The Man of Last Resort/Once in Jeopardy/Chapter 6
VI
ON the night of the seventeenth day of July the judge of the criminal court of McDowell walked into the office of the sheriff. He was in no altruistic mood, this jurist. Since his fortunate political affiliations had thrust him into a high estate his dignity sat upon him heavy as a fog. He had been sent for. It was thoughtlessness approaching near to disrespect. When the tall jurist entered, the crowd in the office of White Carter arose.
“Judge,” drawled the sheriff, coming forward, “you must pardon the centurion for taking this liberty with the tribune, but we were holding a secret war council, and presently required the fountain of law. I am sure you won't mind, Judge.”
The fountain of law flung aside his injured feeling with a wave of his slim hand.
“It is all right, Carter,” he observed. “But why the conclave? Good men should be abed.”
“'Day unto day uttereth speech,'” drawled the sheriff, “and night unto night showeth knowledge. And just here the hurt lies. The boys have been crowding the day and shirking the night turn.”
Then he stepped back by his companions and added: “Young Mr. Huron we will overlook as familiar in your honor's forum. The other gentleman is Mr. Hartmyer Belfast, in the secret service of the New York life insurance companies.”
The judge nodded cordially and sat down by the table. The others also resumed their seats, while the sheriff removed his eye-glasses, placed them carefully on the forefinger of his fat right hand, and began to explain.
“While I was absent, I believe, one Robert Gilmore was indicted here and tried for murder, which trial resulted in a verdict of not guilty, the evidence being insufficient to sustain the charge. It now appears that Gilmore did kill Hirst, and that he can now be convicted with the evidence in the possession of Mr. Belfast and myself.”
The judge elevated his eyebrows, but volunteered no comment.
The sheriff continued. “At the time of Hirst's death I was not quite certain that it was suicide. The coat and vest found on the bridge did not correspond to the trousers and shoes of the deceased, which were the ordinary rough articles worn by the miners. There was no explanation for such dress on the part of Hirst. Later I found a miner's coat at Jim's Ford which corresponded to the other clothing of Hirst. This coat had been tied in a bundle and thrown into the river above—probably at the bridge. Stitched in the lining was a pocket book belonging to Brown Hirst containing some money and a draft on New York, together with a memorandum of a number of life insurance policies. These matters led me to believe that Hirst had planned to secure the insurance on his life by arranging a counterfeit suicide, but by some means the plan had failed after the evidence had been prepared and he had come to a violent death, probably by the hand of another.
“But the matter was involved in mystery, and I deemed it best to retain my conclusions until further developments should appear. I wrote to the various companies with which Hirst was insured, explaining the facts which I had determined. They replied that the matter was in the hands of Hartmyer Belfast, their secret agent, and that I would be advised when the investigation was complete.
“A few days since the companies wired me that Mr. Belfast might be expected to appear in my county at any time, and yesterday he called upon me.”
The sheriff moved a little closer to the table, and the drawl seemed to slip out of his speech.
“It can now be shown that Robert Gilmore came to McDowell for the purpose of assisting Hirst to manufacture evidence of a suicide; that he went with him upon the bridge, and after enticing Hirst to the rail of the bridge, suddenly threw him over into the river. The train men can be produced who saw Gilmore when he arrived and when he departed on the night of the murder. All of this evidence has been carefully prepared. In addition, it can be shown that immediately after his trial, for some mysterious reason Gilmore went directly to Philadelphia and arranged for a conference with the widow of Brown Hirst. Of this Mr. Belfast had notice, and, by request of Mrs. Hirst, he was present, concealed in an adjoining room. This conference between Gilmore and Mrs. Hirst was remarkable. The man was deeply affected, and said that he had come to tell her the entire history of his villainy, because he loved her, had loved her always, and now knew that he could never have her. Whereupon he explained that Hirst and himself had planned to rob the insurance companies; that Hirst's marriage to her was part of the scheme, but that he, Gilmore, had grown to love her, and to regret his action in procuring the marriage, and so frightfully had this grown upon him that finally he had killed Hirst.
“He then explained the minute circumstances of the death, adding that he had been tried and acquitted, and would now leave the country, but that something in his bosom would not rest until he had told her the entire truth. So we have now, I judge, a complete case, together with the confession, which, I am told, will be quite proper evidence, and with such a case there can now be nothing in the way of Gilmore's conviction.”
“Nothing at all,” observed the judge, dryly, “except the Constitution of the United States of America.”
The sheriff sat down suddenly and replaced the eye-glasses on his fat nose.
“You mean,” said the prosecuting attorney, “that the prisoner cannot be put twice in jeopardy for the same offense?”
“Unless,” responded the judge, “the judicial machinery in McDowell can be held exempt from the Constitution of the State and the Constitution of the Federal Government, a conclusion,” he added, with prodigious gravity, “in which I should rather hesitate to concur upon a casual hearing. Having been once properly tried for murder, this man cannot be again tried for the same offense.”
“It has been held,” said the prosecuting attorney, “that where the first trial was procured by the fraud of the prisoner, the case did not come within the provisions of the Constitution.”
“True,” replied the judge, “there is an early case in Virginia, and later cases of record, but the fraud must be gross and apparent. What fraud could be shown here? The indictment was properly found, the trial was regular, no suspicion of conspiracy attaches to the officers of the State, nor can it be shown that even misstatements were made, unless a plain conspiracy can be shown on the part of this detective, John Bartlett.” Then he turned to the secret agent of the life insurance companies. “How about this Bartlett?” he asked.
“So far as I can learn,” replied the detective, “Bartlett made no false statements. He is a member of Loomey's Agency in New York. It is true that he called on Mrs. Hirst and requested permission to investigate the case. What he stated to the prosecuting attorney as facts were facts. Of course, his theory was wrong, and his deductions incorrect; but for these, I presume, he could not be held responsible. I have investigated the matter with care, and while it is extremely probable that this trial was shrewdly procured by Gilmore, yet it has been so skilfully handled that no fraudulent proceeding could be shown on the part of Bartlett, although I am quite certain of his villainy.”
The sheriff rubbed his hands with the bland unction of a Hebrew at a “fire sale.” “Jeb,” he drawled, “I guess you 're it. I guess the thing is all over but the shouting.”
“Well,” responded the prosecutor, “I judge there are others. How about the lamented Jenkins, erstwhile representative of the sheriff of McDowell? Is the young man Absalom safe?”
A faint ripple of merriment spread over the fat face of the sheriff. “Boys,” he mused, “it was a keen flim-flam. Let us quietly disperse, and endeavor to live it down.” Then he added wearily. “It may be good to be good, but it is safer to be smooth.”
The judge arose. “Mr. Gilmore has been tried and acquitted,” he observed. “The record is complete. He cannot be held again to answer for this crime, even though he be pleased to proclaim his guilt from the housetops.”
“Then,” said the detective, with the dreary deliberation of one retiring from a failing cause, “this murderer cannot be punished.”
The dreamy blue eyes of White Carter swam listlessly
“Perhaps,” he drawled, “when the gentleman shall have passed the melancholy flood with that grim ferryman whom poets write of unto the Kingdom of Perpetual Night.”