THE UNKNOWN
WITH a muttered apology, which Ethel but half caught, Julian Barclay
stepped by them and went immediately into the courtroom. The spectators
had thinned out appreciably as the inquest continued, and but a handful
of people heard the Morgue Master’s slightly hoarse voice administer
the oath to Barclay.
“Your full name?” inquired Coroner Penfield as Barclay seated himself
in the witness chair.
“Julian Barclay.”
“Your occupation?”
Barclay’s fingers, which were beating a noiseless tattoo on the side
of his chair, suddenly stiffened, but his voice was tranquil as he
answered the coroner.
“I write,” he said. “And spend most of my time knocking about the world
looking for material.”
“And your legal residence, Mr. Barclay?”
“I have none; I am not a voter,” smiled Barclay. “Sometimes I winter
in Cairo, sometimes in China.”
“And your reasons for being in Washington this winter?”
“I came to visit my cousin, Mrs. Walter Ogden, and her husband. I have
been with them nearly a month now.”
There was a momentary silence as Coroner Penfield sorted the papers on
his desk, then he turned again to Barclay. “At the dinner last night,
Mr. Barclay, were you sitting with your back to the drawing room doors?”
“I was.”
“Can you tell us who first gave the warning that the house was on fire?”
“Yes.” Barclay fingered his watch fob, and crossed his legs. “Yes. It
was the Japanese, Yoshida Ito.”
Penfield, as well as the jury and the reporters, eyed him in surprise.
“A Japanese?” repeated Penfield. “Was he a guest at the dinner?”
“No. He poked his head through the portières before the drawing room
doorway, and shouted ‘Fire.’”
“Is this Yoshida Ito a servant?” asked Penfield, picking up a list of
names from among his papers.
“No.”
“Then if he was neither a guest nor a servant, what was he doing in the
Ogden house?” demanded the coroner sternly.
“I don’t know,” responded Barclay, his bewilderment written in his
expression and gesture. “I found him in the house the night before the
fire, and chased him out.”
“Was this Japanese the burglar of whom Charles, the butler, spoke in
his testimony?”
“I presume so.”
“Do you think this Ito set fire to the house?”
“Such is my theory,” returned Barclay. “He evidently fired the house
with the intention of stealing valuables he could not get the night
before.”
The coroner looked incredulous. “If he set the room on fire with any
such intention, why should he warn Mr. Ogden and his guests?”
“I’m afraid I can’t answer that,” said Barclay slowly. “But you
should recollect that the cleverest criminals are sometimes guilty of
inconsistent actions.”
“I am quite aware of that,” acknowledged the coroner dryly. “Have you
other evidence to bear out your theory?”
“Only that, on rushing to the portières intending to pass through them
into the drawing room, I found the folding doors behind the portières
closed and locked.”
“Locked!” echoed Penfield.
“Yes,” impatiently. “The Jap evidently called his warning, locked us
in, and secreted himself somewhere, intending to remain hidden until
everyone was out of the house--and he could steal at his leisure.”
“With the house on fire?” Penfield concealed a smile behind his hand.
“It does not take long to steal with the coast clear. The fire was on
the second floor, remember,” argued Barclay. “He evidently locked the
drawing room door to force Ogden and his guests to seek egress from the
room by the hall, and thus minimize the risk he ran of being discovered
by a chance encounter, which might have occurred had some of the guests
fled through the drawing room.”
“It is an ingenious theory,” commented Penfield slowly. “Where were you
during the fire?”
“Searching for Ito.”
“And did you find him?”
“No; I could find absolutely no trace of him,” observing Penfield’s
expression, Barclay added hastily, “The Jap saw me, saw that I
recognized him, and, I believe, gave up his well arranged plan and
bolted, escaping unseen in the confusion.”
“That may be so,” Penfield silently contemplated Barclay for a short
moment. “Did anyone else see the Jap?” he inquired more briskly.
“I don’t know; they have not spoken of it to me.”
“Why have you not told all this to Mr. Ogden?”
“For two reasons,” Barclay spoke with deliberation. “Mr. Ogden told me
he had no time to listen to my theories this morning, and I received
notification soon after that I was to testify here this afternoon. I
have not seen Mr. Ogden to talk to in the interval.”
“When did you last see Mr. James Patterson alive?” and the repeatedly
asked question stirred the jury to greater attention.
“In the rush from the dining room into the hall.”
“What, not again?”
“No,” replied Barclay. “I believe Patterson assisted the ladies in
reaching the street, but after opening the front door to admit the
firemen, I rushed into the drawing room and finding no sign of Ito
there unlocked the dining room door, passed through there, thinking the
Jap might be trying to steal the silver, and then rushed upstairs by
the back way.”
