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A MASTER HAND
THE STORY OF A CRIME
BY RICHARD DALLAS
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
The Knickerbocker Press
1903
Copyright, 1903
BY G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
Published, August, 1903
The Knickerbocker Press, New York
[Illustration: "It is no use," he said; "I can see by the papers that
everybody thinks I am guilty."]
INTRODUCTORY
Twenty years have passed since the happening of the events, the history
and sequel of which I am going to relate. It is the tale of a crime
committed in one of the large cities of this country, and which,
baffling the authorities at the time, still remains a mystery to all but
myself and one other. Even now, at this late day, in deference to a plea
that bore the seal of death, I shall only write of it with such changes
of scene and names as I hope may prevent identification.
To me the history of this tragedy has always seemed convincing proof of
the insufficiency of circumstantial evidence, except where such evidence
is conclusive. I do not intend, however, to indulge in any abstract
discussion of that subject, but shall consider that I have sufficiently
fulfilled an obligation I owe to the law when I shall have submitted the
bare facts of this particular case as I know them to have occurred.
While the changes of scene and names which I shall allow myself may
involve some minor changes in the same line, I shall take no advantage
of the opportunity that may thereby be afforded to complicate or
exaggerate in any way the mystery that veiled the case, for to do so
would be to subvert my purpose; but shall adhere to a plain statement of
the facts, in every particular, as they successively discovered
themselves to me. That it will prove an entertaining tale I do not
promise, but that it will be a curious and interesting one I feel sure,
and especially so to those who by profession are brought in contact with
crime in its various phases.
CONTENTS
I.--A SOLILOQUY
II.--A GAME OF CARDS
III.--A TRAGEDY
IV.--THE SUSPECT
V.--THE INQUEST
VI.--THE INQUEST CONCLUDED
VII.--AN EVENING AT THE CLUB
VIII.--THE PROSECUTION AND THE PRISONER
IX.--A CLUE AND A CONFERENCE
X.--THE TRIAL
XI.--THE TRIAL CONCLUDED
XII.--AN EPISODE AND A DINNER
XIII.--THE TRUTH AT LAST
XIV.--THE DEATH OF WINTERS
A MASTER HAND
CHAPTER I
A SOLILOQUY
On a Monday evening in January, 1883, I had returned comparatively late
from work in the District Attorney's office in New York, and was in my
rooms at the Crescent Club on Madison Square, corner of Twenty-sixth
Street, making a leisurely toilet for dinner, when a note was brought me
from Arthur White. In it he asked me to join a few mutual friends at his
rooms on West Nineteenth Street off Fifth Avenue later in the evening
for supper. He named the men--Gilbert Littell, Ned Davis, and Oscar Van
Bult--who were to join him at euchre before supper. This was a favorite
pastime with them, and I was bidden to come early, if I wished, and look
on.
I did not play cards myself; not because of any scruples on the
subject,--I had knocked about, a bachelor, long enough to take most
things in a man's life as they come,--but because I did not care for
games of any sort. I was, however, by my friends considered an
unobjectionable onlooker--rather a rare reputation to enjoy, I may
mention,--probably mine because I did not take sufficient interest in
the play to either advise or criticise. It was not unpleasant, however,
to sit by in White's attractive quarters and drink and smoke from his
excellent sideboard. So having nothing better to do, I sent back word I
would come, and getting into my evening clothes, went down to my dinner.
It was not often I dined alone, as dinner to me was the occasion of the
day and I deemed it incomplete, no matter how excellent the meal,
without some congenial companion; but this evening I was later than
usual, and so found no one available. Even the habitual acceptors who
can always be depended upon in a club to give their society in return
for a good dinner had all been engaged.
As I entered the dining-room, I saw my usual table reserved for me and
my customary waiter on the outlook.
"You dine alone, sir, to-night?" he asked, as I took my seat, and then
having suggested the outline of a light dinner, went off to give the
order and bring my usual substitute for a companion, a magazine.
To-night, however, I was not in the humor to read, but rather inclined
to thoughts of the men brought to mind by White's invitation.
They were all intimate friends, and it is as well I should tell
something about them here as another time, for they are destined to play
more or less conspicuous parts in the miserable affair which is the
occasion of this book.
To begin with my host--Arthur White was an attractive, lovable fellow
when in his brighter moods, but weak and variable. A man of good
impulses, I think, but so fond of luxury and idleness that he was often
selfish in his self-indulgence; of that sort of men that other men feel
something akin to affection for, such as for a younger brother or a
woman, so easily led and dependent do they seem. He was still young,
not yet out of his twenties, and, living in extravagant idleness and
dissipation, was spending pretty rapidly a bequest of a hundred thousand
dollars he had inherited, about two years before, from an uncle.
The bequest had created some little comment at the time, because thereby
the only son of the testator, who was named in the will as residuary
legatee, was reported to have inherited little or nothing.
However, the son had always been a "bad lot" and neglected the old man,
whereas Arthur had lived with him, and, after his lazy fashion, cared
for and helped him in his affairs. So the busy world shrugged its
shoulders and passed the episode by, and only prosy moralists dwelt upon
it to point the Fifth Commandment.
