Halfway House

III The Trial

‘The Mercer County Court House in which Lucy Wilson is about to go on trial for her life, charged with the murder of her husband Joseph Wilson, otherwise Joseph Kent Gimball, prominent New York financier and social luminary,’ wrote the AP man with the flair for statistics, ‘stands on South Broad Street in Trenton near the corner of Market, a weatherbeaten stone structure adjoining the County Jail on Cooper Street where Lucy Wilson lies nursing her strength for the epic struggle to come.

‘The chamber in which her brother, Attorney William Angell of Philadelphia, will begin her legal defense on Monday morning against the accusations of the State of New Jersey lies at the north end of the building on the second floor in Room 207, housing the Court of Common Pleas where murder trials in Mercer County are usually held. It is a deep wide room entered from the rear, with a high ceiling punctured by two sets of square-paneled, frost-glass skylights.

‘The bench from which Justice Ira V. Menander, veteran jurist, will preside is high and wide, almost concealing the tall Judge’s chair. On the wall behind the bench are three doors, one at the extreme right leading to the jury room, one at the extreme left leading to the Bridge of Sighs, and one directly behind the Judge’s chair leading to His Honor’s chambers.

‘To the right of the bench is the witness box and beyond lies the jury box, composed of three rows of four chairs each. Before the bench,’ continued the AP man, warming to his work, ‘there is a narrow space for the court clerks and a large open area in which stand two round tables for the use of the defense and prosecution.

‘The spectators’ section, which consumes the remaining space in the courtroom, is divided in two by an aisle. Each side contains ten long wooden benches in five rows. Since each bench holds from six or seven persons, the capacity of the room is between 120 and 140 spectators.’

Miss Ella Amity, feature writer for the Trenton Times, scorned such dry details. Writing tearfully and copiously in the issue of Sunday, June the twenty-third, she plunged into the heart of matters.

‘Tomorrow morning at 10 o’clock Daylight Saving Time,’ she wrote, ‘a beautiful woman, glowing with youth and life, with a face and figure unspoiled by the dissipations of our hectic times, will be led from the County Jail on Cooper Street across the box-like Bridge of Sighs into a small, bare, grimy vestibule which opens into the courtroom where Mercer County tries its most hardened criminals.

‘She will be shackled to a deputy like a slave-girl of ancient times, to be placed on the block of Justice and sold to the higher bidder — the State of New Jersey in the person of Paul Pollinger, prosecutor of Mercer County, or her devoted and brilliant brother, William Angell of Philadelphia, who is directing her defense.

‘It will be for a jury of her peers to decide whether it was Lucy Wilson, young Philadelphia housewife, who thrust the keen point of a paper-cutter into her husband’s heart, or another woman. It is the opinion of many that Lucy Wilson must be judged by a jury who are truly her peers, or justice will not be done.

‘For it is not Lucy Wilson who is on trial for her life, it is Society. Society, which makes it possible for a man of wealth and position to marry a poor girl of the lower classes in another city under a false name, take ten of the most precious years of her life, and then — when it is too late — decide to tell the truth and confess his hideous sin to her. Society, which makes it possible for such a man to commit bigamy, to have a poor wife in Philadelphia and a rich one in New York, to spend his time calmly between the two wives and the two cities like a commuter. Innocent or guilty, Lucy Wilson is the real victim, not the man who lies buried in a Philadelphia cemetery under the name of Joseph Wilson, not the heiress of millions who took his real name of Gimball in vain at St Andrew’s Cathedral in New York in 1927. Will Society protect Lucy from itself? Will Society make amends for the ten years it took from her life? Will Society see that the crafty forces of wealth and social power do not crush her beneath their cruel heels? These are the questions which Trenton, Philadelphia, New York, the whole nation are asking themselves today.’

Bill Angell grasped the edge of the jury box with such vehemence that his knuckles whitened. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the law gives to the defense the same privilege of announcing in advance and in general terms what it will prove as it gives to the prosecution. You have just heard the prosecutor of your county. I shall not take so long. My learned friend the prosecutor, His Honor the Judge, can tell you that in most instances in trials for murder the defense waives its right to address the jury in advance, because in most instances the defense has something to conceal or must build its case out of the ragged remnants of the prosecution’s case. But this defense has nothing to conceal. This defense addresses you out of a full heart, confident that justice can be done in Mercer County and that justice will be done in Mercer County.

“I have merely this to say. I ask you to forget that I am the brother of this defendant, Lucy Angell Wilson. I ask you to forget that Lucy is a beautiful woman in the prime of her life. I ask you to forget that Joseph Wilson did her the cruelest wrong in the power of any man. I ask you to forget that he was really Joseph Kent Gimball, a man of millions, and that she is Lucy Wilson, a poor loyal woman who comes from just such a walk of life as your worthy selves. I ask you to forget that during the ten peaceful years of their married life, Lucy Wilson did not derive a single penny’s worth of benefit from Joseph Kent Gimball’s millions.

“I would not ask you to forget these things if for the space of a single instant I entertained the most minute doubt of Lucy Wilson’s innocence. If I thought she were guilty I would emphasize these things, play upon your sympathies. But I do not think so. I know Lucy Wilson is not guilty of this crime. And before I am finished, you will know that Lucy Wilson is not guilty of this crime.

“I ask you to remember only that murder is the most serious charge which a civilized State can level against any individual. And, because this is so, I ask you to keep in mind during every moment of this trial that the State must prove Lucy Wilson a red-handed murderess beyond the last faint shadow of a reasonable doubt. His Honor will no doubt charge you that in a circumstantial case, such as this, the State must prove, step by step, without the slightest gap, the movements of the defendant until the very moment of the commission of the crime. There must be no gaps left to guess-work. That is the law of circumstantial evidence, and you must be guided by it. And remember, too, that the burden of proof is wholly upon the State. His Honor will instruct you in this.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, Lucy Wilson asks you to keep this principle constantly in mind. Lucy Wilson wants justice. Her fate lies in your hands. It lies in good hands.”

“I,” said Ella Amity, “want a drink of whatever is in that bottle.”

Ellery did things with cracked ice, soda, and Irish whisky, and passed the red-haired young woman the result. Bill Angell, his coat off and his shirt-sleeves rolled up, shook his head and went to the window of Ellery’s room. The window was open wide; the Trenton night outside was hot and noisy and as turbulent as a carnival.

“Well,” said Ellery, regarding Bill’s silent back, “what do you think?”

“I’ll tell you what I think,” said Ella, crossing her legs and setting down the glass. “I think there’s a large black gentleman in the woodpile here.”

Bill turned sharply. “What makes you say that, Ella?”

The uppermost leg swung in an impatient arc. “Look here, Bill Angell. I know this town and you don’t. Do you think Pollinger’s a complete fool? Give me a butt, somebody.”

Ellery obeyed. “I’m inclined to agree with the press, Bill. Pollinger wasn’t born yesterday.”

Bill frowned. “I’ll admit the man struck me as capable enough. But, damn it all, the facts are there! He simply can’t have anything important which he hasn’t disclosed.”

Ella snuggled deeper into the Stacy-Trent armchair. “Listen to me, you idiot. Paul Pollinger has one of the keenest minds in this State. He was weaned on a lawbook. He knows old Judge Menander the way I know the facts of life. And he’s an expert on juries in this county. Do you think a prosecutor like that would pull such a boner? I’m telling you, Bill — watch your step.”

Bill flushed angrily. “All right, all right. Will you kindly tell me what I can expect this magicián to pull out of his hat? I know this case like the palm of my own hand. Pollinger’s been misled by his own eagerness to get a conviction in a sensational case. It’s been done before, and it always will be.”

“You feel, then,” asked Ellery, “that there’s no chance for a conviction?”

“Not a chance in the world. I tell you this case won’t even go to the jury. The law’s the law in Jersey as anywhere else. When Pollinger rests the State I’ll make the usual motion for dismissal, and I’ll bet you every cent I’ve got that Menander throws the case out then and there.”

The newspaperwoman sighed. “You poor, poor egomaniac. Maybe that’s why I’m wasting all this time and energy on you. Confidence! I adore you, Bill, but there’s a limit even to my patience. You’re playing around with your sister’s life. How the devil can you be so cocksure of yourself?”

Bill stared out the window again. “I’ll tell you,” he said at last. “Neither of you is a lawyer and so you can’t see my point. All you can see is the usual layman’s misconception of circumstantial evidence.”

“It sounds pretty strong to me.”

“It’s weak as hell. What has Pollinger got? A dying declaration, which unfortunately I myself was responsible for bringing to light. This declaration, admittedly made by the victim in the full knowledge that he was dying — an important point legally — accused a veiled woman of stabbing him. He has the treads of the tires of a Ford car in the dirt before the scene of the crime. I’ll even grant for the sake of argument that he can make out a positive expert’s identification of Lucy’s Ford as the one which made those tire marks. So what? Her car was used by the criminal. In her car was found a veil — not even hers; I know it isn’t hers, because she’s never worn or had a veil. So he can’t possibly prove it’s hers. He has, then, her car used by the criminal, who was a veiled woman. Possibly he has someone who can testify to seeing this veiled woman in the Ford near the scene of the crime. But whoever the witness is, he can’t conceivably identify Lucy as the woman in the Ford. Even if he lies, or testifies to a positive identification under a mistaken impression, it will be child’s play to break down his credibility. The mere fact that a veil was worn makes positive identification in the legal sense an incredibility.”

“She has no alibi,” pointed out Ellery, “and a theoretical double motive of uncomfortable potency.”

“All embroidery.” Bill’s tone was savage. “We don’t need an alibi, legally speaking. Even at that, though, I’m in hopes that I can get the cashier of the Fox theatre to identify her. At any rate, that’s the extent of his case. And will you tell me, please, where in this set of facts there is anywhere the slightest implication of Lucy in person? You don’t know the law. Circumstantial evidence strong enough to convict must place the accused at the scene of the crime, above all other evidence. You tell me how Pollinger’s going to prove that Lucy Wilson, herself, in the flesh, was in that shack on the night of June first!”

“Her car—” began Ella.

“Rats. Her car doesn’t put her there. Anybody could have stolen her car. As a matter of fact, that’s what happened.”

“But the inference—”

“The law doesn’t countenance such inferences. Even if Pollinger produced an article of her clothing in that shack — a handkerchief, a glove, anything — that wouldn’t be proof she was there. I mean proof within the rules of circumstantial evidence.”

“Well, don’t throw a fit over it, Bill,” sighed the red-haired woman. “It sounds good the way you put it, but...” She frowned and, picking up her glass, took a long drink.

Bill’s face softened. He went to her and seized her free hand. “I want to thank you, Ella — I haven’t had a chance before. Don’t think I’m ungrateful. You’ve been a pillar of strength, and your newspaper articles have unquestionably swayed public opinion. I’m damned glad you’re on our side.”

“Hey, that’s my job,” she said lightly, but her smile was tender. “I don’t believe Lucy knifed that ape. All’s fair in love and murder trials, isn’t it? And the class-angle on this case was too tempting... I hate the guts of that Park Avenue crowd, anyway.” She pulled her hand free.

“So,” murmured Ellery, “does Bill.”

“Now listen—” began Bill. “Just because I recognize a certain human balance doesn’t mean...” He stopped, flushing.

Ella Amity glanced at him with raised brows. “Aha,” she said. “Snoop Scents Romance. What’s this, Bill — another case of the Montagues and the Capulets?”

“Don’t be silly,” he snapped. “You two have the most annoying faculty for making mountains out of molehills! The girl’s engaged to be married. Hell, she’s ‘way out of my class. I’m just...”

Ella’s left eyelid drooped at Ellery. Bill champed his jaws in a helpless fury and turned away. Ella rose and refilled her glass. None of them spoke for a long time.

In the jammed courtroom Paul Pollinger launched the State’s case with a fanged rapidity, as cold and sure as if the trial were an inconsequential formality to the fore-ordained conviction. Even though the tall windows and skylights were open and the electric fans going, the room was suffocating with the heat of packed bodies. Pollinger’s collar was a rag, and Bill’s face steamed. Only Lucy Wilson’s at the defense table, flanked by two hard-eyed State troopers, seemed impervious to the heat. Her skin was dry and pallid, as if already the vital processes of perspiration had ceased. She sat stiffly, her hands in her lap, staring at the seamed face of Judge Menander and avoiding the embarrassed glances of the mixed jury.

