THE coroner's office was on the seventh floor of the Mcintosh Building. It was here that the inquest was set for two o'clock. I was pretty busy the morning before, picking up the few remaining ends of my case, but nothing to compare with what was the afternoon of the day before.
First, I called up the coroner himself and had it arranged to subpoena Judge Barstow for the hearing. Then I got the coroner's physician and had him give me an estimate of the probable size of the hand, from the finger-marks on the throat of Madeline More. He was of the opinion that the man probably wore a number eight and a half or nine glove and I made a note of that fact.
Then, in a spirit of pure bravado, I went to the Record office and left a note on Smithson's desk telling him that I would have my story ready for him not later than half past three. I chuckled at what the old man would think and say when he read that note.
Afterward I found out that his remarks were not complimentary to me at all. However, when I learned of the fact, I didn't care, for the relations of Smithson and myself had completely changed, and it was he himself who told me of what he had said.
At a quarter of two I went up to the inquest room and waited while the scene of the inquest was set. The police, firm in their belief that Wasson was the man wanted, had arranged to add a touch of the dramatic, by having the body of the girl placed in the room, where he was to be confronted with the supposed evidence of his work, at the critical moment when he would be called upon to testify.
Wasson himself, handcuffed and watched by a couple of officers, was in another room, waiting the assembling of the other witnesses and the coroner and his men. The coroner's physician was sitting over by an open window.
Jepson, manager of the hotel, was there also. The chambermaid who had found the body was present in an overdressed, fussy manner. Johnson, the policeman who had arrested Wasson, was smoking a stoical cigar. Even the elevator-operator in the hotel was sitting in awed silence, apparently divided in his mind between half-frightened interest and a desire to run away.
Shortly after I had found a seat, Jimmy Dean, of the Dispatch, came in and dropped down beside me, grinned in friendly fashion, and lit a cigarette. The coroner and his stenographer entered sharp on the stroke of two. Everything was in readiness save the presence of Barstow.
The coroner waved his hand to a couple of attendants, and the body of the dead girl was wheeled into the center of the room, and partly undraped, so as to exhibit the marks on the throat. I was beginning to feel nervous, yet I need not, for at that moment, Barstow entered.
He took his seat quietly, and nodded to the coroner.
Now we were ready to begin. I kept my eyes fastened on Barstow. Just as he entered and saw the body, where it lay on its trestles, I fancied that he gave an involuntary start. Now, however, though I watched him closely, I could detect no evidence of nervousness in any action of the man. He had removed his hat, and was sitting apparently at ease, if one could judge from appearances, almost indifferent to what was going on.
One thing, however, I did notice, with a little swelling of my throat. Although the day was so hot that every window in the apartment was widely opened, Judge Barstow had failed to remove his gloves.
The inquest opened with the chambermaid's testimony of the finding of the body in the locked room. It was substantially what I have already given, and brought forth no new details. The coroner's jury listened to a mere repetition of what they had read in the papers, and the questioning of the witness was brief.
Yes, she had found the body, by looking over the transom. She had done so because she had rapped repeatedly and could not gain admittance, and thought it queer. Yes, the window was certainly open when she looked in first. She had immediately given the alarm to Manager Jepson himself.
The witness was excused and Manager Jepson took the stand.
He had conducted the Jason Street Hotel for two years and had never had any trouble before. The deceased first came to the hotel as a tenant one year ago. To the best of his knowledge she was a stenographer by profession. She had apparently made her living by her work. She always paid her rent promptly, and he had considered her a desirable tenant in every way.
She had few callers. One was a young man of about twenty-eight or thirty, and he described Wasson in a general way. Judge Barstow had been the other most frequent caller at her apartment. He came on business, so he understood.
Several eyes glanced at Barstow, but he sat unmoved. The chambermaid had notified him of seeing the body and he personally had seen to the entering of the room and tried to get the police department on the phone. Owing to some mistake he got the office of the Record, and they had then sent the police.
"Were you present at the arrest of the man Wasson?" the coroner asked.
"I was," said Manager Jepson.
"Was he the man you have described as calling frequently upon the deceased?"
"Yes, sir."
"How did he act?"
"He appeared confused, and when we attempted to make the arrest, he fought the officer until he used his stick upon him several times."
"The chambermaid's notification was the first you knew of the matter. There had been no noise or disturbance during the night or day before that time?"
