The Mark of Cain

CHAPTER IV

THE INQUEST BEGINS

As Avice entered the drawing-room, she seemed to sense only a blur of faces. It was incredible that this should be the room where she had so often laughed and danced and sung in thoughtless joyousness of spirit. She blindly followed Judge Hoyt, and sat where he bade her, quite near the coroner and his jury.

The jurymen, though solemnly attentive to their duty, could not help their roving gaze being attracted to the splendor of their surroundings. The Trowbridge home was the perfection of quiet, old-fashioned elegance. Often Avice had wanted to introduce more modern furniture and decorations, but Mr. Trowbridge had firmly denied her requests. And so the old crystal chandeliers still drooped their festooned prisms and the massive doors were still of a soft, lusterless black, with fine gilt outlines of panelling.

Mrs. Black, too, often sighed for modern bric-a-brac and fashionable window draperies, but the will of the master was law, and the quaint Sevres vases and heavy hangings remained untouched.

Coroner Berg fairly fluttered with importance. Only lately had he been appointed to his office, and he assumed a knowing air to hide his lack of experience. He was naturally acute and shrewd, but his mind just now was occupied more with the manner than the matter of his procedure. He had studied well his book of rules, and it was with great dignity that he called for the police report on the case.

The testimony of the chief of police and the police surgeon set forth the principal known facts, which were, however, lamentably few. Even the coroner’s intelligent questions failed to bring out more than the story of the telephone message, the account of the finding of the body and the nature of the crime.

“Do you assume the assailant to have been right-handed?” Berg asked of the surgeon.

“Apparently, yes. But not necessarily so. The blade penetrated the victim’s left breast, and was most likely dealt by a person standing directly facing him.”

“Was the thrust directed with an upward slant or downward?”

“Neither. It was just about level. It slanted, however, toward the middle of the body, from the left side, thus practically proving a right-handed use of the weapon.”

“Was death instantaneous?”

“Probably not. But it must have occurred very shortly after the blow.”

Doctor Fulton, the family physician, corroborated the report of the police surgeon in all its essentials.

“Was Mr. Trowbridge in general good health, so far as you know?” asked the coroner.

“Absolutely. He was strong, hale and hearty, always. I have known him for years, and he was never seriously ill.”

“And strong?”

“Of average strength.”

“Would you not judge then, he could have resisted this attack?”

“Undoubtedly he tried to do so. There is some indication of a muscular struggle. But the assumption must be that the assailant was a stronger man than the victim.”

“How do you explain his contorted features, even in death?”

“By the fact that he was surprised and overpowered, and his dying struggles were so desperate as to leave their mark.”

“You do not attribute the expression on the dead face to any terrific mental emotion at the moment of death?”

“It may be so. Indeed, it may be the result of both mental and physical agony.”

“The point is important,” said the coroner, with an impressive wave of his hand. “For if mental, it might mean that the man who attacked him was known to him; while merely physical horror would imply a robber or thug.”

The jurymen wagged their heads wisely at this sapient remark, as if it opened up a new field of conjecture.

Avice was questioned next.

She was a little startled at the suddenness of the call, but responded clearly and with an entirely collected manner to all queries.

“You are Mr. Trowbridge’s niece?”

“Yes, the daughter of his younger brother.”

“You make your home here?”

“Yes.”

“How long have you done so?”

“Since childhood. My parents died before I was ten years old.”

“And you are your uncle’s heiress?”

Judge Hoyt looked a little annoyed at the baldness of this question, but Avice replied, serenely, “To the extent of part of his fortune.”

“Can you tell me any details of the last day of your uncle’s life?”

“Very few. He left home in the morning to go to his business office quite as usual. He generally returns about five o’clock. When he did not arrive at that time, I felt anxious, and later, called Judge Hoyt on the telephone to ask if he had seen or heard of my uncle.”

“Why did you call Judge Hoyt?”

“He was not only my uncle’s lawyer, but his personal friend. They had business to transact at times, and I thought my uncle might possibly have gone to see him. When I learned that Judge Hoyt knew nothing of my uncle’s whereabouts, I asked him to come here, as I felt decidedly uneasy and wanted some one to confer with in whom I felt confidence.”

