AN EVENING AT THE CLUB
Upon the conclusion of the hearing I left at once and, avoiding any
chance of interruption, went directly to my rooms. Once there I pulled
my chair up to the fire, lighted my pipe, and sat down to think it all
over.
If I were going to work intelligently upon this case I must understand
it, and if I meant to proceed upon the theory that the accused was
innocent and try to establish that fact, I must have good reason for
such course. Hasty conclusions would not do. They must be deliberate and
be logically deduced from the evidence.
I realized that I was now in possession of sufficient facts to draw some
conclusions if only, tentative ones, and I felt, indeed, that there was
great doubt if any further light would be thrown upon the case before
the trial, so that I might as well study the situation as it was.
The police believed they had established their case against Winters and
all their future efforts would be directed against him. If, therefore,
his conviction was to be avoided, it would most likely have to be
through such analysis of facts arrayed against him as should demonstrate
the possibility of another theory of murder and not by direct evidence
of his innocence, for such would probably not be forthcoming.
Could I do this? Would an analysis of the facts and testimony afford the
opportunity? I could but try.
My thoughts were in confusion, and I was unable for a time to direct
them or to clearly define for contemplation the different elements in
the case. After a while, however, as the personalities of the different
witnesses faded from my mind and the vivid impression I had brought away
from the scene of the court-room grew dim, I succeeded in concentrating
my attention on the subject in the abstract. I now concluded to review
the whole case and to determine upon what, if any, reasonable theories
Winters could be innocent.
The strength of the case against him was plain. The Inspector's method
of procedure had been such as to present it strongly and allow of no
part being overlooked; and I recognized also that the evidence had
probably all been true and that any effort to reach a different
conclusion would have to be premised upon an admission of his facts and
be made consistent with them. I had set myself a hard task, but its very
difficulties only incited me to greater effort.
While the evidence against Winters was very strong it was not
conclusive. This much I felt, and I, therefore, meant to proceed upon
the theory of his innocence.
The facts were that he had been at White's house that night and that he
had possession of one of the bills Van Bult had left on the table, but
it did not necessarily follow from them that he had killed White. He
might have taken the money, while he slept, and without disturbing him.
Such an hypothesis was consistent at the same time with the facts and
with Winters's innocence.
Such being the case why should he not be innocent? These two facts, his
presences at the house and possession of the bill, were in reality all
that had actually been proved against him, although as the evidence had
been presented at the hearing, it had seemed almost conclusive of his
guilt.
Having reached this conclusion it still remained necessary, in order to
make his innocence a reasonable hypothesis, to demonstrate in some way
that some one else had probably been there that night also; and thus
make possible another theory of the murder.
There was one fact in the case that I thought did suggest--sufficiently
at least for argument--the presence of a second person on the scene.
Van Bult had left four fifty-dollar bills on the table, and of these
only one had been traced to Winters, and the remaining three were
missing and unaccounted for. If it could be demonstrated with reasonable
certainty that Winters had not taken them, it must follow that some one
else had done so, and the presence of this other party would thus be
established.
Under these conditions, until such person could be found, and his
innocence shown, the chances of Winters's guilt or innocence of the
murder would be equally divided.
Of course I recognized the fact that Winters might have taken them all,
but it seemed very unlikely. It was clear from the evidence that between
the time the officer saw him leaving the vestibule and the time he
rejoined his friend in the saloon on Sixth Avenue but a very brief
period could have elapsed, not enough under any ordinary circumstances
to account for the disposal of a hundred and fifty dollars. There was no
suggestion that he had spent any while with his friend before they
visited the gambling house, and he had lost but one of the bills there.
If, then, he had secured more than one of them, he must have kept the
balance in his possession; but to admit this was to conclude that he had
abandoned his gaming while he had plenty of money in his pocket, which
was highly improbable in a man of Winters's habits and temperament; such
was not the way with his kind. I concluded, therefore, that it was not
unreasonable to assume that he had not taken all the bills and that some
one else had probably been on the scene that night, in which case the
police must either negative this assumption or find that other person,
and establish his innocence, before they could with any certainty
establish Winters's guilt. At least so I reasoned.
As I further reflected, however, there occurred to me another
explanation of the disappearance of the money that did not involve the
intervention of a third party. White had apparently gone out that night.
Why should he not have disposed in some way of all but the one bill
during his absence? It was possible, just as possible as any other
hypothesis, and would undoubtedly suggest itself to the prosecution when
the question arose. There would still, of course, remain some doubt as
to the true explanation of their disappearance; and every doubt, no
matter how small, was a cloud upon the State's case; but I felt it would
be insufficient to weigh against the other evidence unless corroborated
by additional facts. I was thus compelled to look further for the
evidence I sought.
