THE VERDICT
SO totally unexpected had been the dénouement that for a few seconds
the spectators sat stunned; then pandemonium broke loose. It was only
after the coroner threatened to clear the rooms that quiet was restored.
“Such violence is unnecessary,” said he, addressing Gordon.
“I--I--beg pardon,” the young officer spoke with an effort. “Your
statement was so utterly unbelievable, so astounding that I forgot
myself.”
“It is absolutely true, and can be proved by Doctor Davis and Detective
Hardy, who was present when the doctor found the ring. Mrs. Trevor’s
hand was so tightly clenched that he had to exert his strength to force
it open. Can you explain its presence there?”
He gazed intently at Gordon, but the latter had his emotions under
control, and his face was expressionless, as he answered with perfect
composure:
“I cannot, sir.”
“Where were you on Wednesday night, last?”
“I dined at the Metropolitan Club with Lieutenant James Raymond. We
went later to the Bachelors’ Cotillion.”
The coroner held a whispered conversation with his clerk, then turned
to the witness.
“Will you kindly withdraw to the waiting room, Mr. Gordon; but don’t
leave the house, as I wish to call you again to the stand.”
Gordon nodded silently to Dick Tillinghast and several other friends as
he left the room.
The next witness was Lieutenant Raymond. His testimony was very brief.
Yes, he and Lieutenant-Commander Gordon had dined together on Wednesday
night. They had left the Club about half past nine as he, Raymond, was
a member of the Committee and had to go early to the New Willard. No,
Mr. Gordon did not accompany him to the hotel; but had left him at the
corner of 17th and H Streets, saying he had to return to his rooms at
the Benedict, but would go to the dance later on. Gordon did not enter
the ballroom until just after supper, which was served at midnight.
“Are you positive of that?” asked the coroner.
“Absolutely positive, because I had to get a temporary partner for Miss
Underhill, who was to have danced the cotillion with Mr. Gordon.”
“How long a time would it take for Mr. Gordon to go from 17th and H
Streets to his apartment?”
“About five minutes.”
“And how long would it take him to get from his apartment at the
Benedict to the New Willard?”
“Seven minutes if he went in the cars, and fifteen minutes if he
walked.”
Lieutenant Raymond was then excused, and after his departure Detective
Hardy was called to the witness chair. He gave a brief résumé of all
that took place after the murder was discovered.
“Did you find any trace of the end of the weapon?” asked the coroner.
“No, sir. I turned the whole place inside out, but could find nothing.
The only clue I had to go upon was the ring which we found in Mrs.
Trevor’s hand. I saw at a glance that it was a naval class ring, so
I at once went to the Navy Department. There I looked through the
register of Annapolis graduates, and found that two men in that class
had the two initials ‘D. G.’--Donald Gordon and Daniel Green. The
latter is stationed at Mare Island, California. That eliminated him, so
I went to Mr. Gordon’s quarters at the Benedict Apartment House.” He
paused.
“Go on,” ordered the coroner. “Tell your story in your own way.”
The jury to a man were leaning across the table, regarding the
detective with deep interest.
“The janitor there is a friend of mine, so he let me into Mr. Gordon’s
apartment, which is on the second floor, with his pass key. I searched
his rooms thoroughly, but could find nothing. Then I went through his
personal belongings. In the inner pocket of his overcoat, I found a few
pieces of a torn note.
“It didn’t take me long to fit the words together. I then pasted them
all on a sheet of note paper. Here, you can see for yourselves.”
He drew out his pocketbook as he spoke, and removed from it a sheet of
paper on which were pasted scraps torn in different shapes, and handed
it to the coroner. After one startled glance, the coroner read the
contents aloud.
“Come--Wedn--half--elev--must--you--for--leav--New Yor--
“HÉLÈNE DE--T--”
Without a word of comment, the coroner handed the paper to the jurymen,
who eagerly scanned it.
“Have you any further evidence to give to the jury?”
“No, sir.”
“That is all, then, Hardy. You are excused. Bayne,” to his clerk,
“recall Mr. Gordon.”
Gordon was walking impatiently up and down the smaller room, eager to
be gone, and he answered the summons with alacrity.
“Mr. Gordon, where were you between the hours of nine thirty P.M. and
midnight on Wednesday last?”
“I decline to state.”
“Tut! We know you called to see Mrs. Trevor at eleven thirty that
night.”
“Indeed, and may I ask who your informant is?”
The coroner paid no attention to the interruption, but went steadily on
with his examination.
“Did Mrs. Trevor admit you?”
Silence.
The coroner repeated his question.
Still no reply.
“Come, sir; you must answer. Yes, or no?”
Gordon stirred uneasily in his chair. “I was in my rooms at the
Benedict until I left to go to the ball,” he said.
“Was anyone with you?”
“No.”
“Did anyone see you leave the Benedict?”
“Not to my knowledge.” Then he added quickly, “At least, there may have
been some of the other tenants around, or perhaps the janitor; I never
noticed in my hurry.”
“Mr. Gordon--” the coroner’s manner was abrupt and stern--“do you
see these pieces?” He took up the sheet from the table. “They are
apparently torn from a letter of Mrs. Trevor’s to you, making an
appointment to see you here on Wednesday night at eleven thirty. These
scraps were found in your overcoat pocket. Again I ask, did Mrs. Trevor
admit you?”
Gordon glanced at the sheet and recognized the handwriting. His mouth
closed in a hard line, and he grew perceptibly paler. He straightened
his broad shoulders, and faced the jury squarely, saying:
“I refuse to incriminate myself.”
In the dead silence the scratching of the stenographer’s pen could be
heard plainly.
“You may retire,” said the coroner.
With perfect self-possession, Gordon left the room.
The coroner’s summing up of the case was short and to the point. As
soon as he finished, the jury left the room to deliberate.
The hands of the ormolu clock on the mantel had gone five times around
its dial, but there was no thinning out of the crowd. The majority
of the spectators had attended the inquest out of friendship for the
Trevors, others had been brought there by morbid curiosity; but none
had expected such an outcome to the investigation. Now, in silence
and nervous apprehension they waited for the return of the jury.
The tension was snapped by their reappearance. The coroner rose and
addressed them.
“Gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a verdict?”
“The jury find,” answered the foreman, “that Mrs. Hélène de Beaupré
Trevor came to her death on the night of Wednesday, February 3rd,
19--, in the City of Washington, District of Columbia, from a wound
inflicted by Lieutenant-Commander Donald Gordon.”