The Black Mask Magazine (Vol. 5, No. 1 — April 1922)

I

“I am absurd enough to believe that in nine cases out of ten I can determine the innocence or guilt of a man accused of a crime by looking into his face. I have looked into Gerald Grayson’s face and I do not believe that his was the hand that poured poison into Robert Marsh’s wine. From his eyes, innocence shines as clearly as the sunlight shines through that window.”

My friend Mountfort made the foregoing statement with an air almost of defiance. My impulse was to laugh at him, but knowing how sensitive he was to ridicule, I refrained. Instead I adopted a somewhat judicial attitude.

“But considering the evidence,” I asked, “do you think you can convince an unimaginative jury of your young client’s innocence?”

Mountfort answered me with a gesture of irritation.

“Hang the evidence!” he exclaimed bitterly.

“It is more likely to hang your client than to be hung,” I retorted. “Consider it. Robert Marsh died suddenly in his home on the morning of March 29. An autopsy showed that his death was due to poison taken into his system in a glass of wine. There are four witnesses to testify that on the evening preceding his death he was at the home of Graham Cumberland and with him drank a glass of wine that was poured from an almost empty decanter by the accused. These men will further testify that the wine was served by Grayson, first to his host and then to Marsh and that he, himself, did not take any. Cumberland is alive and well today, which does away with the supposition that the wine was poisoned before Grayson poured it. Therefore we are left with only one conclusion, which is that between the time when Grayson had served Cumberland and his pouring the wine for Marsh he slipped the poison into the latter’s glass.”

My friend rose and stood in front of me, an expression of amused tolerance on his face.

“You state your case, Tom,” he said “with all the precision and bias of a district attorney. Nevertheless I tell you that Grayson is innocent. And I am going to prove him so or I shall never stand before the Bar of Justice again.”

He caught up his hat and stick and with only a nod to say good-by left the room. From my window I saw his absurdly thin figure go flying down the street looking for all the world like that of some modern Don Quixote.

And as I turned back to my desk I reflected that probably no knight errant had ever set forth on a more futile quest than Mountfort was pursuing in his search for evidence to prove that Gerald Grayson was innocent of the murder of Robert Marsh. Yet it was like my friend to take up the cudgels for a man in as hopeless straits as his present client. It seemed to me, at times, that it was impossible for him to vitally interest himself in a case of any kind unless all the circumstances and evidence were against him at the very outset. In my heart I wished him good fortune, while believing that in this instance good fortune could not come to him.

Indeed, there seemed no other explanation of Marsh’s death than that which I had just stated to Mountfort. There was no doubt that he had died of poison administered in a glass of wine. There was no doubt that the wine had been poured for him by Gerald Grayson. Could there be any doubt that the poison was mixed with the wine by the same person who poured it? And Grayson’s motive for this terrible deed? It was known to every man and woman in the town. He loved and was loved and the woman was Marsh’s only daughter, who was prevented from marrying him by her father’s prejudices against him.

These prejudices were the result of one of those absurd feuds which still exist in Southern communities. At some remote period the Graysons and the Marshes had been involved in a dispute over certain lands which when taken to the courts had been decided in favor of the former family. Since that time the name of Grayson had been anathema to a Marsh and succeeding generations had at different times done their utmost to bring misfortune to members of the Grayson family.

It is only fair to state in favor of the Graysons that their activities in this quarrel had been directed along only defensive lines. Until this act of the last of the race in poisoning Robert Marsh, not one of them had done anything to keep alive the fires of hatred. And in the beginning even young Gerald had shown no animosity toward his hereditary enemies. He had permitted himself to be attracted by a daughter of the race and in an upright, manly way had done his best to gain her father’s consent to their marriage. Only when this consent was refused did he strike.

I was not present at the gathering at Graham Cumberland’s house where Grayson committed the act that would send him to the gallows, but what happened was adequately described to me by an eye-witness. The meeting was not a social one but was called by Cumberland as president of the town's largest bank to obtain the consent of his directors to certain innovations he desired to establish.

Present besides Cumberland, himself, and Marsh and Grayson were Herbert Stanley, the bank’s vice-president and cashier; Samuel Townsend, the richest and most powerful man in the State, and Cashel Heming, an attorney who held proxies for the absentee directors. Except by Marsh, no objections were raised to Cumberland’s plan. But Marsh, who always enjoyed being in the minority and was of an unusually antagonistic disposition, fought Cumberland tooth and nail. At moments he was positively insulting and had it not been for his adversary's tact and tolerance of an old man’s irritability, a serious quarrel might have ensued. As it was, after a great deal of argument, it was decided to hold the matters under discussion over to another meeting when it would be possible to get together a greater number of the bank’s directors.

It was when they had all risen to go that Cumberland with his well-known suavity and tact had said: “Mr. Marsh, you and I have spoken pretty plainly this evening. To show these gentlemen that our disagreement in no manner affects our personal relations, I am going to ask you to drink a glass of wine with me.”