The only other tangible factor in the case that seemed to suggest in
any way the presence of a third party was the ulster. My former theory
that its absence from the scene--since it had not been taken by
Winters--proved the presence of a third party, failed now since it had
evidently been worn out by White himself, and apparently left by him at
Belle Stanton's; but this last conclusion I was not yet quite prepared
to admit. Of course, Belle Stanton's home was a place where White might
well have left it, had it been likely that he would have left it
anywhere; but I thought it highly improbable that any man would have
walked back nearly two blocks on such a rainy night, and in evening
dress, without an overcoat; that is, unless he was out of his mind, and
White was certainly not that when I had parted from him less than an
hour earlier. Furthermore, I reasoned, if he had done so his clothes
must have shown the effect of exposure to the weather and as far as I
recalled, they were immaculate when I saw him the following morning. On
the whole I was not ready to admit that White had left the ulster there.
Assuming, therefore, that he had not done so, I turned my thoughts to
the consideration of some other means by which it could have gotten
there. It must have been taken out by some one with intimate knowledge
of White's habits and private life, and also by some one having access
to his several establishments, to at once secure the ulster and dispose
of it in a place so suggestive of the action of White. The very
conditions of the problem suggested the answer. I knew of but one man
who possessed the knowledge and opportunities required. That man was
Benton.
With the recognition of this fact came a very disagreeable sensation. I
was anxious to establish Winters's innocence, but I recoiled from the
thought of hunting down another man in his place, especially when I
realized that while the conclusion of my reasoning might raise a doubt
as to Winters's guilt, it was entirely insufficient to do more than cast
an awful suspicion upon Benton.
I sat long in reflection over the situation. I was at first inclined to
abandon the whole thing, but then I recognized the obligation to fulfil
a duty I had undertaken, especially since it had disclosed a theory of
the murder that might be the means of saving an innocent man's life.
Could I, to spare the feelings or even to spare the reputation of
another man who might be either innocent or guilty, leave Winters to the
fate I felt must overtake him if I did not interfere?
My duty was plain; miserable as was the task, I must go on with it to a
conclusion one way or the other, but I determined that so long as I
could, I would pursue the investigation alone, and thus spare Benton
trouble and mortification if it should develop that he was innocent.
Time enough to submit it to the police when I had something more
tangible to go upon than mere speculation based on the fitting of acts
to opportunities. Furthermore, I knew the police would not be grateful
to me for upsetting or even casting doubt upon their well-worked-up
case, and would depart upon the investigation of a new clue with very
little enthusiasm for the work.
At this point my reflections were interrupted by a servant who came to
tell me that Benton would like to see me.
I almost jumped from my chair. What irony of fate had brought this
man--the one I wished least of all to see--to me at this moment? I felt
guilty at the mention of his name. How should I treat him? What should I
say to him? At first I was inclined to refuse to see him, but then I
reflected that it was as well to have an interview with him now as
another time. I need ask him no direct questions, do nothing to alarm
him, but could listen to what he might have to say. The interview being
unsolicited, on my part, he could have no idea of my suspicion and might
therefore be led to talk freely. My determination thus taken, I told the
servant, who had been patiently waiting on me, to bring Benton to my
room. By the time he appeared I had composed myself and was prepared to
take advantage of any opportunity that might offer to further my
investigation.
On entering he was so eager to impart his news that barely waiting for
me to signify my readiness to hear him, he began telling it in a hurried
and nervous manner.
"I came, Mr. Dallas," he said, "because after I saw at the trial this
afternoon that the police had caught Winters and that he was the man, I
thought I ought to tell you at once what I know about it. I would have
told it when I testified, but did not think of him at all then. Mr.
Winters," he continued, "was always coming to Mr. White's rooms, at all
times of the day and often late in the evening, too, and he always
wanted money, and Mr. White always gave it to him; sometimes a good
deal, and sometimes a little, just according to what he had with him;
and he had generally been drinking, more or less, and sometimes he would
beg and cry, and sometimes, when Mr. White didn't have as much money to
give him as he wanted, he would get mad, and say it was all his money by
right anyhow, and that Mr. White had as good as robbed him of it and
such like; but Mr. White would never say much to him, but just give him
the money and be kind to him, and tell him to come again when he needed
more; and indeed it seemed to me he was always coming, sir, and it used
to bother Mr. White, I am sure, for he seemed worried and out of sorts
after Mr. Winters had been there." He paused for a moment and then went
on. "That is all I wanted to say, but I thought I ought to tell you,
sir. I tried to see you after the trial, but you got away too soon, and
so I thought I would wait until you got through your dinner, and had
time to see me. So I came around now."
He had rattled on till he was out of breath, and now stood in some
embarrassment waiting for what I might have to say.
I sat looking at him. I was puzzled as to his character. Either the man
was simple and straightforward in nature and worked up at the moment to
a high pitch of nervous and pleasurable excitement over the murder, as
is apt to be the case with his class; or else he was a worse man and a
deeper one than I had conceived him to be.
