THE INQUEST BEGINS
As Avice entered the drawing-room, she seemed to sense only a blur of
faces. It was incredible that this should be the room where she had so
often laughed and danced and sung in thoughtless joyousness of spirit.
She blindly followed Judge Hoyt, and sat where he bade her, quite near
the coroner and his jury.
The jurymen, though solemnly attentive to their duty, could not help
their roving gaze being attracted to the splendor of their surroundings.
The Trowbridge home was the perfection of quiet, old-fashioned elegance.
Often Avice had wanted to introduce more modern furniture and
decorations, but Mr. Trowbridge had firmly denied her requests. And so
the old crystal chandeliers still drooped their festooned prisms and the
massive doors were still of a soft, lusterless black, with fine gilt
outlines of panelling.
Mrs. Black, too, often sighed for modern bric-a-brac and fashionable
window draperies, but the will of the master was law, and the quaint
Sevres vases and heavy hangings remained untouched.
Coroner Berg fairly fluttered with importance. Only lately had he been
appointed to his office, and he assumed a knowing air to hide his lack of
experience. He was naturally acute and shrewd, but his mind just now was
occupied more with the manner than the matter of his procedure. He had
studied well his book of rules, and it was with great dignity that he
called for the police report on the case.
The testimony of the chief of police and the police surgeon set forth the
principal known facts, which were, however, lamentably few. Even the
coroner’s intelligent questions failed to bring out more than the story
of the telephone message, the account of the finding of the body and the
nature of the crime.
“Do you assume the assailant to have been right-handed?” Berg asked of
the surgeon.
“Apparently, yes. But not necessarily so. The blade penetrated the
victim’s left breast, and was most likely dealt by a person standing
directly facing him.”
“Was the thrust directed with an upward slant or downward?”
“Neither. It was just about level. It slanted, however, toward the middle
of the body, from the left side, thus practically proving a right-handed
use of the weapon.”
“Was death instantaneous?”
“Probably not. But it must have occurred very shortly after the blow.”
Doctor Fulton, the family physician, corroborated the report of the
police surgeon in all its essentials.
“Was Mr. Trowbridge in general good health, so far as you know?” asked
the coroner.
“Absolutely. He was strong, hale and hearty, always. I have known him for
years, and he was never seriously ill.”
“And strong?”
“Of average strength.”
“Would you not judge then, he could have resisted this attack?”
“Undoubtedly he tried to do so. There is some indication of a muscular
struggle. But the assumption must be that the assailant was a stronger
man than the victim.”
“How do you explain his contorted features, even in death?”
“By the fact that he was surprised and overpowered, and his dying
struggles were so desperate as to leave their mark.”
“You do not attribute the expression on the dead face to any terrific
mental emotion at the moment of death?”
“It may be so. Indeed, it may be the result of both mental and physical
agony.”
“The point is important,” said the coroner, with an impressive wave of
his hand. “For if mental, it might mean that the man who attacked him was
known to him; while merely physical horror would imply a robber or thug.”
The jurymen wagged their heads wisely at this sapient remark, as if it
opened up a new field of conjecture.
Avice was questioned next.
She was a little startled at the suddenness of the call, but responded
clearly and with an entirely collected manner to all queries.
“You are Mr. Trowbridge’s niece?”
“Yes, the daughter of his younger brother.”
“You make your home here?”
“Yes.”
“How long have you done so?”
“Since childhood. My parents died before I was ten years old.”
“And you are your uncle’s heiress?”
Judge Hoyt looked a little annoyed at the baldness of this question, but
Avice replied, serenely, “To the extent of part of his fortune.”
“Can you tell me any details of the last day of your uncle’s life?”
“Very few. He left home in the morning to go to his business office quite
as usual. He generally returns about five o’clock. When he did not arrive
at that time, I felt anxious, and later, called Judge Hoyt on the
telephone to ask if he had seen or heard of my uncle.”
“Why did you call Judge Hoyt?”
“He was not only my uncle’s lawyer, but his personal friend. They had
business to transact at times, and I thought my uncle might possibly have
gone to see him. When I learned that Judge Hoyt knew nothing of my
uncle’s whereabouts, I asked him to come here, as I felt decidedly uneasy
and wanted some one to confer with in whom I felt confidence.”
“Had Mr. Trowbridge manifested any unusual tendencies or habits of late?”
