Читать книгу Under Three Flags - Bert Leston Taylor - Страница 8

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For a town the size of Raymond, 3,000-odd inhabitants, the Mansfield County court house is an unusually large and commodious structure. But the spacious room is not nearly adequate to the demands of the pushing crowd that seeks admittance to the inquest that has been summoned by Coroner Lord to sit upon the body of the dead cashier, Roger Hathaway. George Demeritt, the town’s sole day police force, is literally swept off his feet by the surging assemblage, and in less than five minutes after the throwing open of the doors the room is a solid mass of perspiring humanity.

With much difficulty Sheriff Wilson makes a passage for the dozen witnesses under his charge, the crowd gazing, with the sympathetic impudence of an inquest audience, at the statuesque form of Miss Hathaway, heavily veiled, and the bowed figure of President Felton of the Raymond Bank.

The jury selected by Coroner Lord files in from the judges’ room, and after the customary preliminaries the autopsy performed by Drs. Robinson and Dodge is read by the latter. The document, stripped of its verbiage and medical terms, alleges that Roger Hathaway died from a bullet wound, the leaden missile having entered the left breast almost directly over the heart, and that death must have been instantaneous. There were signs of violence on the person of the dead man, a severe contusion on the forehead that might have been inflicted by a blow or might have been caused by the fall to the floor. There were also slight abrasions on the right wrist.

Dr. Dodge states, in reply to an inquiry from the coroner, that Mr. Hathaway had probably been dead an hour when he reached his side. Rigor mortis had not begun.

“Mr. Cyrus Felton.”

There is a craning of necks in the court room as the coroner calls to his feet the aged bank president. Jack Ashley, who is sitting at the lawyers’ table, jotting down a few notes, begins to take a lively interest in the case.

Mr. Felton slowly walks to the witness stand. That he is greatly moved even the least observant in the throng can but notice, and his hand trembles visibly as he replaces his pince-nez and turns to face Coroner Lord.

The usual formal questions as to his acquaintance with the dead man, his connection with the bank, etc., are asked and answered.

“I visited the bank in response to a note which I found when I returned home from my—from the postoffice,” Mr. Felton states.

“The note was from Mr. Hathaway?”

“It was.”

“And its contents?”

“The note merely said: ‘Come to the bank immediately.’”

“Have you the note with you?”

“No; I tore it up,” replies Mr. Felton, and the expression which accompanies his words is noted by Ashley, who is scanning narrowly the countenance of the banker.

“The note had been left at my house a short while before I returned home, my servant tells me,” proceeds Mr. Felton. “I went at once to the bank.” The witness has grown so agitated that he is obliged to seat himself, and his voice is hardly audible in the stilled room.

“The front door was slightly ajar and I walked through the bank to the directors’ room. The door to this apartment was locked; I unlocked it and entered. Mr. Hathaway lay face downward in the middle of the floor, I should think. I thought he might have fallen in a shock and went to lift him up, when I saw the blood. I felt for his pulse, but there was no motion.” The voice of the witness breaks as he utters these words and he covers his face with his handkerchief.

“Were there any evidences of a struggle?” the coroner asks, after a moment.

“Yes. Mr. Hathaway’s office chair was overturned and the directors’ chairs were disarranged. One of the drawers in Mr. Hathaway’s desk had been pulled so far out that it had dropped to the floor and the contents were spilled. A lot of old ledgers that had been piled in the closet were toppled over into the room. I glanced into the closet and then turned my attention to the open vault. I found the cash drawer in the safe withdrawn and empty except for a couple of canvas bags of silver and nickels. I then hastened to find Sheriff Wilson.”

“What hour was it when you entered the bank?” asks Coroner Lord.

“About 8:20 o’clock.”

“And at what time did you notify Sheriff Wilson?”

Mr. Felton hesitates a moment and glances inquiringly at that official. “It did not seem more than a minute that I spent in the bank. But I was so shocked—and I—and I stopped to gather up the papers on the floor—perhaps it was five minutes before I got to the hotel.”

“Did you notice any weapons on the floor of the cashier’s room?”

“No, sir.”

“What amount of money do you estimate was stolen from the safe?”

President Felton debates a moment, as if making a mental calculation, and replies: “At least $37,000 in currency and gold, and some securities. The exact amount of the latter we cannot tell until we have listed our papers.”

“That is all, Mr. Felton.”

A suppressed murmur of intense interest runs around the crowded room as Louise Hathaway takes the witness stand. As she raises the veil that has concealed her features the townspeople marveled at the composure her marble countenance evinces. Ashley glances at her with interest and draws a long breath. “Gad! she’s a beauty,” he decides, and then drops his eyes as they encounter the calm gaze of the witness.

Her father left the house to go to the bank about 6:30 o’clock, Miss Hathaway testifies. Tea was served at 6 o’clock. Her sister Helen had not returned at that time, but at her father’s request they had not waited the tea, because he said he had some work to do at the bank. It was an unusual thing for him to go to the bank evenings, but the illness of the teller had necessitated extra work.

“Miss Hathaway, do you know where your sister is?” The silence in the court room is intense as the coroner asks the question.