‘By the end of the first day,’ typed the cross-eyed reporter from the Philadelphia Ledger, ‘Prosecutor Pollinger demonstrated once more in a murder trial his genius for lightning construction of vital elements. Mr. Pollinger built his case rapidly. During the day he put on the witness-stand Coroner Hiram O’Dell, Defense Counsel William Angell, Chief of Police De Jong, Grosvenor Finch of New York, John Sellers, Arthur Pinetti, Sergeant Hannigan, and Lieutenant Donald Fairchild of the New York Police Department. Through the testimony of these witnesses he succeeded in establishing an insurance motive against the defendant, primary facts concerning the discovery of the body, and a number of important exhibits, including the broken halves of the radiator-cap alleged to come from the defendant’s Ford coupé. In the opinion of trained observers Mr. Pollinger scored a damaging blow when he was able, over the constant hecklings and objections of Mr. Angell, to inject into the record the testimony of his experts concerning the all-important Firestone tire prints in the mud before the shack where Joseph Kent Wilson was stabbed to death. The entire afternoon was consumed by the direct testimony and cross-examination of Sergeant Thomas Hannigan of the Trenton police, who first examined the tire impressions, of Chief De Jong, who found the Ford coupé alleged to belong to Mrs. Wilson, and of Lieutenant Fairchild. Lieutenant Fairchild is a recognized authority on the science of automobile-tire identification.’

‘On the stand,’ clicked out the telegrapher in the press-room, continuing his transmission of the Ledger man’s story, ‘Lieutenant Fairchild resisted all Mr. Angell’s savage attempts to cast doubt upon his findings, substantiating to the last detail Sergeant Hannigan’s testimony. The New York expert compared photographs and plaster casts of the tire prints from the roadway with the actual tires of Mrs. Wilson’s Ford, exhibited in the courtroom by the State.

‘“In the case of worn automobile tires,” testified Lieutenant Fairchild in summing up his findings, “it is possible to make as positive identification as in the case of human fingerprints. No two tires which have seen service for any length of time will be found to leave the same impressions in a plastic surface. These Firestones are several years old and their treads are scarred and gashed. I have carefully run the defendant’s car over the driveway before the scene of the crime, under conditions exactly similar to those on the night of the murder. I found that these tires left scar-prints, gash-prints, worn areas and so on identical with those in these plaster casts.”

‘“And your conclusion from this, Lieutenant?” asked Mr. Pollinger.

‘“In my opinion there is no doubt whatever that the impressions from which these photographs and casts have been taken were made by the four tires in evidence.”

‘An attempt by Defense Counsel Angell to insinuate that the “four tires in evidence” were not the tires from Mrs. Wilson’s car but had been deliberately substituted by the police was effectually resisted by Mr. Pollinger in re-direct examination.’

“No fireworks yet,” said Bill Angell to Ellery on the evening of the third day. They were in Bill’s room at the Stacy-Trent. Bill was in his undershirt, bathing his cheeks in cold water. “Whew! Have a drink, Ellery. Soda’s on the dresser. Ginger ale, if you like.”

Ellery sat down with a groan; his linen suit was crumpled and his face was caked with dust. “No, thanks. I just had a couple of exquisitely lousy lime concoctions downstairs. What’s happened?”

Bill picked up a towel. “The usual. To tell the truth, I’m getting a little worried myself. Pollinger can’t conceivably hope to get a conviction on the case he’s presenting. He hasn’t connected Lucy at all. Where’ve you been all day?”

“Gadding about.”

Bill flung the towel away and pulled on a fresh shirt. “Oh,” he said. He seemed vaguely disappointed. “Decent of you to come back at all. I know this mess must be cutting into your own plans.”

“You don’t understand,” sighed Ellery. “I went to New York on a little inquiry for you.”

“El! What?”

Ellery reached over and picked up a thick sheaf of mimeographed papers. They constituted the official transcript of the day’s testimony. “Chiefly nothing. I had an idea, but it didn’t pan out. Mind if I go through this transcript? I want to know what’s happened in my absence.”

Bill nodded gloomily, finished dressing, and left; Ellery was already intent on the transcript. He took the elevator up to the seventh floor and knocked on the door numbered 745. It was opened by Andrea Gimball.

They were both embarrassed, and for a moment Bill’s complexion matched the pallor of the girl’s skin. She was dressed in a simple frock with a high neck, caught at the throat by a pearl clasp; the effect was severe, and for an unguarded instant it flashed through Bill’s mind that Andrea was suffering. There were alarming circles about her blue eyes and she looked peaked and ill. Her slender form drooped against the jamb. “Bill Angell,” she said, with a catch in her throat. “This is a — a surprise. Won’t you come in?”

“Come in, Bill, come in,” yelled Ella Amity’s voice from within. “Make this a real party!”

Bill frowned, but he stepped into the room. It was a sitting-room filled with fresh flowers, and Ella Amity sprawled in the most capacious chair with a glass at her elbow and a cigaret between her fingers. Tall Burke Jones glowered at him from a window-ledge, his trussed arm jutting forward like a danger-signal.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Bill, stopping short. “I’ll come around some other time, Miss Gimball.”

“What’s this,” said Jones, “a social call? I thought you fellows stayed on the other side of the fence.”

“My business,” said Bill stiffly, “is with Miss Gimball.”

“You’re with friends,” said Andrea with a wan smile. “Please sit down, Mr. Angell. I haven’t had the opportunity of... well, it’s been a little awkward, hasn’t it?”

“Hasn’t it?” said Bill foolishly, sitting down and wondering why he had done so. “What are you doing here, Ella?”

“Little Ella’s on the trail. Seeing how the other half lives. Get a story, maybe. Miss Gimball has been sweet, but Mr. Jones thinks I’m a spy, so it’s just perfect.” The newspaperwoman chuckled.

Jones rose from the ledge with an impatient movement of his muscular body. “Why the devil don’t you people let us alone?” he growled. “Bad enough we’ve got to stay down here in this filthy hole.”

Andrea glanced at her hands. “I wonder... Burke, do you mind?”

“Mind? Mind? Why should I mind?” He strode to an inner door, jerked it open, and slammed it behind him.

“Naughty, naughty,” murmured Ella. “Boy-friend has a temper. That lad will need a heap of training, darling. In fact, I think he’s a heel.” She rose lazily, drained her glass, gave them both a bewitching smile, and drifted out.

Bill and Andrea sat in silence for a moment. The silence became oppressive. They did not look at each other. Then Bill cleared his throat and said, “Don’t mind Ella, Miss Gimball. She means well. You know how these newspaper people are...”

“I don’t mind, really.” Andrea kept studying her hands. “You wanted—?”

Bill rose and jammed his hands into his pockets. “I know this is rotten for both of us,” he said, scowling. “Jones is right. We are on opposite sides of the fence. I shouldn’t be here at all.”

“Why not?” murmured Andrea. Her hands strayed to her hair.

“Well... It’s not proper. I shouldn’t permit—”

“Yes?” She looked at him then, squarely.

Bill kicked a chair. “All right, I’ll say it. Personal considerations. Can’t be locked up for telling the truth. I suppose I like you. Damned fool to... I didn’t mean that. I mean that my sister is fighting for her life. I’ve got to use any weapon that comes to hand. As a matter of fact, that’s just what I’ll probably be forced to do.”

She went a little pale, and moistened her lips before she spoke. “Please tell me. There’s something on your mind. It isn’t—”

Bill sat down again and boldly took one of her hands. “Listen to me, Andrea. I came here tonight against all my instincts and training because I — well, I didn’t want you to be sore at me. After.” He drew a long breath. “Andrea, I may have to put you on the stand.”

She snatched her hand away as if it burned. “Bill! You wouldn’t!”

He passed his hands over his eyes. “The situation may demand it. Please try to understand my position. It’s Lucy’s attorney speaking now, not plain Bill Angell. Pollinger’s not far from through. On the basis of what he’s already shown, he hasn’t a case. But before he rests, he may pull something which will completely change the complexion of things. In that event, I’ll be forced to go through with the defense.”

“But what has that to do with me?” she whispered. He did not see, as he doggedly studied the rug, the terror in her eyes.

“The defense here, as in so many murder cases, is negative. It must consist in confusing the issue. It must try to put into the minds of the jury as many doubts as possible. Now, there’s no question in my mind that Pollinger knows perfectly well you visited the scene of the crime simply from having traced the Cadillac. I don’t know whether he’s talked to you about it or not.” He paused, but she did not answer. “Naturally, he wouldn’t put you on the stand. It could only hurt the State’s case.” He tried to take her hand again, but could not. “But don’t you see that if it hurts the State’s case, it helps the defense?”

She rose, and Bill, looking at her, knew that she meant to be haughty, imperious, outraged. But she was not. She bit her lip and felt for the chair. “Bill... Please don’t. Please. I–I’m not used to begging. But I must beg now. I don’t want to go on the stand. I can’t go on the stand. I mustn’t!” Her voice rose to a wail.

For the first time a cold shower drenched Bill’s brain, leaving it crisp and clean and shining. He got to his feet and they stood face to face. “Andrea,” he said in a low voice, “why mustn’t you?”

“Oh, I can’t explain! I—” She bit her lip again.

“You mean you’re afraid of the notoriety?”

“Oh, no, no, Bill! Not that. Do you think I care—”

“Andrea.” His voice hardened. “You’re in possession of some fact of importance!”

“No, no, I’m not. I’m not.”

“You must be. I see it all now. You’ve been playing me for a sucker. Playing on my sympathies.” In his anger he glared at her, and seized her shoulders; she shrank back and buried her face in her hands. “All that good-wishes bunk! This will teach me a lesson. Stay in your own back-alley. You thought you’d put one over on me, get me off my guard, get me to keep quiet — while my own sister is on trial for her life! Well, you’re mistaken. I won’t be fooled again. My dear Miss Gimball, you’re going on that stand, and God help you if there’s something you know that you’re withholding which would free my sister!”

She was sobbing now, and he took his hands from her shoulders as if contact with her was unbearable. “You don’t understand,” she said in a muffled voice. “Oh, Bill, how can you say such things? I–I wasn’t acting. I can’t... free your sister. What I know—”

“Then you do know something!” he cried.

The brimming horror in her eyes caught him up. He had never seen such a look on a human face. He drew back, his anger beginning to drain away. “I don’t know anything,” she said hurriedly, in a breathless and tumbling whisper. “I don’t know what I’m saying. I’m — I’m upset. I don’t know anything at all, do you hear? Oh, Bill, please...”

“Andrea,” he said in a low voice. “What is it? Why don’t you confide in me, let me help you? You’re in trouble. Are you mixed up in this thing? Did you... kill him?”

She sprang away. “No. I tell you I don’t know anything. Nothing at all. And if you’re going to put me on the stand, I’ll — I’ll run away! I’ll leave the State! I’ll—”

He drew a long breath, relaxing. “Very well,” he said quietly. “I know how to deal with such a situation. For your own good, Miss Gimball... I warn you. Do something rash, and I’ll hound you to your dying day. I’m on the spot, and so are you; but Lucy is closest to a horrible fate. Stay put, and I’ll be as easy with you as I can. Do you hear me?” She did not reply; she was sobbing into the cushion of a divan. He regarded her for a long time, the muscles of his cheeks twitching; then he turned on his heel and went away.

When Ellery had gone through the transcript once, he deliberately took off his coat, lit a cigaret, and buried himself in the pages once more. In a mass of testimony one section stood out. The witness had been called in late afternoon. Ellery went over the testimony slowly, word by word, and his frown deepened as he read.

Q. Your full name? A. John Howard Collins.

Q. You operate a gasoline filling-station, Mr. Collins? A. Yes.

Q. And where is your filling-station located? A. I have my place on lower Lamberton Road, about six miles from Trenton. That’s between Trenton and Camden. I mean it’s closer to Trenton.

Q. I point to a certain spot on this map, Mr. Collins. Is this about where your gasoline station lies? A. Just about. Yes, sir.

Q. You know this section well? A. Sure. Had my place on that spot for nine-ten years. Lived near Trenton all my life.

Q. Then you know where the Marine Terminal is? Can you place it on this map? A. Yes, sir. (Witness takes pointer and points to Marine Terminal on map.) Right here.

Q. That’s correct. Back on the stand, please. Now, Mr. Collins, how far from the Marine Terminal is your place of business? A. Three miles.