"Sit down, Benton," I said at last, pointing to a chair opposite me;
"what you have told me is of much importance, and I want to talk to you
further about it."
"Yes, sir," he said, and sat down obediently. I felt I had a delicate
task in hand. I must on no account alarm him or in any way arouse his
suspicion, and yet the opportunity of questioning him was too good to
lose.
"It is very important," I continued, "that I should learn all I can of
Mr. White's habits. I knew him well, of course, but as his servant, you
knew more about him than any one else. How long, now, had you lived with
him?"
"More than a year," he answered.
"Did you know this Miss Stanton, who testified to-day?" I continued.
"Yes, sir, I did; he had been going with her ever since I knew him."
"Do you know whether he was in the habit of visiting her house often
late in the evening?"
"I think so, sir, but I do not know just how often. I used to take notes
for him to her house, and sometimes she would come to his rooms and take
supper with him."
"Did she have any key to his rooms?" was my next question.
He said he did not think so, because she always rang for admission when
he was there.
I inquired then if he knew of any one who had keys to White's room.
He said he did not think any one had except, probably, the landlady and
himself.
"I think," I said, "you testified that you found the door unlatched when
you went to the rooms the morning of Mr. White's death. How do you mean
it was unlatched?"
"I mean," he answered, "that the catch was so fixed that it could be
opened from the outside without a key. This was hardly ever the case
that I remember, and never before over night."
I asked him how the catch was fixed when he left, and he answered that
he could not say because the door was open, and Mr. Davis still in the
room.
"And you did not go back that night?" I asked.
"No, sir," he answered promptly, "certainly not. You saw me going home
yourself."
"So I did," I admitted; "and how about the front door when you left, was
that unfastened, too?"
He said that he had closed the door after him when he went out, but did
not know whether it was fixed to open from the outside or not as he had
not tried it, but that it was fastened when he returned in the morning
because he had to use his key to get in.
"Had Winters a key?" I asked.
"No," he admitted, "I am very sure he hadn't."
"Then in case the door was locked," I said, "how could he have gotten
in?"
He looked puzzled for a moment, but brightened up, and suggested that
Mr. White might have let him in, as he never refused him admission.
"But in that case," I suggested, "Mr. White would have been awake and he
was apparently asleep when he was killed." He had nothing to say to
this, except to suggest rather doubtfully that Mr. White might have laid
down and gone to sleep again while Winters was there.
"Do you think that likely?" I inquired.
"No," he said, "I do not."
"Then," I continued, "why do you feel so sure that Winters killed him?"
After looking at me in a surprised way, he asked:
"If he didn't kill him, sir, who did?"
I admitted I did not know, but suggested that we ought not to be too
hasty in our conclusions.
"Well, sir," he answered, "perhaps he didn't, but everybody thinks he
did, and I think so too."
I felt that the examination was at an end, and that I had not made very
much of it. If Benton was guilty he had successfully avoided giving
evidence of it, and if he was innocent, then his attitude was a pretty
fair sample of the estimate the average man or juror would be apt to
place upon my conjectures and theories.
"You may go," I told him; "I am much obliged to you for coming, and you
must tell me anything more you may learn or that occurs to you about the
case."
"I will, sir. Good-night, sir," he answered, and went out promptly and
quietly, like the well-trained servant he had always been.
If it had not been for my horrible suspicions I should have liked to
engage him myself. A man such as Benton is a great comfort to a
bachelor--that is, under ordinary circumstances--but not when you think
he may have murdered his last master.
When he was gone I looked at the clock, and saw it was after eleven. I
had been in my room with my thoughts and with Benton for three hours,
and I could not say that either companionship had been altogether
pleasant. I determined to go downstairs now and see what was going on.
It was the time of the evening when the club was likely to liven up with
men returning from the theatre or other places of amusement for an hour
of cards or gossip, and I hoped to find diversion in their society.
As I descended the stairs, Ned Davis was standing in the hall, and he
immediately locked his arms in mine and began talking of the case.
"Extraordinary, isn't it," he said, "that Winters should have done it?
Awful clever of the police, too, to ferret it out so soon, don't you
think so?"
I was annoyed at this unhesitating assumption of Winters's guilt, and
somewhat out of humor also, I have no doubt, and I asked him sharply:
"How do you know Winters did it?"
"Why, you haven't any doubt about it, have you?" he asked.
"Certainly," I said, "it isn't proven yet."
"Well, if it isn't proven, I never saw a case that was."
"Look here, fellows!" he called out to a lot of men who were seated
nearby talking and who looked up inquiringly at his hail; "Dallas don't
believe Winters did it."