“None whatever. He has been well, happy and quite as usual in every way.”
“Can you form any opinion or have you any suspicion as to who might have
committed this crime?”
“Absolutely none. But I have an unflinching determination to find out, at
any expense of time, labor or money!”
The girl’s voice rang out in a high, sharp tone, and she clenched her
slender hands until the knuckles showed through the white skin.
“We all have that determination, Miss Trowbridge,” said the coroner, a
little stiffly, and after a few unimportant questions, Avice was
dismissed.
Mrs. Black was called next. This time it was a case of diamond cut
diamond. If the coroner was self-important, he was no more so than his
witness. If he spoke with pomposity she answered with disdain, and if he
was dictatorial she was arrogant.
“You are housekeeper here?” Berg began.
“That is my position, but I was also the fiancée of the late Mr.
Trowbridge and should have been his wife next month, had he lived so
long.”
“Confine your answers, please, to the questions asked.”
“Your question required two statements in reply.”
“You are a beneficiary under the will of Mr. Trowbridge?”
“I have not yet heard the will read.”
“Do you not know?”
“I know only what Mr. Trowbridge himself told me.”
“And that was?”
“That I should inherit a handsome sum, in addition to this house and its
contents.”
“In the event of your being his wife?”
“In the event of his death.”
“Do you know anything further than we have heard of Mr. Trowbridge’s
movements on the day that he met his death?”
“I do,—a little.” Eleanor Black bridled and smiled sadly. The jurymen
gazed in involuntary admiration, for the features of the beautiful
brunette took on an added charm from that slight smile.
“What is it?”
“He telephoned to me about two o’clock, saying he would be home early and
we would go out for a little motor ride. He was very fond of
motoring,—with me.”
The last two words were added in a lower tone that implied a most
romantic attachment between these two.
“He intended to leave his office shortly after noon, then?”
“Possibly it was a little later than two that he called me up. I don’t
remember exactly. But he said he would be home by three or four.”
“And when he did not appear were you not alarmed?”
“No, Mr. Trowbridge was so apt to have unexpected business matters turn
up, that I merely supposed that was the case, and thought nothing strange
of it. Nor was I surprised when he did not appear at six. I felt sure,
then, that some important development in his affairs had kept him down
town so late.”
“Miss Trowbridge was greatly alarmed?”
“Yes.”
The superb indifference of Eleanor Black’s manner showed clearly that it
was a matter of no moment to her if another had been anxious.
“Have you any suspicion as to who could have done this thing?”
The great black eyes of the witness turned slowly toward the coroner. At
the remark about Avice she had looked carelessly in another direction.
“I think not,” she said.
“Are you not sure?”
“What do you mean by suspicion?”
“Do you know of anybody who might have killed Mr. Trowbridge?”
“That’s no question!” Her scorn was marked. “Hundreds of people _might_
have killed him.”
“Do you know of any one, then, who you think would be likely to have done
so?”
“Likely to? Goodness, no.”
“Who possibly did do so, then?”
“Possibly?”
“Yes, possibly. Is there any one whom you can definitely consider a
possible suspect?”
“No; I don’t know of any one.”
The widow was a most provoking witness. She gave an impression of holding
something back, yet her face wore an ingenuous expression and she pouted
a little, as if unfairly addressed.
“You were at home all day yesterday?” the coroner went on.
“Yes, I expected Mr. Trowbridge, so of course I did not go out.”
“Why, Eleanor,” exclaimed Avice, impulsively, “you went out for an hour
soon after luncheon. Don’t you know, I gave you a letter to post?”
“Oh, yes, I forgot that,” and Mrs. Black looked a trifle confused. “I was
sure Mr. Trowbridge wouldn’t get here before three, so I ran out for a
few moments.”
“Where did you go?”
“Oh, nowhere in particular. I only went to get a little air. Just walking
around the adjacent blocks.” She spoke lightly, but her heightened color
and quickened breathing betokened an embarrassment which she strove not
to show, and, too, she cast a glance at Avice that was anything but
friendly.
The coroner seemed unable to think of anything else to ask the witness.
He looked at her thoughtfully, and she returned his glance coolly, but he
questioned her no further just then.
The butler came next, and his testimony was garbled and incoherent. His
emotion frequently overcame him, and he was unable to speak.
At last Judge Hoyt spoke rather sharply to him.