“Were you the first to find Mr. Patterson’s body?” inquired Penfield.
“Yes. I stumbled across it as I was coming down from my fruitless
search for Ito.”
“Exactly how was the body lying when you found it?”
“Face down,” answered Barclay, demonstrating with his hands to
illustrate his meaning, “in this position. Not recognizing Patterson,
I turned him partly over to see who it was, and to render what aid I
could. I thought he had been overcome by smoke.”
“You say you did not recognize Patterson at once; was there no light in
the hall?”
“Yes, but the hall was filled with smoke and I could not see clearly.
Secondly,” added Barclay dryly, “one man in a dress suit is very much
like another, and especially when lying on his back.”
“Exactly where did you find Patterson’s body?” Penfield asked, handing
Barclay a photograph of the hall. “This photograph was taken this
morning.”
Barclay studied it with interest. “I found Patterson right here,”
indicating the spot, and Coroner Penfield marked it with his pencil.
“Ah, yes, right under the hall light,” he said. “You say you thought
Patterson overcome by the smoke; did you find no trace of blood from
the bullet wound in his back?”
“I have already explained that I could see but dimly in the
smoke-filled hall,” answered Barclay impatiently. “And Dr. McLane can
tell you that the wound bled superficially.”
The coroner turned again to consult the notes made by the deputy
coroner. “You state that you found Patterson by stumbling over him. Did
you thus accidentally change the position of his body?”
“I think not. Stumble was more a figure of speech. I regret that I
stepped on his hand at first, and the feeling of soft flesh giving
under my weight caused me to drop on my knees, and I found his body
right in front of me.”
“Which way was his head lying?”
“Toward me.”
“Was Patterson holding anything in his hands?” asked Penfield.
“Not a thing.” And Barclay’s gaze did not shift before the coroner’s
penetrating look.
“I think that is all,” announced Penfield. “Stay a moment, are you
quite sure that none of the other guests saw this Japanese, Yoshida
Ito?”
“They did not mention it to me after the fire,” replied Barclay,
pausing at the edge of the platform. “It may not be of any consequence,
but I saw Ito talking to James Patterson before the dinner in front of
the Ogden residence.”
“Indeed?” Penfield regarded Barclay attentively. “And what were
Patterson and Ito discussing?”
“I did not overhear their conversation,” Barclay hesitated. “I only
mention the meeting because you seemed to want corroboration of my
having seen Ito around the Ogden premises, and because----”
“Well?” The interrogation shot from Penfield as Barclay paused.
“Because I was surprised at seeing James Patterson conversing with a
Japanese when I was aware of his well-known animosity to that nation.”
“Did the conversation appear to be of a friendly character?”
“Apparently so. Patterson did most of the talking.”
“And what became of the Japanese?”
“He disappeared up the street.”
“Did Patterson speak of meeting the Japanese on entering the house?”
“Not to me,” Barclay moved restlessly. “We talked of other topics.”
“Just one more question,” Penfield rose. “Did Patterson see Ito when
the Japanese poked his head inside the portières and shouted, ‘Fire’?”
“He might easily have seen him,” exclaimed Barclay. “The drawing room
doorway was directly behind Mrs. Leonard McLane; and Patterson and I
sat on either side of her.”
“So that he could have seen the Japanese as readily as you?” Barclay
nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Barclay, that is all,” and Barclay hastened
from the room. Coroner Penfield leaned over and whispered a few words
to the deputy coroner, and they were still talking when the Morgue
Master showed Leonard McLane to the witness stand and administered the
oath to him.
“Can you tell me, Dr. McLane, if you saw a Japanese, named Yoshida Ito
in the Ogden house last night?” inquired Penfield, having previously
asked him his name, occupation, and length of residence in Washington.
“I don’t believe I did,” answered McLane thoughtfully. “Great confusion
prevailed however, and the smoke was dense at times; men, whom I took
to be firemen, passed me on the staircase and in the upper hall, but I
cannot swear to their identity.”
“Have you ever heard the name of Yoshida Ito before?”
“Yes,” and after a pause, McLane added, “In connection with the
mysterious murder of my cousin, Dwight Tilghman. The inquest at Atlanta
brought a verdict of guilty against him for that crime, but so far, the
Japanese has escaped arrest.”
“Of course.” Penfield colored with mortification. “Ito’s name struck me
as familiar, but I had for the moment forgotten where I had heard it.
“When did you last see James Patterson alive?”
