MONDAY morning Arthur entered Peixada’s warehouse promptly as the
clock struck ten. Peixada had not yet got down.
Arthur was conducted by a dapper little salesman to an inclosure fenced
off at the rear of the showroom, and bidden to “make himself at
home.” By and by, to kill time, he picked up a directory—the only
literature in sight—and extracted what amusement he could from it, by
hunting out the names of famous people—statesmen, financiers, etc.
The celebrities exhausted, he turned to his own name and to those of
his friends. Among others, he looked for Hart. Of Harts there were
a multitude, but of G. Harts only three—a Gustav, a Gerson, and a
George. George was written down a laborer, Gerson a peddler, Gustav a
barber; none, it was obvious, could be the G. Hart of Beekman Place. In
about half an hour Peixada arrived.
“Ah, good morning,” he said briskly. “Well?”
“I am sorry to bother you so soon again, Mr. Peixada,” said Arthur,
stiffly; “but——”
“Oh, that’s all right,” Peixada interrupted. “Glad to see you.
Sit down. Smoke a cigar.”
“Then,” pursued Arthur, his cigar afire, “having thought the
matter well over——”
“You have concluded—?”
“That your view of the case was correct—that we’re in for a long,
expensive, and delicate piece of business.”
“Not a doubt of it.”
“You see, beforehand it would strike one as the simplest thing in
the world to locate a woman like your sister-in-law. But this case is
peculiar. It’s going on four years that nobody has heard from her.
Clear back in January, 1881, she was somewhere in Vienna. But since then
she’s had the leisure to travel around the world a dozen times. She
may be in Australia, California, Brazil—or not a mile away from us,
here in New York. She may have changed her name. She may have married
again. She may have died.—The point I’m driving at is that you
mustn’t attribute it to a lack of diligence on my part, if we
shouldn’t obtain any satisfactory results for a long while.”
“Oh, certainly not, certainly not,” protested Peixada, making the
words very large, and waving his hand deprecatingly. “I’m a man
of common sense, a business man. I don’t need to be told that it’s
going to be slow work. I knew that. Otherwise I shouldn’t have hired
you. I could have managed it by myself, except that I hadn’t the time
to spare.”
“Well, then,” said Arthur, undismayed by Peixada’s frankness,
“my idea of the tactics to be pursued is to begin with Vienna,
January, ’81, and proceed inch by inch down to the present time. There
are two methods of doing this.”
“Which are——?”
“One is to enlist the services of the United States consuls. I can
write to Vienna, to our consul, and ask him to find out where Mrs.
Peixada went when she left there; then to the consul at the next
place—and so on to the end. But this method is cumbrous and uncertain.
The trail is liable to be lost at any point. At the best, it would
take a long, long time. Besides, the consuls would expect a large
remuneration.”
“Well, the other method?”
“I propose it reluctantly. It is one which, so far as my personal
inclinations are concerned, I should prefer not to take. I—I might
myself go to Vienna and conduct the investigation on the spot.”
“Hum,” reflected Peixada.—After a pause, “That would be still
more expensive,” he said.
“Perhaps.”
“Sure.—It seems to me that there is a third method which you
haven’t thought of.”
“Indeed? What is it?”
“Why not engage the services of an attorney in Vienna, instead of the
consul’s? You can easily get the name of some reliable attorney there.
Then write on, stating the case, and offering a sum in consideration of
which he is to furnish us with the information we want.”
“Yes, I might do that,” Arthur answered, with a mortifying sense
that Peixada’s plan was at once more practical and more promising than
either of those which he had proposed.
“Better try it, anyhow,” his client went on. “Attorney’s fees,
as I chance to know, are low in Austria. Fifty dollars ought to be ample
for a starter. I’ll give you a check for that amount now. You can
exchange it for a draft, after you’ve decided on your man.”
Peixada filled out a check. Arthur took up his hat.
“Oh, àpropos,” said Peixada, without explaining what it was
àpropos of, “I showed you some newspaper clippings about Mrs. P.’.
trial the other day—recollect? Well, I’ve got a scrapbook full of
them in my safe. Suppose you’d find it useful?”
“I don’t know. It could do no harm for me to run it over.”
Peixada touched a bell, gave the requisite orders to the underling who
responded, and said to Arthur, “He’ll fetch it.”
Presently the man returned, bearing a large, square volume, bound in
bluish black leather. Arthur bowed himself out, with the volume under
his arm.