Q. Do you recall the evening of June first this year, a little less than a month ago? A. Yes, sir.

Q. Clearly? A. Yes, sir.

Q. How is that you recall that particular evening so clearly? A. Well, a lot of things made me remember it. First place, it rained all afternoon and there was practically no business. Second place, I had an argument with my helper around half past seven and fired him. Third place, I’d run low on gas late Friday night and called up the gas people first thing Saturday morning to send a truck out, special, right away. I didn’t want to get caught low on Sunday. Truck didn’t come, though, all day Saturday.

Q. I see. Then all these things made you remember that day very clearly, Mr. Collins. Now, I show you State’s Exhibit 17, a photograph of an automobile. Have you ever seen the car in this photograph? A. Yes, sir. It drove up to my place that night at five after eight.

Q. How do you know this photograph represents the identical car that drove up to your filling-station at 8.05 pm June first? A. Well, it’s a Ford coupé, ‘32 model, and the one that drove up was, too. I wouldn’t be able to swear it’s the very same car, though, if I hadn’t also took down the license-number. And this picture here shows the same license-plate.

Q. You noted down the license-plate number, Mr. Collins? Why did you do that? A. Because there was something phony-looking about the woman that drove it. I mean the Ford. I mean the woman was funny. She acted like she was scared of something. And then she was wearing a veil that hid her whole face. You don’t see veils these days, I mean veils like that. It all looked so screwy to me I thought maybe I’d better not take any chances, so I took down her plate-number.

Q. Tell the jury what happened when this veiled woman drove up. A. Well, sir, I come running out of my office and I says to her: “Gas?” She nods her head. I says: “How many?” And so forth. So I pumped five gallons of gas into her.

THE COURT. The Court will tolerate no demonstrations of this disgraceful sort. There is no occasion for this unseemly laughter. Bailiff, eject any of the people who disturb the orderly conduct of this proceeding. Go on, Mr. Prosecutor.

Q. And what happened after you poured five gallons of gasoline into the Ford’s tank, Mr. Collins? A. She gave me a one-dollar bill and drove off without waiting for her change. Oh, yes, that’s another thing that made me remember her.

Q. In what direction did she drive off? A. Towards that shack near the Marine Terminal where the murder was.

Mr. ANGELL. I object, Your Honor, to the answer as suggesting an unwarrantable conclusion. According to the witness’s own testimony, his gasoline station lies three miles from the Marine Terminal. Besides, the form of the answer is clearly prejudicial.

Mr. POLLINGER. If the car drove off in the direction of Trenton, Your Honor, it also drove off in the direction of the scene of the crime. We’re dealing with directions, not destinations.

THE COURT. That is true, Mr. Pollinger, but there is an implication nevertheless. Strike the answer out.

Q. Did the Ford drive off in the direction of Camden? A. No, sir, it came from Camden way. It drove off toward Trenton.

Q. Mr. Collins, I show you State Exhibit 43. Do you know what it is? A. Yes, sir, that’s the woman’s veil found in the abandoned car in Philly which—

Mr. ANGELL. Object—

Mr. POLLINGER. Don’t expand, Mr. Collins. I want answers only to the extent of your personal knowledge and observation. Very well, it’s a woman’s veil. Do you recognize this veil? A. Yes, sir.

Q. Where did you see it last? A. On the face of the woman who drove up to my gas station that night.

Q. Will the defendant please rise? Now Mr. Collins, take a good look at the defendant. Have you ever seen her before? A. Yes, sir.

Q. Where, when, under what circumstances? A. She was the one who drove up in the Ford that night for gas.

BAILIFF. Order in the court. Order in the court.

Mr. POLLINGER. Your witness, Counsel.

Q. Mr. Collins, since you have maintained your gasoline filling-station at that single location on Lamberton Road for nine years, is it fair for me to assume that you have a busy station?

Mr. POLLINGER. I object, Your Honor.

Q. Never mind. Do you do a good business, Mr. Collins? A. It’s all right.

Q. Good enough for you to remain in business there for nine years? A. Yes.

Q. Thousands of cars stop at your station annually for gasoline and other automobile services? A. Well, I suppose so.

Q. You suppose so. How many cars would you say? Just an estimate. How many cars would you say have stopped for gas at your place in the past month? A. That’s hard to say. I don’t keep no records of that.

Q. Surely you must have some idea? A hundred? A thousand? Five thousand? A. I can’t say, I tell you. I don’t know. A great many.

Q. You can’t tell us more exactly? A hundred cars a month would be how many per day? A. About three. It’s more than that.

Q. More than three per day. Thirty per day? A. Well, I don’t know exactly, but I suppose you could say so, yes.

Q. Thirty cars per day. That’s roughly a thousand cars per month? A. Sure.

Q. You have serviced for gasoline, then, about a thousand cars since the evening of June first? A. If you put it that way, yes.

Q. And still, after one month, after speaking to one thousand drivers, after pouring gasoline into the tanks of one thousand cars, you remember one particular car so clearly as to be able to describe it and its driver here and now? A. I told how I came to remember. It was raining that day.

Q. It has rained exactly five days since June first, Mr. Collins. Do you remember the events of those five days just as clearly? A. No, but I also fired my helper—

Q. Firing your helper made you remember a passing motorist one thousand cars ago? A. And my call to the gas people—

Q. Is that the only time your storage tanks have run short of fuel, Mr. Collins, on May thirty-first and June first of this year? A. No.

Q. I see. Mr. Collins, you testified that you noted down the license-plate number of the Ford coupé you have just identified. May I see that note, please? A. I haven’t got it on me.

Q. Where is it? A. In my other suit.

Q. Where is your other suit? A. Home.

BAILIFF. Order in the court. Order in the court.

Mr. POLLINGER. The witness will produce the note as soon as he can.

Mr. ANGELL. May I ask the prosecutor to be so kind as to leave the conduct of this cross-examination to defense counsel? A. I’ll bring the note tomorrow.

Q. The very same note, Mr. Collins? A. Sure.

Q. Not a copy?

Mr. POLLINGER. Your Honor, I strongly object to counsel’s insinuation. The State is in a position to authenticate the note this witness will produce. It is only by an unfortunate oversight that the note has not been produced this afternoon.

Mr. ANGELL. And I strongly object, Your Honor, to the prosecutor testifying.

THE COURT. I think you might leave off this line of examination temporarily, Counsel. It can be resumed when the exhibit is produced.

Q. Mr. Collins, from the time this veiled woman drove up to your gas station until she drove away, how many minutes elapsed? A. About five.

Q. About five minutes. Now you testified that you poured five gallons of gasoline into the tank of her car. How long did that take you to do? A. How long? Most of the time, I guess. Say about four minutes. I had a little trouble getting the cap off and putting it on. Threads were rusty and stuck.

Q. For four of the five minutes, then, you were busy at the tank of the car. Where was the tank on the car? A. At the back, of course.

Q. At the back. And did this veiled woman get out of the car at any time during this five-minute period? A. She just sat behind the wheel all the time.

Q. Then you didn’t see her at all for four of the five minutes? A. Well, no.

Q. Then you would say you actually saw this woman for only one minute altogether? A. Well, if it figures that way.

Q. If it figures that way. What do you think? Doesn’t it figure that way? Four from five leaves one? A. Yes.

Q. All right, then. Now, how much of this veiled woman’s figure was visible to you during the one minute you saw her? A. A whole lot.

Q. Can’t you be more specific? A. Well—

Q. Did you see her waist? A. Well, not that. She was sitting behind the wheel, I said. She didn’t open the door. I saw her from the chest up.

Q. As far as you could see, what was she wearing? A. A big floppy hat and a coat of some kind.

Q. A coat of what kind? A. A loose sort of coat. Cloth coat.

Q. What color was it? A. I can’t say for sure. Dark.

Q. Dark? Blue? Black? Brown? A. I can’t say exactly.

Q. Mr. Collins, it was still daylight when this woman drove up, wasn’t it? A. Yes, sir. According to Standard Time it would be only a little past seven.

Q. And still you can’t say what color her coat was, seen in daylight? A. Not exactly. The coat was dark, I tell you.

Q. Do you mean that you can’t remember what color her coat was? A. I remember it was dark.

Q. You saw her coat though, didn’t you? A. I just said so.

Q. Then on the evening of June first you knew what color her coat was, but you don’t know today what color it was? A. I didn’t know it, the way you say it. I didn’t especially notice the color. Only that it was a dark coat.

Q. But you noticed her appearance? A. Well, sure.

Q. You noticed her appearance closely enough to sit in that witness chair and identify this defendant as the woman you saw in that Ford coupé a month ago? A. Yes.

Q. But you don’t remember the color of her coat? A. No.

Q. What color was her hat? A. I don’t know. Floppy—

Q. Did she wear gloves? A. I don’t remember.

Q. And you saw her only from the chest up? A. Yes.

Q. And you saw her altogether for only one minute? A. About.

Q. And she wore a heavy veil completely concealing her face? A. Yes.

Q. And despite this you still identify the defendant as the woman you saw in that Ford car? A. Well, they’re the same build.

Q. Oh, they’re the same build. You mean by that, of course, the same build from the chest up? A. Well, I guess so.

Q. You guess so. Are you testifying by guess or from knowledge?

Mr. POLLINGER. Your Honor, I respectfully object to Counsel’s heckling of my witness. This futile kind of cross-examination—

THE COURT. Counsel has the right, Mr. Prosecutor, to test the credibility of the witness’s memory in identification on cross-examination. Proceed, Counsel.

Q. Mr. Collins, you have said that this Ford coupé drove up to your gas station at five minutes after eight on the evening of June first. Was that a positive statement, or were you guessing about that, too? A. No, sir. I was not. It was five after eight by my office clock. To the second.

Q. You looked at your clock when the car drove up? Is that a habit of yours, Mr. Collins? A. I was looking at it just as it drove up. I told already how I was on the wire talking to the gas people when it drove up. I was kicking about why they hadn’t sent the truck all day after my morning ’phone call, and I said: “Look, it’s five after eight already.” You see, I was looking at the clock.

Q. And just then this Ford car drove up outside? A. That’s it.

Q. And then you left your office and went outside and asked how many gallons of gas the woman wanted? A. Yes, sir, and she held up five fingers. So I filled up the tank.

Q. She held up her hand, and you don’t remember whether she was wearing gloves or not? You remember one thing, but not the other? A. She held up her hand. I don’t remember about the gloves.

Q. I see. You filled up the tank, you say? Filled it up? With five gallons of gas? A. Right.

Q. Now, Mr. Collins, don’t you know what the capacity of a Ford gasoline tank is? A. Sure I know. Around eleven gallons.

Q. Then you made a mistake when you said you filled the tank up with five? A. No, sir, I did fill her up. Or pretty near.

Q. Oh, you mean the tank wasn’t empty? Or very low? A. That’s right. It had around five gallons in it already, because when I put in my five the gas came almost up to the cap.

Q. I see, I see. In other words, when this woman drove up and signified by spreading five fingers that she wanted five gallons of gas, her tank wasn’t empty, or nearly empty? It still was about half full? She could have gone on for quite a way on what was in the tank? A. Yes, sir.

Q. Didn’t it strike you as strange that a motorist should stop for gas with a half full tank? A. I don’t know about that. Some folks are leery about being caught without gas on a trip. But still I remember I did think it was sort of queer.

Q. You thought it was sort of queer. Didn’t it strike you why it was queer?

Mr. POLLINGER. Object. What the witness thought.

THE COURT. Strike it out.

Q. Mr. Collins, you said a moment ago that the woman held up five fingers to indicate how much gasoline she wanted. Didn’t she speak at all? A. Not a word.

Q. You mean she didn’t open her mouth to utter a syllable during the entire five minutes you were attending to her and her car? A. She didn’t say a single word.

Q. Then you didn’t hear her voice at all, at any time? A. No.

Q. If this defendant rose in this courtroom and said something you would not be able to identify her as the driver of that car by reason of her voice alone? A. Sure not. How could I? I didn’t hear the driver speak.

Q. You have identified this defendant as the driver of that car solely because of a resemblance in physique, in build, from the chest up? Not by reason of her voice or face, which was covered? A. Yes. But a big woman, husky like she is—

Q. Now, this veil you identified. You testified, I believe, that it is positively the same veil you saw the woman in the car wearing? A. Positively.

Q. It couldn’t be a different veil that just looks the same? A. Sure it could. But I ain’t seen a veil like that on a woman in twenty years. And then I took particular notice of the — the — I don’t know how you would say it — that word—

Mr. POLLINGER. The mesh?