"No, sir. Everything had been quiet as could be. Apparently no one had heard a sound."
"That will do," said the coroner, and Jepson moved aside.
"Billy Timmins," droned the clerk, and the elevator-boy arose, gulped once or twice, and held up his hand at the order of the clerk.
He was visibly pale, and I doubt if he heard the reading of the oath, for he stood with uplifted arm long after the clerk had ceased his jumbled formula; in fact, until the coroner put the first question to him.
"Are you Billy Timmins, my boy?"
"Yes, sir."
"Work in the Jason Street Hotel?"
"Yes, sir."
"Did you know Miss More?"
"Yes, sir. She was a nice kid, too."
"Did you ever take Mr. Wasson—the man who was arrested, up to see her?"
"Yes, sir, lots o' times."
"Did you on the night before she was found dead?"
"No, sir."
"Sure, Billy?"
"Yes, sir."
"Do you know Judge Barstow?"
"Yes, sir."
"Do you see him here?"
"Yes, sir, he's settin' over there," said Billy, pointing to the judge.
"Did he ever go to see Miss More?"
"Yes, sir."
"Did he go to see her on the evening of the day before she was found dead?"
"Yes, sir."
"Did he see her?"
"I don't know. He said he didn't, when I took him down."
"Just what did he say, Billy?"
"He said he didn't see her and had left some papers for her under the door. He asked me to tell her when she came in."
"Did you tell her?"
"No, sir, I didn't see her."
"Now, Billy, when Mr. Wasson came in on the afternoon after the girl was found, how did he act? Think carefully."
"Why," said Billy slowly, "he acted just like he always done. He got in the cage. First off I was goin' to tell him, 'cause he seemed to be feelin' good an' was whistlin', but I didn't. I kept my trap shut, an' he got off on Miss More's floor, same as always, an' I went down an' told Mr. Jepson that he had come in, an' he went back up with me, an' they pinched Wasson after a scrap."
"Did you take any one else up to Miss More's on the night she was killed?"
"No, sir, I didn't."
"All right," said the coroner, "that will do."
Johnson was next called, and described his arrest of Wasson.
He stated that his prisoner had fought hard to make his escape, and that he had found it necessary to strike him repeatedly before he had submitted to arrest. He had come down the hall to the door of room ten, and had not noticed the officer until he was quite at the door. Then he had paused, glanced quickly at Johnson, and asked if anything was wrong.
"I thought," said Johnson, "that he seemed quite nervous-like. I told him the girl was done for, an' he acted like a crazy man, so that I told him to shut up. Jes' then Mr. Jepson come outer the cage and gave me the 'office,' an' I told Wasson he was pinched. He didn't take my word for it, so I had to convince him that I knew what I was talkin' about." The officer grinned.
Two officers from the precinct station next testified to the finding of the watch and ring on the prisoner, together with several notes from the girl, written during the last week of her life.
Wasson was next called, and was led in between his two guardians, and after being unmanacled was placed in the witness-chair. The man was pale and showed the marks of worry and anxiety.
His hands trembled and there were great circles under his eyes. As his glance fell upon the body of the girl he actually shrank and cowered in his chair, and put up his hands to cover his face.
"You are Reginald Wasson?" the coroner began.
Wasson merely bowed.
"You knew Madeline More well?"
"Very well, indeed," Wasson almost whispered his reply.
"You were engaged to marry her, I believe."
"Tacitly, yes."
"What do you mean by tacitly?"
"It was agreed between us. Nothing had been said. I was taking her an engagement ring the day she was found dead."
"Indeed?"
"Yes, sir. It had been one of my mother's rings."
"And it fitted Miss More's finger without alteration, I suppose?"
"Yes, sir, it did. I know it doesn't seem probable, but it is the truth."
"We have heard of the ring," said the coroner; "also of the watch." He fastened his eyes on Wasson closely at the words.
Wasson shifted. "Yes, sir, it was hers, she gave it to me to—"
"Wear?" cut in the coroner. "Do you expect us to believe that? It might do if she were alive, but you had it after her death."
"I'm telling you the truth," cried Wasson, visibly losing his control. The evident attitude of suspicion of those about him was plainly affecting the man's nerve.