The remainder of the day he passed in procuring the name of a
trustworthy Viennese attorney, drafting a letter to him in English,
and having it translated into German. The attorney’s name was Ulrich.
Arthur inclosed the amount of Peixada’s check in the form of an order
upon an Americo-Austrian banking house. At last, weary, and with his
zeal in Peixada’s cause somewhat abated, he went home.
In the course of the evening he dropped into a concert garden on
Fifty-eighth Street. He had not been seated there a great while before
somebody greeted him with a familiar tap upon the shoulder and an easy
“How are you?” Looking up, he saw Mr. Rimo.
“Ah,” said Arthur, offering his hand, “how do you do? Sit down.”
Mr. Rimo had an odoriferous jonquil in his buttonhole, and carried a
silver-headed Malacca cane. He drew up to the table, lit a cigar with a
wax match, and called for Vichy water.
“Well, Mr. Ripley,” he questioned solicitously, “how are you
getting on?”
“Oh, very well, thanks. I saw your uncle this morning.”
“That so? Any news?”
“You mean about the case? Nothing decisive as yet. It’s hardly time
to expect anything.”
“Oh, no; of course not. I’ll tell you one thing. You’ve got a nice
job before you.”
“Yes, and an odd one.”
“What I was thinking of especially was the lady. She’s a specimen.
Not many like her.”
“It’s to be hoped not. You of course knew her very well?”
“No, I can’t say as I did. I can’t say as I knew her very well.
She wasn’t an easy woman to know. But I’d seen a great deal of her.
It was a mere chance that I didn’t marry her myself. Lucky, wasn’t
I?”
“Why, how was that?”
“Well, it was this way. You see, one evening while she was still Miss
Karon, I called on her. Who should sail in five minutes later but
Uncle Barney? She was right up to the top notch that evening—devilish
handsome, with her black eyes and high color, and as sharp as an IXL
blade. When we left—we left together, the old man and I—when we
left, I was saying to myself, ’By gad, I couldn’t do better. I’ll
propose for her to-morrow.’ Just then he pipes up. ’What is your
opinion of that young lady?’ he asks. ’My opinion?’ says I. ’My
opinion is that she’s a mighty fine gal.’ ’Well, you bet she
is,’ says he; ’and I’m glad you think so, because she’s apt to
be your auntie before a great while.’ ’The devil!’ says I. ’Yes,
sir, says he. ’I’ve made up my mind to marry her. I’m going to
speak to her father about it in the morning.’ Well, of course that
settled my hash. I wasn’t going to gamble against my uncle. Narrow
escape, hey?”
Having concluded this picturesque narrative, Mr. Rimo emptied a bumper
of sparkling Vichy water, with the remark, “Well, here’s to you,”
and applied a second wax match to his cigar, which had gone out while he
was speaking.
“Who were her people?” asked Arthur. “What sort of a family did
she come from?”
“Oh, her family was correct enough. Name was Karon, as you know
already. Her old man was a watch-maker by trade, and kept a shop on
Second Avenue. I guess he did a pretty comfortable business till he got
struck on electricity. He invented some sort of an electric clock, and
sent it to the Centennial at Philadelphia. It took the cake; and
after that Michael Karon was a ruined man. Why? Because after that he
neglected his business, and spent all his time and all the money he
had saved, in fooling around and trying to improve what the Centennial
judges had thought was good enough. He couldn’t let well alone. Result
was he spoiled the clock, and went all to pieces. He was in a desperate
bad way when Uncle Barney stepped up and married his daughter. Hang a
man who’s got an itch for improvement. What I say is, lay on to a good
thing, and then stick to it for all you’re worth.”
“He died shortly after the marriage, didn’t he?”
“Yes—handed in his checks that fall. She had had a tip-top
education; used to give lessons in music, and this, that, and the other
’ology. She was the most knowing creature I ever saw—had no end
of chochmah. Don’t know what chochmah is? Well, that means Jewish
shrewdness; and she held a corner in it, too. But such a temper! Lord,
when she got excited, her eyes were terrible. I can just imagine her
downing the old man. I’ll never forget the way she looked at me one
time.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Oh, there ain’t much to tell—only this. Of course, you know,
it’s the fashion to kiss the bride at her wedding. But I happened to
be on the road at the date of their wedding, and couldn’t get back in
time. I didn’t mean to lose that kiss, just the same. So when I called
on them, after my return, ’Aunt Judith,’ says I, ’when are you
going to liquidate that little debt you owe me?’ ’Owe you?’ says
she, looking surprised. ’I didn’t know I owed you any thing.’
