Mr. Catchuman did not prove by any means to be the one to extract
from Clyde anything more than had either Mason or Smillie. Although
shrewd to a degree in piecing together out of the muddled statements
of another such data as seemed most probable, still he was not so
successful in the realm of the emotions, as was necessary in the case
of Clyde. He was too legal, chilling--unemotional. And in consequence,
after grilling Clyde for four long hours one hot July afternoon, he
was eventually compelled to desist with the feeling that as a plotter
of crime Clyde was probably the most arresting example of feeble and
blundering incapacity he had ever met.
For since Smillie's departure Mason had proceeded to the shores of Big
Bittern with Clyde. And there discovered the tripod and camera. Also
listened to more of Clyde's lies. And as he now explained to Catchuman
that, while Clyde denied owning a camera, nevertheless he had proof
that he did own one and had taken it with him when he left Lycurgus.
Yet when confronted with this fact by Catchuman, as the latter now
noticed, Clyde had nothing to say other than that he had not taken a
camera with him and that the tripod found was not the one belonging to
any camera of his--a lie which so irritated Catchuman that he decided
not to argue with him further.
At the same time, however, Brookhart having instructed him that,
whatever his personal conclusions in regard to Clyde, a lawyer of sorts
was indispensable--the charity, if not the honor, of the Griffiths
being this much involved, the western Griffiths, as Brookhart had
already explained to him, having nothing and not being wanted in
the case anyhow--he decided that he must find one before leaving.
In consequence, and without any knowledge of the local political
situation, he proceeded to the office of Ira Kellogg, president of
the Cataraqui County National Bank, who, although Catchuman did not
know it, was high in the councils of the Democratic organization.
And because of his religious and moral views, this same Kellogg was
already highly incensed and irritated by the crime of which Clyde was
accused. On the other hand, however, because as he well knew this case
was likely to pave the way for an additional Republican sweep at the
approaching primaries, he was not blind to the fact that some reducing
opposition to Mason might not be amiss. Fate seemed too obviously to be
favoring the Republican machine in the person of and crime committed by
Clyde.
For since the discovery of this murder, Mason had been basking in
such publicity and even nation-wide notoriety as had not befallen
any district attorney of this region in years and years. Newspaper
correspondents and reporters and illustrators from such distant cities
as Buffalo, Rochester, Chicago, New York and Boston, were already
arriving as everybody knew or saw, to either interview or make sketches
or take photos of Clyde, Mason, the surviving members of the Alden
family, et cetera, while locally Mason was the recipient of undiluted
praise, even the Democratic voters in the county joining with the
Republicans in assuring each other that Mason was all right, that he
was handling this young murderer in the way that he deserved to be
handled, and that neither the wealth of the Griffiths nor of the family
of that rich girl whom he appeared to have been trying to capture, was
influencing this young tribune of the people in the least. He was a
real attorney. He had not "allowed any grass to grow under his feet,
you bet."
Indeed previous to Catchuman's visit, a coroner's jury had been called,
with Mason attending and directing even, the verdict being that the
dead girl had come to her death through a plot devised and executed
by one Clyde Griffiths who was then and there in the county jail of
Bridgeburg and that he be held to await the verdict of the County Grand
Jury to whom his crime was soon to be presented. And Mason, through
an appeal to the Governor, as all now knew was planning to secure a
special sitting of the Supreme Court, which would naturally involve
an immediate session of the County Grand Jury in order to hear the
evidence and either indict or discharge Clyde. And now, Catchuman
arriving to inquire where he was likely to find a local lawyer of real
ability who could be trusted to erect some sort of a defense for Clyde.
And immediately as an offset to all this there popped into Kellogg's
mind the name and reputation of one Hon. Alvin Belknap, of Belknap and
Jephson, of this same city--an individual who had been twice state
senator, three times Democratic assemblyman from this region, and more
recently looked upon by various Democratic politicians as one who would
be favored with higher honors as soon as it was possible to arrange
an issue which would permit the Democrats to enter into local office.
In fact, only three years before, in a contest with Mason for the
district attorneyship, this same Belknap had run closer to victory
than any other candidate on the Democratic ticket. Indeed, so rounded
a man was he politically that this year he had been slated for that
very county judgeship nomination which Mason had in view. And but for
this sudden and most amazing development in connection with Clyde, it
had been quite generally assumed that Belknap, once nominated, would
be elected. And although Mr. Kellogg did not quite trouble to explain
to Catchuman all the complicated details of this very interesting
political situation, he did explain that Mr. Belknap was a very
exceptional man, almost the ideal one, if one were looking for an
opponent to Mason.