"Mr. Wasson," said the coroner, continuing the examination; "at the time of your arrest you had several notes from the deceased upon your person. In those notes she speaks of a sum of money, and of a certain party whom she designates as the 'old man.' What was the deceased trying to do? From the tenor of the notes we are led to believe that it was something of which you did not approve. Are we correct in that view?"
"I would rather not say," Wasson replied hoarsely.
"Was it blackmail?" the coroner shot at him quickly, without giving him time to collect his faculties.
"I refuse to discuss it," said the man doggedly, moistening his lips with a nervous tongue.
"Your refusal will influence the case against you, Wasson."
"I can't help it. I can't answer." The man was apparently ready to collapse.
I moved over to the coroner's side, and leaned forward to attract his attention. "Ask him what size glove he wears," I said.
The coroner nodded. "Oh, Wasson," he said carelessly, "what size glove do you wear?"
It looked for the moment as if the question would terminate the man's ability to contain himself. He grew pale as death, his eyes darted toward the dead woman's throat, and then he dragged his gaze back to us. He trembled, opened his mouth, and failed to make any articulate sound.
Finally, he did manage to speak, and his voice was one of utter horror. "Oh, Heaven, are you trying to convict me like that? Do you think I'd kill the woman I loved? Is there no justice among any of you?"
"That will do," said the coroner. "What size glove do you wear?"
"Nine," said Wasson, and dropped his face in his hands.
The coroner motioned to the two guards, and directed them to get their prisoner out of the chair. "Take him over, and see if his fingers fit the marks," he ordered, and leaned back in his seat.
Half walking, half dragging, Wasson was taken over to the side of the body, and requested to lay his fingers on the purple marks on the girl's neck. He rebelled.
Fairly shrieking, in his now hysterical condition, he fought to evade the ordeal which the coroner had thrust upon him in this unexpected way.
"I'll not do it! I'll not do it! I'll die first!" he cried, struggling to tear away from his guards. "You brutes, you brutes! Let me out of here! I didn't do it! I swear I didn't do it! I loved her, I tell you. We were to be married. I won't fit my fingers into those marks!"
Fighting savagely now, he was literally dragged forward; and while two men held his arm, the hand was applied to the girl's throat. The coroner, who had risen and gone over, nodded his head, and the police smiled knowingly at the result, for the fingers and the marks fitted even as cause and effect may fit.
Manacled again, Wasson was half carried away by his guards. Actually, I believe that if it had not been for the sustaining hands upon him the man would have collapsed into a pitiful heap of sobbing manhood upon the floor.
The coroner's physician next took the stand, and stated that, in his opinion, the woman had been dead some twenty hours when found. Death had been due solely to strangulation.
He called attention to the finding of the bits of cuticle under the girl's nails, and to the fact that, in his opinion, the marks on the hand of Wasson might have been caused by her frantic clawing at his hand in her last few minutes of life. He was excused. Judge Barstow was called. He rose and sauntered smilingly to the chair, took the oath with dignity, seated himself, carefully arranged himself in the chair, and waited for the coroner to begin.
"Judge Barstow," said the official, "did you know Miss Madeline More?"
"Yes, Mr. Coroner," said the judge. He looked about the room and barely stifled a yawn.
"Was she employed by you?"
"At one time, something over a year ago."
"Why did she leave your employ?"
"She thought she could do better by doing special work, I believe."
"Yet she still did work for you?"
"Oh, yes, at times."
"Did you see her the night before she was found dead?"
"No; I went to see her, but could get no reply to my knock."
"Did you leave some papers in her room?"
"I thrust some under her door."
"What became of them?"
"They were found and returned to me."
"By whom?"
"A reporter on the Record—a Mr. Glace."
"What had been your relations with the deceased?"
"Those usual between an employer and the employed, I believe."
"There never was any trouble?"
"No."
"Why did the reporter return the papers to you rather than give them to the police?"
"They were of no importance to the police—at least, so Mr. Glace said, when he brought them to me."
"What time did you call on the particular night when you left those papers under the door?"
"Somewhere around eight," said the judge.
"I will excuse you for a moment," said the coroner. "Mr. Glace, take the stand."
Judge Barstow went back to his seat, and I rose and occupied the chair he had just left. The clerk administered the oath, and then I leaned forward and addressed the coroner direct.