Mr. ANGELL. Will the prosecutor kindly refrain from putting the answer into the witness’s mouth? A. That’s it. The mesh, the weave, like. I took particular notice of it. Like waves set so close together you couldn’t see anything behind it. I’d know that veil anywhere.

Q. You’d know the veil, you remember the design of the mesh, but you don’t remember the color of her coat or hat, or whether she was wearing gloves? A. I told you a hundred times already.

Q. You testified before that the Ford drove up from the direction of Camden? A. Yes.

Q. But you were in your office when the car stopped outside for gas? A. Yes, but—

Q. You didn’t actually see it coming down Lamberton Road from Camden? A. It was stopped when I came out, but it was facing the Trenton way. So it must have come from the Camden way.

Q. But you didn’t actually see it coming? A. No, but—

Q. It could have come from the direction of Trenton and driven into your station to park in such a manner that it would seem to have come from the direction of Camden? A. I suppose so, but—

Q. You’re sure this car drove up on the night of June first, not May thirty-first or June second? A. Oh, sure.

Q. You don’t remember the color of the driver’s coat, but you do remember the exact date? A. I told you before—

Mr. ANGELL. That is—

Mr. POLLINGER. May I suggest that counsel permit the witness to finish what he has to say? He’s been trying to explain to counsel for five minutes now without any success.

Mr. ANGELL. Do you think five more minutes would result in better success, Mr. Pollinger? If so, I’ll gladly extend my questions. Besides, the prosecutor didn’t permit counsel to finish himself. I was about to say: That’s all.

Q. Mr. Collins, aside from the question of identification of the driver, you’re positive that she drove the identical car as shown in Exhibit 17? A. Positive, sir.

Q. You’re also positive it drove up at 8.05 on the night of June the first for the good and sufficient reasons you gave? A. Positive.

Q. There was no one else in the car with the woman? A. No, sir.

Q. She was all alone? A. Yes, sir.

Q. And she wore this very veil I hold in my hand? A. Yes, sir.

Q. And, no matter from what direction she came, at least she did drive off toward Trenton? A. Yes, sir.

Q. You stood there and watched her drive off toward Trenton? A. Till she was out of sight.

Mr. POLLINGER. That’s all, Mr. Collins.

Q. You say the woman was all alone in the car, Collins? A. That’s what I said, sure. It’s the truth.

Q. This was a coupé, was it not, with a rumble-seat in the rear? A. Sure.

Q. Was the rumble-seat open? A. No. It was shut tight.

Q. It was shut tight. Then it was possible for someone to have been hiding in the closed rumble-seat compartment without your suspecting it? You can’t swear the woman was all alone in the car? A. Well—

Mr. POLLINGER. I object to both the form and substance of the question, Your Honor. Counsel is trying—

Mr. ANGELL. Now, now, let’s not argue about it, Mr. Pollinger. I’m satisfied. That’s all, Collins.

Witness excused.

“It’s coming,” muttered Bill to Ellery the next morning in court.

The man himself was an enigma. Pollinger was a slight dyspeptic fellow with shrewd eyes and the ageless air of the professional gambler. He was the coolest person in the jammed courtroom, thin and small and immaculate, as alert and harmless-looking as a sparrow.

Jessica Borden Gimball sat on the leather-upholstered witness bench behind the prosecutor’s table, her gloved hands folded. She was dressed in widow’s black, unadorned by any ornaments. With her sallow pinched face, unrelieved by cosmetics, her hollow eye-sockets and dry skin, she almost gave the illusion of a woman aged by a hard and uncertain lower-class existence. Andrea sat beside her, pale as death.

Bill’s lips were grim as he regarded mother and daughter across the room. Under cover of the table-top he patted his sister’s hand. But Lucy’s expression of hypnotic intensity did not change; and she did not take her eyes from the face of the older woman on the bench.

“Philip Orléans to the stand.”

The murmur that rose stilled like a subsiding wave. Every face was taut; even Judge Menander looked graver than usual. A tall thin man with the bony head and brilliant eyes of an ascetic took the stand quietly after being sworn in. Bill leaned forward, cupping his chin on one hand; he was as pale as Andrea. Behind him, on the witness bench, Ellery stirred a little and sank lower into the cushions. His eyes were on Pollinger, the keystone. Pollinger was superb. There was no hint of anything unusual in his manner. If anything, he was cooler and calmer than ever. “Mr. Orléans, you are a citizen of the Republic of France?”

“I am.” The tall thin man spoke nasally, with the suggestion of a Gallic accent. But his voice was cultured and assured.

“What is your official capacity in your own country?”

“I am of the Parisian Sûreté. I hold what corresponds to your portfolio of Chief of the Bureau of Criminal Identification in this country.”

Ellery saw Bill stiffen with horrified recognition. He found himself sitting straighter on the bench. He had not for a moment connected the name with the man. But now it came back to him. Orléans was one of the most famous names in the annals of modern criminological history — a man of international reputation, of unimpeachable honesty, with decorations for services rendered, from a dozen governments.

“You qualify, then, as an expert in criminal identification?”

The Frenchman smiled a little. “I shall be honored to relate to your court my credentials, Monsieur.”

“If you will be so kind.”

Ellery saw Bill licking his lips nervously; it was evident that the summoning of this distinguished witness had caught him completely off guard.

“I have made the science of criminal identification,” said Orléans easily, “my life work. For twenty-five years I have done nothing else. I studied under Alphonse Bertillon. I have the honor to be a personal friend and colleague of your Inspector Faurot. The cases in which I have lent my professional assistance—”

Bill was on his feet, pale but steady. “The defense grants the qualifications of the expert. We shall not challenge.”

The corner of Pollinger’s mouth lifted to the height of a millimeter. It was the only sign of triumph he made. He walked over to the exhibit table and picked up the paper-cutter found on the scene of the crime. A tag was attached to the haft, and its blade still showed dark streaky traces of Gimball’s blood. It was wonderful how cautious Pollinger was in handling the thing. He held it by its very tip, apparently undisturbed by the fact that his fingertips grasped a surface stained by human blood. And he waved it gently before him, like a conductor’s baton. Every eye in the room was fixed on the knife, as if the courtroom were indeed a concert hall and the audience a dutiful orchestra. “By the way, Mr. Orléans,” murmured Pollinger, “will you please explain for the benefit of defense counsel and the jury how you came to be a witness in this case?”

Bill’s eyes, like all others, were rooted on the knife; his skin had turned from gray to yellow. Lucy was staring at the blade with parted lips.

“Since May twentieth,” replied the Frenchman, “I have been touring your police departments. On June second I chanced to be in Philadelphia. I was visited by Chief De Jong of your city and asked for my opinion, as an expert, concerning certain evidence in this case. I was given several objects to examine. I am here to testify.”

“You were completely unaware, were you not, Mr. Orléans, of the prior findings of the Trenton police?”

“Completely.”

“You are receiving no fee for your services, sir?”

“A fee was offered.” The famous expert shrugged. “I declined. I do not accept emoluments while my duty lies elsewhere.”

“You are unacquainted with any of the persons — defendant, counsel, prosecution — in this case?”

“That is so.”

“You are testifying purely in the interests of truth and justice?”

“Precisely.”

Pollinger paused. Suddenly he brandished the paper-cutter before the expert. “Mr. Orléans, I show you State’s Exhibit 5. Is this one of the objects which you examined?”

“It is.”

“May I ask the exact nature of your examination?”

Orléans smiled faintly, his teeth gleamed. “I tested for fingerprints.”

“And you found?”

The man had a flair for drama. He did not reply at once. His brilliant eyes coolly surveyed the courtroom. Under the chandelier the skin of his bony forehead shone. The room was very still. “I found,” he said at last in a clear, emotionless voice, “the fingerprints of two persons. Let me designate them momentarily as A and B. There were more of A’s prints than of B’s. The exact number is as follows.” He consulted a memorandum. “Of A on the blade of the knife: One print of the pollex, two of the index, two of the medius, two of the annularis, one of the auricularis. Of A on the haft: One pollex, one index, one medius. Of B on the blade: One pollex, one index, one medius. Of B on the haft: One index, one medius, one annularis, one auricularis.”

“Let us confine ourselves to B, Mr. Orléans,” said Pollinger. “In what position did you find B’s prints on the haft of the knife? Were the prints scattered, or were they in any order?”

“Will you hold the knife up, please?” Pollinger did so, in such a way that the weapon was vertical to the floor, the haft uppermost. “B’s prints on the haft ranged from top to bottom in the order I have given: index highest, medius directly below index, annularis below medius, auricularis below annularis. They were all grouped very closely.”

“Suppose we translate the technical terms into their more familiar forms, Mr. Orléans. Is it correct to say that on the haft of this weapon, reading from top to bottom as I now hold it, you found the imprints of four fingers — forefinger, middle finger, ring finger, and little finger?”

“That is correct.”

“You have said these four were closely grouped. What is your interpretation, as an expert on fingerprints, of this grouping?”

“I should say there is no question but that B grasped the haft of this weapon in the usual manner in which a person would grasp it for a blow. The thumb-print would not show, since the thumb in this position normally overlaps the other fingers.”

“Were these all clear fingerprints? There is no possibility of their having been misread, so to speak?”

The Frenchman frowned. “The specific prints I have designated were clear enough. However, there were many indications of smudges which were unreadable.”

“Not on the haft?” asked the prosecutor hastily.

“Chiefly on the haft.”

“However, there is no possible doubt concerning the clear prints you have named belonging to B?”

“None whatever.”

“There are no other prints overlapping those prints of B’s on the haft?”

“No. There is a slight smudge here and there. But the prints are not covered with other prints.”

Pollinger’s eyes were narrow. He went to the exhibit table and picked up two little folders. “I show you now State’s Exhibit 10, the fingerprints taken from the dead hands of Joseph Kent Gimball, otherwise known as Joseph Wilson. Did you employ this set of fingerprints for comparison purposes in analyzing the prints on the weapon?”

“I did.”

“Will you please clarify your findings for the jury as regards these arbitrary classifications of the two sets of prints on the knife as A and B?”

“The prints I have designated as A are the prints of your Exhibit 10.”

“In other words, A’s prints were Joseph Kent Gimball’s prints?”

“That is so.”

“Would you care to explain in greater detail?”

“There is this to say. On both haft and blade of the knife appear prints of the fingers of both Gimball’s hands.”

Pollinger paused. Then he said: “I now show you, Mr. Orléans, State’s Exhibit 11. Will you follow the same procedure as regards this exhibit?”

Orléans said evenly: “The prints I have designated as B are identical with those recorded in State’s Exhibit 11.”

“Any clarification?”

“Yes. B’s prints on the blade come from the left hand. B’s prints on the haft come from the right hand.”

“May I ask you to read for the benefit of the jury the caption on State’s Exhibit 11?”

Orléans took the little folder from Pollinger’s hand. He read quietly: “State’s Exhibit 11. Fingerprint recording. Lucy Wilson.”

Pollinger walked away, saying between his teeth, “You may examine, Counsel.”

Ellery sat unmoving as Bill Angell placed his palms on the surface of the round table, pushed in a tired way, and rose. He looked like a dead man. Before he left the table he turned and smiled down at his sister, who seemed turned to stone. The smile was so grotesque, so courageous, so mechanical, that Ellery averted his eyes. Then Bill walked to the witness box and said, “Mr. Orléans, there is no reservation in the minds of the defense regarding your authority as a fingerprint expert. We appreciate your unselfish services in the interests of truth. For that reason—”

“I object,” said Pollinger coldly, “to Counsel’s making a speech.”

Judge Menander cleared his throat. “I suggest that you proceed with your cross-examination, Counsel.”

“I mean to do so at once, Your Honor. Mr. Orléans, you have testified that Lucy Wilson’s fingerprints appear on the knife with which Joseph Kent Wilson was murdered. You have also testified that on the knife there were many indications of smudged prints which were unreadable, have you not?”

“That is not quite what I said, sir,” replied Orléans courteously. “I said there were many indications of smudges.”

“Not smudges such as might have been made by fingers?”

“The smudges were unreadable. They could not have been made by naked fingers.”

“But they could have been made by fingers encased in some manufactured substance?”

“Conceivably.”

“Such as fingers encased in gloves?”

“It is possible.”

Pollinger looked angry; a little color seeped back into Bill’s cheeks. “You also testified, Mr. Orléans, that most of these smudges were on the haft?”

“Yes.”

“It is by the haft that a person wishing to wield a knife in the normal manner will grasp it?”