And with this slight introduction, Kellogg now offered personally to
conduct Catchuman to Belknap and Jephson's office, just across the way
in the Bowers Block.
And then knocking at Belknap's door, they were admitted by a brisk,
medium-sized and most engaging-looking man of about forty-eight, whose
gray-blue eyes at once fixed themselves in the mind of Catchuman as
the psychic windows of a decidedly shrewd if not altogether masterful
and broad-gauge man. For Belknap was inclined to carry himself with
an air which all were inclined to respect. He was a college graduate,
and in his youth because of his looks, his means, and his local social
position (his father had been a judge as well as a national senator
from here), he had seen so much of what might be called near-city life
that all those gaucheries as well as sex-inhibitions and sex-longings
which still so greatly troubled and motivated and even marked a man
like Mason had long since been covered with an easy manner and social
understanding which made him fairly capable of grasping any reasonable
moral or social complication which life was prepared to offer.
Indeed he was one who naturally would approach a case such as Clyde's
with less vehemence and fever than did Mason. For once, in his
twentieth year, he himself had been trapped between two girls, with
one of whom he was merely playing while being seriously in love with
the other. And having seduced the first and being confronted with an
engagement or flight, he had chosen flight. But not before laying the
matter before his father, by whom he was advised to take a vacation,
during which time the services of the family doctor were engaged with
the result that for a thousand dollars and expenses necessary to house
the pregnant girl in Utica, the father had finally extricated his son
and made possible his return, and eventual marriage to the other girl.
And therefore, while by no means sympathizing with the more cruel and
drastic phases of Clyde's attempt at escape--as so far charged (never
in all the years of his law practice had he been able to grasp the
psychology of a murderer) still because of the rumored existence and
love influence of a rich girl whose name had not as yet been divulged
he was inclined to suspect that Clyde had been emotionally betrayed or
bewitched. Was he not poor and vain and ambitious? He had heard so: had
even been thinking that he--the local political situation being what it
was might advantageously to himself--and perhaps most disruptingly to
the dreams of Mr. Mason be able to construct a defense--or at least a
series of legal contentions and delays which might make it not so easy
for Mr. Mason to walk away with the county judgeship as he imagined.
Might it not, by brisk, legal moves now--and even in the face of this
rising public sentiment, or because of it,--be possible to ask for a
change of venue--or time to develop new evidence in which case a trial
might not occur before Mr. Mason was out of office. He and his young
and somewhat new associate, Mr. Reuben Jephson, of quite recently the
state of Vermont, had been thinking of it.
And now Mr. Catchuman accompanied by Mr. Kellogg. And thereupon a
conference with Mr. Catchuman and Mr. Kellogg, with the latter arguing
quite politically the wisdom of his undertaking such a defense. And
his own interest in the case being what it was, he was not long in
deciding, after a conference with his younger associate, that he would.
In the long run it could not possibly injure him politically, however
the public might feel about it now.
And then Catchuman having handed over a retainer to Belknap as well as
a letter introducing him to Clyde, Belknap had Jephson call up Mason to
inform him that Belknap & Jephson, as counsel for Samuel Griffiths on
behalf of his nephew, would require of him a detailed written report
of all the charges as well as all the evidence thus far accumulated,
the minutes of the autopsy and the report of the coroner's inquest.
Also information as to whether any appeal for a special term of the
Supreme Court had as yet been acted upon, and if so what judge had been
named to sit, and when and where the Grand Jury would be gathered.
Incidentally, he said, Messrs. Belknap and Jephson, having heard that
Miss Alden's body had been sent to her home for burial, would request
at once a counsel's agreement whereby it might be exhumed in order
that other doctors now to be called by the defense might be permitted
to examine it--a proposition which Mason at once sought to oppose but
finally agreed to rather than submit to an order from a Supreme Court
judge.
These details having been settled, Belknap announced that he was going
over to the jail to see Clyde. It was late and he had had no dinner,
and might get none now, but he wanted to have a "heart to heart" with
this youth, whom Catchuman informed him he would find very difficult.