"Mr. Coroner," I said, "I am going to prefer a somewhat unusual request. I desire to be allowed to tell my own story in my own way. If at the end of my testimony there shall be any points which you desire to have cleared up, I shall then gladly add anything to my narrative to make all clear."
I had given the coroner an inkling of my course before, and he nodded his acquiescence. I glanced at the clock. It was five minutes past three. Even as I began to speak I thought of Dual's prediction, and realized that a scant fifteen minutes now remained until that prediction must be fulfilled or proven false, but I never doubted that it would be verified.
I began to speak rapidly, however, as I saw how short was the time.
"I will be brief," I commenced. "I shall give my testimony in the form of a hypothetical case.
"Some two years ago a certain party—a woman, whom we will refer to as M.—was employed in this city by a man who did a large amount of work in his profession. Among the other duties of his profession, he was frequently appointed to act as administrator of various large estates. This woman M., while nominally a stenographer in his office, came to act pretty much in the part of confidential secretary to this man.
"This man formed the idea of organizing a land-holding and selling company, and, with the aid of this party M., he did organize it, and had it incorporated with her name as principal stockholder, together with four other dummy incorporators. After it was incorporated, the woman M. and the other four stockholders assigned all their stock to this man, in blank, and the man kept the certificates and all of the company's books.
"By using the make-believe company as a blind, the man was enabled to fleece the estates he was administering out of huge sums. All went well until such time as the man who had led the woman into financial turpitude presumed to endeavor to lead her into physical shame as well, when a rupture of their otherwise friendly relations occurred.
"She left his employ, and sought other means of making a living after that. But, you see, this man had trained her in business immorality, and, as a result, she conceived the idea of making herself financially independent by forcing him to give her a part of their unlawful winnings. In other words, she tried to blackmail him.
"He resisted, but finally they arranged a meeting for a certain night at which they should come to terms. They met. Instead of agreeing, they quarreled; he sprang upon her and seized her by the throat—he had once before threatened to kill her, it seems—and began to choke her to death.
"They struggled, and the woman fought desperately for her life. She reached up and dug her long nails into his strangling hands, seeking to break his grasp; but, instead, all she accomplished was to tear the skin from his hand—the left one—I think—in three places. She could not break his grasp, and she died.
"I have all this, save the last part, in black and white in a book, Mr. Coroner. May I now ask that you order the two officers from the precinct in which this dead woman here was found to remove the gloves from the hands of Judge William Barstow, so that we can see the scratches on his left hand? Also, after looking at the gloves, see if they do not fit the marks on the throat of Mad—"
A confused sound in the back of the room interrupted my further words. Judge Barstow sprang from his chair and rushed to the door. It was locked.
In frantic haste he tore at the knob, jerking and twisting it with all his power until the door creaked and groaned from his frenzied efforts; but it held fast until the officers fell upon him and dragged him backward, still fighting with all his massive strength.
For a moment it seemed that he would tear free from the hands which held him; then Johnson went to his fellows' assistance, leaping straight up and flinging his weight upon the struggling man's back.
The entire four went down in a heap, from which the officers presently crawled, still holding to their captive, upon whose wrists they had slipped a pair of handcuffs, so that he rose and stood panting and bound, like a lion, captive yet unsubdued.
The room was in a turmoil of confusion.
Even Wasson's two guards had left their prisoner and half crossed the room, when the judge was dragged erect. Now, while one of them returned to Wasson, the other crossed and, at a nod from the coroner, stripped the gloves from Barstow's bound hands.
There, in plain sight, burned the angry lines of three deep lacerations, running diagonally across the back of the left.
I lifted my voice, and spoke in the hush of surprise and consternation which followed. "What size is the glove, officer?" I cried.
The man looked at the piece of dressed kid which he was holding. "It's a No. 9, Mr. Glace," he replied.
I turned to the coroner. "Shall we try the test of the marks and the fingers?" I suggested, nodding toward the body of Madeline More.
But Barstow had suddenly regained his control. It was he himself who answered, instead of the man I addressed.
"It won't be necessary, Glace. In the words of the police, I am caught with the goods. I admit that I killed the girl, but she deserved to die. I must compliment you upon your almost devilish cleverness in running me down. The funny thing is, I didn't suspect your motive, and I felt safe, knowing our police as I did. Mr. Coroner"—he turned and addressed that official—"your inquest can come to an end, for I am ready to confess. I killed Madeline More, and I shall pay the penalty in my own way."
