In which the world wags its callous tongue—In which dénouements thumb their noses at each other—In which Julien De Medici succumbs to a delicious madness—A Jesuitical policeman and an ambitious coroner flirt coyly with an Enigma.
There was an inquest. Newspaper headlines bombarded the mystery. The grateful press panted ecstatically on the trail of clews, conjectures, romances, and revelations. A crowd filled the street in front of the fashionable Park Avenue apartment building. They stood watching officials and the spotlighted figures of mystery enter.
The Ballau apartment itself was thronged with witnesses and friends of the dead man. Coroner Holbein had taken charge of the investigation and official gathering of evidence.
The famous Ballau library had been converted into a courtroom. The melodrama of the “Crucifix Mystery”—an identity provided by some of the papers—had a setting worthy of itself. Six men summoned at random to serve as a coroner’s jury sat nervously in the Renaissance chairs that had been lined up in front of the fireplace. Coroner Holbein had taken his position behind a work-table introduced from another portion of the house. At his right side sat Lieutenant Norton and Dr. Greer.
In front of the coroner stretched an assortment of chairs occupied by friends of the dead man. The newspaper men, expectant of revelations, bristled nervously about the officials.
Coroner Holbein opened the inquest with a brief address to the jury. He was an oracular man. It was his habit, when speaking in the presence of the press, to indulge in rotund medico-legal sentences. The six blinking jurymen listened with an air of ponderous sagacity. Neither they nor the coroner seemed definitely aware of what was being said.
“It is for you gentlemen to determine whether Victor Ballau has been the victim of a foul and dastardly crime, by which I mean whether he was sought out in the sanctity of his home and assassinated by some man or woman unknown, or whether for reasons yet unknown, but which we hope this inquiry will uncover, Victor Ballau ended his own life. The case, as you no doubt have read, gentlemen, presents many baffling aspects. After you have listened to the testimony given by the various witnesses the city of New York has subpœnaed for this occasion, it will then be your duty as citizens to return a verdict determining who it was, if you have been able to discover from the evidence, that was guilty of this foul and dastardly crime, or a verdict determining whether or not Victor Ballau, for reasons which may be unfolded here, killed himself.”
Coroner Holbein, reddened by his effort, came to an end of his pompous admonition with a flourish of his gavel. Despite his unhappy oratorical obsession he was a man of shrewd perceptions. In a business-like voice he summoned his stenographer and announced to the room that the inquest would now proceed.
“Will you take the stand, Dr. Greer?” he said.
Dr. Greer arose and seated himself in the chair facing the coroner which had been provided for the witnesses. In answer to a few brief questions he described in medical language the cause of death, concluding with the words: