THE SWEDE
All the others present, as well as the young reporter, looked on with
eager interest as the contents of the pockets were exhibited.
There were a great many articles, but all were just what might be looked
for in the pockets of a well-to-do business man.
Several letters, cards, memoranda and telegrams. The usual knife, bunch
of keys, pencil, watch and money. Also a small pair of folding scissors
and a couple of handkerchiefs.
In a gold locket was a portrait of Mrs. Black, but there was no other
jewelry.
“Perhaps some jewelry was taken,” suggested a juryman, but both Avice and
Mrs. Black were sure that Mr. Trowbridge had on none.
He was wearing a bow tie, and a soft shirt with its own buttons, the
report informed them, so there was no occasion for studs or pin.
The letters were read, as of possible interest. There were two or three
bills for personal matters. There was the letter Judge Hoyt himself had
told of sending to announce his trip to Philadelphia. There was also a
telegram from the Judge in Philadelphia saying,
Peddie agrees. Everything O. K. See you tonight.
Hoyt.
All of these roused little or no interest. Judge Hoyt explained that
Peddie was the man with whom he was making a deal with a real estate
corporation for Mr. Trowbridge, and that the matter had been successfully
put through to a conclusion.
But next was shown a letter so old that it was in worn creases and fairly
dropping apart. It had evidently been carried in the pocket for years.
Gingerly unfolding it, Coroner Berg read a note from Professor Meredith
that was angry, even vituperative. The bone of contention was the
classification of a certain kind of beetle, and the letter implied that
Mr. Trowbridge was ignorant and stubborn in his opinions and his method
of expressing them. There was no threat of any sort, merely a scathing
diatribe of less than a page in length. But it was quite evident that it
had hurt Rowland Trowbridge severely, as its date proved that he had
carried it around for two years.
And there was another old letter. This was from Justice Greer and was a
blast on some old political matter. Here again, a strong enmity was
shown, but nothing that could be construed as an intimation of revenge or
even retaliation.
Still there were the two letters from decided enemies, and they must be
looked into.
Avice, in her own heart, was sure they meant nothing serious. Her uncle
had held these two grudges a long time, but she didn’t think any recent
or desperate matter had ensued.
Some newspaper clippings, most of them concerning Natural History, and a
few elaborate recipes for cooking, completed the collection found in the
pockets.
“Nothing in the least indicative, unless it might be those two old
letters,” commented the coroner.
Pinckney was disappointed. He had hoped for some clue that he could
trace. Like Avice, he thought little of the old letters. Those two
eminent citizens were most unlikely to murder a colleague, or even to
employ a rogue to do it for them. To his mind, there was nothing
enlightening in all the inquest so far. Indeed, he had almost no use for
the Black Hand theory. It didn’t seem convincing to him. He thought
something would yet come out to give them a direction in which to look,
or else the truth would never be discovered.
And then there was a commotion in the hall, and an officer came in
bringing with him a big, husky-looking Swede, and a pale blue-eyed little
woman.
“This is Clem Sandstrom,” the officer informed the coroner. “And this is
his wife. You can get their stories best from them.”
The big foreigner was very ill at ease. He shuffled about, and when told
where to sit, he dropped into the chair with his stolid countenance
expressing an awed fear.
The woman was more composed, but seemed overwhelmed at the unaccustomed
splendor of her surroundings. She gazed at the pictures and statues with
round, wide eyes, and glanced timidly at Avice, as if the girl might
resent her presence there.
“What is your name?” asked Berg of the big Swede.
“Clem Sandstrom, Ay bane a Swede, but Ay bane by America already two
years.”
“Where do you live and what do you do?”
“Ay live up in the Bronnix, and Ay work at the digging.”
“Digging? Where?”
“Any digging Ay can get. Ay bane good digger.”
“Well, never mind the quality of your digging. What do you know of this
murder of Mr. Trowbridge?”
“Last night, Ay bane goon home, through Van Coortlandt Park wood, and Ay
heerd a man groan like he was dying. Ay went to him, and Ay lift his
head, but he was nigh about gone then. Ay try to hold up his head, but it
drop back and he say, a few words and he fall back dead.”
“How did you know he was dead?”
“Ay felt his heart to beat, and it was all still. Ay saw the blood on his
clothes, and Ay know he bane stob. Ay think Italian Black Hander did it.”
“And what did you do then?”
“Ay run away to my home. To my wife. Ay bane afraid the police think Ay
did it.”
“Did you see the police there?”
“Yes. Ay bane wait behind the bushes till they coom. Ay bane afraid of
everything.”
“Oh, after the man died, you waited around there till the police came?”
“Yes. Ay thought Ay must do that. Then Ay saw all the police and the dead
wagon, and Ay waited more till they took the man away. Then Ay ran fast
to my home.”
“What did you take from the body?” Coroner Berg spoke sternly and the
already frightened man trembled in his chair.
“Ay take nothing. Ay would not rob a corp. Nay, that I wouldn’t.”
“And you took nothing away from the place?”
The Swede hesitated. He glanced at his wife, and like an accusing
Nemesis, she nodded her head it him.
“Tell the truth, Clem,” she cried shrilly. “Tell about the strange
bottle.”
“A bottle?” asked the coroner.
“Yes, but it was of no use,” Sandstrom spoke sulkily now. “It was an old
milk bottle.”
“A milk bottle? Then it had nothing to do with the crime.”
“That’s what Ay think. But the wife says to tell. The milk bottle, a pint
one, was much buried in the ground.”
“How did it get in so deeply? Was it put there purposely?”
“Ay tank so. It had in it——” The man made a wry face, as at a
recollection.
“Well, what?”
“Ay don’t know. But it smelled something very _very_ bad. And molasses
too.”
“Molasses in it?”
“Yes, a little down in the bottom of the bottle. Such a queer doings!”
“Have you the bottle?”
“At my home, yes. The wife make me empty the bad stuff out.”
“Why?” and Berg turned to the Swedish woman.
“I think it a poison. I think the bad man kill the good man with a
poison.”
“Well, I don’t think so. I think you two people trumped up this bottle
business yourselves. It’s too ridiculous to be real evidence.”
The jurymen were perplexed. If these Swedes were implicated in the
murder, surely they would not come and give themselves up to justice
voluntarily. Yet, some reasoned that if they were afraid of the police,
they might think it better to come voluntarily than to seem to hide their
connection with it. It is difficult to tell the workings of the
uncultured foreign intellect, and at any rate the story must be
investigated, and the Swedes kept watch of.
Under the coroner’s scrutiny, Sandstrom became more restless than ever.
He shuffled his big feet about and his countenance worked as if in agony.
The woman watched him with solicitude. Apparently, her one thought was to
have him say the right thing.
Once she went over and whispered to him, but he only shook his head.
“Why did you kill the man?” the coroner suddenly shot at the witness as
if to trip him.
Sandstrom looked at him stolidly. “Ay didn’t kill him. Ay bane got na
goon.”
“He wasn’t shot, he was stabbed.”
“Ay bane got na knife. And Ay na kill him. Ay heerd his dyin’ words.” The
Swede looked solemn.
“What were they?” asked the coroner, in the midst of a sudden silence.
“He said, ‘Ay bane murdered! Cain killt me! Wilful murder!’ and wi’ them
words he deed.”
The simple narrative in the faulty English was dramatic and convincing.
The countenance of the stolid foreigner was sad, and it might well be
that he was telling the truth as he had seen and heard it.
Like an anti-climax, then, came an explosive “Gee!” from the back of the
room.
People looked around annoyed, and the coroner rapped on the table in
displeasure.
“You have heard this witness,” he said pompously; “we have no real reason
to disbelieve him. It is clear that Rowland Trowbridge was wilfully
murdered by a dastardly hand, that he lived long enough to tell this, and
to stigmatize as ‘Cain’ the murderer who struck him down.”
“Gee!” came the explosive voice again; but this time in a discreet
whisper.
“Silence!” roared the coroner, “another such disturbance and the culprit
will be expelled from the room.”
There was no further interruption and the inquiry proceeded.
Several employés of Mr. Trowbridge’s office were called. Miss Wilkinson,
the stenographer, was an important young person of the blondine variety,
and made the most of her testimony, which amounted to nothing. She
declared that Mr. Trowbridge had been at his office as usual the day
before and that she had written the average number of letters for him,
none of which were in any way bearing in this case or of any import,
except the regular business of her employer. Mr. Trowbridge, she said,
had left the office about two o’clock, telling her he would not return
that day, and bidding her go home after she had finished her routine
work.
This created a mild sensation. At least, it was established that Mr.
Trowbridge had gone from his office earlier than usual, though this must
have been presupposed, as his body was found miles away from the city at
five o’clock. But nothing further or more definite could Miss Wilkinson
tell, though she was loath to leave the witness stand.
Coroner Berg was disheartened. He had a natural dislike for the “person
or persons unknown” conclusion, and yet, what other one was possible?
Perfunctorily, he called the office boy, who was employed in Mr.
Trowbridge’s private office.
A few of the audience noted that this was the youth who had remarked
“Gee!” with such enthusiasm and gave him a second look for that reason.
“What is your name?”
“Fibsy,—I mean Terence McGuire.”
“Why did you say Fibsy?”
“’Cause that’s what I’m mostly called.”
“Why?”
“’Cause I’m such a liar.”
“This is no time for frivolity, young man; remember you’re a witness.”
“Sure! I know what that means. I ain’t a goin’ to lie now, you bet! I
know what I’m about.”
“Very well, then. What can you tell us of Mr. Trowbridge’s movements
yesterday?”
“A whole heap. I was on the job all day.”
“What did you see or hear?”
“I seen and heard a whole lot. But I guess what’ll interest you most is a
visitor Mr. Trowbridge had in the mornin’.”
“A visitor?”
“Yep. And they come near havin’a fight.”
The audience listened breathlessly. The red-headed, freckle-faced youth,
not more than sixteen, held attention as no other witness had.
It was not because of his heroic presence, or his manly bearing. Indeed,
he was of the shuffling, toe-stubbing type, and by his own admission, he
had gained a nickname by continual and more or less successful lying. But
in spite of that, truth now shone from his blue eyes and human nature is
quick to recognize the signs of honesty.
“Tell about it in your own way,” said the coroner, while the reporter
braced up with new hope.
“Well, Mr. Berg, it was this way. Yest’day mornin’ a guy blew into the
office,——”
“What time?”
“’Bout ’leven, I guess. It was ’bout an hour ’fore eats. Well, he wanted
to see Mr. T. and as he was a feller that didn’t seem to want to be
fooled with, I slips in to Mr. T’s private office an’ I sez, ‘Guy outside
wants to see you.’ ‘Where’s his card?’ says Mr. T. ‘No pasteboards,’ says
I, ‘but he says you’ll be pleased to meet him.’ Well, about now, the guy,
he’s a big one, walks right over me and gets himself into the inner
office. ‘Hello, Uncle Rowly,’ says he, and stands there smilin’. ‘Good
gracious, is this you, Kane?’ says Mr. Trowbridge, kinder half pleased
an’ half mad. ‘Yep,’ says the big feller, and sits down as ca’m as you
please. ‘Whatter you want?’ says Mr. T. ‘Briefly?’ says the guy, lookin’
sharp at him. ‘Yes,’ an’ Mr. T. jest snapped it out. ‘Money,’ says the
guy. ‘I thought so. How much?’ an’ Mr. T. shut his lips together like he
always does when he’s mad. ‘Fifty thousand dollars,’ says Friend Nephew,
without the quiver of an eyelash. ‘Good-morning,’ says uncle s’renely,
But the chap wasn’t fazed. ‘Greeting or farewell?’ says he, smilin’ like.
Then Mr. T. lit into him. ‘A farewell, sir!’ he says, ‘and the last!’ But
Nephew comes up smilin’ once again, already, yet! ‘Oh, say, now, uncle,’
he begins, and then he lays out before Mr. T. the slickest minin’
proposition it was ever my misfortune to listen to, when I didn’t have no
coin to go into it myself! But spiel as beautiful as he would, he
couldn’t raise answerin’ delight on the face of his benefactor-to-be. He
argued an’ he urged an’ he kerjoled, but not a mite could he move him. At
last Mr. Trowbridge, he says, ‘No, Kane, I’ve left you that amount in my
will, or I’ll give it to you if you’ll stay in New York city; but I
_won’t_ give it to you to put in any confounded hole in the ground out
West!’ And no amount of talk changed that idea of Mr. T.’s. Well, was
that nephew mad! Well, _was_ he! Not ragin’ or blusterin’, but just a
white and still sort o’ mad, like he’d staked all and lost. He got up,
with dignerty and he bowed a little mite sarkasterkul, and he says,
‘’Scuse me fer troublin’ you, uncle; but I know of one way to get that
money. I’ll telephone you when I’ve raised it.’ And he walked out, not
chop-fallen, but with a stride like Jack the Giant Killer.”
Fibsy paused, and there was a long silence. The coroner was trying to
digest this new testimony, that might or might not be of extreme
importance.
“What was this man’s name?” he said, at last.
“I don’t remember his full name, sir. Seems ’sif the last name began with
L,—but I wouldn’t say for sure.”
“And his first name?”
“Kane, sir. I heard Mr. Trowbridge call him that a heap of times, sir.”
“Kane!”
“Yes, sir.” And then Fibsy added, in an awed voice, “that’s why I said,
‘Gee’!”
The coroner looked at the expectant audience. “It seems to me,” he began
slowly, “that this evidence of the office boy, if credible or not, must
at least be looked into. While not wishing to leap to unwarranted
conclusions, we must remember that the Swede declared that with his dying
breath, Mr. Trowbridge denounced his murderer as Cain! It must be
ascertained if, instead of the allusion to the first murderer, which we
naturally assumed, he could have meant to designate this nephew, named
Kane. Does any one present know the surname of this nephew?”
There was a stir in the back part of the room, and a man rose and came
forward. He was tall and strong and walked with that free, swinging step,
that suggests to those who know of such things, the memory of alfalfa and
cactus. With shoulders squared and head erect, he approached the coroner
at his table and said “I am Kane Landon, a nephew of the late Rowland
Trowbridge.”