’Why, certainly,’ says I; ’you owe me a kiss:’ She laughed and
shied off and tried to change the subject. ’Come,’ says I, ’stepup
to the captain’s office and settle.’ ’Yes,’ says Uncle Barney,
’kiss your nephew, Judith.’ ’But I don’t want to kiss him,’
says she, beginning to look dark. ’You kiss him,’ says Uncle Barney,
looking darker. And she—she kissed me. But, gad, the way she glared!
Her eyes were just swimming in fire. I swear, it frightened me; and
I’m pretty tough. I don’t want any more kisses of that sort, thank
you. It stung my lips like a hornet.” Mr. Rimo drew a deep breath, and
caressed the knob of his cane with the apple of his chin. “It was an
awful moment,” as they say on the stage, he added.
“Who was that—what was his name?—the second of her victims,”
inquired Arthur.
“Oh, Bolen—Edward Bolen. He was Uncle Barney’s coachman. After
the old boy got married and retired from business, he set up a team, and
undertook to be aristocratic. The theory was that when he and she began
rowing that night, Bolen attempted to step in between them, and that she
just reminded him of his proper place with an ounce of lead. She never
was tried for his murder. I suppose her acquittal in the case of Uncle
Barney made the authorities think it wouldn’t pay to try her again.
Every body said it was an infernal outrage for her to go free; but
between you and me—and mum’s the word—I was real glad of it. Not
that she hadn’t ought to have been punished for shooting her husband.
But to have locked up her confoundedly pretty face out of sight in a
prison—that would have been an infernal outrage, and no mistake. As
for hanging her, they’d never have hanged her, anyhow—not even if
the jury had convicted. But I don’t mean to say that she was innocent.
Sane? Well, you never saw a saner woman. She knew what she was about
better than you and I do now.”
“How do you account for the murder? What motive do you assign?”
“Most everybody said ’money’—claimed that she went deliberately
to work and killed the old man for his money. Some few thought there
must be another man at the bottom of it—that she had a paramour who
put her up to it. But they didn’t know her. She had a hot temper; but
as far as men were concerned, she was as cool as a Roman punch. My own
notion is that she did it in a fit of passion. He irritated her somehow,
and she got mad, and let fire. You see, I recollect the way she glared
at me that time. Savage was no word for it. If she’d had a gun in her
hand, my life wouldn’t have been worth that”—and Mr. Rimo snapped
his fingers.
“I must say, you have contrived to interest me in her. I shall be glad
when I have an opportunity of seeing her with my own eyes.”
“Well, you take my advice. When you’ve found out her whereabouts,
don’t go too close, as they tell the boys at the menagerie. She’s
as vicious as they make them, I don’t deny it. But she’s got a
wonderful fascination about her, notwithstanding, and if she thought it
worth her while, she could wind you around her finger like a hair, and
never know she’d done it. I wish you the best possible luck.”
Mr. Rimo rose, shook hands, moved off.
Arthur’s dreams that night were haunted by a wild, fierce, Medusa-like
woman’s face.
At his office, next morning, the first object that caught his eye was
the black, leather-bound scrapbook that Peixada had given him yesterday.
It lay where he had left it, on his desk. Beginning by listlessly
turning the pages, he gradually became interested in their contents.
I shall have to beg the reader’s attention to an abstract of Mrs.
Peix-ada’s trial, before my story can be completed; and I may as well
do so now.
The prosecution set out logically by establishing the fact of death. A
surgeon testified to all that was essential in this regard. The second
witness was one ’Patrick Martin. I copy his testimony word for word
from the columns of the New York Daily Gazette.
“Mr. Martin,” began the district-attorney, “what is your
business?”
“I am a merchant, sir.”
“And the commodities in which you deal are?
“Ales, wines, and liquors, your honor.
“At retail or wholesale?”
“Both, sir; but mostly retail.”
“Where is your store situated, Mr. Martin?”
“On the southwest corner of Eighty-fifth Street and Ninth Avenue.”
“Was the residence of the deceased, Mr. Bernard Peixada, near to your
place of business?”
“It was, sir—on the next block.”
“What block? How is the block bounded?”
“The block, sir, is bounded by Eighty-fifth and Eighty-sixth Streets,
and Ninth and Tenth Avenues, your honor.”
“Many houses on that block?
“None, your honor; only the house of the deceased. That stands on the
top of a hill, back from the street, with big grounds around it.”
