THE PROSECUTION AND THE PRISONER
The next day was Sunday, and I passed it in restless impatience over the
enforced idleness, occupying myself as far as I could with the newspaper
reports of the Coroner's hearing.
I found much to read, but little to please me in them. With few
exceptions they accepted the police version of the case, treating
Winters almost as a convicted criminal and praising unstintedly, in some
cases fulsomely, the work of the Inspector's department.
It was only necessary to scan their columns to learn that:
Winters bore a bad reputation, and had long been known to the police;
that:
It was one of the most brutal murders in the annals of crime; that:
"The assassin coolly scanned his sleeping prey"--with an illustration
of Winters peering in the window at White asleep on the divan; that:
"The foul deed was perpetrated while the unconscious victim slept"--with
illustration; that:
"The prisoner stood mute under the fearful accusation"--with
illustration; that:
It would be the first execution by the new sheriff, etc.
The maxim of the law--"that each man shall be deemed innocent till
proved guilty"--was entirely disregarded by these tribunes of the
people. Like bloodhounds on the trail, they gave tongue to notes that
incited all men to the chase, including those who were to sit as judges
without prejudice on the life of the quarry: they assumed Winters guilty
till proved innocent and the possibility of such a contingency they did
not even suggest.
I finally pushed the papers away from me in angry protest and spent the
remainder of the day in vain effort to forget the subject.
Early Monday morning I hurried to the office eager to resume my work on
the case.
I found awaiting me there a member of a law firm who gave me the not
very welcome news that White had made me the sole executor of his will,
a copy of which he handed me. I made an appointment with him to submit
it for probate, and he left me to its perusal.
A few minutes sufficed for this, as it was simple and brief. After the
usual clause, providing for payment of his debts, etc., he left all the
rest of his property unconditionally to his cousin, Henry Winters, and
then followed the unusual explanation that he did so, "as a late and
imperfect reparation of a wrong."
In reflecting over this statement, I recalled that it had occurred to me
on several occasions when White seemed worried and anxious to make a
confidant of me that he was possibly remorseful over the injustice he
fancied had been done Winters by the unequal division of his father's
property, but for such striking evidence of the feeling as this
expression evinced, I was not prepared.
This phase of the matter was of short interest to me, however, when I
considered how seriously the words might affect Winters's chances of
acquittal. In an apparent confession by the victim of a wrong done to
the accused was furnished the strong motive of revenge, and if knowledge
of the contents of the will could be brought home to him, the additional
incentive, to the crime, of a much larger gain than a few hundred
dollars.
Little had poor Arthur thought when he made that will, honestly trying,
I was sure, to repair what he felt to be an injustice, that its
consequences might prove so fatal to the man he meant to help. I put the
paper away with a sigh: it was no time for unavailing regrets, if
Winters was innocent and was to be saved, action was needed.
I received a summons at this moment from the District Attorney and went
to his office in response. I found closeted with him Inspector Dalton
and Detective Miles. A consultation over the case, which had now become
of chief concern to the office, was in progress.
"Dallas," the District Attorney said to me, "I have just been
congratulating the Inspector upon the excellent work of his department
in the White murder case. I have read the report of the evidence before
the Coroner's jury and find it very complete and strong. The Inspector
tells me," he continued, "that the case is practically ready for trial,
as seems true, and he urges prompt procedure. I have, therefore, ordered
the case sent to the Grand Jury to-morrow, and we must then bring it to
trial without unnecessary delay. In cases as serious as this one," he
concluded, "the public as well as the reputation of this office demand
quick justice and I mean to make an example of it."
"Winters," I suggested, "should be allowed a reasonable time in which to
engage counsel and make preparation for his defence."
"Preparation for his defence," he answered, "can only mean the
manufacturing of one, for he is evidently guilty: and while of course he
must have time to secure a lawyer, it is not worth while to afford him
time to work up an alibi or other plausible lie. A fortnight, I think,
will be more than enough for all his purposes and I will arrange for
such date with the court."
It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him I was not entirely satisfied
of Winters's guilt and would not be until at least all the missing
money should be accounted for, but I remembered the deprecating
indulgence with which he had received a similar suggestion about the
ulster and refrained from commenting on it to him, I did, however, ask
the Inspector how he accounted for the three missing bills.