“Yes.”

“And there were smudges of this peculiar nature over the fingerprints of Lucy Wilson on the haft?”

“Yes.” The expert stirred. “But I must refuse to go on record, sir, as specifying the nature of those smudges. I cannot tell what made them. I do not believe science can tell. The best we can do is hazard a guess.”

“Were these smudges on the haft in the shape of fingertips?”

“They were not. They were blurring marks in irregular shapes.”

“Such as might have occurred if a gloved hand grasped the haft?”

“I say again: It is possible.”

“And these smudges are over Lucy Wilson’s prints?”

“Yes.”

“Indicating that someone handled that haft after she did?”

The Frenchman showed his teeth again. “I cannot say that, sir. The smudges may have been caused by no human agency. If the knife had been wrapped loosely in tissue, for example, and placed in a box, and the box had received a shaking, the smudges may have so occurred.”

Bill paced up and down. “You have also testified, Mr. Orléans, that Lucy Wilson’s prints on the haft were so grouped as to suggest she grasped the knife for a blow. Don’t you believe that pushes forward an unwarrantable conclusion?”

Orléans frowned. “I beg your pardon?”

“Might not a person pick up a knife merely to examine it and still leave such prints grouped as you found them?”

“Oh, naturally. I was merely exemplifying the nature of the grouping.”

“Then you cannot as an expert certainly say that Lucy Wilson used that knife for lethal purposes?”

“But of course I cannot. My concern is with the fact, sir. The fact you cannot change. The interpretation—” He shrugged.

As Bill walked away Pollinger leaped to his feet. “Mr. Orléans, you found Lucy Wilson’s prints on this knife?”

“Yes.”

“You have sat in this courtroom and heard it testified that the knife was purchased only the day before the crime by the victim himself, that it was found not in his Philadelphia home but in the shack in which he was murdered, in its original wrappings, with a gift card made out in the hand not of Lucy Wilson but of the victim, with—?”

“Object!” stormed Bill. “Object! This is not proper—”

“That’s all,” said Pollinger with a quiet smile. “Thank you, Mr. Orléans. Your Honor,” he paused and drew a deep breath, “the State rests.”

Bill whirled and demanded a dismissal of the charges. But the testimony of the French fingerprint expert had completely changed the complexion of the case. Judge Menander refused. Bill was flushed; he was very angry and breathing hard. “Your Honor, the defense requests an adjournment. The testimony of the last witness comes as a complete surprise. We have not had an opportunity to examine into the subject-matter of the testimony, and ask for one.”

“Granted.” The Judge rose. “Adjourned until tomorrow morning at ten o’clock.”

When Lucy had been taken away and the jury had filed out, the press-box exploded. With feverish haste the newspaper people scrambled out of the courtroom.

Bill looked limply at Ellery; then his eyes flashed across the room. Andrea Gimball was staring at him with a cloudy, tight-lipped anguish. He looked away. “Bombshell. Lucy didn’t say—”

Ellery took his arm gently. “Come on, Bill. There’s work to do.”

The red-haired woman found Ellery smoking thoughtfully on a bench behind the Old State House overlooking the placid river. Bill Angell patrolled the walk before the bench with a ceaseless and inhuman energy. The night sky was smoky with heat.

“So there you are,” she said cheerfully, dropping beside Ellery. “Bill Angell, you’ll wear your soles away. In this swelter, too! And I don’t mind telling you that every news hawk in the world is looking for you. Eve of the defense, and what not... I suppose,” she said suddenly, “I ought to shut up.”

There was a gaunt and indrawn look imprinted on the yellowed skin of Bill’s face. His eyes were two sullen lights at the bottom of red-rimmed wells. All afternoon and evening he had been calling in experts, sending out investigators, rounding up witnesses, conferring with colleagues, making innumerable telephone calls. He should have been reeling with fatigue.

“You’re not doing yourself or Lucy any good, going on this way, Bill,” said Ella in a subdued voice. “First thing you know you’ll wake up in a hospital, and then where will the poor thing be?”

Bill’s legs continued to pump. The red-haired woman sighed and crossed her long legs. From the river came a girl’s empty shout and the deep laughter of a man. The State House behind them was quiet, squatting on the dark lawns like an old bullfrog. Bill flung his hands up suddenly and waved them at the smoky sky. “If only she had told me!”

“What does she say?” murmured Ellery.

Bill made a snorting, desperate sound. “Simplest explanation imaginable — so simple no one will believe it. Joe brought that damned desk-set home with him Friday night. Naturally, she wanted to see it. So she unwrapped it and looked it over. And that’s how her prints got on the metal parts. Beautiful, eh?” He laughed shortly. “And the only witness who can corroborate her statement is dead!”

“Oh, come now, Bill,” said Ella Amity in a light tone, “that does sound reasonable. Who wouldn’t believe that a gift from two people would be handled by both? The desk-set was from Joe and Lucy and, lo! Joe’s and Lucy’s prints are found on it. Why should a jury disbelieve that?”

“You heard that Wanamaker clerk on the stand. The set was bought by Joe — alone. It was wiped clean by the wrapper before being handed over. Joe wrote the gift card in the store himself. No hint of Lucy yet, is there? Then what? Joe went home. Can I prove that? No! True, he’d told me he was leaving Philadelphia the next morning, which implies that he meant to spend the night with Lucy; but implication isn’t proof and, considering the source, it’s biased testimony. No one saw him come home Friday night, no one saw him leave home Saturday morning. No one but Lucy, and you can’t expect a prejudiced jury to believe the unsupported word of a defendant.”

“They’re not prejudiced, Bill,” said the red-haired woman quickly.

“Good of you to lie. Have you been watching the pan of Juror Number 4? When I approved her I thought I had fertile ground there — fat, fifty, definitely middle-class, domestic... Now she turns raging female! Lucy’s too damned beautiful; she makes every woman who sees her squirm with envy. The others — Number 7’s got a tendency to cramps. How the hell was I to know that? He’s sore at the world. Ah, nuts.” Bill waved his arms.

They were silent, finding nothing to say. After a while Bill muttered, “It’s going to be a fight, all right.”

“You’re putting Lucy on the stand?” asked Ellery quietly.

“Heavens, man, she’s my only hope! I can’t dig up a witness to support her movie alibi nor one for the fingerprint business, so she’s got to testify herself. Maybe she’ll make a sympathetic witness.” He dropped onto a bench opposite them and ruffled his hair. “If she doesn’t, God help us both.”

“But, Bill,” objected Ella, “aren’t you being too pessimistic? I’ve pumped some of the legal talent floating around town, and they all think Pollinger’s got a poor jury case. It is circumstantial evidence, after all. There’s certainly enough reasonable doubt...”

Bill said patiently: “Pollinger’s a crack prosecutor. And he has last whack at the jury, don’t forget that — State sums up after the defense. Any experienced trial lawyer will tell you he’ll concede half his case just to leave the last impression on the minds of the jury. And then public opinion—” He scowled.

“What about public opinion?” demanded the woman indignantly.

“Oh, you’ve been a trump, Ella. But you haven’t the legal slant. You’ve no idea what harm was done by that insurance business.”

Ellery shifted on the bench. “The what?”

“Even before the case went to trial it leaked out that the National was withholding payment of the insurance to Lucy on grounds of suspicion that the beneficiary might have murdered the insured. Page one stuff. Old Hathaway made a speech about it to the reporters; he didn’t put it quite that way, but the inference was plain. Naturally, I tried to patch up some of the damage by filing suit in New York to compel payment of the policy. But that’s routine; the pivotal point is the outcome of the trial. Meanwhile, every potential juryman in the county read that story. The gang over at the Court House denied it, but they did.”

Ellery flipped a cigaret away. “What’s the defense, Bill?”

“Lucy herself to explain the fingerprint mess, her alibi, so on. You to bring out discrepancies unaccounted for by the prosecution. You’ll do that, of course, Ellery?” Bill asked suddenly.

“Don’t be a greater ass than you can help, Bill.”

“There’s one angle you can be of service on, El. The match-stubs.”

“Match-stubs?” Ellery blinked a little. “What about them? How?”

Bill jumped off the bench and began pacing again. “There’s no question that those stubs prove the murderess smoked while lying in wait for Gimball. It will be easy for me to prove that Lucy doesn’t smoke and never has. If I put you on the stand—”

“But, Bill,” said Ellery slowly, “there is a question about that. A very large question. So large, in fact, that there’s every logical indication that you’re completely wrong.”

Bill halted. “What’s that? Not smoking?” he seemed bewildered; his eyes had sunken even deeper into his head.

Ellery sighed. “I went over that room with a fine comb, Bill. I found a large number of burnt match-stubs on the plate. All right; it’s natural to think of smoking at once. But what are the facts?”

“Lesson Number One in how to be a detective,” chuckled the red-haired woman, but she was watching Bill with anxiety.

“Smoking,” frowned Ellery, “means tobacco. Tobacco means ashes and butts. What did I find? Not the minutest trace of ashes or butts, not the most fragmentary shred of tobacco, consumed or otherwise. No burns anywhere, no signs on the plate or table that a cigaret had been ground out, not the faintest indication in the fireplace or on the rug of a burn or ashes or butts — and I went over that rug inch by inch, examining every thread. And finally, no butts or ashes outside the windows on the ground or anywhere in the vicinity, showing that none had been flicked out of the windows from inside the shack.” He shook his head. “No, Bill. Those matches were employed for any purpose but smoking.”

“So that’s out,” said Bill, and fell silent.

“Wait a minute.” Ellery waved another cigaret. “There’s something out, true, but by the same token there’s something in. Something that may help you in your general plan of attack. Before I go into that, however,” he squinted through the smoke, “may I ask what you intend to do about Miss Andrea Gimball?”

A woman, tall and cool in lawn, was strolling along the walk on the arm of a man. The group at the benches grew very still. The woman’s face was dim, but it was evident that she was listening to her escort, whose burly body jerked restlessly from side to side as if he were in a passion about something. Then the pair came within range of an overhead lamp, and they recognized Andrea Gimball and her fiancé. Burke Jones halted abruptly, glowering. So did Andrea; and she looked at Bill as if he had been a ghost. Then the yellow of Bill’s skin began to redden; he closed his hands and stared down at the resulting fists. Andrea turned like a wraith and ran off down the walk in the direction from which she and her escort had come. Jones stood irresolute for a moment, glaring from Bill to the running girl; and then he too broke into a run, his trussed arm swinging swiftly against his coat.

Ella Amity jumped to her feet. “Bill Angell, I could shake you!” she cried. “What in the name of common sense has got into you? You fool! You’ve picked a sweet time to act like a kid with his first crush!”

Bill’s fingers opened. “You don’t understand, Ella. None of you understands. The girl means nothing to me.”

“Tell that to the Marines!”

“I’m interested in her because I’ve discovered that she’s concealing something.”

“Oh,” said Ella in a different voice. “What?”

“I don’t know. But it’s so important to her that she’s frantic at the mere thought of going on the stand. So,” — he opened and shut his hands rapidly — “that’s exactly where she’s going. Fool, am I?” His eyes strained after the stumbling figure far down the walk. “I’ll show her who’s a fool. She’s important to me — to poor Lucy. So important I’m saving her to be my final witness!”

“Bill, darling. That’s the old Blackstone speaking. Good for you, counselor. Is this for publication?”

“Not officially,” said Bill grimly. “But it might be rumored. There’s nothing Pollinger can do about it. I’ve subpœnaed her.”

“Rumored it is, Your Worship. Seein’ you, darling!” And Ella snapped her fingers and scurried off after the vanished pair.

“Bill,” said Ellery. Bill sat down, averting his eyes. “I think I know what that decision means to you.”

“Means? Why should it mean anything to me? I’m glad of it for Lucy’s sake! You people give me a pain. Means!”

“Of course you are, Bill,” said Ellery soothingly. “And so am I. For more reasons,” he added in a thoughtful voice, “than one.”

When the jury retired after Judge Menander’s charge opinion among the initiate varied. Many thought that the verdict would come swiftly for acquittal. Others predicted a long session ending in a disagreement. Only a handful envisioned conviction.

Lucy, it is true, had made a poor witness. From the first, she was nervous, jumpy, scared. While Bill led her through her testimony she was quiet enough, answering readily, even smiling faintly at times. Through his sympathetic questions she told of her life with the man she had known as Joseph Wilson, his kindness to her, their love, a detailed account of their meeting, courtship, marriage, daily life.