I realized at once that a man holding my office could not afford to be
quoted as an exponent of Winters's innocence, and therefore disclaimed
any such expression of opinion.
"No," I said; "I merely decline to accept his guilt as a fact until he
shall be convicted."
"That's all right, Dallas," one of them answered, "we all understand you
mustn't express an opinion under the circumstances of course, but we all
know what you really think, and we hope you will go in and convict the
fellow quickly. Sit down and take a drink with us, we were just talking
about the case."
I declined the invitation, pleading some excuse, and leaving Davis to
accept it, walked on to the billiard-room, in the hope of escaping the
subject in a game, but it was of no avail, for there, too, it held the
floor.
As I entered the room I observed collected at one end a group, the
personnel of which I at once recognized. It was made up of a class of
men such as are to be found in every club, men to whose words attaches
no responsibility and who are accustomed to express themselves on all
subjects, particularly sensational ones, in exaggerated language. They
are of the sort that become especially enthusiastic over a jockey, a
prize-fighter, or a detective, and on any provocation will indulge in
flights of hero-worship. In such a clique are always to be found certain
leaders who assert themselves and their opinions in aggressive tones and
to whom the others render admiring homage. It was so now; one of the
Solons was on his feet engaged in an argumentative review of the
evidence in the case to an admiring audience. The tables were deserted,
except for an old gentleman, who always played his "evening game for a
little exercise before bed," but who now stood disconsolately leaning on
his cue while his partner hung absorbed over the group of listeners.
"Now see here, Dallas," said the speaker on observing me, "wasn't that
about the finest worked-up case you ever saw? Here was an instance where
the police had absolutely nothing to go on but some missing money and a
glimpse at a man peering in at a window on a dark night, and yet within
forty-eight hours they run down their man and have him safe in jail.
There is no doubt of it, we have the finest police force in the world,
and I always have said so. That man Dalton is a wonder."
"Yes," chimed in another before I had time to assent or dissent, "and
what an eye he has; it pierces you like an eagle's when he looks at you.
He understands his business."
"Indeed he does," the first speaker continued, "and he leaves nothing
undone. Did you read the testimony in the 'Extra' this evening? He has
seized and exhausted each clue systematically. He hasn't left a loophole
of escape for Winters." To which ultimatum, all assented heartily.
"So you think there is no doubt of his guilt?" a mild little man,
anxious for a word, next ventured to ask in a deferential tone.
"Doubt of his guilt!" repeated the first speaker, in a tone of pitying
indulgence; "why, man, the case is all over."
"Of course, the evidence proves that," the little man hastened to
explain apologetically, "I only asked to get your opinion."
"That's all right," continued the speaker, mollified; "I am glad you
asked. There can be but one opinion. Winters was a bad lot anyhow and
bound to come to a bad ending."
"How soon do you suppose he will be tried?" he added, turning to me
again.
I said I did not know, but I thought very soon. At which they all
expressed satisfaction.
Then he began once more: "There is nothing like swift and sure justice,"
he announced, "and there now remains in the Winters case only the
formality of a trial. The work of the Inspector has left nothing more to
be found out."
He would apparently have gone on in this strain indefinitely, had he not
been interrupted by Littell, who had come in unobserved, and now
quietly asked the speaker's opinion as to what the Inspector might have
done with the other three fifty-dollar bills that had been left in the
room.
"And pray what has the Inspector to do with them?" was the rejoinder.
"I don't know, I'm sure," Littell answered, "but you said the Inspector
had exhausted every clue and left nothing more to be found out and I
thought perhaps that if the tracing of one bill was sufficient to
convict a man, the whereabouts of the other three might be of
importance, too. When found, you see," he continued, "they might convict
three more men."
A dead silence followed this explanation, and I fear I rejoiced
maliciously over the evident discomfiture of the crowd while at the same
time I was gratified by the apparent confirmation of my own views.
"Then you don't think Winters guilty?" some one timidly asked, after a
while. I listened eagerly for the answer.
"I didn't say that," Littell replied, "I only wanted to find out if
there might not possibly be something that the Inspector did not know."
He refused to be drawn into further discussion, rather suggesting by his
manner that he did not think it worth while; and after an awkward pause,
the party moved across the room to a more congenial atmosphere, whence
in a few minutes I heard them with recovered assurance again telling one
another all about it. Evidently side remarks were not in order,
particularly if they savored of incredulity.
After they had gone I took the opportunity to ask Littell if he thought
the missing bills a serious defect in the case.
"I think it is important that they should be found, if possible," he
said, "though I doubt if it would alter much the present status of the
case. I only suggested their absence to these men, to show them how
little they really knew about it, and that the police are not
infallible."
I turned away disappointed: even Littell did not consider the missing
bills of much real importance. Their absence might do to juggle with as
a lesson to superficial talkers, but from a practical standpoint, it was
immaterial.