He turned to Grayson, who had been sitting with his back to the buffet.

“Gerald,” he said, “will you oblige me by reaching into the cabinet there and getting out the decanter and glasses?”

Obedient to his host’s request, Grayson had brought forth a decanter which to Cumberland’s chagrin was seen to contain only about two glasses of wine. While Cumberland was offering to go into the cellar and procure more wine and being dissuaded by the others, it was noticed that Grayson had filled two glasses from the decanter he held in his hand and that he had placed the first before Cumberland and the second before Marsh. Then the two men drank each other’s health and the party separated for the night.

At about half-past one the following morning Marsh awoke in his bed in frightful agony. Before his daughter could get a doctor he was dead.

II

I did not see my friend Mountfort for a week after the day he left me, swearing to clear Grayson from the charge of murder or give up practising his profession. When at length he did come to me he was in such low spirits that I felt sorry for him. He frankly admitted that repeated interviews with his client and with everyone who had been at Cumberland’s on the night of the tragedy, had brought him nothing of value for the task he had set himself.

“But hang it all, Tom,” he said despondently, “I know — I feel in every bone in my body — that that boy is as innocent as you are. If only I could strike upon a sign to set me off in the right direction.”

“Oh, why not admit you’re beaten,” I argued. “Persuade Grayson to let you put in a defence of temporary insanity and take his chances with the jury.”

“I’d as soon let him plead a straight and unqualified guilty. You know how the newer element in the town feels toward the old families. And it’s this element that composes most of our juries. Why, the boy wouldn’t have a chance.”

“Then forget the whole rotten business for a while. Come with me and hear Tot Walters play on her violin. Such music ought to be an antidote for anybody’s troubles.”

Mountfort did not reply to my suggestion. When I had finished tying my cravat I turned around and looked at him. He was standing bolt upright in the centre of the room staring at me intently, yet somehow or other seemingly looking beyond me. I spoke his name.

“The sign! The sign!” he exclaimed in a voice hoarse with emotion. “Gad, Tom, I think you’ve shown it to me. If only you have!”

And with no other word he dashed from the room, leaving me to go on to the Walters Concert at the Opera House alone.

That evening Miss Walters, who was Just back from two years in Dresden, where she had studied under the best teachers, played divinely. Lulled by the exquisite notes of her instrument I was able to thrust aside all my problems and vexations and soar into a world of purest melody. The music gripped me to such an extent that even after it was over and I was walking homeward through the soft Spring moonlight, I was a being apart from other mortals. Therefore the shock was considerable when from out of the shadows surrounding my porch a figure darted and caught me by the arm. I had raised my fist to strike when Mountfort’s familiar voice came to me out of the darkness.

“Tom!” he cried, “I’m on the trail. The scent is strong. Come, I want you to be in at the kill.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” I cried, thinking for a second that my friend had gone mad.

“The Grayson case, you idiot,” he answered impatiently. “By the grace of God I’ll have that boy out of jail before I’m a day older.”

Without listening to my protests and vouchsafing me no further information, he led me hurriedly along the street toward the upper end of the town. When at length I was going to declare my intention to go no farther unless he told me what wild goose chase we were pursuing, he turned in at the gate of a fine old mansion.

Surprised beyond belief I saw that the house toward which we were heading was the home of Graham Cumberland.

“What are we doing here at this time of night?” I demanded. “Surely you’ve been over the case with Cumberland a hundred times before this?”

Mountfort ignored my question. Instead of answering it he took the steps of Cumberland’s stoop at a bound and an instant later I heard his ring at the bell.

The door was opened to us almost instantly and it was Cumberland’s handsome, genial face that looked out at us from the lighted doorway.

“Come in, gentlemen, come in!” he cried when he had recognized us, “I am very glad you have taken the trouble to look in on me. I had become so bored with my own company that I was just about to pack off to bed.”

He stood aside and held the door wide for us to enter:

“Mr. Cumberland,” Mountfort said when a minute or so later we were seated in our host’s library enjoying the flavor of his cigars, “our visit is not entirely a social one. In fact, I’ve come to ask you a further question or so about the death of Robert Marsh. Perhaps you will bear with me when I tell you that my belief in Grayson’s innocence is still unshaken, and I do not want to leave anything undone that might in any way help him.”

Cumberland made a deprecatory gesture. He spoke in a tone of the utmost sincerity.

“No one more than myself pities that unfortunate young man. If there is anything I can tell you or do that will aid him in any way, come to me at any time of the day or night and as often as you choose.”

I turned toward Mountfort to see how he was impressed by our host’s generous speech and I was amazed to see him grinning almost malevolently.

“Then why, Mr. Cumberland,” he asked in a voice barely above a whisper, “did you purchase so many eggs on the afternoon of March 29?”

“Eggs!” Cumberland cried quite rightfully startled out of his habitual calm; “what in heaven’s name do you mean?”

Mountfort drew a memorandum book from his pocket and with exasperating slowness turned the pages until he found the notation he was seeking.