Gradually Bill worked her around to the period just before the crime. She related how they had discussed buying something for Bill’s birthday; how Wilson had promised to get something on Friday, the day before his death, in Wanamaker’s; how he had brought the desk-set home with him that night and she had unwrapped it and examined it; and how he had taken the gift with him on leaving Saturday morning, promising to stop off and give it to Bill that very day. She was on the stand during direct examination for a day and a half, and by the time Bill had finished with her she had explained everything and denied all of the State’s allegations. Then Pollinger sprang to the attack.

Pollinger assailed her story with consummate viciousness. The man was a human question-mark, with savage gestures and infinite variations in tonal insinuation. He sneered at her protestations of honesty. He derided her statement that she had never known or even suspected her husband’s real identity, pointing out that no jury would believe that a woman could live with a man for ten years — especially when he ‘suspiciously’ spent most of his time away from home — without coming to learn everything there was to learn about him. His cross-examination was merciless; Bill was continuously on his feet shouting objections.

At one point Pollinger snarled, “Mrs. Wilson, you had an opportunity to make a statement — a hundred statements — long before today, did you not?”

“Yes.”

“Why haven’t you told this story about how your fingerprints got on the paper-cutter before? Answer me!”

“I–I— no one asked me.”

“But you knew your fingerprints were on that knife, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t realize—”

“You do realize, though, don’t you, what a bad impression you are making by suddenly pulling this flimsy explanation out of your bag of tricks — after you know how dark things look for you and have had an opportunity to talk things over with your counsel?”

The whole question was stricken out at Bill’s enraged objections, but the blow had told. The jury were frowning. Lucy was wringing her hands.

“You have also testified,” snapped Pollinger, “that your husband promised to stop in at your brother’s office that Saturday morning and hand over this gift, haven’t you?”

“Yes. Yes.”

“But he didn’t, did he? The gift was found in its original wrappings in that isolated shack miles from Philadelphia, wasn’t it?”

“I — He must have forgotten. He must have—”

“Don’t you realize, Mrs. Wilson, that it’s quite obvious to everyone here that you lied about that gift? That you never did see it at your own home? That you first saw it at the shack—”

By the time Pollinger was through with her, despite all Bill could do to have accusatory questions stricken out, Lucy was completely unstrung, weeping, at times flaring into anger, and constantly — through the traps of pure language Pollinger set — contradicting her own testimony. The man was very clever about it; his ferocity was all on the surface, a calculated emotion nicely adjusted to the instability of the witness. Beneath he was as cool and relentless as a machine. It was necessary to recess until Lucy could recover from hysteria.

Bill grinned doggedly at the jury and plunged ahead with the defense. He summoned witness after witness — neighbors, friends, tradespeople — to corroborate Lucy’s claim of untroubled felicity with the dead man until the very eve of his death. All testified that there never had been a suspicion in their minds concerning Wilson’s double life, that Lucy had never evinced the slightest sign of knowledge. He called several witnesses to testify to Lucy’s unfailing habit of attending a motion picture show in town on Saturday nights when her husband was presumably away on a ‘sales trip’. He established through friends and clerks in apparel shops she patronized that she had never bought or worn a veil. Through all this Pollinger moved with calm and sure interference, quick to catch a weakness in testimony or a predisposition to bias.

Then Bill went to work on the car. He had long since pointed out, during the testimony of one of Pollinger’s witnesses — the department fingerprint expert who examined the Ford — that there was no significance in the fact that only Lucy’s fingerprints had been found in the car. It was hers, she alone had driven it for years, and it was natural that her prints should be all over it. He had also tried, with uncertain success, to have certain smudges on the wheel and gear-shift interpreted as evidences of gloved hands, but this the witness had refused to concede.

Now Bill put a succession of experts on the stand to bring out that very point — all attacked in business-like fashion by the prosecutor, either on the score of the expert’s unreliability, poor previous trial record, or outright bias. The authenticity of the tire tracks Bill left severely alone. Instead, he put on the stand an expert in metals, employed in the Federal Bureau of Standards.

This witness testified that in his opinion the Ford’s radiator-cap could not have ‘fallen off’ by the process Pollinger had claimed: a rusty area so weakened by the car’s vibration that it finally snapped through on the scene of the crime without human agency. The expert said that he had analyzed the broken halves of the radiator-cap and that nothing less than a sharp blow could have caused the little metal woman to snap off at the ankles. He went into details of strains and metal-aging. This opinion Pollinger subjected to a searching cross-examination; finally promising to produce during rebuttal an expert who would testify to an opinion precisely opposite.

And then Bill, on the fourth day of the defense, put Ellery on the stand. “Mr. Queen,” said Bill after Ellery had sketched a little of his semi-professional background, “you were on the scene of the crime before even the arrival of the police, were you not?”

“Yes.”

“You examined the scene of the crime thoroughly, out of a purely professional interest in the case?”

“Yes.”

Bill held up a small, nondescript object. “Do you remember having seen this during your examination?”

“Yes.” It was a cheap plate.

“Where was it situated when you examined the room?”

“On the only table there, the table behind which the dead man lay.”

“It was in a prominent position, then; it couldn’t be missed?”

“No.”

“Was there anything on this plate, Mr. Queen, when you saw it?”

“Yes. A number of paper match-stubs, all showing evidences of having been burnt.”

“You mean that the matches had been struck and extinguished?”

“Yes.”

“You have heard the complete case presented by the State? You’ve sat in this courtroom since the beginning of the trial?”

“I have.”

“Has this plate,” asked Bill grimly, “or the match-stubs which you saw on it at the scene of the crime, been so much as mentioned once by the prosecution?”

“No.”

Pollinger leaped to his feet and for five minutes he and Bill argued before Judge Menander. Finally Bill was permitted to proceed. “Mr. Queen, you are well known as an investigator of crime. Have you anything to offer this jury in explanation of the burnt match-stubs so carefully ignored by the prosecution?”

“Oh, yes.”

There was another argument, more protracted this time. Pollinger fumed. But Ellery was permitted to go on. He went through the reasoning he had outlined to Bill a few nights before concerning the logical impossibility of the matches having been used for smoking purposes.

“You have just shown, Mr. Queen,” said Bill swiftly, “that the matches could not have been employed for smoking purposes. Is there anything you found on your examination of the shack which explains to your own satisfaction why the matches were used?”

“Indeed, yes. There was an object examined not only by me but by Chief De Jong and his detectives that very night. Its condition makes the conclusion, under the circumstances, inevitable.”

Bill brandished something. “Is this the object you refer to?”

“Yes.” It was the charred cork found on the paper-knife.

There was another argument, more violent this time. After a bitter exchange it was settled by the Judge, who permitted the cork to be placed in evidence as a defense exhibit. “Mr. Queen, this cork had been charred by fire when you found it?”

“Unquestionably.”

“It was found on the tip of the knife which killed Gimball?”

“Yes.”

“Have you, as a criminologist, any theory to account for this?”

“There is only one possible interpretation,” said Ellery. “Obviously when the knife was plunged into Gimball’s heart the cork was not on its tip. Therefore the cork must have been placed on the tip by the killer after the murder and then charred by repeated applications of the little paper-matches found on the plate. Why did the criminal do this? Well, what is the effect of a charred cork stuck on the point of a knife? It becomes a crude but effective writing implement. The knife provides leverage, the carbonized cork on its tip provides an edge capable of leaving legible marks. In other words, the killer after her crime wrote something for some purpose of her own.”

“Why in your opinion didn’t the killer employ a simpler device?”

“Because there wasn’t any. There were no ink-filled pens, pencils, or other writing tools anywhere in the shack or on the person of the victim — except for the desk-set, which had a pen and inkwell. But this pen and well were also dry, being new and never having been filled with ink. If the criminal wished to write, then, and had no writing implement on her own person, she would have to manufacture one, which was what she did. The cork, of course, came from the desk-set; she had already had to remove it, in all probability, to commit the crime. So she knew about it in advance of the necessity for writing. As for thinking of the device, the use of burnt cork in the theater, for example, is so universally known that it would not take brilliance to see the possibilities.”

“Have you heard the prosecution so much as mention this burnt cork in presenting its case against the defendant?”

“No.”

“Was a note found, or any sort of written message?”

“No.”

“Your conclusion from this?”

“Patently, it was taken away. If the killer wrote a note, it must have been to someone. It is logical to suppose, therefore, that this person took the note away, that there is a new factor in this case which has not heretofore been suspected. Even if the killer took her own note away, which is absurd, the mere fact introduces an element in no way accounted for by the prosecution.”

For an hour Ellery and Pollinger sparred across the rail of the witness box. It was Pollinger’s point that Ellery was a poor witness for two reasons: that he was a personal friend of the defendant, and that his reputation was based on ‘theory, not practice’. When Ellery was finally excused they were both dripping with perspiration. Nevertheless, it was conceded by the press that the defense had scored an important point. From that time on Bill’s whole manner changed. A bright confidence crept into his eyes which began to infect the jury. Number 2, a sharp-looking business man of Trenton, was observed whispering hotly to his neighbor, who had the blank features of one wholly aloof from the vicissitudes of the world. The blankness disappeared under a cloud of painful thought. Others in the jury box looked more interested than they had appeared for days.

On the last morning, after several sessions with relatively unimportant defense witnesses, Bill came into court with a squareness to his jaw that was remarked by everyone within eyeshot. He was pale, but not so pale as he had been; and there was a truculence in the glance with which he swept the courtroom that made Pollinger look thoughtful.

He wasted no time. “Jessica Borden Gimball to the stand!”

Andrea, behind the prosecutor’s table, gave a little gasp. Mrs. Gimball looked nauseated, then bewildered, and finally furious. There was a hasty conference at the table in which Senator Frueh, who had sat with Pollinger from the beginning of the trial, took the leading rôle. Then the society woman, striving to soften her features, took the stand.

Bill raked her with fierce questions, met Pollinger’s interruptions swiftly, put her through a scathing examination that left her white with rage. When he was through with her, despite all her acid protestations, the impression had accreted that Mrs. Gimball possessed far greater motive for killing Gimball than anyone else in the universe. Pollinger softened the blow by painting her, on cross-examination, as a gentle, misunderstood, and bewildered woman who had not even the consolation of marriage to repay her for the wrong Gimball had done. And he brought out her movements on the night of the murder, her attendance at the Waldorf charity ball — which Bill had questioned — and the improbability of the insinuation that she could have slipped away and driven some eighty miles and back without having been missed.

Bill instantly summoned Grosvenor Finch to the stand. He made the insurance executive admit that Mrs. Gimball had been Gimball’s beneficiary until a few weeks before his death. Although Finch denied it, the possibility was broached that Mrs. Gimball had learned of this beneficiary change through him. To cap the point, Bill recalled to Finch his statement to De Jong on the night of the murder — to the effect that ‘any of us could have slipped away and killed Joe.’

Pollinger retaliated with a stenographic transcript of the exact statement: ‘If you mean that any of us could have stolen off, driven out here, and stabbed Joe Gimball to death, I suppose you would be hypothetically correct.’ Then he asked: “What did you mean by that, Mr. Finch?”

“I meant that theoretically anything under the sun was possible. But I also pointed out the absurdity of it—”

“Are you in a position to state whether Mrs. Gimball was away from the Waldorf ballroom that evening for any length of time?”

“Mrs. Gimball did not leave the hotel all that evening.”

“Did you ever tell Mrs. Gimball that the man she thought her husband had suddenly made someone else his insurance beneficiary?”

“Never. I have testified to that effect innumerable times. There is not a single person in this world who can come forward and assert with truth that I so much as hinted that Gimball had changed his beneficiary.”

“That’s all, Mr. Finch.”

Bill got to his feet and said clearly: “Andrea Gimball.” The girl walked toward the witness box as if she were treading the last long mile. Her eyes were downcast and her hands, clasped tightly before her, were trembling. There was no color whatever in her cheeks. She swore to the formal oath and sat down to become so completely still that she might have been in a trance. The courtroom on the instant sensed hidden drama. Pollinger was gnawing his nails. Behind him the Gimball group showed unmistakable signs of nervousness.

Bill leaned over the box and stared at her until her eyes, as if drawn by a magnet, came up to meet his. Whatever bitter message flashed across the ionized inches of space between them no one ever knew; but both went even paler after a moment and their glances passed, Bill’s to come to rest on the wall behind, hers to go to her hands.

Then Bill said in a strangely flat voice, “Miss Gimball, where were you on the evening of June first?”