“Had Mr. Trowbridge manifested any unusual tendencies or habits of late?”

“None whatever. He has been well, happy and quite as usual in every way.”

“Can you form any opinion or have you any suspicion as to who might have committed this crime?”

“Absolutely none. But I have an unflinching determination to find out, at any expense of time, labor or money!”

The girl’s voice rang out in a high, sharp tone, and she clenched her slender hands until the knuckles showed through the white skin.

“We all have that determination, Miss Trowbridge,” said the coroner, a little stiffly, and after a few unimportant questions, Avice was dismissed.

Mrs. Black was called next. This time it was a case of diamond cut diamond. If the coroner was self-important, he was no more so than his witness. If he spoke with pomposity she answered with disdain, and if he was dictatorial she was arrogant.

“You are housekeeper here?” Berg began.

“That is my position, but I was also the fiancée of the late Mr. Trowbridge and should have been his wife next month, had he lived so long.”

“Confine your answers, please, to the questions asked.”

“Your question required two statements in reply.”

“You are a beneficiary under the will of Mr. Trowbridge?”

“I have not yet heard the will read.”

“Do you not know?”

“I know only what Mr. Trowbridge himself told me.”

“And that was?”

“That I should inherit a handsome sum, in addition to this house and its contents.”

“In the event of your being his wife?”

“In the event of his death.”

“Do you know anything further than we have heard of Mr. Trowbridge’s movements on the day that he met his death?”

“I do, – a little.” Eleanor Black bridled and smiled sadly. The jurymen gazed in involuntary admiration, for the features of the beautiful brunette took on an added charm from that slight smile.

“What is it?”

“He telephoned to me about two o’clock, saying he would be home early and we would go out for a little motor ride. He was very fond of motoring, – with me.”

The last two words were added in a lower tone that implied a most romantic attachment between these two.

“He intended to leave his office shortly after noon, then?”

“Possibly it was a little later than two that he called me up. I don’t remember exactly. But he said he would be home by three or four.”

“And when he did not appear were you not alarmed?”

“No, Mr. Trowbridge was so apt to have unexpected business matters turn up, that I merely supposed that was the case, and thought nothing strange of it. Nor was I surprised when he did not appear at six. I felt sure, then, that some important development in his affairs had kept him down town so late.”

“Miss Trowbridge was greatly alarmed?”

“Yes.”

The superb indifference of Eleanor Black’s manner showed clearly that it was a matter of no moment to her if another had been anxious.

“Have you any suspicion as to who could have done this thing?”

The great black eyes of the witness turned slowly toward the coroner. At the remark about Avice she had looked carelessly in another direction.

“I think not,” she said.

“Are you not sure?”

“What do you mean by suspicion?”

“Do you know of anybody who might have killed Mr. Trowbridge?”

“That’s no question!” Her scorn was marked. “Hundreds of people might have killed him.”

“Do you know of any one, then, who you think would be likely to have done so?”

“Likely to? Goodness, no.”

“Who possibly did do so, then?”

“Possibly?”

“Yes, possibly. Is there any one whom you can definitely consider a possible suspect?”

“No; I don’t know of any one.”

The widow was a most provoking witness. She gave an impression of holding something back, yet her face wore an ingenuous expression and she pouted a little, as if unfairly addressed.

“You were at home all day yesterday?” the coroner went on.

“Yes, I expected Mr. Trowbridge, so of course I did not go out.”

“Why, Eleanor,” exclaimed Avice, impulsively, “you went out for an hour soon after luncheon. Don’t you know, I gave you a letter to post?”

“Oh, yes, I forgot that,” and Mrs. Black looked a trifle confused. “I was sure Mr. Trowbridge wouldn’t get here before three, so I ran out for a few moments.”

“Where did you go?”

“Oh, nowhere in particular. I only went to get a little air. Just walking around the adjacent blocks.” She spoke lightly, but her heightened color and quickened breathing betokened an embarrassment which she strove not to show, and, too, she cast a glance at Avice that was anything but friendly.