He looked surprised at the question and a little taken aback, I thought,
but replied confidently that White had most probably put them in the
pocket of his ulster and left them with it at Belle Stanton's house.
"But," I said, "I did not understand from the testimony that they had
been found there."
"No," he answered, "the housekeeper denied any knowledge of them when
questioned on the subject, but that is hardly surprising and I think
they will yet be traced to some inmate of that house."
"Well," said the District Attorney, "that seems reasonable enough, and I
have no doubt will prove the case: and now, Dallas, if you will take
hold of the case in conjunction with the police department and prepare
it for trial, I will look after its early assignment and be ready to
conduct the prosecution. You will of course assist me in it."
I said, "Of course," nothing else occurring to me at the moment, but I
had grave misgivings regarding the duty.
I then suggested that I see Winters and warn him to be prepared. This
was agreed upon, and the Inspector, Miles, and myself departed together,
leaving the District Attorney to give his time to some one of a hundred
other important matters that demanded his attention.
The Inspector parted from us outside; Miles, at my request, accompanying
me on my visit to Winters at the Tombs.
I wanted Miles with me, because I wished to consult him about some
features of the case that I considered important, and which were not yet
clear to me, and I meant to discuss them with him as we proceeded. I had
been impressed not only with the natural cleverness of this man, but
also with his disposition to be fair, and I felt sure that if he had
observed the details that I had overlooked, no matter what their bearing
might be on the case, he would give me truthful and unreserved answers.
I had the incident of the ulster in mind and thought if it should
appear, as I expected, that White had worn it home that night when he
returned after going out as the officer testified that I would then have
gone a long way toward creating a doubt of Winters's guilt. So much
indeed seemed to depend upon the answers to my questions that I put them
with some trepidation as to the results.
After consideration I concluded it was best to let the detective see
what was my purpose, so I opened the conversation by calling his
attention to the fact that in the event that White, by any chance and
contrary to the accepted opinion, had worn the ulster upon his return to
the house, then some one else than he must have taken it to Belle
Stanton's. I saw at once that Miles had grasped the full purport of the
suggestion, and that it was unnecessary to enlarge upon it, so I
continued:
"It was raining and if White returned without any outer covering it
should have been evident from the condition of his clothes. How about
them?" I was watching the detective while I talked and saw that he was
giving me close attention and had anticipated my question.
After a moment's thought, he said: "What you have been saying, Mr.
Dallas, had occurred to me too and I did observe his clothes as I always
do in such cases, and they showed no signs of exposure to the weather.
In fact, I did not believe he had been out that night without some
protection. Knowing, therefore, that though he had worn the ulster when
he went out, he had apparently not worn it when he returned, I examined
his umbrella, which stood near the door. This though unwrapped,
suggesting recent use, was dry, but as it probably would have dried in
the meanwhile in any case, I could draw no conclusions from the fact."
I interrupted him here to ask if White had had the umbrella with him
when the night-officer saw him, and he said the officer reported that he
had been in the act of raising an umbrella as he passed him.
After a pause, he continued: "I did not stop, however, with the
examination of his clothing and umbrella, but looked at the light
patent-leather shoes he had on. They were new and the soles not even
soiled. They had not, I am sure, been worn on wet streets. Next I looked
for and found his overshoes nearby the umbrella: they had evidently been
worn in rough weather and had not since been cleaned, but they too were
dry and so did not prove anything."
"But," I asked, "what bearing could that have on the question any way?
He had certainly been out that night, for the officer saw him."
"Yes, the officer thought he saw him," he replied, "but officers are
sometimes mistaken."
I saw his drift and also his oversight, as I thought.
"I am afraid you are off the track a bit, Miles," I said, "when you try
to reason that the officer was mistaken and that White was not out that
night. We have both for a moment overlooked a factor in the case that
proves the contrary. Admitting," I continued, "that the officer might
possibly have been mistaken as to the identity of the man he saw leave
the house, he was not mistaken about the ulster for it was taken by
some one to Belle Stanton's, but whoever wore the ulster also wore the
cap that matched it for the officer saw that too, and as the cap was
back in the room in the morning, the wearer of it must have returned."
