The jury did not agree. They stood nine for conviction and three for acquittal when the court met in the morning, and there being no prospect of an agreement, they were discharged.
It was looked upon as a victory for the defence, but only because a conviction had been generally expected. As it was the case had to be tried over again.
Upon leaving the court-room, Littell accompanied me to my office, for he was anxious to secure some little delay before the next trial and wished to see the District Attorney regarding it. He said he needed time to recuperate and his appearance bore this out, for I had never seen him look so fagged or dejected.
We found the District Attorney in his office in conversation with his associate and the Inspector. He greeted Littell very cordially and congratulated him upon his conduct of his case; but Littell, after only a word of acknowledgment, hastened on to the subject of his visit. He asked for at least a month's interval before the next trial, and urged in support thereof his need of rest and change.
The request was readily acceded to, in spite of some objection from the Inspector, who was evidently chagrined over the failure of the State's case.
"I suppose, Littell," the District Attorney said quizzically, as we were leaving, "you also want time to hunt up some evidence to support that very interesting personal account of the murder you gave to the jury!" but Littell replied with some abruptness, I thought, that the only defect in his theory of the case was that it lacked the evidence of an eye-witness to prove it, which was also lacking upon the part of the State.
"It is all a matter of deduction from circumstances," he added, "and I think mine were fully as reasonable and likely as yours."
"Yes," replied the District Attorney, "three of the twelve jurors apparently agreed with you," which created a laugh, but Littell evidently was not in the humor for badinage and made no rejoinder, and we withdrew to my private office.
There we found Miles in waiting. We told him of the date fixed for the next trial, and Littell added that it might afford him opportunity to secure some additional evidence.
"Of what kind?" the detective asked.
"Any kind," he replied, "that will throw doubt upon the State's case."
"Why not hunt for the real criminal?" Miles inquired.
"Do you think you can find him?" Littell asked.
"I can try," was the reply.
"Well," Littell said, "I am going away and will not return for a time, so you and Dallas can have a free hand in the meantime to follow your own course, but for myself I don't think you will accomplish much on that line."
The detective made no answer, and I inquired of Littell when he thought of going and learning it would probably be the next day, suggested he dine with me at the club that evening, and added, as the idea occurred to me: "I will ask Davis and Van Bult too. We would all like to see something of you before you go."
He accepted the invitation, and as he prepared to leave us looked towards Miles, but the latter had his back to us, and was absently turning over the pages of a book on the table.
After Littell was gone, I waited for Miles to make known the business that had brought him, but he remained absorbed in a brown study.
At length, to recall his attention, I inquired if he had any definite plans for the course he meant to pursue, adding that I agreed with him in his determination to try and find the real criminal, and that I did not believe it could be so difficult as Littell seemed to judge.
He shook his head. "It will be difficult, I have no doubt," he said, "but still I think perhaps I can do it."
"Tell me your plans," I urged, my interest aroused.
He hesitated and seemed embarrassed. "I think, if you don't mind, I would rather you would leave it all to me just now," he said at length.
I was too surprised to make any immediate reply. This man, whom heretofore I had found subservient to my every suggestion, was now prepared apparently to assume the leadership and relegate me to the background. "But," I said, when I had recovered from my astonishment, "do you expect me to abandon the case altogether?"
"Not at all," he hastened to explain; "I only wish you to leave the work of the next few days to me. It is peculiarly in my line, and besides I do not think you would find it agreeable. Leave it to me," he urged, "and I will report all results to you as soon as possible, and after that I will be guided entirely by you in the matter."
He was evidently in earnest and so serious over it that I offered no further objection, though I was somewhat humiliated at what I deemed his lack of confidence in me. When he had left me, I puzzled over his strange conduct, but as I could make nothing of it wisely determined to resign myself to the inevitable and make the most of the respite this forced inaction would grant me.
After I had despatched notes to Van Bult and Davis, asking them to dinner, and had attended to some routine duties, I made the first use of my freedom by leaving my office and devoting the afternoon to a long horse-back ride. It was a glorious winter's day, cold and sparkling, and full of sunshine, and I drew in deep lungs full of the bracing air as I directed my way leisurely towards the Park.
