The Holladay Case (Detective Story Magazine)/Chapter 4
CHAPTER IV.
I Have an Inspiration.
I stared at the lines in dumb bewilderment. “The man Rogers is lying.” But what conceivable motive could he have for lying? Besides, as I looked at him on the stand, I would have sworn that he was telling the truth, and very much against his will.
“The woman who was with Holladay wore a gown of dark green.”
Who was the writer of the note? How did he know the color of her gown? There was only one possible way he could know—he knew the woman. Plainly, too, he must have been present at the morning hearing. But if he knew so much, why did he not himself come forward? To this, too, there was but one answer—he must be an accomplice.
“Do you wish to summon any witnesses, Mr. Royce?” asked Goldberg again. “I shall be glad to adjourn the hearing until to-morrow, if you do.”
Mr. Royce roused himself with an effort.
“Thank you, sir,” he said. “I may ask you to do that later on. Just at present, I wish to recall Mr. Rogers.”
Rogers was summoned from the witness room. I looked at him attentively, trying to fathom his thoughts, to read behind his eyes; but look as I might, I could see nothing in his face save concern and grief.
I read the note through again—“a gown of dark green”—and suddenly, by a kind of clairvoyance, the solution of the mystery leaped forth from it. I leaned over to my chief, trembling with eagerness.
“Mr. Royce,” I whispered hoarsely, “I believe I've solved the puzzle. Hold Rogers on the stand a few moments until I get back.”
He looked up at me astonished; then nodded, as I seized my hat, and pushed my way through the crowd. Once out side the building, I ran to the nearest dry goods house, then back again to the courtroom. Rogers was still on the stand, but a glance at Mr. Royce told me that he had elicited nothing new.
“You take him, Lester,” he said, as I sat down beside him. “I'm worn out.”
“Mr. Rogers,” I began, “you've been having some trouble with your eyes, haven't you?”
He looked at me in surprise.
“Why, yes, a little,” he said. “Nothing to amount to anything. How did you know?”
“I did not know,” I said, smiling for the first time since I had entered the room. “But I suspected. I have here a number of pieces of cloth of different colors. I should like you to pick out the one that most nearly approximates the color of the gown your visitor wore yesterday afternoon.”
I handed him the bundle of samples, and, as I did so, I saw the district attorney lean forward over his desk with attentive face. The witness looked through the samples slowly, while I watched him with feverish eagerness. Mr. Royce had caught an inkling of my meaning and was watching him, too.
“There's nothing here,” said Rogers, at last, “which seems quite the shade. But this is very near it.”
He held up one of the pieces. With leaping heart, I heard the gasp of astonishment which ran around the room. The jurymen were leaning forward.
“And what is the color of that piece?” I asked.
“Why, dark red. I've stated that already.”
I glanced triumphantly at the medical examiner.
“Doctor,” I said, as calmly as I could, “I think we've found the flaw in the chain. Mr. Rogers is evidently color-blind. As you see, the piece he has selected is a dark green.”
The whole audience seemed to draw a deep breath, and a little clatter of applause ran around the room. I could hear the scratch, scratch of the reporters' pencils. Mr. Royce had me by the hand, and was whispering brokenly in my ear.
“My dear fellow. You're the best of us all; I'll never forget it!”
But Rogers was staring in amazement from me to the cloth in his hand, and back again.
“Green!” he stammered. “Color-blind! Why, that's nonsense! I've never suspected it!”
“That's probable enough,” I assented. “The failing is no doubt a recent one. Most color-blind persons don't know it until their sight is tested. Of course, we shall have an oculist examine you; but I think this evidence is pretty conclusive.”
Doctor Goldberg nodded, and the district attorney settled back in his chair.
“We've no further questions to ask this witness at present,” I continued. “Only I'd like you to preserve this piece of cloth, sir,” and I handed it to Goldberg. He paced it with the other exhibits on his desk, and I sat down again beside my chief. He had regained all his old-time energy and keenness.