Her answer was just audible. “With my mother’s party at the Waldorf in New York.”

“All evening, Miss Gimball?” His tone almost caressed her, but it was the soft and savage caress of a stalking animal. She did not reply, but caught her breath and her lip in one convulsive gasp. “Answer the question, please!” She choked back a sob. “Shall I refresh your memory, Miss Gimball? Or shall I summon witnesses who will refresh it for you?”

“Please...” she whispered. “Bill...”

“You are under oath to tell the truth,” he said stonily. “I am entitled to an answer! Don’t you remember where you spent that part of the evening during which you were not at the Waldorf?”

In the commotion at the prosecutor’s table Pollinger snapped, “Your Honor, counsel is obviously impeaching his own witness!”

Bill smiled at him. “Your Honor, this is a trial for murder. I have summoned a witness who is hostile. I have the right directly to examine a hostile witness whose testimony I could not place on the record by cross-examination during the State’s presentation for the simple reason that the State did not present this witness. It is pertinent testimony, important testimony, and I shall connect it at once if I am given the opportunity by the prosecutor.” He added between his teeth: “Who seems strangely reluctant to have me do so.”

Judge Menander said, “It is perfectly proper for defense counsel to call and examine a hostile witness. Proceed, Mr. Angell.”

Bill growled, “Read the question, please.”

The stenographer obeyed. Andrea replied in a tired, hopeless way, “Yes.”

“Tell the jury where you spent the early part of that evening!”

“At the — the house by the river...”

“You mean the shack in which Gimball was murdered?”

She whispered, “Yes.”

The room exploded. The Gimball party was on its feet, shouting. Only Pollinger was unmoved. During the commotion Bill did not change expression, and Andrea closed her eyes. It took several minutes to quiet the courtroom. Andrea told her story then in a lifeless voice: how, upon receipt of her stepfather’s telegram, she had borrowed her fiancé’s Cadillac roadster and driven to Trenton; how, upon realizing that she was an hour early, she had driven off for a spin and returned at deep dusk to find the shack empty except for Gimball, lying still on the floor.

“You thought he was dead, when as a matter of fact he was still alive?” asked Bill harshly.

“Yes.”

“You didn’t touch his body, Miss Gimball?”

“Oh, no, no!”

As she went on to explain her shock, her scream, and her flight from the house, Ellery quietly scribbled a few notes on a sheet of paper and had it passed to Bill. Andrea stopped in her recital, her eyes widening with a milky fear that turned them from blue to gray.

Bill’s lips tightened queerly. The paper in his fingers jerked a little. “How long were you in the shack — on your second visit?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know. Minutes.” She was thoroughly frightened now, her shoulders a little drawn up as if to protect herself.

“Minutes. When you came the first time, at eight o’clock, was there a car in either driveway?”

It was almost as if she were thinking things out in her distress, choosing the unuttered words with a painful care. “There was no car in the main driveway. There was an old sedan — that Packard — in the side drive, parked against the little porch at the side.”

“The Wilson car; that’s right. Now, when you came back — if it was only a matter of minutes, by the way, that you spent in the shack, you must have got there the second time around nine? I saw you leave, remember, at eight after.”

“I... suppose so.”

“When you returned at nine, then, the Packard was still there, of course; but was any other car standing in either driveway?”

Very quickly she said, “No. No. Not at all.”

“And you say,” Bill went on relentlessly, “you saw no one inside the house either the first time or the second time?”

“No one. Not a soul.” She was breathless now. At the same time she raised her eyes, and they were so full of pain, so reproachful, so choked with a mute plea, that Bill colored a little.

“Didn’t you see automobile tracks in the main driveway the second time?”

“I–I don’t remember.”

“You have testified that, having come early, you drove off on Lamberton Road toward Camden for about an hour. Do you recall having passed a Ford coupé driven by a veiled woman on either the outward or the return trip?”

“I don’t remember.”

“You don’t remember. Do you remember what time you got back to New York that night?”

“About eleven-thirty. I–I went home, changed into evening things, drove down to the Wardorf where I joined my mother’s party.”

“Didn’t anyone remark on your long absence?”

“I — No. No.”

“Your fiancé was there without you, your mother was there, Mr. Finch, other friends, and no one remarked on your absence, Miss Gimball? You expect us to believe that?”

“I–I was upset. I don’t recall... that anyone said anything.”

Bill’s lips curled; his face was toward the jury. “By the way, Miss Gimball, what did you do with that note the murderess left for you?”

Pollinger automatically sprang to his feet; then he seemed to think better of it, for he sat down without having said anything. “Note?” faltered Andrea. “What note?”

“The note written with the burnt cork. You heard Mr. Queen’s testimony. What did you do with that note?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her voice rose a little. “I tell you there was no — I mean I know nothing about a note!”

“There were three people on the scene of that crime, Miss Gimball,” said Bill tensely. “The victim, the murderess, and you. That’s giving you the benefit of every doubt. The murderess wrote the note after the crime, so she didn’t write it to her victim. She certainly didn’t write it to herself! Where is that note?”

“I don’t know anything about a note,” she cried hysterically.

“I think,” drawled Pollinger, rising, “that this has gone far enough, Your Honor. This witness is not on trial. She has given sufficient answer to what is certainly an objectionable question.”

Bill replied at length, arguing passionately. But Judge Menander shook his head. “You have been answered, Mr. Angell. I think you had better proceed with your examination.”

“Exception!”

“You may have it. Proceed, please.”

Bill turned fiercely to the witness box. “Now, Miss Gimball, may I ask you to explain to this jury if you have ever told your story of that evening’s adventures to any official investigator of this crime — Chief De Jong, Prosecutor Pollinger, or any of their men?”

Again Pollinger half-rose, but he sank back. Andrea glanced at him, moistening her lips.

“We want your own story, Miss Gimball,” said Bill ironically. “You will oblige me by not looking for assistance from the prosecutor.”

She fumbled with her gloves. “I— Yes, I did.”

“Oh, you did. Did you tell them this story voluntarily? Did you come forward with it of your own free will?”

“No, I—”

“Oh, then, Chief De Jong or Mr. Pollinger came to you?”

“Mr. Pollinger.”

“In other words, had Mr. Pollinger not approached you, you would not have gone to the authorities with your story? Just a moment, Mr. Pollinger. You waited until the authorities came to you! When was this, Miss Gimball?”

She shielded her eyes from the stares of the courtroom. “I don’t remember exactly. Perhaps a week after it...”

“After the crime? Don’t be afraid to say it, Miss Gimball. The crime. You aren’t frightened by that word, are you?”

“I — No. No. Of course not.”

“A week after the crime, the prosecutor came to you and questioned you. During that week you said nothing to the authorities about having visited the scene of the crime on the night of the murder. Is that correct?”

“It — it wasn’t important. I couldn’t contribute anything. I disliked getting involved—”

“You disliked getting involved in an ugly mess? Is that it? Now, Miss Gimball, while you were on the scene that night did you touch the knife?”

“No!” She was answering with more spirit now; her eyes flashed and were blue again. They glared at each other across the rail.

“Where was the knife?”

“On the table.”

“You didn’t so much as lay a finger on it?”

“No.”

“Were you wearing gloves that night?”

“Yes. But I had my left glove off.”

“Your right glove was on your hand?”

“Yes.”

“Isn’t it true that in fleeing from the shack you banged your hand against the door and dislodged the diamond of your engagement ring?”

“Yes.”

“You lost it? You didn’t know you had dropped it?”

“I — No.”

“Isn’t it true that I found it,and told you about it the very night of the crime, and that you pleaded with me desperately not to say anything about it to anyone?”

She was furious now. “Yes!” Her cheeks were fiery.

“Isn’t it true,” asked Bill in a hoarse, impassioned voice, “that you even kissed me in an effort to keep me from disclosing the fact to the police?”

She was so stunned she half-rose from the chair. “Why, you — you promised! You — you—” She bit her lip to keep back the tears.

Bill tossed his head, doggedly. “Did you see the defendant on the night of the crime?”

The fire in her cheeks was quenched. “No,” she whispered.

“You didn’t see her at any time — in the shack, near the shack, on the road between the shack and Camden?”

“No.”

“But you admit that you visited the scene of the crime that night and said nothing to anyone about it until you were accused pointblank in private by the prosecutor?” Pollinger was on his feet now, shouting. There was a long argument.

“Miss Gimball,” resumed Bill hoarsely, “didn’t you know that your stepfather was leading a double life?”

“No.”

“Didn’t you know that he had shortly before June first removed your mother as beneficiary of his million-dollar policy?”

“No!”

“You hated your stepfather, didn’t you?”

Another wrangle. Andrea was white now, white with rage and shame. At the prosecutor’s table the Gimball group were flushed with indignation. “All right,” said Bill curtly, “that’s enough for me. Inquire.”

Pollinger strode to the rail of the box. “Miss Gimball, when I came to you a week after the crime what did I say to you?”

“You said you had traced the roadster and found it belonged to my fiancé. You asked me if I hadn’t visited the — the scene on the night of the crime and, if so, why I hadn’t come forward and told you so.”

“Did it ever strike you that I was trying to shield you, or suppress your story?”

“No. You were very severe with me.”

“Did you tell me the story you have just told this jury?”

“Yes.”

“What did I say to that?”

“You said you would check up on it.”

“Did I ask you any questions?”

“A great many.”

“Pertinent questions? About the evidence? About what you saw and did not see, that sort of thing?”

“Yes.”

“And didn’t I then tell you that your story in no way conflicted with what evidence the State had already amassed against the defendant, and that therefore I would spare you the annoyance and pain of putting you on the stand during the trial?”

“Yes.”

Pollinger stepped back, smiling paternally. Bill stamped forward. “Miss Gimball, it’s true, is it not, that the State did not call you as a witness in this trial?”

“Yes.” She was weary now, sapped and limp.

“Although you had a story to tell that might conceivably put a reasonable doubt of the defendant’s guilt into the minds of the jury?”

The defense rested.

As they waited for the verdict and the hours massed into a day, and then into two days, with still no word from the jury, it was remarked that opinion had shifted since the close of the State’s case. The prolonged discussions in the jury room were a favorable sign for the defendant; at the very least, they seemed to indicate a deadlock. Bill was heartened; as the hours passed he even began to smile faintly.

The summations after the short session of rebuttal testimony had been swift. Bill, summing up first, had made out a strong indictment against Pollinger personally. He contended that not only had the defense reasonably explained away all the accusations of the State, but that Pollinger had been criminally remiss in his sworn duty. Pollinger, he thundered, had suppressed important evidence: the story of Andrea Gimball’s visit to the scene of the crime. It was the function of the public prosecutor, he pointed out, not to persecute, not to hold back any facts, but to sift for the truth. And Pollinger had deliberately ignored two other very important facts which would have gone unmentioned if not for the alertness of the defense’s witnesses: the burnt match-stubs and the charred cork. They had not been explained by the State and certainly had not been connected to the defendant. Moreover, the State had failed to prove that the veil was the defendant’s, had failed to produce the source from which the veil had come.

Finally, Bill outlined the defense theory. Lucy Wilson, he said, had obviously been framed for the murder of her distinguished husband. The powers of wealth, of social position, he cried, had picked a poor defenseless victim: the woman who had received nothing from Gimball but his love. Someone was offering her up as a victim. In support of this theory he pointed to the ‘crushing’ testimony of the Federal expert on metals, who had testified that the radiator-cap would not have broken off by itself. Someone, then, had knocked it off. But if someone had knocked it off, it must have been done deliberately; and it could only have been so done with intent to implicate the owner of the car from which it came, Lucy Wilson.

Starting from this, Bill argued — in line with the fervent discussion he had had with Ellery the night before — it was child’s play to reconstruct the devilish frame-up: the murderess stole Lucy’s car; she stopped for gas for no other reason than to fix the car and the veiled driver firmly in the station owner’s mind. “This is proved,” he cried, “by the fact that she did not really need gas, that she could have gone on for sixty, eighty miles on the gas already in her car’s tank!” She went to the shack, he continued, saw the paper-cutter with its gift card, killed Gimball with the knife, and finally drove back to Philadelphia and wrecked the car in a place where it would be — as it was — easily found by the police.

“If this defendant, my sister,” he roared, “were the criminal, why did she wear a veil? She would know that the shack was isolated, that there was little chance of her being seen except by the victim, who would be dead. But the real criminal had every reason to use a veil if she were framing Lucy! Should her own face be seen, the frame-up was defeated. For that matter, if Lucy were this woman, why did she leave the veil to be found in the car? But the criminal had every reason to do so if she were framing the crime around Lucy.