“When he rushed past me in the lower hall. I ran upstairs a few minutes
later, but the smoke was so dense the men about me were like shadows,
and I could not distinguish one from the other.”
“When did you first hear of James Patterson’s death?”
“On my way through the house to open windows. I came across Julian
Barclay bending over a man lying on the floor. He informed me that it
was James Patterson, and that he had been overcome by the smoke.”
“Was Mr. Barclay kneeling by the body when you first saw him?”
“Yes.”
“What was he doing?”
McLane shot a questioning look at the coroner’s expressionless face.
“Barclay appeared to be testing Patterson’s pulse when I reached him,”
he answered.
“How was the body lying?”
“Partly on one side; the head, one hand tossed above it, lay toward the
back stairs, and the feet pointed toward the burning room.”
“Were Patterson’s hands open or closed?”
“Open,” McLane stopped, then continued more slowly. “Judging from his
position I should say that Patterson had first fallen on his knees and
then plunged forward on his face, his hands looked as if he had braced
them to break his fall.”
“Mr. Barclay testified that he had turned the body over to see who it
was,” put in the coroner quickly.
“So he had, but only partly to one side; Patterson’s legs were still
doubled up under him.”
“Was there much blood on Patterson’s clothes and about the floor where
he lay?”
“No, very little; the bullet penetrated a vital point under the
shoulder blade, and the wound bled internally.”
“How long should you say Patterson lived after being shot?”
“Possibly three minutes; not longer.”
“How soon after the extinguishing of the fire did you find Mr. Barclay
bending over Patterson’s body?”
“Almost immediately--say three or four minutes. The whole fire,” added
McLane, “from the time of its discovery until it was extinguished, only
lasted twenty-five minutes.”
“Quick work,” commented the coroner.
“It would have been extinguished quicker but for the discharge of
the cartridges,” explained McLane, “And also it had gained frightful
headway before we awoke to the fact that the house was on fire.”
“Did you find any bullets in the walls, Doctor, and examine them?”
“I pried out several, and also picked up some brass shells.” McLane
took them from his pocket and passed them over to the coroner. “They
are for rifles, and are thirty-eight caliber.”
“Thanks.” Penfield added them to the ones left by Walter Ogden. “You
took charge of Patterson’s body, did you not?”
“I did, until the arrival of the police.”
“Did you turn over Patterson’s personal effects to the police also?”
“I did.”
“Was there a miniature of Miss Ethel Ogden among his belongings?”
“A miniature of Miss Ogden?” repeated McLane, blankly. “No. I gave
Detective Mitchell all I found in Patterson’s pockets; a leather
wallet, a bunch of keys, gold cigarette case, watch and fob. I feel
sure I would have remembered a miniature if it had been with the other
things.”
Penfield scribbled a line and passed the folded note to the Morgue
Master, then he again addressed Leonard McLane.
“We won’t detain you longer, Doctor,” and hardly waiting for McLane
to vacate the chair, he called the deputy coroner to the stand. The
preliminaries were quickly gone through with, and then the coroner took
the witness.
“You performed the autopsy on James Patterson, did you not?” he asked.
“I did; in the presence of the Morgue Master and Dr. Leonard McLane.”
“And what was the cause of death, Dr. Mayo?”
The deputy coroner held up an anatomical chart and traced a line on it
with the reverse end of his pencil.
“James Patterson was struck by a bullet under the shoulder blade which
penetrated a vital point, and he died probably within three to five
minutes of the time he was struck.”
“You probed for the bullet?”
“I did,” Dr. Mayo laid down the chart and took a small piece of lead
from his pocket. “It was shot from a thirty-two revolver.”
The deputy coroner’s words acted as a live wire upon the few reporters
present, while men sitting in the back of the court room, crowded
forward to vacant front seats, eager curiosity stirring each and all.
The deputy coroner’s words promised a sensation, and they did not mean
to miss one word of future proceedings.
“You contend then that James Patterson was killed by a bullet from a
thirty-two caliber revolver, Doctor Mayo?” asked Penfield.
“I do.”
“Thank you, that is all,” and Mayo returned to his desk, while the
Morgue Master took his place in the witness chair and corroborated his
testimony.
“Recall Mr. Walter Ogden,” directed Penfield, as the Morgue Master
stepped down from the platform, and a second later Ogden was once again
in the witness chair.
“Mr. Ogden,” began Penfield. “You testified regarding cartridges for
your rifle; why did you not mention that you also kept cartridges to
fit a thirty-two caliber revolver in your desk in the den?”