“Had Mr. Peixada lived there long?
“Since the 1st of May, this year.”
“Now, Mr. Martin, do you remember the night of July 30th?”
“Faith, I do, sir; and I’ll not soon forget it.”
“Good. Will you, then, as clearly and as fully as you can, tell the
court and jury all the circumstances that combine to fix the night of
July 30th in your memory? Take your time, speak up loudly, and look
straight at the twelfth juryman.”
“Well, sir, on that night, toward two o’clock the next morning—”
(Laughter among the auditors; speedily repressed by the court
attendants.)
“Don’t be disconcerted, Mr. Martin. On the morning of July 31st?”
“The same, sir. On that morning, at about two o’clock, I was outside
in the street, putting the shutters over the windows of my store. While
I was doing it, your honor, it seemed to me that I heard a noise—very
weak and far away—like as if some one—a woman, or it might be a
child—was crying out. I stopped for a moment, sir, and listened. Sure
enough, I heard a voice—so faint you’d never have known it from the
wind, except by sharpening your ears—I heard a voice, coming down
the hill from the Jew’s house over the way. I couldn’t make out no
words, but it was that thin and screechy that, ’Certain,’ says I to
myself, ’that old felley there is up to some mischief, or my name’s
not Patsy Martin.’ Well, after I had got done with the shutters,
I went into the house by the family entrance, and says I to my wife,
’There’s a woman yelling in the house on the hill,’ says I.
’What of that?’ says she. ’Maybe I’d better go up,’ says I.
’You’d better be after coming to bed and minding your business,’
says she. ’It’s most likely a way them heathen have of amusing
themselves,’ says she. But, ’No,’ says I. ’Some one’s in
distress,’ says I; ’and I guess the best thing I can do will be to
light a lantern and go along up,’ says I. So my wife, your honor, she
lights the lantern for me, and, ’Damminus take ’em,’ says she,
to wish me good luck; and off I started, across the street, through the
gate, and up the wagon-road that leads to Peixada’s house. Meanwhile,
your honor, the screaming had stopped. Never a whisper more did I
hear; and thinks I to myself, ’It was only my imagination,’ thinks
I—when whist! All of a sudden, not two feet away from me, there in the
road, a voice calls out ’Help, help.’ The devil take me, I thought
I’d jump out of my skin for fright, it came so unexpected. But I
raised my lantern all the same, and cast a look around; and there before
me on the ground, I seen an object which, as true as gospel, I took to
be a ghost until I recognized it for Mrs. Peixada—the lady that’s
sitting behind you, sir—the Jew’s wife, herself. There she lay,
kneeling in front of me and when she seen who I was, ’Help, for
God’s sake, help,’ says she, for all the world like a Christian. I
knew right away that something wrong had happened, from her scared face
and big, staring eyes; and besides, her bare feet and the white rag she
wore in the place of a decent dress—”
At this point considerable sensation was created among the audience by
the prosecuting attorney, who, interrupting the witness and addressing
the court, remarked, “Your honor will observe that the prisoner has
covered her face with a veil. This is a piece of theatricalism against
which I must emphatically protest. It is, moreover, the jury’s
prerogative to watch the prisoner’s physiognomy, as the story of her
crime is told.”
Recorder Hewitt ordered the prisoner to remove her veil.
“Go on, Mr. Martin,” said the prosecutor to the witness.
“Well, sir, as I was saying, there I seen Mrs. Peix-ada, half
crouching and half sitting there in the road. And when I got over the
start she gave me, ’Excuse me, ma’am,’ says I, ’but didn’t
I hear you hollering out for help?’ ’Faith, you did,’ says she.
’Well, here I am, ma’am,’ says I; ’and now, will you be kind
enough to inform me what’s the trouble?’ says I. ’The trouble?’
says she. ’The trouble is that there’s two men kilt up at the house,
that’s what’s the trouble,’ says she. ’Kilt?’ says I. ’Yes,
shot,’ says she. ’And who shot them?’ says I. ’Myself,’ says
she. ’Mother o’ God!’ says I. ’Well,’ says she, ’wont you
be after going up to the house and trying to help the poor wretches?’
says she. ’I don’t know but I will,’ says I. And on up the road to
the house I went. The front door, your honor, was open wide, and the
gas blazing at full head within. I ran up the steps and through the
vestibil, and there in the hall I seen that what Mrs. Peixada had said
was the truest word she ever spoke in her life. Old Peixada, he lay
there on one side, as dead as sour beer, with blood all around him; and
on the other side lay Mr. Bolen—whom I knew well, for he was a good
customer of my own, your honor—more dead than the Jew, if one might
say so. I, sir, I just remained long enough to cross myself and whisper,
’God have mercy on them and then off I went to call an officer. On the
way down the hill, I passed Mrs. Peixada again; and this time she was
laying out stiff in the road, with her eyes closed and her mouth open,
like she was in a fit. She had nothing on but that white gown I spoke
of before; and very elegant she looked, your honor, flat there, like a
corpse.”