But Belknap, buoyed up as he was by his opposition to Mason, his
conviction that he was in a good mental state to understand Clyde, was
in a high degree of legal curiosity. The romance and drama of this
crime! What sort of a girl was this Sondra Finchley, of whom he had
already heard through secret channels? And could she by any chance be
brought to Clyde's defense? He had already understood that her name was
not to be mentioned--high politics demanding this. He was really most
eager to talk to this sly and ambitious and futile youth.
However, on reaching the jail, and after showing Sheriff Slack a
letter from Catchuman and asking as a special favor to himself that
he be taken upstairs to some place near Clyde's cell in order that,
unannounced, he might first observe Clyde, he was quietly led to the
second floor and, the outside door leading to the corridor which faced
Clyde's cell being opened for him, allowed to enter there alone. And
then walking to within a few feet of Clyde's cell he was able to view
him--at the moment lying face down on his iron cot, his arms above
his head, a tray of untouched food standing in the aperture, his body
sprawled and limp. For, since Catchuman's departure, and his second
failure to convince any one of his futile and meaningless lies, he was
more despondent than ever. In fact, so low was his condition that he
was actually crying, his shoulders heaving above his silent emotion. At
sight of this, and remembering his own youthful escapades, Belknap now
felt intensely sorry for him. No soulless murderer, as he saw it, would
cry.
Approaching Clyde's cell door, after a pause, he began with: "Come,
come, Clyde! This will never do. You mustn't give up like this. Your
case mayn't be as hopeless as you think. Wouldn't you like to sit up
and talk to a lawyer fellow who thinks he might be able to do something
for you? Belknap is my name--Alvin Belknap. I live right here in
Bridgeburg and I have been sent over by that other fellow who was here
a while ago--Catchuman, wasn't that his name? You didn't get along with
him so very well, did you? Well, I didn't either. He's not our kind, I
guess. But here's a letter from him authorizing me to represent you.
Want to see it?"
He poked it genially and authoritatively through the narrow bars
toward which Clyde, now curious and dubious, approached. For there
was something so whole-hearted and unusual and seemingly sympathetic
and understanding in this man's voice that Clyde took courage. And
without hesitancy, therefore, he took the letter and looked at it, then
returned it with a smile.
"There, I thought so," went on Belknap, most convincingly and pleased
with his effect, which he credited entirely to his own magnetism and
charm. "That's better. I know we're going to get along. I can feel it.
You are going to be able to talk to me as easily and truthfully as you
would to your mother. And without any fear that any word of anything
you ever tell me is going to reach another ear, unless you want it to,
see? For I'm going to be your lawyer, Clyde, if you'll let me, and
you're going to be my client, and we're going to sit down together
tomorrow, or whenever you say so, and you're going to tell me all you
think I ought to know, and I'm going to tell you what I think I ought
to know, and whether I'm going to be able to help you. And I'm going to
prove to you that in every way that you help me, you're only helping
yourself, see? And I'm going to do my damnedest to get you out of this.
Now, how's that, Clyde?"
He smiled most encouragingly and sympathetically--even affectionately.
And Clyde, feeling for the first time since his arrival here that he
had found some one in whom he could possibly confide without danger,
was already thinking it might be best if he should tell this man
all--everything--he could not have said why, quite, but he liked him.
In a quick, if dim way he felt that this man understood and might even
sympathize with him, if he knew all or nearly all. And after Belknap
had detailed how eager this enemy of his--Mason--was to convict him,
and how, if he could but devise a reasonable defense, he was sure he
could delay the case until this man was out of office, Clyde announced
that if he would give him the night to think it all out, to-morrow or
any time he chose to come back, he would tell him all.
And then, the next day Belknap sitting on a stool and munching
chocolate bars, listened while Clyde before him on his iron cot,
poured forth his story--all the details of his life since arriving at
Lycurgus--how and why he had come there, the incident of the slain
child in Kansas City, without, however, mention of the clipping which
he himself had preserved and then forgotten; his meeting with Roberta,
and his desire for her; her pregnancy and how he had sought to get
her out of it--on and on until, she having threatened to expose him,
he had at last, and in great distress and fright, found the item in
_The Times-Union_ and had sought to emulate that in action. But he had
never plotted it personally, as Belknap was to understand. Nor had
he intentionally killed her at the last. No, he had not. Mr. Belknap
must believe that, whatever else he thought. He had never deliberately
struck her. No, no, no! It had been an accident. There had been a
camera, and the tripod reported to have been found by Mason was
unquestionably his tripod. Also, he had hidden it under a log, after
accidentally striking Roberta with the camera and then seeing that
sink under the waters, where no doubt it still was, and with pictures
of himself and Roberta on the film it contained, if they were not
dissolved by the water. But he had not struck her intentionally. No--he
had not. She had approached and he had struck, but not intentionally.
