look of trust and dependence. Truly I had assumed a sad and heavy burden.
As the great doors and gates closed in turn behind us with a thud and thang and we stood in the bright sunshine once more and amid the busy throng of the streets, I drew a long breath of relief, but my heart ached for the lonely man behind those prison walls.
Neither Miles nor myself had much to say for awhile as we took our way back toward our own section, but finally I broke the silence by asking him how he was impressed with Winters's statement. He replied:
"It won't acquit him unsupported, but I think he told the truth."
"What are we to do about his case then," I asked. "Certainly you do not intend to continue your search for evidence against him?"
"No," he answered, "it is not necessary that I should do that. I will do what I can to get more information about the case generally, which, if he is innocent, can only help him."
"Then," I said, "I may depend upon your help in my work." He promised it, and I asked him to find out for me first, if possible, what had become of the missing bills.
He smiled a little before he answered. "I am afraid I can find them all too easily for your purposes"; and then added, "come with me now if you have the time and I will show you how we sometimes accomplish our ends by playing a bluff game."
"Where are you going," I asked. He replied, "To Belle Stanton's for the missing bills," and hailing an uptown car, boarded it, I getting on after him.
Indeed, I thought, if this man's expectations prove true and he traces the money to that house, our first service will have proved of a kind Winters could better have dispensed with. Perhaps we would be unsuccessful, though, and then on the other hand we would have accomplished something worth while.
When we reached our destination, Miles rang the bell and the door was opened by the landlady herself. She evidently recognized us and looked none too agreeably surprised, but asked us into the big bare parlor, quite politely.
I took a seat, but the detective, declining her invitation, turned to her very quickly, and said:
"Mrs. Bunce, we find there were three fifty-dollar bills in the pocket of Mr. White's ulster when it was left here the night of his death and we need them, so I came around to ask you to get them for us."
"Do you mean to say," she answered in an indignant tone, "that you think I took them?"
"No," he said, "I know of course that you did not, but they were taken, or possibly lost, out of the pocket somewhere in this house, and I want to find them."
"They were neither lost nor taken in this house," she answered shortly, and my hopes rose as I began to feel more confident that Miles was mistaken. The detective, however, showed no signs of discouragement, but continued in the same urbane tone:
"You think they were not, madam, I am sure; but we know they were. You have a maid-servant here," he went on; "please send for her."
"What for?" Mrs. Bunce asked with some symptoms of alarm, I thought. "Do you wish to question her?"
"No," Miles answered. "She took the bills and I must arrest her."
Mrs. Bunce hesitated for awhile and seemed uncertain of her course, but at last said:
"I don't want anybody arrested in my house—it will hurt its reputation, you know—and if you will wait I will see her about it myself."
"Very well, we will wait, but you must tell her to give up the bills, as otherwise we must arrest her. This is a very serious matter. You can say to her," he continued, "that if we get the bills there will be no more trouble about it."
The woman left us and was gone for about five minutes, during which Miles said to me that she would bring back the money with her. I was not so sure of it and said nothing, but when she returned she handed him three fifty-dollar bills, saying:
"You were right, she did have the money, the hussy; and here it is."
"Thank you," said Miles; "were they found in the pocket of the ulster, do you know?"
"Yes, the outside pocket," she answered.
Miles looked at her severely.
"Mrs. Bunce," he said, "if I were you I would admit I found the bills myself, otherwise it may be awkward for you when we have to put you and your servant on the stand to prove where they were found. This gentleman and myself will not say anything about this conversation and there will be no trouble if you simply tell the truth about it."
The woman broke down finally and began whining something about a poor woman not being allowed to keep what she found in her own house and what belonged to her by right, but Miles did not wait to listen but left the house, I following him.
Once alone with him again I could not restrain the expression of my disappointment.
"That was a very clever piece of work, indeed," I said, "but unfortunately does the case of Winters harm instead of good."
"How?" he asked.
"Why, the missing bills having now been accounted for," I answered, "there is nothing to show that any one else was on the scene that night or to furnish a motive for the crime, and so there remains no one but Winters to whom suspicion can attach."
"You don't look at it properly," he answered; "the most important thing incidental to the discovery of the money is the fact that its effect will be to substantiate Winters's statement."
I looked at him inquiringly, and seeing I did not comprehend, he explained.
"White evidently took all the money with him, carelessly stuffed in the outside pocket of his ulster, when he went out that night and he might easily have dropped one of the bills in the vestibule: such being the case, Winters's statement that he found it there becomes not only reasonable, but probable."
I saw the force of this at once, and was rejoiced at it: but at the same time I was more perplexed than ever by the situation it disclosed.
"If White," I asked, expressing my doubts to Miles, "took all the money out with him that night, as you say, what motive remains to explain the murder?"
"We have got to find a new motive," he answered, "and when we do find it, I am much mistaken if it does not disclose a deeper planned scheme and a cleverer hand than we have anticipated."
My interest was keenly aroused and I was ready at once to enter into the new aspect of the case, but Miles would not have it so.
"Wait till to-morrow, Mr. Dallas," he said; "you are tired, and had better seek some amusement this evening," and bidding me good-bye, he left me.
I recognized the virtue of his advice and acted on it, for after all enough had been done for one day.