Again the district-attorney stopped the witness.
“Your honor,” he said, “I must again direct your attention to the
irregular conduct of the prisoner. She has now turned her back to the
jury, and covered her face with her hands. This is merely a method of
evading the injunction which your honor saw fit to impose upon her with
respect to her veil. I must insist upon her displaying her full face to
the jury.”
Mr. Sondheim, of counsel for the defendant: “If the Court please, it
strikes me that my learned brother is really a trifle too exacting. I
can certainly see no objection to my client’s holding her hands to her
face. Considering the painfulness of her situation, it is no more than
natural that she should desire to shield her face. I must beg the Court
to remember that this prisoner is no ordinary criminal, but a lady of
refined and sensitive instincts. A little indulgence, it seems to me, is
due to her on account of her sex.”
The district-attorney: “The prisoner had better understand once for
all that her sex isn’t going to protect her in this prosecution. The
law is no respecter of sex. As for her refined and sensitive instincts,
if she has any, I advise her to put them into her pocket. This jury has
too much good sense to be affected by any exhibition that she may
make for their benefit. I submit the matter to the Court’s good
judgment.”
The recorder: “Madam, you will turn your chair toward the jury, and
keep your face uncovered.”
The district-attorney: “Well, Mr. Martin, what next?”
The witness: “Weil, sir, I hurried along down as fast as ever I could,
and stopped at my own place just long enough to tell my wife what had
happened, and to send her up to Mrs. Peixada with a bottle of spirits
to bring her around. Then I went to the station-house, and informed
the gentleman at the desk of the state of affairs. Him and a couple of
officers came back with me; and they, your honor, took charge of the
premises, and—and that’s all I know about it.”
Martin was not cross-examined. Police Sergeant Riley, succeeding
him, gave an account of the prisoner’s arrest and of her subsequent
demeanor at the station-house. “The lady,” said he, “appeared
to be unable to walk—leastwise, she limped all the way with great
difficulty. We thought she was shamming, and treated her accordingly.
But afterwards it turned out that she had a sprained ankle.” She had
answered the formal questions—name? age? residence?—in full; and to
the inquiry whether she desired to make any statement or remark relative
to the charge preferred against her, had replied, “Nothing, except
that I shot them both—Bernard Peixada and Edward Bolen.” They had
locked her up in the captain’s private room for the rest of the night;
and the following morning she had been transferred to the Tombs.
The next witness was Miss Ann Doyle.
“Miss Doyle, what is your occupation?” asked the district-attorney.
“I am a cook, sir.”
“Have you a situation, at present?”
“I have not, sir.”
“How long have you been idle?”
“Since the 31st of July, sir.”
“Prior to that date where were you employed?”
“In the family of Mr. Peixada, sir.”
“Were you present at Mr. Peixada’s house on the night of July
30th?”
“I was not, sir.”
“Tell us, please, how you came to be absent?”
“Well, sir, just after dinner, along about seven o’clock, Mrs.
Peixada, who was laying abed with a sore foot, she called me to her,
sir, and, ’Ann,’ says she, ’you can have the evening out, and you
needn’t come home till to-morrow morning,’ sir, says she.”
“And you availed yourself of this privilege?”
“Sure, I did, sir. I came home the next morning, sir, in time to get
breakfast, having passed the night at my sister’s; and when I got
there, sir—”
“Never mind about that, Miss Doyle. Now, tell us, was it a customary
thing for Mrs. Peixada to let you go away for the entire night?”
“She never did it before, sir. Of course I had my regular Thursday and
Sunday, but I was always expected to be in the house by ten o’clock,
sir.”
“That will do, Miss Doyle. Miss Katharine Mahoney, take the stand.”
Miss Mahoney described herself as an “upstairs girl,” and said
that she, too, until the date of the murder, had been employed in Mr.