The boat had upset. And then as nearly as he could, he described how
before that he had seemed to be in a trance almost, because having gone
so far he could go no farther.
But in the meantime, Belknap, himself finally wearied and confused by
this strange story, the impossibility as he now saw it of submitting
to, let alone convincing, any ordinary backwoods jury of this region,
of the innocence of these dark and bitter plans and deeds, finally in
great weariness and uncertainty and mental confusion, even, getting up
and placing his hands on Clyde's shoulders, saying: "Well, that'll be
enough of this for to-day, Clyde, I think. I see how you felt and how
it all came about--also I see how tired you are, and I'm mighty glad
you've been able to give me the straight of this, because I know how
hard it's been for you to do it. But I don't want you to talk any more
now. There are going to be other days, and I have a few things I want
to attend to before I take up some of the minor phases of this with you
to-morrow or next day. Just you sleep and rest for the present. You'll
need all you can get for the work both of us will have to do a little
later. But just now, you're not to worry, because there's no need of
it, do you see? I'll get you out of this--or we will--my partner and I.
I have a partner that I'm going to bring around here presently. You'll
like him, too. But there are one or two things that I want you to think
about and stick to--and one of these is that you're not to let anybody
frighten you into anything, because either myself or my partner will
be around here once a day anyhow, and anything you have to say or want
to know you can say or find out from us. Next you're not to talk to
anybody--Mason, the sheriff, these jailers, no one--unless I tell you
to. No one, do you hear! And above all things, don't cry any more. For
if you are as innocent as an angel, or as black as the devil himself,
the worst thing you can do is to cry before any one. The public and
these jail officers don't understand that--they invariably look upon it
as weakness or a confession of guilt. And I don't want them to feel any
such thing about you now, and especially when I know that you're really
not guilty. I know that now. I believe it. See! So keep a stiff upper
lip before Mason and everybody.
"In fact, from now on I want you to try and laugh a little--or at any
rate, smile and pass the time of day with these fellows around here.
There's an old saying in law, you know, that the consciousness of
innocence makes any man calm. Think and look innocent. Don't sit and
brood and look as though you had lost your last friend, because you
haven't. I'm here, and so is my partner, Mr. Jephson. I'll bring him
around here in a day or two, and you're to look and act toward him
exactly as you have toward me. Trust him, because in legal matters he's
even smarter than I am in some ways. And tomorrow I'm going to bring
you a couple of books and some magazines and papers, and I want you to
read them or look at the pictures. They'll help keep your mind off your
troubles."
Clyde achieved a rather feeble smile and nodded his head.
"From now on, too,--I don't know whether you're at all religious--but
whether you are or not, they hold services here in the jail on Sundays,
and I want you to attend 'em regularly--that is, if they ask you to.
For this is a religious community and I want you to make as good an
impression as you can. Never mind what people say or how they look--you
do as I tell you. And if this fellow Mason or any of those fellows
around here get to pestering you any more, send me a note.
"And now I'll be going along, so give me a cheerful smile as I go
out--and another one as I come in. And don't talk, see?"
Then shaking Clyde briskly by the shoulders and slapping him on the
back, he strode out, actually thinking to himself: "But do I really
believe that this fellow is as innocent as he says? Would it be
possible for a fellow to strike a girl like that and not know that he
was doing it intentionally? And then swimming away afterwards, because,
as he says, if he went near her he thought he might drown too. Bad.
Bad! What twelve men are going to believe that? And that bag, those
two hats, that missing suit! And yet he swears he didn't intentionally
strike her. But what about all that planning--the intent--which is
just as bad in the eyes of the law. Is he telling the truth or is he
lying even now--perhaps trying to deceive himself as well as me? And
that camera--we ought to get hold of that before Mason finds it and
introduces it. And that suit. I ought to find that and mention it,
maybe, so as to offset the look of its being hidden--say that we had
it all the time--send it to Lycurgus to be cleaned. But no, no--wait a
minute--I must think about that."
And so on, point by point, while deciding wearily that perhaps it would
be better not to attempt to use Clyde's story at all, but rather to
concoct some other story--this one changed or modified in some way
which would make it appear less cruel or legally murderous.