“My sister did not return that afternoon,” declares Miss Hathaway, after a brief pause. “I have reason to think that she has gone with Mr. Ames to be married.”

“And you do not know where they now are?”

Miss Hathaway shakes her head, as her fingers clasp and unclasp nervously in her lap. The ordeal is a trying one.

“When did you last see your sister?”

“About 2 o’clock in the afternoon.”

“And when did you last see Mr. Ames?”

A slight flush replaces the pallor for a moment; then as suddenly recedes, leaving her paler than before.

“I have not seen Mr. Ames for a fortnight,” she replies in a tone barely audible.

“Did your sister indicate to you her intention of eloping?” is the next question.

“I had no reason to think that she contemplated a clandestine marriage. But I should prefer not to discuss the matter further, Mr. Lord,” says the witness, in evident agitation. “I am sure Helen’s departure can have no possible connection with—with that awful deed. It was only an unfortunate coincidence that they went away on that afternoon. I—I am sure they will return in due time.”

Coroner Lord glances irresolutely at the state’s attorney, and after a moment’s deliberation permits Miss Hathaway to retire.

Sheriff Wilson, the next witness, describes minutely the appearance of the bank and vault and of the body of the dead cashier.

Sarah Johnson, the maid at Mr. Felton’s residence, testifies that the note referred to by Mr. Felton was left at the house shortly before 8 o’clock by a lad named Jimmie Howe. A few minutes later a stranger inquired for Mr. Felton at the house. There is a slight buzz of excitement among the audience at this first mention of the presence of a stranger in the village on the evening of the tragedy.

“How do you know he was a stranger?” sharply inquires the coroner.

“For the reason that when I asked him which Mr. Felton he wished to see he replied that he did not know there were two Mr. Feltons.” That evidence is conclusive. It is, so far as the audience is concerned.

“He asked where he could find Mr. Felton, and I told him perhaps at his office in the bank building,” continues Sarah.

Miss Johnson is closely questioned as to the demeanor of the stranger, but she knows little of importance, as she had not seen the visitor’s face. He was of medium height, she says, and his voice was pleasant. Sheriff Wilson, who has first learned of this clew, smiles patronizingly upon Ashley and the other newspaper men.

A bright-faced lad of 12 is Jimmie Howe, whom Coroner Lord next calls to the stand. Jimmie was playing on the bridge when Mr. Hathaway called to him from the bank door and asked him to take a note to Mr. Felton and to hurry about it. After he delivered the note he went home.

Prof. George Black, Edward Knapp and three others, who were in Prof. Black’s room in the bank building, testify to hearing a shot about 8 o’clock, but whether before or after that hour they cannot agree.

Alden Heath, the telegraph operator at the depot, stated that some one—he was busy at his key at the time—asked somewhere around 8 o’clock when the next train left. He answered without looking up, and when he did glance at the window the inquirer was gone. It was a strange voice; of that he was positive.

George Kenney, who states that he is the station agent at Ashfield, is next sworn. His testimony establishes the probable fact that Derrick Ames and Helen Hathaway boarded the midnight train for New York.

There is an involuntary but quickly suppressed exclamation from the witnesses. Miss Hathaway is trembling and Ralph Felton, who is sitting near her, is savagely biting his mustache.

As Coroner Lord calls the name of Richard Chase and the stalwart warden of the State prison at Windsor appears on the witness stand there is a hush of expectancy.

“Ernest Stanley, a convict in the Vermont State prison, was released at noon of Memorial Day,” Warden Chase says succinctly. “He asked for and was given a ticket to Raymond, and left on the north-bound afternoon train. He was five feet ten inches in height, of medium build, dark complexion, smooth face, and had closely cropped dark hair. He wore a light tweed suit and a straw hat.”

As Mr. Chase concludes his testimony the coroner consults for a few moments with the state’s attorney and then summons Ralph Felton, son of President Felton, and the bookkeeper of the Wild River Savings Bank.

As the young man steps to the stand Ashley glances at him interestedly, and after a good look decides that he does not like him. There is a certain shiftiness of eye that the New Yorker does not fancy, and the notes which he takes of the witness’ testimony are nearly verbatim.

Young Felton answers in the briefest phrases the questions of the coroner. He had seen no strangers in the bank in the last few days. He had last seen Mr. Hathaway the afternoon before the tragedy, when the bank closed for the day. On the afternoon of Memorial Day—

The witness stops abruptly and a flush overspreads his features as he nervously bites his tawny mustache.

“On the afternoon of Memorial Day,” invites the coroner.

“I was around town as usual,” finishes Felton.

For some reason the momentary hesitation of the witness apparently impresses Mr. Lord, and he seems disposed to make minute inquiry.

“Where did you say you were on the afternoon of Memorial Day?” he again interrogates.

Ralph Felton looks straight at the coroner an instant, and then his gaze wanders over the stilled room and finally rests upon his father, who, roused from the impassive attitude in which he has sunk after completing his own testimony, casts a startled look upon his son.

The sudden hush that has involuntarily accompanied Mr. Lord’s question is intensified, as father and son gaze at each other, apparently oblivious of the unanswered coroner.