“Because I don’t own a revolver,” declared Ogden. “And I had only
thirty-eight caliber rifle cartridges in my desk. I am speaking on
oath,” he added, seeing Penfield’s dubious expression.
“Then probably a revolver cartridge got accidentally slipped among your
rifle cartridges,” suggested the coroner.
“No, it didn’t,” retorted Ogden. “The two unopened boxes contained
thirty-eight caliber rifle cartridges which the shop was late in
delivering, and I did not take them to Maine with me. In fact, my wife
never untied the bundle but placed it just as it came from the shop in
my desk drawer. She is in the next room and can verify my statement.”
“You are excused,” announced Penfield, curtly, and turning, ordered the
Morgue Master to bring in Mrs. Ogden.
Although plainly agitated over her first appearance at an inquest, Mrs.
Ogden was concise in her answers to the coroner’s questions, assuring
him that the package of cartridges had never had the seal on the boxes
broken, and that they had remained for several months in her husband’s
desk, forgotten by both until the unfortunate fire of the night before.
Mrs. Ogden was followed on the stand by Detective Mitchell.
“Did Dr. Leonard McLane turn over to you James Patterson’s personal
effects when you reached the Ogden residence last night?” inquired
Penfield.
“He did, sir, and here they are,” Mitchell took from his pocket a gold
watch and fob, a cigarette case, a bill folder, and a bunch of keys and
handed them to the coroner, who examined each article before passing it
on to the jury.
“Is this all?” he asked.
“Every single article,” declared Mitchell. “Dr. McLane and I searched
Mr. Patterson’s pockets and that was all we found.”
“You are sure a miniature of Miss Ethel Ogden was not among Patterson’s
belongings?”
“I am positive it was not,” stated Mitchell. “I would not have
overlooked a miniature.”
“Did you examine the vicinity where Patterson’s body was found?”
“I did; the body was not moved until after I reached the house.”
“Did you see a miniature lying in the hall?”
“I did not,” Mitchell stroked his chin thoughtfully. “I don’t believe
it could have been carried off if Mr. Patterson dropped it when he
fell, because Dr. McLane stationed firemen at either end of the hall
with instructions to let no one pass until the police arrived. If the
miniature was in the hall either he or I would have found it. These two
firemen are just outside.”
“Wait,” as the detective rose--“Did you examine any of the bullets and
brass shells which were exploded by the fire?”
“I did, sir; they were all thirty-eight caliber, and for use in a
rifle.”
“You found none of thirty-two caliber?”
“None, sir.”
“That is all.” Penfield closed his memorandum book with a snap, and
directed the attendance of the first fireman, who testified that no one
had been permitted in the hall in the neighborhood of Patterson’s body
until it had been removed. He stated that even from the doorway of the
den it had been impossible to see to the end of the back hall. His mate
testified to the same effect, but on Penfield’s persistent questioning,
admitted that he had seen a Japanese, but whether it was down in the
front hall, or upstairs near the burning room he could not recollect.
On the dismissal of the last witness Coroner Penfield arose and
addressed the jury.
“Evidence goes to prove that James Patterson was killed by a bullet
fired from a thirty-two caliber revolver,” he said. “Evidence also
goes to prove that all bullets discharged from the cartridges ignited
by the fire were of thirty-eight caliber and for use in rifles. A
reliable witness has told you of the presence in the Ogden residence of
a Japanese, Yoshida Ito, a fugitive from justice, already charged with
murder.
“These are the facts,” Penfield paused, then resumed. “But in
considering the evidence you must bear in mind that it is within
possibility that a thirty-two caliber revolver cartridge was
accidentally packed in the box of thirty-eight caliber rifle cartridges.
“It is for you, gentlemen of the jury, to decide if James Patterson was
killed by the accidental discharge of a box of thirty-eight caliber
rifle cartridges, which might have contained one thirty-two caliber
revolver cartridge, or whether he was shot by a Japanese burglar
carrying a thirty-two caliber revolver with murderous intent.”
As the coroner ceased speaking the jury filed out of the room, and for
a time nothing was heard but the rustle of paper and scratching of
pens as the reporters hurriedly arranged their copy. At the end of an
hour the jury was back in the room, and signs of past dissensions were
indicated in each man’s flushed countenance as they faced the coroner,
who had risen at their entrance.
“Gentlemen of the jury,” Penfield’s sharp voice broke the stillness.
“What is your verdict?”
“We find,” answered the foreman, and paused to clear his throat. “We
find that Representative James Patterson came to his death in the city
of Washington, in the residence of Walter Ogden, by a bullet fired
from a thirty-two caliber revolver in the hands of a person or persons
unknown.”