The coroner seemed unable to think of anything else to ask the witness. He looked at her thoughtfully, and she returned his glance coolly, but he questioned her no further just then.

The butler came next, and his testimony was garbled and incoherent. His emotion frequently overcame him, and he was unable to speak.

At last Judge Hoyt spoke rather sharply to him.

“Brace up, Stryker,” he said. “If you can do a good turn for a master who was always kind to you, don’t spoil your chance by acting like a baby. If your betters can control themselves, surely you can.”

With an effort Stryker stopped shuffling about and a few more sniffs ended his emotional outburst.

“I’m sixty years old,” he said, apologetically, and, apparently, to all present, “and I’ve been in this same employ for fifteen years. It’s natural as to how I should feel bad, ain’t it, now, Mr. Coroner?”

“Yes, my man, but it’s also natural that you should try to control your grief. As Judge Hoyt says, you may render assistance to your late master by your testimony. Now, tell us all you know of Mr. Trowbridge’s callers of late, or any little thing that might come to your notice as a butler. Sometimes you servants have opportunities of observation not known upstairs.”

“That we have, sir,” and Stryker nodded his head thoughtfully. “Yes, that we have. But I know nothing, sir, nothing at all, as has a bearing on the death of the master, – no, sir, not anything.”

“‘Methinks the fellow doth protest too much,’” Pinckney murmured to himself. The reporter sat, with sharpened pencils, but so far he felt he had not much to work on in the way of clues. As to getting a story for his paper, he was more than satisfied. The elements of the fashionable household, a divided interest between the two women, the mysterious death of the millionaire, and now, the uncertain evidence of the old butler, all these would give him enough for a front page spread. But Pinckney wanted more than that. He wanted food for his detective instinct. He wanted clues and evidence of a tangible nature, or at least of an indicative trend. And he had found little so far. Still, he had found some, and he had tucked away in his mind several speeches and looks, that, though not emphasized by the coroner, seemed to him to point somewhere, even if he had no idea where.

Further questions brought nothing definite from Stryker, and he was succeeded by two of the maids. These frightened creatures were even less communicative, and it was with a sigh of relief that Coroner Berg gave up all attempt to learn anything from the household, and called on Judge Hoyt, feeling sure that now he would, at least, get intelligent testimony.

The Judge was too well known to be questioned as to his identity and the coroner proceeded to ask concerning his relations with the deceased.

“Lifelong friends, almost,” replied Hoyt. “We were at college together and have been more or less associated ever since. Unfortunately, I was out of town yesterday, or I might know more of Mr. Trowbridge’s movements. For I had expected to see him at his office, but was prevented by an unexpected call to Philadelphia. I wrote to Mr. Trowbridge that I could not see him until evening, and as the Philadelphia matter was connected with his business, I telegraphed from there that I would call at his house last evening, and give him my report.”

“And then Miss Trowbridge telephoned you?” observed the coroner, who had heard this before.

“Yes, and I came right up here, and was here when the police telephoned of their discovery.”

“Then as you can tell us nothing of yesterday’s events, can you throw any light on the case by anything you know of Mr. Trowbridge’s affairs in general? Had he any enemies, or any quarrel of importance?”

“No, I am sure he had no quarrel with any one who would go so far as to kill him. It seems to me it must have been the work of some of those Camorra societies.”

“Why would they attack him?”

“Only for purposes of robbery, I should say. But the dagger implies or may imply an Italian, for American citizens do not go around with such weapons.”

“That is true. And there may have been robbery of some valuables that we do not know of. But do you think, Judge Hoyt, that the Camorra is such a desperate menace? Are not fears of it exaggerated and unfounded?”

“There is a great deal of the real thing, Mr. Berg. When you consider that there are a million and a half Italians in America and six hundred thousand of them are in New York City, it is not surprising that many of their secret societies are represented here. Therefore, it seems to me, that circumstances point to a crime of this sort, whether for robbery or whether at the hire of some superior criminal.”

“It is certainly possible that if Mr. Trowbridge was desired dead by some enemy in his own rank of life, the actual deed might have been committed by a hired crook, whether of an Italian society or of a New York gang. And the fact of the information first coming from an Italian woman, gives plausibility to the foreign theory.”