Miles nodded his assent. "Such being the case," I concluded, "the wearer
must have been White, because no one else, certainly not the murderer,
would have returned to the scene."
"That is true," Miles admitted; "I had forgotten about the cap."
"That being so then," I said, "I also maintain that he wore not only the
cap, but the ulster when he returned, and that the ulster must therefore
have been taken to Belle Stanton's by some one else, and at a later
hour."
The detective shook his head. "I hardly think you have satisfactorily
established the last proposition," he said, "for he might have returned
with the cap though without the ulster."
"Well, we will see who is right," I answered, for I was not willing to
abandon my theory.
Nothing more was said, and during the remainder of our journey I was
absorbed in the intricacies of the case, and I think Miles was similarly
engaged, for he seemed in a deep study. I was glad to think it so, for I
wanted to thoroughly engage his interest, as I had determined to make
him an ally. I felt that I could not handle the matter alone, for while
I was willing and able, as I thought, to reason out all the abstractions
involved, I must have expert assistance in the detective work to furnish
me the material of facts with which to really accomplish anything.
I had no hesitation in using Miles in this way, for while I realized
that its end was to establish, if possible, the innocence of the
accused, which was contrary to the usual attitude of a prosecuting
officer, I, nevertheless, felt at that time and feel now that it is not
the single duty of the prosecution to convict, but also, and even more
importantly, its duty to see that each accused have every opportunity to
prove his innocence and that there be no conviction if there be
reasonable doubt of guilt. Sentiment has no place with the prosecution:
charity should be dealt out with a sparing and discriminating hand, but
justice should always be guarded, and above and before all, no innocent
man should be convicted.
Upon arriving at the Tombs we were promptly admitted, and saw the
superintendent, who at my request directed that Winters be brought from
his cell to the private office for our interview with him.
While we waited, I confess to a feeling of some doubt and apprehension
as to the result of the interview. I was inclined to think the man
innocent, I hoped he was so, and the confirmation or disappointment of
my hopes depended to a great extent upon his own statement of the case.
Could he and would he explain the circumstances of his part in that
night's tragedy consistently with his innocence, or would he establish
his guilt by some palpable fabrication, or it might even be by a
confession! I felt anything was possible.
We were kept waiting only a short while before one of the guards
conducted Winters into our presence.
He showed the severe strain of his recent dissipation, and forty-eight
hours of confinement: but he was sober and in the full possession of his
senses, as his look of intelligent recognition when he saw me proved.
His physically exhausted condition I did not altogether regret, for I
felt it made it next to impossible for him to manufacture any plausible
story in his defence or to successfully evade direct questions. I shook
hands with him and introduced Miles in his proper capacity, and then, as
he had dropped wearily into a chair, suspended my questions, intending
to give him a moment to recover his strength. He anticipated me,
however, by asking abruptly if I believed he had killed Arthur.
I made no direct answer, but replied evasively that I had come to see
him to hear what he might have to say on the subject in case he felt
disposed to talk.
He rested his head in his hands for a few minutes, apparently
reflecting, and then said:
"I did not realize my position or understand the evidence against me
until I read of it all in the papers." Then raising his head and looking
at me, he continued in a despondent tone:
"I did not kill Arthur and I know nothing about his death, but
everything those witnesses testified to concerning me was true just the
same. I did go to his house that night, and I went there to try and get
money from him. I had been drinking as usual and had no money, and I
wanted it to drink and gamble with. Arthur had given me money before,
when I asked him for it," he continued, "and I knew if I could find him,
he would again. So I went to his house and seeing a light in his room,
looked in the window to find out whether he was there and alone or not.
I saw him asleep on the sofa--or perhaps he was dead then, I do not
know." He stopped a moment to recover his breath, and then went on. "I
was about to ring the bell when I saw a policeman observing me, and as
it was late I thought I had better wait until he was gone and so went
away. After awhile I returned again and started to enter the house when
I saw something lying on the flagging in the vestibule. I picked it up,
and finding it was a fifty-dollar bill, put it in my pocket and hurried
back to the saloon where I had left my friend.