Once clear of the stones, I gave the horse his head and with an eager bound he had stretched out into a gallop. As we went speeding along through the country for mile after mile, it seemed to me that I had never felt anything so fine as this gallop. After my long siege of worry and work it was like a tonic to my mind and body and with every stride of the horse I seemed to get stronger and brighter.
I could feel the blood coursing through my veins, while my mental faculties were stirred into renewed vigor, and I began to realize into what a rut I had gotten and how morbid had become my state of mind, and I was content to accept the dictum of Miles and to put the case and all its gruesome details away from me.
When at length, wearied with the rapid pace and my horse giving signs of laboring, I pulled him down to a walk and settled with a feeling of tired comfort in the saddle, the buoyancy of youth had reasserted itself in me and I felt at peace with the world.
I had turned about and was well on my way toward home again, given over to pleasant thoughts about lighter things, when I overtook and passed a woman riding by herself. I scarcely noticed her and would have continued on without giving her a second thought if I had not heard my name called after me. I stopped and looked back and, to my surprise, recognized Belle Stanton.
She was approaching me slowly, patting the neck of her horse, that was a little restive under her, and her manner betokened no consciousness of anything unusual in her salute. For a moment I was doubtful of the accuracy of my hearing, for I scarcely knew her, if it could be said I knew her at all, the chance meeting at the trial furnishing the only excuse for acquaintanceship; but my doubts were dispelled by her friendly little nod as she came up with me.
Evidently she considered the acquaintance legitimate enough for informality, even if I did entertain some doubts on the subject. She looked well in her riding habit and sat her horse gracefully, and as she swayed in her saddle, looked at me with a merry challenge in her eyes.
"You had rather ride with me than ride alone, had you not?" she asked demurely, and I obediently wheeled my horse beside hers, as I assured her the encounter was welcome; and while we rode on together, she told me she had wanted to know me for a long time, and that she felt we were old friends, though this had been our first real meeting, and many other such things that a man likes to hear a pretty woman say even though he knows she is fooling him.
"Don't you think," she said, "that people sometimes feel they are going to like each other before they have ever met?" and she laid her hand gently on my arm and looked up for my answer.
I have since tried to defend myself for the weakness of that moment in which I was near being recreant to the memory of a friend, but I know in my heart that there was no excuse for me except it be the witchery of the woman and the charm of the occasion. She was pretty—awfully pretty—and she knew all too well how to attract men, and then, too, the time and place were in her favor.
The winter's day was in its last twilight, the moon was already filling the wayside with light that made shadows on the snow, and through the long avenue of trees that stretched before us no one was in sight, we two were alone. As I felt the caressing touch and looked into the fair face lifted to mine, I forgot all else in the intoxication of the moment, and responding impulsively leaned down to meet her glance and would have been guilty of what foolishness I know not, had her woman's mood not changed in time to save me.
With a laugh she rapped me over the fingers with her whip and, spurring her horse, was gone from my reach in a moment. No man altogether likes the sensation of having been played with, and as I galloped after her I made up my mind not to let myself be again distracted by her wiles, but when I should have overtaken her to make the most of my opportunity to learn anything more she might know about the death of White.
When she had tired of the fun of leading me a long and not very dignified chase, she pulled up and waited for me to rejoin her, remarking casually as I did so that I seemed to have a "good steady horse."
"Yes," I replied, rather sharply I fear, for I was out of breath and humor, "and a fast one when I think it worth while to call on him." She looked him over carelessly as she replied: "I thought he was doing his best just now; he seems a little blown, does he not?"
I deigned no reply to this and there were prospects of our ride being finished in silence, for if I intended to sulk she evidently meant to let me. Such a course, however, was not calculated to accomplish my purpose and as we were nearing the city again, I determined to introduce the subject I had in mind.
"It is strange," I said, "is it not, that you and I should both be connected so closely with the circumstances of Arthur White's death?"
She looked up surprised and evidently none too well pleased with the unexpected change in my tone.
"I don't know why you should say that," she answered, "I had nothing to do with Mr. White's death."
"No, nor had I directly," I replied; "but I was at his house the night of his death and he was at yours."
"You may have been at his house," she answered, "but I do not know that he was at mine."
"But he left his ulster there," I insisted.
"His ulster was left there," she said, changing my phraseology; then she stopped and hesitated; "but let us talk of something else," she concluded, "for the subject makes me sad," and I discerned a little tremor in her voice that I thought was genuine.