“I should like to recall Miss Holladay's maid, if you please,” he said. The girl was summoned, while Rogers stumbled dazedly off to the witness room.
“You're quite sure your mistress wore a dark-red gown yesterday afternoon?” he asked, when the girl was on the stand again.
“Yes, sir; quite sure.”
“It was not dark green? Think carefully, now!”
“I don't have to think! Miss Holladay hasn't any dark-green gown—nor light one, either. She never wears green—she doesn't like it—it doesn't suit her.”
“That will do,” said Mr. Royce, and the girl went back to the witness room without understanding in the least the meaning of the questions. “Now, let us have the office boy again,” he said, and that young worthy was called out.”
“You say you didn't see the face of that woman who left your office yesterday afternoon?”
“No, sir.”
“But you saw her gown?”
“Oh, yes, sir.”
“And what color was it?
“Dark green, sir.”
“That will do,” said our junior, and sank back in his chair with a sigh of relief. The solution had been under our hands in the morning, and we had missed it! “Gentlemen,” he added, as he faced the jury, “I'm ready for your verdict. I wish only to point out that with this one point, the whole case against my client falls to the ground! It was preposterous from the very first!”
He sat down again, and glanced at the medical examiner.
“Gentlemen of the jury,” began Goldberg, “I have merely to remind you that your verdict, whatever it may be, will not finally affect this case. The police authorities will continue their investigations in order that the guilty person may not escape. I conceive that it is not within our province to probe this case further—that may be left to abler and more experienced hands; nor do I think we should inculpate any one so long as there is a reasonable doubt of his guilt. We await your verdict.”
The jury filed slowly out, and I watched them anxiously.
The district attorney came down from his seat and shook hands with both of us.
“That was a great stroke!” he said, with frank admiration. “Whatever made you suspect?”
Mr. Royce handed him the note for answer. He read it through, and stared back at us in astonishment.
“Why,” he began, “who wrote this?”
“That's the note that was delivered to us a while ago,” answered Mr. Royce. “You know as much about it as we do. But it seems to me a pretty important piece of evidence. I turn it over to you.”
“Important!” cried Singleton. “I should say so! Why, gentlemen,” and his eyes were gleaming, “this was written either by an accomplice, or by the woman herself!”
My chief nodded.
“Precisely,” he said. “I'd get on the track of the writer without delay.”
Singleton turned and whispered a few words to a clerk who hurried from the room. Then he motioned to two smooth-faced, well-built men who sat near by, spoke a word to Goldberg, and retired with them into the latter's private office. The reporters crowded about us with congratulations and questions. They scented a mystery. What was the matter with Singleton? What was the new piece of evidence? Was it the noter What was in the note?
“Gentlemen,” said Mr. Royce, “my connection with this affair will end in a very few minutes. For any further information, I must refer you to the district attorney.”
The men whom the district attorney had summoned were two of the cleverest detectives on the force. What did he want with them? Mr. Royce merely shrugged his shoulders. When the district attorney came out, he took in the situation at a glance.
“Gentlemen,” he said, raising his voice, “I can answer no questions. I must request you to resume your seats, or I shall ask the medical examiner to clear the room.”
Then Doctor Goldberg's clerk announced, “The jury is ready to report, sir.”
The jurymen filed back to their seats.
“Have you arrived at a verdict, gentlemen?” asked the medical examiner.
“We have, sir,” answered one of them, and handed a paper to the clerk.
“Is this your verdict, gentlemen? Do you all concur in it?”
They answered in the affirmative as their names were called.
“The clerk will read the verdict,” said Goldberg.
Julius stood up and cleared his throat. Then he read:
We, the jury, impaneled in the case of Hiram W. Holladay, deceased, do find that he came to his death from a stab wound in the neck, inflicted by a penknife in the hand of a person or persons unknown.