“Brace up, Stryker,” he said. “If you can do a good turn for a master who
was always kind to you, don’t spoil your chance by acting like a baby. If
your betters can control themselves, surely you can.”
With an effort Stryker stopped shuffling about and a few more sniffs
ended his emotional outburst.
“I’m sixty years old,” he said, apologetically, and, apparently, to all
present, “and I’ve been in this same employ for fifteen years. It’s
natural as to how I should feel bad, ain’t it, now, Mr. Coroner?”
“Yes, my man, but it’s also natural that you should try to control your
grief. As Judge Hoyt says, you may render assistance to your late master
by your testimony. Now, tell us all you know of Mr. Trowbridge’s callers
of late, or any little thing that might come to your notice as a butler.
Sometimes you servants have opportunities of observation not known
upstairs.”
“That we have, sir,” and Stryker nodded his head thoughtfully. “Yes, that
we have. But I know nothing, sir, nothing at all, as has a bearing on the
death of the master,—no, sir, not anything.”
“‘Methinks the fellow doth protest too much,’” Pinckney murmured to
himself. The reporter sat, with sharpened pencils, but so far he felt he
had not much to work on in the way of clues. As to getting a story for
his paper, he was more than satisfied. The elements of the fashionable
household, a divided interest between the two women, the mysterious death
of the millionaire, and now, the uncertain evidence of the old butler,
all these would give him enough for a front page spread. But Pinckney
wanted more than that. He wanted food for his detective instinct. He
wanted clues and evidence of a tangible nature, or at least of an
indicative trend. And he had found little so far. Still, he had found
some, and he had tucked away in his mind several speeches and looks,
that, though not emphasized by the coroner, seemed to him to point
somewhere, even if he had no idea where.
Further questions brought nothing definite from Stryker, and he was
succeeded by two of the maids. These frightened creatures were even less
communicative, and it was with a sigh of relief that Coroner Berg gave up
all attempt to learn anything from the household, and called on Judge
Hoyt, feeling sure that now he would, at least, get intelligent
testimony.
The Judge was too well known to be questioned as to his identity and the
coroner proceeded to ask concerning his relations with the deceased.
“Lifelong friends, almost,” replied Hoyt. “We were at college together
and have been more or less associated ever since. Unfortunately, I was
out of town yesterday, or I might know more of Mr. Trowbridge’s
movements. For I had expected to see him at his office, but was prevented
by an unexpected call to Philadelphia. I wrote to Mr. Trowbridge that I
could not see him until evening, and as the Philadelphia matter was
connected with his business, I telegraphed from there that I would call
at his house last evening, and give him my report.”
“And then Miss Trowbridge telephoned you?” observed the coroner, who had
heard this before.
“Yes, and I came right up here, and was here when the police telephoned
of their discovery.”
“Then as you can tell us nothing of yesterday’s events, can you throw any
light on the case by anything you know of Mr. Trowbridge’s affairs in
general? Had he any enemies, or any quarrel of importance?”
“No, I am sure he had no quarrel with any one who would go so far as to
kill him. It seems to me it must have been the work of some of those
Camorra societies.”
“Why would they attack him?”
“Only for purposes of robbery, I should say. But the dagger implies or
may imply an Italian, for American citizens do not go around with such
weapons.”
“That is true. And there may have been robbery of some valuables that we
do not know of. But do you think, Judge Hoyt, that the Camorra is such a
desperate menace? Are not fears of it exaggerated and unfounded?”
“There is a great deal of the real thing, Mr. Berg. When you consider
that there are a million and a half Italians in America and six hundred
thousand of them are in New York City, it is not surprising that many of
their secret societies are represented here. Therefore, it seems to me,
that circumstances point to a crime of this sort, whether for robbery or
whether at the hire of some superior criminal.”
“It is certainly possible that if Mr. Trowbridge was desired dead by some
enemy in his own rank of life, the actual deed might have been committed
by a hired crook, whether of an Italian society or of a New York gang.
And the fact of the information first coming from an Italian woman, gives
plausibility to the foreign theory.”
“It may be, and if so, it may prove a very difficult matter to discover
the truth.”
“You are right, Judge, and so far we have but the slightest shreds of
evidence to work on. The articles found in the pockets of Mr. Trowbridge
give absolutely no clues toward detection.”
At this, Pinckney pricked up his ears. Surely there must be a hint here,
if one were but bright enough to see it.