Peixada’s household. To her also, on the evening of July 30th, Mrs.
Peixada had accorded leave of absence for the night.
“So that,” reasoned the district-attorney, “all the servants
were away, by the prisoner’s prearrangement, at the hour of the
perpetration of the crime?”
“Yes, sir; since me and Ann were the only servants they kept. Mr.
Bolen staid behind, to his sorrow.”
In the case of each of these witnesses, the prisoner’s counsel waived
cross-examination, saying, “If the court please, we shall not take
issue on the allegations of fact.”
The prosecution rested, reserving, however, the right to call witnesses
in rebuttal, if need should be. The defense started with a physician,
Dr. Leopold Jetz, of Lexington Avenue, near Fifty-ninth Street.
“Dr. Jetz, how long have you known Mrs. Peix-ada, the prisoner at the
bar?”
“Ever since she was born. I helped to bring her into the world.”
“When did you last attend her professionally?”
“I paid her my last professional visit on the 1st of August, 1878;
eight days before she was married.”
“What was her trouble at that time?”
“General depression of the nervous system. To speak technically,
cerebral anemia, or insufficient nourishment of the brain, complicated
by sacral neuralgia—neuralgia at the base of the spine.”
“Were these ailments of long standing?”
“I was called in on the 29th of May. I treated her consecutively till
August 1st. That would make two months. But she had been suffering
for some time before I was summoned. The troubles had crept upon her
gradually. On the 8th of August she was married. She had just completed
her nineteenth year.”
“Now, doctor, was the condition of Mrs. Peixada’s health, at the
time your treatment was discontinued, such as to predispose her to
insanity?” (Question objected to, on the ground that the witness had
not been produced as an expert, and that his competence to give expert
testimony was not established. Objection overruled.)
“In my opinion,” said Dr. Jetz, “at the time I last saw her
professionally, Mrs. Peixada was in an exceedingly critical condition.
Although evincing no symptoms of insanity proper, her brain was highly
irritated, and her whole nervous system deranged; so that an additional
strain of any kind put upon her, might easily have precipitated acute
mania. I told her father that she was in no wise fit to get married;
but he chose to disregard my advice. I think I may answer your question
affirmatively, and say that her health was such as to predispose her to
insanity.”
By the district attorney: “Doctor, are your sentiments—your personal
sentiments—for the prisoner of a friendly or an unfriendly nature?”
“Decidedly, sir, of a friendly nature.”
“You would be sorry to see her hanged?”
The doctor replied by a gesture.
“Or sent to State Prison?”
“I could not bear to think of it.”
“You would do your utmost—would you not?—to save her from such a
fate?”
“Eagerly, sir, eagerly.”
“That’s sufficient, doctor.”
An alienist of some distinction followed Dr. Jetz. He said that he had
listened attentively to the evidence so far adduced in court, had
read the depositions taken before the magistrate and the coroner, had
conferred at length with the preceding witness, and finally had made a
diagnosis of Mrs. Peixada’s case in her cell at the Tombs. He
believed that, though perfectly sane and responsible at present, she
had “within a brief period suffered from a disturbance of cerebral
function.” There were “indications which led him to infer that
at the time of the homicide she was organically a lunatic.” The
district-attorney took him in hand.
“Doctor, are you the author of a work entitled, ’Pathology of Mind
Popularly Expounded’—published, as I see by the title page, in
1873?”
“I am, sir, yes.”
“Does that book express with tolerable accuracy your views on the
subject of insanity?’
“It does—certainly.”
“Very well. Now, doctor, I will read aloud from Chapter III., page
75. Be good enough to follow.—’It is then a fact that there exists
a borderland between pronounced dementia, or mania, and sound mental
health, in which it is impossible to apply the terms, sane and insane,
with any approach to scientific nicety. Nor is it to be disputed that a
person may have entered this borderland may have departed from the realm
of unimpaired intelligence, and not yet have attained the pandemonium
of complete madness—and withal, retain the faculty of distinguishing
between right and wrong, together with the control of will necessary
to the selection and employment of either. This borderland is a sort of
twilight region in which, though blurred in outline, objects have
not become invisible. Crimes committed by subject? in the state thus
described, can not philosophically be extenuated on the ground of mental
aberration.’—I suppose, doctor, you acknowledge the authorship of
this passage?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And subscribe to its correctness?”
“It expresses the opinion which prevails among the authorities.”