Sometimes a woman like Belle Stanton may grieve, though she must not show it, and I was sorry for her, but I meant to persevere in my purpose, nevertheless.
"I do not wish to make you feel badly," I tried to say gently, "but I want to learn all I can about Arthur's death and if you know any more than you have yet disclosed, I wish you would tell it to me."
She looked away, as if determining something before answering, and then asked what reason I had for thinking she knew anything more than she had told at the trial. For reply, I quoted to her Van Bult's words:
"You will find it is through Belle Stanton that you must trace the criminal."
"Who said that?" she asked quickly. I told her.
"Oh! it was Van Bult, was it? Well, you may find he was mistaken," and her tone betokened indifference.
"Do you then know nothing at all that can help us in the case?" I inquired. She stopped her horse, for we had reached the Fifty-ninth Street entrance, and wheeling him so that she faced me, said:
"I know very little more than I have told, probably nothing of any importance, but if you will come and see me sometime, I will help you, if I can"; but I was impatient and urged her to tell me at once what she knew.
"No," she replied, "you must leave me here and if you wish to learn more you will have to come and see me," and turning her horse she waved her hand to me and rode away.
I sat looking after her just a moment debating over what she had said and then hastened home, for it was approaching my dinner hour, but the first thing I did on entering the club was to write a line to Miles.
"Stanton knows more than she has told," I said. "Find out what it is." And then I made my preparations for dinner.
At eight o'clock I was in the reception-room awaiting the arrival of my guests, and as I surveyed myself in the long mirror, I felt a thrill of pleasure at finding myself again a part of the social world.
After all there are two sides to life—the serious and the gay—and we must mingle them to get the most out of it. For a long time now I had known the serious side, but the release from the service on the case and the ride and encounter of the afternoon had awakened in me a longing for the brighter side that I had no disposition to deny.
When Davis entered with his cheery way and cordial greeting I was more than usually glad to see him and we fell as readily into our accustomed easy intercourse as though it had never been interrupted by a tragedy. A few minutes later Littell and Van Bult appeared and our party was complete.
I advanced to Littell as he appeared, eager to welcome him, but he had stopped on the threshold and while rolling a cigarette between his deft fingers was inquiring casually of Davis concerning the latest bit of social scandal as if he had no more serious thought in the world. A few hours had sufficed to remove every sign of care and fatigue that I had observed in the morning.
Van Bult in the meanwhile had sauntered over to the fireside, and, leaning on the mantle, was looking from one to the other of us with that rare smile that helped to make him so attractive.
I was proud of my friends as I stood in their midst and reflected that it would be hard to find three better dressed, better appearing men than those. They were gentlemen, all of them, not by assertion or imitation, but because it was inherent in them. And the atmosphere they created was reposeful and agreeable.
When dinner was announced, we adjourned to the private dining-room I had reserved and were received by my old servitor, Brown, standing ceremoniously at the door, and I think he was as pleased as any one over the reunion. His bow to each of us as he passed the frosted martinis was almost a salaam, and no dish was served till it had passed under his critical eye, and no bottle uncorked till he had tried its temperature with solicitous touch.
We were a pleasant party of old friends together as we sat down that night, with mutual interests and associations to talk over, and the conversation drifted from one topic to another, in easy sequence.
The boyish gayety of Davis was infectious, and drew out the brightest side of Van Bult's nature, though in the sober tone habitual to him, while Littell's side fire of cynical, humorous comment gave a keener edge and point to all that was said.
After the coffee and the cigars had been brought and Brown had retired, our talk took a more serious turn and eventually passed to the subject of the trial, which by tacit understanding had been avoided before. I would very willingly have let things continue as they had been and have ignored the subject altogether, but it was not to be. It was evidently on all minds and would not be avoided. Some one referred to it and immediately all else lost interest. The witnesses and their evidence; the bearing of the prisoner; the division of the jury, and the arguments of counsel, were each discussed in turn; till finally Davis, in his irreverent way, inquired of Littell if he flattered himself the jury had believed the fairy tale he had told them.
"So you think it was a fairy tale I told the jury, do you, Ned?" Littell said. "Well, it may have been, but I have known truth as strange."
"Do you mean to say," Van Bult inquired, "that you believe the statement you made to the jury to be the true explanation of the murder?"