“On March 29,” he read at length, “from Simon Greene, grocer, at four-thirty in the afternoon you purchased a dozen eggs which you carried home yourself.”

Graham Cumberland settled back in his chair and regarded Mountfort with an amused smile.

“We’ll grant that astounding fact,” he said good-humoredly, “but what has a quite ordinary household purchase of mine to do with Robert Marsh’s death?”

“But it wasn’t an ordinary household purchase. You see, just the day before your cook had purchased her usual weekly amount of three dozen.”

Cumberland shook his head and regarded my friend with a puzzled expression.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “but I don’t quite see what you are driving at. Are you suggesting that I am extravagant in the matter of buying eggs? Or is it that you think eggs are bad—”

“No, no!” Mountfort broke in, “not bad. I think that they are the best thing in the world for a man who has just taken a huge dose of corrosive sublimate.”

Cumberland literally sprang from his chair. He towered over Mountfort and for an instant I thought he was going to strike my friend. Then he fairly shouted:

“What do you mean, you infernal fool!”

“I mean, Cumberland,” Mountfort answered with a deadly calm, “that when you poisoned Robert Marsh, in order to direct suspicion away from yourself you too drank of the deadly wine. But you had an antidote in the form of the whites of a dozen eggs ready to hand; you lived while Marsh died.”

Cumberland made a gesture of disgust and turned away.

“You’re mad, man — stark, raving mad,” he said contemptuously.

“Your plan was very clever,” Mountfort continued, “and had it not been for an accidental word from Tom here and a moment of inspiration that came to me when I needed it most, you would never have been found out. Grayson would have hanged for the murder you committed.

“It is probable that you wanted Marsh out of the way because you knew that while he was alive you would never be able to make the changes in the bank that would cover up your irregularities. Ha! You didn’t think I knew about the bank? As a matter of fact, I didn’t. I merely guessed, but the expression that crossed your face just then showed me that my guess was a good one.

“But to continue. You emptied your decanter of all but two glasses of wine and to this wine you added enough corrosive sublimate to kill a man. Then you arranged the seating of your guests on the tragic night so that Grayson, who was known to hate Marsh, would be near the wine and therefore the logical person to pour it when you called for it. He did pour it and Marsh died. Then everyone believed that he, Grayson, must have poisoned Marsh’s glass, since you yourself had drunk from the same decanter and suffered no bad effects. That was because no one had seen you rush to your bathroom after your guests had gone and drink down the whites of eggs that saved your life.”

“But do you think you can make a jury believe that silly yam?” Cumberland snarled.

“Yes. You see, I am able to show them the bottle in which the poison came and bring before them a druggist from a town fifty miles away who will swear that on the 26th of March he sold you a quantity of corrosive sublimate on the excuse that you wanted to kill an ailing dog.”

At Mountfort’s last statement, Cumberland straightened himself, and wheeling, dashed into his bedroom. Before either Mountfort or I could reach the door it was slammed to and bolted. Then as we pounded on its panels, we heard the sharp crack of a pistol shot. Mountfort stepped back and said:

“There, Tom, was Cumberland’s confession to the murder of Robert Marsh.”

III

Later that night after the authorities had taken charge in Cumberland’s house and Mountfort and I had made our depositions before the District Attorney, my friend told me how he had discovered Cumberland’s guilt.

“I deserve no credit, Tom,” he said modestly. “When I was in a highly keyed-up state, open to every sort of influence, you gave me a hint. I followed it — that was all.”

“I gave you a hint!” I repeated in amazement.

Mountfort nodded.

“Sounds silly, I know,” he continued, “but it’s a fact that from your using the word ‘antidote’ in something you were saying came the idea that set me on the right track. Remember, I was searching madly for someone besides Grayson who might have poisoned Marsh. Until you used that word it seemed impossible that anyone else could have done so, since all the witnesses agreed that only he had touched the decanter from which two glasses were served — one harmless, which went to Cumberland, and the other deadly. Then came my inspiration. You said ‘antidote’ and as suddenly as lightning illumines a dark sky my mind was lighted.

“I saw as in a vision how a man could poison another and keep himself from suspicion by taking some of the poison himself; saving himself from its deadly effects by taking an antidote already prepared. I left you and rushed to the library, where I read that the best antidote for corrosive sublimate was a mixture of the whites of eggs. The man toward whom my suspicions were now directed was, of course, Cumberland, since the poisoned wine came from his decanter and he was the man who had taken the other glass of wine poured by the innocent Grayson. I made the rounds of the groceries and dairies until I found the store where he had purchased a dozen eggs on the day of the murder. Then, hoping to find something else that might incriminate him, I went snooping around his house. And there, back of his bam in a pile of refuse, I found the parts of a broken bottle that had once contained corrosive sublimate. One of the pieces bore the druggist’s label. I wired to him and in less than an hour had a reply that proved to me that my case against Cumberland was complete. I found you and brought you to his house so that I might have a witness when I accused him. And that is all!”