“Well and good. Now, to return to the case at bar, are you willing
to swear that on the night of July 30th, the ’disturbance of cerebral
function’ which, you have told us, Mrs. Peixada was perhaps suffering
from—are you willing to swear that it had progressed beyond this
borderland which you have so clearly elucidated in your book?”
“I am not willing to swear positively. It is my opinion that it
had.”
“You are not willing to swear positively. Then, you are not willing to
swear positively, I take it, that Mrs. Peixada’s crime did not belong
to that category which ’can not philosophically be extenuated on the
ground of mental aberration?’.rdquo;
“Not positively—no, sir.”
“It is your opinion?”
“It is my opinion.”
“How firm?”
“Very firm.”
“So firm, doctor, that if you were on this jury, you would feel bound,
under any and all circumstances, to acquit the prisoner?”
“So firm that I should feel bound to acquit her, unless evidence of a
highly damaging character was forthcoming.”
“Well, suppose that evidence of a highly damaging character was
forthcoming, would you convict?”
“I might.”
“Thanks, doctor. You can go.”
Having thus sought to prove the prisoner’s irresponsibility, the
defense endeavored to establish her fair name. Half-a-dozen ladies and
two or three gentleman attested that they had known her for many
years, and had always found her to be of a peculiarly sweet and gentle
temperament. Not one of them would believe her capable of an act of
violence, unless, at the time of committing it, she was out of her right
mind. As the last of these persons left the stand, Mr. Sondheim said,
“Your honor, our case is in.”
“And a pretty lame case it is,” commented the district-attorney.
“I beg leave to remind the court that it is Friday, and to move for
an adjournment until Monday, in order that the People may have an
opportunity to produce witnesses in rebuttal.” The motion was granted.
On Monday a second alienist, one whose renown quite equaled that of the
first, declared it as his opinion, based upon a personal examination of
the accused, that she was not and never had been in the slightest degree
insane.
“Is Dr. Julius Gunther in court?” called out the district-attorney.
Dr. Gunther elbowed his way to the front, and was sworn.
“Dr. Gunther,” the prosecutor inquired, “you are a physician in
general practice—yes?”
“Yes, sir, I am.”
“You were also, I believe, up to the time of his death, physician to
the family of Mr. Bernard Peixada?”
The doctor nodded affirmatively.
“Did you ever attend the decedent’s wife—Mrs. Peixada—this woman
here—the prisoner at the bar?”
“On the 20th of July last I began to treat her for a sprained ankle. I
called on her every day or two, up to the 30th.”
“You were treating her for a sprained ankle. Did you make any
observation of her general health?”
“Naturally.”
“And you found it?”
“Excellent.”
“How about her mental faculties? Any symptoms of derangement?”
“Not one. I have seldom known a smarter woman. She had an
exceptionally well-balanced mind.”
“That’ll do, doctor,” said the district-attorney. To the other
side, “Want to cross-examine?”
“Is a well-balanced mind, doctor,” asked Mr. Sondheim, “proof
positive of sanity? Is it not possible for one to be perfectly rational
on ordinary topics, and yet liable to attacks of mama when irritated by
some special circumstances?”
“Oh, speaking broadly, I suppose so. But in this particular instance,
no. That woman is no more crazy than you are.”
“Now,” said the prosecutor, “now, as to my lady’s alleged good
character?”
A score of witnesses proceeded to demolish it. Miss Emily Millard had
acted as music teacher to the prisoner when she was a little girl.
Miss Millard related a dozen anecdotes illustrative of the prisoner’s
ungovernable temper. Misses Sophie Dedold, Florentine Worch, and Esther
Steinbaum had gone to school with the prisoner. If their accounts
were to be believed, she was a “flirt,” and a “doubleface.” At
length, Mrs. George Washington Shapiro took the stand.
“Mrs. Shapiro, were you acquainted with Mr. Bernard Peixada, the
decedent?”
“Well acquainted with him—an old friend of his family.”
“And with his wife, the prisoner?
“I made her acquaintance shortly before Mr. Peixada married her. After
that I saw her as often as once a week.”
“Will you please give us your estimate of her character?”
“Bad, very bad. She is false, she is treacherous, but above all, she
is spiteful and ill-humored.”
“For example?”
“Oh, I could give twenty examples.”
“Give one, please.”
“Well, one day I called upon her and found her in tears. ’My
dear,’ said I, ’what are you crying about?’ ’Oh,’ she
answered, ’I wish Bernard Peixada’—she always spoke of her husband
as Bernard Peixada—’I wish Bernard Peixada was dead.’ ’What!’