"The rest you know," he continued; "we went to Smith's gambling house,
and there I lost the money, and then I went to my room and went to
sleep. The next afternoon I read of the murder in the papers and went to
Arthur's house, meaning to go in and see him, but I was so ill and
nervous that I had not the courage to do it, and after staying around
the place for awhile, where you saw me, I returned to my room."
He relapsed into silence and I thought he had finished what he had to
say, but he had evidently only been trying to collect his thoughts, for
he continued: "I cannot remember very well what I did from then until I
was arrested and taken to the station house. I was too ill at the time
to think much about it, and I had no idea that there was any belief that
I had killed Arthur until the Inspector accused me of it, and I hardly
realized it then." He stopped but neither Miles nor I said anything,
wishing him to volunteer all he had to tell, and seeing our expectation
he added: "That is all I know about it."
After he had finished he sat looking at me inquiringly, almost
pleadingly, but I was silent, for I did not know what to say to him. I
believed his story: it was simple and straightforward and told without
hesitation, but I saw it afforded no satisfactory defence and when told
at the trial under the strain and excitement of the ordeal, and
apparently with the guidance and coaching of counsel at his elbow, would
lose in great part its only strength--the stamp of unpremeditated truth.
What was I to say to this man who was pleading to me with his eyes for
encouragement, for hope? I could give him none. Everything he had said
but confirmed the testimony against him. His statement that he had found
the money would seem puerile to a jury already convinced of his guilt,
and what else but denial of the crime would they expect from the
accused?
In my dilemma I looked to Miles in the hope of help, but his gaze was
turned to the open window in seeming abstraction.
At last, unable to longer bear the strain of his pathetic silence, I
yielded to the promptings of my feelings and putting my hand on his
shoulder told him that I believed what he said and would help him if I
could. The light of hope came into his face at once, and clasping my
hand with both of his, he thanked me.
I had not the heart to discourage him at that moment in his new-found
hope, though I felt there was little foundation for it, and so, to avoid
further questions, asked him if he could suggest any lawyer whom he
would like to engage to defend him. He thought a moment but shook his
head.
"No," he said sadly, "I have neither friends nor money. How can I get a
lawyer?"
"You have money," I told him, "though I don't know how much; for Arthur
White has left you his sole heir."
"Arthur has left me his heir!" he repeated after me in a vague way and
without any sign of emotion.
"Yes," I said, "and as I am the executor of his will, I will see that a
good lawyer is retained for you."
He made no answer, and I added: "If you need anything, let me know and I
will attend to it for you."
"I shall not need anything," he replied, "but won't you come and see me
sometimes?--I am lonely."
I promised to do so, and feeling that nothing more could be done for him
then, closed the melancholy interview by recalling the warden for his
prisoner.
I shook hands with him upon leaving, and as I reached the door was glad
to see Miles, as he followed me, do the same. Winters kept his eyes
fastened on me alone, however, and they had in them a child's look of
trust and dependence. Truly I had assumed a sad and heavy burden.
As the great doors and gates closed in turn behind us with a thud and
thang and we stood in the bright sunshine once more and amid the busy
throng of the streets, I drew a long breath of relief, but my heart
ached for the lonely man behind those prison walls.
Neither Miles nor myself had much to say for awhile as we took our way
back toward our own section, but finally I broke the silence by asking
him how he was impressed with Winters's statement. He replied:
"It won't acquit him unsupported, but I think he told the truth."
"What are we to do about his case then," I asked. "Certainly you do not
intend to continue your search for evidence against him?"
"No," he answered, "it is not necessary that I should do that. I will do
what I can to get more information about the case generally, which, if
he is innocent, can only help him."
"Then," I said, "I may depend upon your help in my work." He promised
it, and I asked him to find out for me first, if possible, what had
become of the missing bills.
He smiled a little before he answered. "I am afraid I can find them all
too easily for your purposes"; and then added, "come with me now if you
have the time and I will show you how we sometimes accomplish our ends
by playing a bluff game."
"Where are you going," I asked. He replied, "To Belle Stanton's for the
missing bills," and hailing an uptown car, boarded it, I getting on
after him.