How Arthur reconciled it with his conscience to keep all the money, I
never heard him say, but any sacrifice, I fancy, would have seemed hard
to one so self-indulgent. In any event, whatever may have been the right
or wrong of it, he was making the most of his fortune while it lasted,
and his friends were incidentally getting some benefit therefrom too, as
our invitation for the evening testified.
While White was the youngest of the quartette I was to join, Gilbert
Littell was the oldest--old enough and worldly-wise enough, too, to have
been a valuable friend and adviser to the young man, if the latter would
have listened to, or been by any one diverted from the rapid pace he was
going. He did try, I thought, to steady him sometimes, but would always
abandon the effort and say in his quiet way that he guessed the boy
would have to sow his wild oats and waste his dollars before he could be
brought up; which was also the general opinion among us.
Littell was a clubman and a man of the world; long and shrewd
observations of men and things--for he was past sixty and had lived
thoroughly--had given him a keen insight into character and a knowledge
of the trend of things that made him a delightful and instructive
companion. A little skeptical, perhaps, of the motives of men and
particularly of the virtues they affected, and doubting of the
seriousness of life and disposed to get the most out of it; his views
and criticisms, while often keen and rarely orthodox, were never harsh
or uncharitable, and at the most were but mildly cynical. I always felt
he was advised whereof he spoke, and his judgment sound, and I had
formed a habit of looking to him for advice and help in worldly affairs.
He seemed to take the interest in me such as an older man might in a
junior and looked me up often at my office or the club. The fact that he
was a lawyer, though a retired one, gave us much in common, and we had
many pleasant hours together.
Every one has known men like Ned Davis; well meaning and hard working,
but without great ability, and fond of pleasure and extravagant living;
he was incapable of real success at anything, and was born to trouble as
the sparks fly upward. His resources were always something of a puzzle
to his intimates, for while occupying some nondescript position with a
prominent firm of brokers, he associated with men of large means and
extravagant habits and played high at cards. Still I never heard that he
failed to pay his debts, and if he borrowed, only the lenders knew of
it, so the public had no ground for criticism. With all his
shortcomings, he was a good fellow to know and be with; of a bright
disposition, ready at any time for anything, unselfish and affectionate
by nature, he was only his own enemy. The world has known many like him,
but when it has spoken kindly of them, it has said all.
Oscar Van Bult was a man of a totally different stamp. Strong,
self-contained, and a little serious, you felt in his presence the
reserve force that was in him and with it respect. He was, perhaps,
forty years of age, and unlike Littell and Davis, who had been New
Yorkers from birth, was a stranger among us. Less than two years before
he had appeared, none seemed to know from where, and had made friends
and become one of us before we were quite aware of it. That the man was
a gentleman in the worldly sense of the term was unmistakable; he was a
handsome, manly fellow, too, and agreeable, and so was welcome for
himself. Of his antecedents and resources, no one knew anything, nor was
it likely much would be learned through Van Bult, who never sought nor
offered confidences. One frequently meets such men. They come and they
go, and generally things are none the better nor worse for them. I like
them; for the time being they furnish me a new interest, something to
observe, to study; but then I know I am getting older now and surfeited
of the things of daily life, and look for entertainment too much to
things outside of myself, my habits and friends now prone to sameness
through long acquaintanceship. It was different with me in the days of
which I am writing. Then I was learning, and it is more agreeable to
learn than to know. Knowledge of the world advantages sometimes, but it
rarely entertains. As a glass through which to observe men and things,
it is a help to the vision, but it is the defects it magnifies, and the
colors in which it shows things are rarely bright or beautiful. But to
this point of view I had not then attained.
Graduating from the Harvard Law School some twelve years earlier, I had
practised my profession in a desultory way in New York, until about a
year before, when I had secured a position as a deputy with the District
Attorney. In my work there I found so much to occupy and interest me
professionally that other things, such as my social and club life,
became of only secondary importance. I was absorbed in my new duties.
The crimes and criminals of a great city are a study of fascinating
interest. In each case, if we only knew it, is to be found a lesson in
character, method, and motive. He who would cope properly with the
subject must have been trained, not only long and faithfully but
intelligently, to his work.
Noting, as I thought, deficiencies in the several departments which were
auxiliary to ours, I had taken hold of my duties with vigor and with a
purpose to lift the work of our administration, from the police officer
up, to a higher and more intelligent plane of operation. Alas for such
ambitions of youth, they seldom prove more than dreams.
My dinner that evening was at length finished; absorbed in my thoughts,
I had dallied over the meal and not eaten very heartily; but, if I
remember aright, I enjoyed it rather more than usual, though I was
without company, and had left my magazine unread. After all there is no
companion like one's self when taken in the right hour and mood, and the
secret of happiness, learned as we grow old, is to choose our time and
to control and direct our moods.
As I arose from the table, Brown pulled back my chair saying:
"I hope dinner pleased you, sir?"
I nodded an indifferent assent, but I would have been more appreciative,
I think, if I had known how long it was to be before I should again dine
with a mind so free from care.