I remonstrated. ’You wish your husband was dead? You ought not to say
such a thing. What can you mean?’ ’I mean that I hate him,’ she
replied. ’But if you hate him,’ said I, ’if you are unhappy
with him, why don’t you wish that you yourself were dead, instead of
wishing it of him?’ ’Oh,’ she explained, ’I am young. I have
much to live for. He is an old, bad man. It would a good thing all
around, if he were dead.’.rdquo;
“Can you give us the date of this extraordinary conversation?”
“It was some time, I think, in last June; a little more than a month
before she murdered him.”
The efforts of the prisoner’s counsel to break down Mrs. Shapiro’s
testimony were unavailing.
“Mr. Short,” says the Gazette, “now summed up in his most
effective style, dwelling at length upon the prisoner’s youth and
previous good character, and arguing that she could never have committed
the crime in question, except under the sway of an uncontrollable
impulse induced by mental disease. He wept copiously, and succeeded
in bringing tears to the eyes of several jurymen. He was followed by
Assistant-district-attorney Sardick, for the People, who carefully
analyzed the evidence, and showed that it placed the guilt of the
accused beyond the reach of a reasonable doubt. Recorder Hewitt charged
dead against the fair defendant, consuming an hour and a quarter. The
jury thereupon retired; but at the expiration of seventeen minutes
they returned to the court-room, and, much to the surprise of every one
present, announced that they had agreed upon a verdict. The prisoner
was directed to stand up. She was deathly pale; her teeth chattered; her
hands clutched at the railing in front of the clerk’s desk. The formal
questions were put in their due order and with becoming solemnity. A
profound sensation was created among the spectators when the foreman
pronounced the two decisive words, ’Not guilty.’ A vivid crimson
suffused the prisoner’s throat and cheeks, but otherwise her
appearance did not alter. Recorder Hewitt seemed for a moment to
discredit his senses. Then, suddenly straightening up and scowling at
the jury-box, ’You have rendered an outrageous verdict; a verdict
grossly at variance with the evidence,’ he said. ’You are one and
all excused from further service in this tribunal.’ Turning to
Mrs. Peixada, ’As for you, madam,’ he continued, ’you have been
unrighteously acquitted of as heinous a crime as ever woman was guilty
of. Your defense was a sham and a perjury. The ends of justice have been
defeated, because, forsooth, you have a pretty face. You can go free.
But let me counsel you to beware, in the future, how you tamper with
the lives of human beings, better and worthier in every respect than
yourself. I had hoped that it would be my duty and my privilege to
sentence you to a life of hard labor in the prison at Sing Sing, if not
to expiation of your sin upon the gallows. Unfortunately for the public
welfare, and much to my personal regret, I have no alternative but to
commit you to the keeping of your own guilty conscience, trusting that
in time you may, by its action, and by the just horror with which your
fellow-beings will shun your touch, be chastised and chastened. You are
discharged.’ Mrs. Peixada bowed to the court, and left the room on the
arm of her counsel.”
Undramatic and matter-of-fact though it was, Arthur got deeply absorbed
in the perusal of this newspaper report of Mrs. Peixada’s trial.
When the jury returned from their deliberations, it was with breathless
interest that he learned the result; he had forgotten that he already
knew it. As the words “Not guilty” took shape before him, he drew a
genuine sigh of relief. Then, at once recollecting himself, “Bah!”
he cried. “I was actually rejoicing at a miscarriage of justice. I am
weak-minded.” By and by he added, “I wish, though, that I could get
at the true inwardness of the matter—the secret motives that nobody
but the murderess herself could reveal.” For the sake of local color,
he put on his hat and went over to the General Sessions court-room—now
empty and in charge of a single melancholy officer—and tried to
reconstruct the scene, with the aid of his imagination. The recorder
had sat there, on the bench; the jury there; the prisoner there, at the
counsel table. The atmosphere of the court-room was depressing. The four
walls, that had listened to so many tales of sin and unhappiness,
seemed to exude a deadly miasma. This room was reserved for the trial of
criminal causes. How many hearts had here stood still for suspense!
How many wretched secrets had here been uncovered! How many mothers and
wives had wept here! How many guilt-burdened souls had here seen their
last ray of light go out, and the shadows of the prison settle over
them! The very tick-tack of the clock opposite the door sounded
strangely ominous. Looking around him, Arthur felt his own heart grow
cold, as if it had been touched with ice.