“Furthermore, if Lucy were the criminal everything she did was almost unbelievably stupid. Would she leave an open trail to her own car, would she leave impressions of her tires in the mud, would she permit her car to be found, would she leave the veil, would she make no attempt to fix an alibi for herself, would she wield that knife without the precaution of wearing gloves? Stupid, stupid! So stupid that its very stupidity cries out,” shouted Bill, “her innocence. But a woman framing Lucy would have every reason to leave such a plain trail!”

It was an impassioned summation, and it left a visible impression on the jury. Bill concluded more quietly on the note of reasonable doubt. If there was a single member of the jury, he said, who could honestly and conscientiously declare now that there was no reasonable doubt of the defendant’s guilt... He flung up his hands and sat down.

But Pollinger had the last word. He derided the ‘obvious’ defense theory of a frame-up, “the whimper,” he said, “of every weak defense.” As for the defendant’s stupidity, Pollinger remarked with a significant and open glance at Ellery, any practical criminologist knew that all criminals were stupid; it was only in books that criminals were masterminds. This defendant, he said, was not a habitual criminal; her motives had, as usual in the case of the vengeful woman, betrayed her into blind actions; she had left a trail without realizing that she had done so.

The State had amply proved, he said vigorously, her movements on the day of the crime up to its actual commission. She had been seen on the road leading to the shack only a few minutes before the murder. She had been seen driving her car toward that shack. Her car had then left its clear tire prints in the mud before the shack, under such circumstances that it was possible to prove, as the State had proved, that the car had visited that shack during the general period of the murder. This had placed the defendant, he went on, at the scene of the crime circumstantially. And, he pointed out, if there was any doubt concerning her identity as the driver of the Ford, it was completely and irrefutably dispelled by her fingerprints on the knife which killed her husband.

“Fingerprints,” he said ironically, “aren’t framed — except, perhaps, in those books I mentioned.” The jury grinned. “This defendant had her hands on that knife in that shack. The State, then, has led her to the corpse.” That was sufficient connection, he went on, in a circumstantial case, to remove all doubt. What was the answer of the defense to this all-important question of fingerprints on the knife? That her prints had got on the knife the night before in her own home! But where was the proof of this transparent story? There was not a single witness to support her explanation. There was not a single proof that the victim even spent that Friday night in his Philadelphia home... And when was this explanation given? After it was brought out that the fingerprints were on the knife! Didn’t that show all the evidences of a hastily trumped-up story to explain away a damaging fact?

“I give you my word,” said the prosecutor earnestly, “that my heartfelt sympathy goes out to this poor young man who has so ably defended his sister in this trial. He has toiled long and tirelessly to make the best of a bad, bad case. We are all deeply sorry for him. But that should not sway you, ladies and gentlemen, in your judgment of this case. A jury determines facts and ignores its sympathies. You must not permit yourselves to be influenced in your verdict by emotions which would defeat the ends of justice.” Moreover, he added dryly, the defendant had been wholly unable to prove an alibi for the night of the crime.

When Pollinger was through outlining the motives he went briefly into the question of deliberation. “The motive here,” he said, “was twofold, as I have shown: revenge on the man who had lied to her for ten years, and the natural desire to benefit, while punishing him for that awful living lie, from his death. To have known that he was Joseph Kent Gimball, to have known that he carried a million-dollar policy and had recently changed his beneficiary from Mrs. Gimball to herself, Mrs. Wilson must have had knowledge well in advance of June first. In fact, there is nothing to show that she did not compel Gimball to assign his insurance to her in ‘payment’ for the wrong he had done her; indeed, psychologically everything points to it. In the light of this, how can anyone doubt that this was a murder planned in advance?

“And if there is any doubt in your minds, consider that this defendant came disguised — clumsily, it is true, but there was an effort at concealment — to the shack in which she murdered her husband. The defense has tried to argue that the use of the newly-purchased paper-cutter as the killing weapon indicates in itself a spontaneous crime, a crime on the spur of the moment; and that, therefore, even if Lucy Wilson had killed her husband it could not be construed as anything but an unpremeditated murder. But how false that is when examined in the naked light! For if I adopt the defense’s own theory — that Lucy Wilson was framed for this crime — you will see at once that the use of the knife was merely a convenient alternative for this defendant. If someone framed Lucy Wilson it could only have been with intent and plan far in advance of the actual commission. This flimsy ‘someone’ could not have known that Joseph Wilson would buy a desk-set the day before his death; therefore the so-called ‘framer’ must have planned to kill Wilson by some other means — a revolver, strangling, even a knife. But not this knife. Nevertheless, this knife was used. Wouldn’t that seem to show that there was no framer? The argument is fallacious all along the line. It shows no such thing. Lucy Wilson came prepared to kill Joseph Kent Gimball with a gun, perhaps, or another knife. In the heat of the encounter she used a knife already on the scene. The point is meaningless.”

His peroration was a masterpiece of shrewd persuasion. Then he sat down, quietly rubbing his neck with a handkerchief.

Judge Menander’s charge to the jury was surprisingly short. It outlined the possible verdicts and explained the law of circumstantial evidence. It was observed with astonishment by trained spectators that the famous jurist refrained from injecting into his short charge — it took only twenty-five minutes — the slightest hint of his own convictions in the matter, an unusual phenomenon in a State which permitted its presiding justices in capital cases the widest latitude for the expression of their own views.

Then the case went to the jury.

During the seventy-first hour word was sent that the jury had at last arrived at a verdict. It came in late afternoon, during an impromptu conference with the press in Bill’s room at the Stacy-Trent. The long delay had so convinced Bill of ultimate victory that he was his old self, a little gayer than was natural, perhaps, but cheerful and laughing and full of good Scotch whisky. There was ample reason for optimism. Six hours after the retirement of the jury word had leaked out that they stood 10-2 for acquittal. The delay could only mean that two jurors were stubborn; the announcement that a verdict had been reached could only mean that the two had finally been won over.

The summons to the County Court House sobered him like a cold shower. They left on the run.

Bill, waiting for Lucy to be brought back into the courtroom through the Bridge of Sighs from the adjoining jail, carefully looked around. Then he slumped back in his chair. “All over but the shouting,” he sighed to Ellery. “Well, I see the Gimball bunch has skipped.”

“Remarkable eyesight,” said Ellery dryly, and just then Lucy was led in and they both became too busy for conversation. Lucy was in a semi-stupor, barely able to drag her legs to the defense table. Ellery stroked her hand while a doctor administered restoratives, and Bill talked to her so naturally and easily that her eyes became almost normal again and a faint color returned to her cheeks.

There were the inevitable delays. Pollinger could not be found. Then someone managed to get hold of him and he was hustled into the courtroom. The cameramen became involved in an argument with the Sheriff’s staff. Somebody was ejected from the room. The bailiffs shouted for order.

The jury filed in at last. They were twelve tired, dripping people whose eyes seemed affected by an epidemic of shiftiness. Juror Number 7 looked ill and angry. Juror Number 4 looked haughty. But even these two kept their eyes away from the cleared space before the clerk’s railing. From the instant he saw their faces Bill stiffened in his chair. His own face whitened.

In a silence so profound that the ticking of the big clock on the front wall was clearly audible, the foreman of the jury rose and in a trembling voice announced the verdict.

They had found Lucy Wilson guilty of murder in the second degree. Lucy fainted. Bill did not so much as move a finger; he seemed frozen to his chair. In fifteen minutes Lucy was revived and sentenced by Judge Menander to twenty years in the State penitentiary.

It appeared, as Ellery discovered later in the boiling crowds, that Jurors 4 and 7 had managed to achieve the astounding result, after seventy hours and thirty-three minutes in a steaming room, of converting an original 10-2 for acquittal to 12-0 for conviction. Rather handsomely, Ellery thought, Jurors 4 and 7 had compromised from a demand for death in order to win over their weaker brethren.

“It was those fingerprints on the knife did it,” said Juror Number 4 later to the press. “We just didn’t believe her.” Juror Number 4 was a large stout woman with a chin of iron.

There was a painful constriction of Mr. Ellery Queen’s heart as he packed his things, rang for a porter, and plodded down the corridor to Bill Angell’s room. He composed his features and knocked on the door. There was no answer. He tried the knob; to his surprise the door was unlocked. He opened it and looked in.

Bill was lying on the bed, half-dressed. His dusty shoes had left a wide earthy stain on the sheet. His necktie was twisted around his collar, and his shirt was wet all over, as if he had stepped under a shower without taking it off. He was staring up at the ceiling without expression. His eyes were red, and it seemed to Ellery that he had been crying.

Ellery said, “Bill,” in a gentle voice, but Bill did not stir. “Bill,” said Ellery again, and he came in and shut the door to stand with his back against it. “I suppose I don’t have to tell you how...” He found it surprisingly difficult to express himself. “What I mean to say is that I’m leaving. I didn’t want to duck out without telling you that I’m not finished with this thing. In a way, it’s lucky Lucy got what she did. If it had been the Chair... Now there’s no need for racing against time.”

Bill smiled. It was very queer to see him smile, with his eyes red and sunken and his face like a death-mask. “Have you ever been in a cell?” he asked, quite conversationally.

“I know, Bill, I know.” Ellery sighed. “But it’s better than — well, the other thing. I’m going to work, Bill. I wanted you to know it.”

“Don’t think,” said Bill without turning his head, “I’m unappreciative, Ellery. It’s just that...” His lips compressed.

“I’ve done nothing at all. It’s been a most mystifying puzzle. It’s even more mystifying now. But there’s one ray of sunshine... Well, let’s not discuss it now. Bill.”

“Yes?”

Ellery scuffed the rug. “Er — how about money? This thing must have put you in debt to the whole world. An appeal, I mean. It costs a lot, doesn’t it?”

“No, Ellery, I can’t accept... I mean, thanks just the same. You’re a brick.”

“Well.” Ellery stood there irresolutely for a moment. Then he went to the bed and patted Bill’s damp shoulder and went out. As he shut the door behind him he turned to find Andrea Gimball leaning against the wall opposite Bill’s room. For a moment he was shocked. Somehow, the spectacle of this girl standing outside Bill’s room, her gown crumpled, a damp handkerchief in a ball in her fist, her eyes hollow and red — like Bill’s — struck him as indecent. She should have been off with the others, smug in their satisfaction over the burnt offering.

“Well,” he said slowly, “look who’s here. Just in time, Miss Gimball, for the wake.”

“Mr. Queen.” Her tongue wet her lips.

“Don’t you think you had better leave, Miss Gimball?”

“Is he...?”

“I don’t think it’s wise,” said Ellery, “to attempt to see him at the moment, my dear. I imagine he’d rather be alone.”

“Yes.” She fumbled with the handkerchief. “I–I thought he would.”

“Nevertheless, you’re here. That’s kind of you. Miss Gimball! Listen to me for a moment.”

“Yes?”

Ellery strode across the corridor and seized her arm. Despite the heat, it was strangely cold. “Do you know what you’ve done to Bill, to that poor woman condemned to twenty years in prison?” She did not reply. “Don’t you think it would be decent to try to remedy it — the harm you’ve done?”

“I–I’ve done?”

Ellery stepped back. “You won’t sleep well,” he said softly, “until you come to me with your story. Your real story. You know that, don’t you?”

“I—” She stopped, her lips trembling.

Ellery stared at her. Then his eyes narrowed and, deliberately, he turned his back and stalked off down the corridor to his room. The porter was waiting for him, holding his bags, looking curiously at the girl slumped against the wall. He heard very clearly as he walked away what she said. But he knew that she’d said it without realizing that it took the form of audible words. It was a plea and a prayer, and it was so deep with anguish that it almost made him halt and go back: “What should I do? Oh, God, if I only knew what to do.”

But he conquered the impulse. There was something in the girl’s mind that could only come out by pressure from within. He signaled the porter and they went to the elevator. As he stepped in, he glanced again in Andrea’s direction. He was intent and thoughtful.

Andrea stood where he had left her, twisting the limp handkerchief between her fingers, staring at Bill Angell’s quiet door as if peace lay there, a peace that was just out of reach. Somehow, the picture of torment and despair she made was to linger in Ellery’s mind for a long time. It only emphasized his conviction that around her slender figure shimmered the glowing imponderable that was to change the whole complexion of the sensational Wilson-Gimball case.