Indeed, I thought, if this man's expectations prove true and he traces
the money to that house, our first service will have proved of a kind
Winters could better have dispensed with. Perhaps we would be
unsuccessful, though, and then on the other hand we would have
accomplished something worth while.
When we reached our destination, Miles rang the bell and the door was
opened by the landlady herself. She evidently recognized us and looked
none too agreeably surprised, but asked us into the big bare parlor,
quite politely.
I took a seat, but the detective, declining her invitation, turned to
her very quickly, and said:
"Mrs. Bunce, we find there were three fifty-dollar bills in the pocket
of Mr. White's ulster when it was left here the night of his death and
we need them, so I came around to ask you to get them for us."
"Do you mean to say," she answered in an indignant tone, "that you think
I took them?"
"No," he said, "I know of course that you did not, but they were taken,
or possibly lost, out of the pocket somewhere in this house, and I want
to find them."
"They were neither lost nor taken in this house," she answered shortly,
and my hopes rose as I began to feel more confident that Miles was
mistaken. The detective, however, showed no signs of discouragement, but
continued in the same urbane tone:
"You think they were not, madam, I am sure; but we know they were. You
have a maid-servant here," he went on; "please send for her."
"What for?" Mrs. Bunce asked with some symptoms of alarm, I thought. "Do
you wish to question her?"
"No," Miles answered. "She took the bills and I must arrest her."
Mrs. Bunce hesitated for awhile and seemed uncertain of her course, but
at last said:
"I don't want anybody arrested in my house--it will hurt its reputation,
you know--and if you will wait I will see her about it myself."
"Very well, we will wait, but you must tell her to give up the bills, as
otherwise we must arrest her. This is a very serious matter. You can say
to her," he continued, "that if we get the bills there will be no more
trouble about it."
The woman left us and was gone for about five minutes, during which
Miles said to me that she would bring back the money with her. I was not
so sure of it and said nothing, but when she returned she handed him
three fifty-dollar bills, saying:
"You were right, she did have the money, the hussy; and here it is."
"Thank you," said Miles; "were they found in the pocket of the ulster,
do you know?"
"Yes, the outside pocket," she answered.
Miles looked at her severely.
"Mrs. Bunce," he said, "if I were you I would admit I found the bills
myself, otherwise it may be awkward for you when we have to put you and
your servant on the stand to prove where they were found. This gentleman
and myself will not say anything about this conversation and there will
be no trouble if you simply tell the truth about it."
The woman broke down finally and began whining something about a poor
woman not being allowed to keep what she found in her own house and what
belonged to her by right, but Miles did not wait to listen but left the
house, I following him.
Once alone with him again I could not restrain the expression of my
disappointment.
"That was a very clever piece of work, indeed," I said, "but
unfortunately does the case of Winters harm instead of good."
"How?" he asked.
"Why, the missing bills having now been accounted for," I answered,
"there is nothing to show that any one else was on the scene that night
or to furnish a motive for the crime, and so there remains no one but
Winters to whom suspicion can attach."
"You don't look at it properly," he answered; "the most important thing
incidental to the discovery of the money is the fact that its effect
will be to substantiate Winters's statement."
I looked at him inquiringly, and seeing I did not comprehend, he
explained.
"White evidently took all the money with him, carelessly stuffed in the
outside pocket of his ulster, when he went out that night and he might
easily have dropped one of the bills in the vestibule: such being the
case, Winters's statement that he found it there becomes not only
reasonable, but probable."
I saw the force of this at once, and was rejoiced at it: but at the same
time I was more perplexed than ever by the situation it disclosed.
"If White," I asked, expressing my doubts to Miles, "took all the money
out with him that night, as you say, what motive remains to explain the
murder?"
"We have got to find a new motive," he answered, "and when we do find
it, I am much mistaken if it does not disclose a deeper planned scheme
and a cleverer hand than we have anticipated."
My interest was keenly aroused and I was ready at once to enter into the
new aspect of the case, but Miles would not have it so.
"Wait till to-morrow, Mr. Dallas," he said; "you are tired, and had
better seek some amusement this evening," and bidding me good-bye, he
left me.
I recognized the virtue of his advice and acted on it, for after all
enough had been done for one day.