“It may be, and if so, it may prove a very difficult matter to discover the truth.”

“You are right, Judge, and so far we have but the slightest shreds of evidence to work on. The articles found in the pockets of Mr. Trowbridge give absolutely no clues toward detection.”

At this, Pinckney pricked up his ears. Surely there must be a hint here, if one were but bright enough to see it.

CHAPTER V

THE SWEDE

All the others present, as well as the young reporter, looked on with eager interest as the contents of the pockets were exhibited.

There were a great many articles, but all were just what might be looked for in the pockets of a well-to-do business man.

Several letters, cards, memoranda and telegrams. The usual knife, bunch of keys, pencil, watch and money. Also a small pair of folding scissors and a couple of handkerchiefs.

In a gold locket was a portrait of Mrs. Black, but there was no other jewelry.

“Perhaps some jewelry was taken,” suggested a juryman, but both Avice and Mrs. Black were sure that Mr. Trowbridge had on none.

He was wearing a bow tie, and a soft shirt with its own buttons, the report informed them, so there was no occasion for studs or pin.

The letters were read, as of possible interest. There were two or three bills for personal matters. There was the letter Judge Hoyt himself had told of sending to announce his trip to Philadelphia. There was also a telegram from the Judge in Philadelphia saying,

Peddie agrees. Everything O. K. See you tonight.

All of these roused little or no interest. Judge Hoyt explained that Peddie was the man with whom he was making a deal with a real estate corporation for Mr. Trowbridge, and that the matter had been successfully put through to a conclusion.

But next was shown a letter so old that it was in worn creases and fairly dropping apart. It had evidently been carried in the pocket for years. Gingerly unfolding it, Coroner Berg read a note from Professor Meredith that was angry, even vituperative. The bone of contention was the classification of a certain kind of beetle, and the letter implied that Mr. Trowbridge was ignorant and stubborn in his opinions and his method of expressing them. There was no threat of any sort, merely a scathing diatribe of less than a page in length. But it was quite evident that it had hurt Rowland Trowbridge severely, as its date proved that he had carried it around for two years.

And there was another old letter. This was from Justice Greer and was a blast on some old political matter. Here again, a strong enmity was shown, but nothing that could be construed as an intimation of revenge or even retaliation.

Still there were the two letters from decided enemies, and they must be looked into.

Avice, in her own heart, was sure they meant nothing serious. Her uncle had held these two grudges a long time, but she didn’t think any recent or desperate matter had ensued.

Some newspaper clippings, most of them concerning Natural History, and a few elaborate recipes for cooking, completed the collection found in the pockets.

“Nothing in the least indicative, unless it might be those two old letters,” commented the coroner.

Pinckney was disappointed. He had hoped for some clue that he could trace. Like Avice, he thought little of the old letters. Those two eminent citizens were most unlikely to murder a colleague, or even to employ a rogue to do it for them. To his mind, there was nothing enlightening in all the inquest so far. Indeed, he had almost no use for the Black Hand theory. It didn’t seem convincing to him. He thought something would yet come out to give them a direction in which to look, or else the truth would never be discovered.

And then there was a commotion in the hall, and an officer came in bringing with him a big, husky-looking Swede, and a pale blue-eyed little woman.

“This is Clem Sandstrom,” the officer informed the coroner. “And this is his wife. You can get their stories best from them.”

The big foreigner was very ill at ease. He shuffled about, and when told where to sit, he dropped into the chair with his stolid countenance expressing an awed fear.

The woman was more composed, but seemed overwhelmed at the unaccustomed splendor of her surroundings. She gazed at the pictures and statues with round, wide eyes, and glanced timidly at Avice, as if the girl might resent her presence there.

“What is your name?” asked Berg of the big Swede.

“Clem Sandstrom, Ay bane a Swede, but Ay bane by America already two years.”

“Where do you live and what do you do?”

“Ay live up in the Bronnix, and Ay work at the digging.”

“Digging? Where?”

“Any digging Ay can get. Ay bane good digger.”