Even at the last no one suspected.
So quiet and calm had been the man's words that none of us dreamed of the thing seething in his brain; but on the last word, having lulled us all to a false sense of his acceptance of things, he gained his end.
Even as the last word left his lips, he tore free from all restraint. In a leap and a bound he crossed from the door near which he stood; and as his captors stared in uncomprehending inactivity, he reached an open window, seized its casing, and turned.
So, standing like a giant, he faced the room once more, and for a moment he smiled at how he had fooled us at the last; then, "In my own way!" he cried loudly and plunged backward into space to become a huddled heap of blood-oozing clothing on the pavement below.
As the others rushed to thrust heads and shoulders out of the windows and look down, I glanced at the clock over the coroner's desk.
It was three-twenty flat!
I rose from my chair and sprang to a telephone which I saw standing upon a corner of the coroner's desk, and begged wildly for Smithson on the wire.
"Smithson, Smithson!" I called. And again, as his gruff accents came to my ear: "Say, Smithson, hallo. This is Glace. Say, Smithson, go out to my table and open the drawer. In it you'll find the story I promised you for three-thirty to-day. It's all written up so as to lead up to the denouement which has just occurred. Judge William Barstow confessed to the killing of Madeline More and committed suicide by throwing himself from a window of the coroner's office at three-twenty this afternoon. Did you get that? Say, Smithson—hallo!"
For a moment I thought he had left the wire; then I got my reply. In accents unlike any which I had ever heard him use before, Smithson spoke to me.
"Great work," he said. "We'll have it on the street in half an hour, or wreck the plant. And say, when you get done down there, come right up here; I want to see you, Glace."
They took the manacles off Wasson and told him he was free. He came over to me, and put out his hand and tried to thank me, choked up, and turned away. I appreciated how he felt, shook his hand, and let him go.
Jimmy Dean felt quite cut up over my having the only real story of the affair. "You held out on me shamefully, Gordon," he said; "but I suppose, in your place, I'd have done the same." I gave him the true facts, and he left to write up the story for the Dispatch.
The coroner got his jury together, and it took them about a minute to return a verdict that Madeline More came to her death at the hands of one William Barstow, deceased.
I put on my hat, lit a cigarette, and prepared to depart. It was four-fifteen when I left the coroner's office, and already the newsboys were yelling the Record's extra on the streets. I walked up toward the Record office, feeling all the elation of any true reporter over a clean "beat."
I entered the local room, sat down at my typewriter, took off my hat, and began to pound out my story for the morning's edition.
Smithson stuck his head out of his door. "Glace," said he, "come 'ere."
I got up and went into his office. He stuck out his hand.
For a moment I gazed at this unprecedented mark of friendliness, half comprehending; then I took the proffered hand with what I hoped was a becoming grace.
"Glace," said Smithson, "it was a great beat. We've got the whole town. I confess I didn't think you had it in you, but I hope I know when to quit; and I want to say now, that it's one of the best, if not the best, things I have seen put over in a good many years.
"I've taken it up with the management, and I'm glad to say they look at it as I do. I fancy they'll show their attitude on the matter in your envelope this week. I suppose you must have known all this yesterday when we had our little mutual love-talk, eh?"
"I was morally sure, but I didn't have the proof."
From below came the sound of the newsboy's crying the Record's beat.
"Uh-uh," said Smithson. "Heavens, what a beat! Well, son, you made good all right, so I'll have to keep you on." He smiled a crooked smile. "But, Glace, it has just occurred to me that I sent you on an assignment a few days ago, and you have not turned in a line on it. What about that man Semi Dual?"
For a moment I didn't know just what to say, and then I thought of what Semi had told me to do.
"Mr. Smithson," I said, "I went up there all right. He's taken the tower of the Urania, and is engaged on some scientific experiments. He forbade my printing anything about him, and after thinking it over, I don't see that there is anything for a story. I've been so busy on this later case that I forgot the other till just now." That, as it happened, was true.
"Well," said Smithson, turning back to his desk, "I'm inclined to let your judgment stand, after the way it has seen you through in this later case, as you call it; so we'll let the matter drop. Now, go out and get busy on your full story for to-morrow." I turned away.
"And, Glace—" I turned back as he addressed me. Smithson was smiling his crooked smile once more. "Go as far as you like," said he.