“Well, never mind the quality of your digging. What do you know of this murder of Mr. Trowbridge?”

“Last night, Ay bane goon home, through Van Coortlandt Park wood, and Ay heerd a man groan like he was dying. Ay went to him, and Ay lift his head, but he was nigh about gone then. Ay try to hold up his head, but it drop back and he say, a few words and he fall back dead.”

“How did you know he was dead?”

“Ay felt his heart to beat, and it was all still. Ay saw the blood on his clothes, and Ay know he bane stob. Ay think Italian Black Hander did it.”

“And what did you do then?”

“Ay run away to my home. To my wife. Ay bane afraid the police think Ay did it.”

“Did you see the police there?”

“Yes. Ay bane wait behind the bushes till they coom. Ay bane afraid of everything.”

“Oh, after the man died, you waited around there till the police came?”

“Yes. Ay thought Ay must do that. Then Ay saw all the police and the dead wagon, and Ay waited more till they took the man away. Then Ay ran fast to my home.”

“What did you take from the body?” Coroner Berg spoke sternly and the already frightened man trembled in his chair.

“Ay take nothing. Ay would not rob a corp. Nay, that I wouldn’t.”

“And you took nothing away from the place?”

The Swede hesitated. He glanced at his wife, and like an accusing Nemesis, she nodded her head it him.

“Tell the truth, Clem,” she cried shrilly. “Tell about the strange bottle.”

“A bottle?” asked the coroner.

“Yes, but it was of no use,” Sandstrom spoke sulkily now. “It was an old milk bottle.”

“A milk bottle? Then it had nothing to do with the crime.”

“That’s what Ay think. But the wife says to tell. The milk bottle, a pint one, was much buried in the ground.”

“How did it get in so deeply? Was it put there purposely?”

“Ay tank so. It had in it – ” The man made a wry face, as at a recollection.

“Well, what?”

“Ay don’t know. But it smelled something very very bad. And molasses too.”

“Molasses in it?”

“Yes, a little down in the bottom of the bottle. Such a queer doings!”

“Have you the bottle?”

“At my home, yes. The wife make me empty the bad stuff out.”

“Why?” and Berg turned to the Swedish woman.

“I think it a poison. I think the bad man kill the good man with a poison.”

“Well, I don’t think so. I think you two people trumped up this bottle business yourselves. It’s too ridiculous to be real evidence.”

The jurymen were perplexed. If these Swedes were implicated in the murder, surely they would not come and give themselves up to justice voluntarily. Yet, some reasoned that if they were afraid of the police, they might think it better to come voluntarily than to seem to hide their connection with it. It is difficult to tell the workings of the uncultured foreign intellect, and at any rate the story must be investigated, and the Swedes kept watch of.

Under the coroner’s scrutiny, Sandstrom became more restless than ever. He shuffled his big feet about and his countenance worked as if in agony. The woman watched him with solicitude. Apparently, her one thought was to have him say the right thing.

Once she went over and whispered to him, but he only shook his head.

“Why did you kill the man?” the coroner suddenly shot at the witness as if to trip him.

Sandstrom looked at him stolidly. “Ay didn’t kill him. Ay bane got na goon.”

“He wasn’t shot, he was stabbed.”

“Ay bane got na knife. And Ay na kill him. Ay heerd his dyin’ words.” The Swede looked solemn.

“What were they?” asked the coroner, in the midst of a sudden silence.

“He said, ‘Ay bane murdered! Cain killt me! Wilful murder!’ and wi’ them words he deed.”

The simple narrative in the faulty English was dramatic and convincing. The countenance of the stolid foreigner was sad, and it might well be that he was telling the truth as he had seen and heard it.

Like an anti-climax, then, came an explosive “Gee!” from the back of the room.

People looked around annoyed, and the coroner rapped on the table in displeasure.

“You have heard this witness,” he said pompously; “we have no real reason to disbelieve him. It is clear that Rowland Trowbridge was wilfully murdered by a dastardly hand, that he lived long enough to tell this, and to stigmatize as ‘Cain’ the murderer who struck him down.”