"I do," Littell answered.
"But if that were so, it might put the crime upon some man we know," Van Bult continued, "possibly even a friend and you cannot think that?"
"Why not?" Littell asked; "it would not be the first time a man of intelligence and social prominence had done such a thing. You can never tell what a man is capable of till he has been tried. Very few men, I admit you," he went on, "commit great crimes, but that is not always because they are too good for it; it is sometimes only because the fatal occasion does not arise for them and sometimes because the men themselves are not equal to the occasion. The man who has once committed a murder," he continued, reflectively, while we all listened intently, "is no worse in nature, necessarily, after than before the deed, and no more dangerous to society, that is if he is a man of intelligence; because he has done it once is no reason that he will do it again, any more than the fact that he has never done it is an assurance that he never will. There are worse offences than murder, too; a man may kill another man, and yet not cheat at cards or talk about a woman." He paused, but no one said anything and he went on in the same dispassionate tone: "There are men of wealth and position in this city, men respected and sought after, not a few, who would kill if the occasion were great enough; it is only a matter of measure with them; and it is among such men you must look for Arthur White's murderer."
When he concluded there was an expression of horror upon Davis's face and I was repelled even while fascinated by this cold-blooded analysis of my fellow-men's nature and motives, but I recognized there was a degree of truth in it, nevertheless.
It was Van Bult who continued the conversation.
"I do not agree with you," he said, "and I do not believe you mean what you say; I know the pessimistic view you affect to take of human nature, and I know, too, the real charity you feel for it in your heart." Van Bult spoke warmly, but Littell received the tribute with a shrug as he held his glass up to the light and judged critically its color.
"Have your way," he said, "but if the time ever comes when my words are verified, remember I said them."
"Perhaps we may not have to wait very long for the truth about this case," I now said, "for Miles thinks he has discovered a new clue and is hard at work upon it and I happened upon something this afternoon that may help him."
"What was that?" Davis inquired, but I did not think it worth while to go into the details of my meeting with Belle Stanton and did not answer.
"The case is too much for such as Miles to solve, I think," Littell said, and then looking at me added, "You might do better, Dick, but I am not sure the job would repay you."
"I would willingly undertake it, nevertheless," I answered, "if I only knew where to begin."
"If there is any truth in Littell's words, it might lead you to very unpleasant consequences," Van Bult here suggested.
I was reflecting over his words, when Littell, reading my thoughts, added:
"If you do continue your investigation of this case, and it does lead to some man you know, what will you do?"
"I can do but one thing," I answered, "give that man to justice."
"And if he should be friend, what then?"
Such a contingency had never occurred to me before, but in the trend of the conversation it seemed a possibility, and I felt its awful responsibility.
"Give it up, Dick," advised Davis; "Littell is only dissecting you morally, and the idea is too absurd to talk about, much less to accept seriously"; but I saw the others were waiting for my decision, and I would not evade it.
"I would still do the same," I answered.
"Do you think it would be really worth while or your duty, to do such a thing?" Littell asked. "Winters will probably be acquitted; White is past helping, and what could be gained by offering up a friend as a sacrifice?"
"Nothing," I answered, "but the demands of the law."
He leaned over and put his hand on my shoulder.
"Dick," he said, "you are a strange fellow with more than your share of conscientiousness, but even with you there must be a point where duty ceases and human nature asserts itself. Would you, if it were one of us three, your friends, upon whom you fixed this crime, give him over to the gallows?"
"I refuse to answer," I said.
"But you would do it!" Van Bult asserted, and I did not dispute him.
"I am going home," Davis broke in. "I have had enough of this; you fellows can go on hanging one another all night, if you choose, but I won't have a hand in it," and he pushed his chair back from the table.
The laugh that followed relieved the tension, and we prepared to break up.
"Let us have a last drink together before we go out," Littell said, and following his example, we all rose and filled our glasses.
"The toast?" Van Bult asked.
"Failure to Dallas," said Littell, and I could not refuse to join them.
To change the tenor of our thoughts, I asked Littell if he had definitely decided about his trip.
"Yes," he replied, "I shall go to Florida, to-morrow, but will be back in time to receive any revelations you may have to make."
"Better take him with you," said Davis. "He is hardly good company, but it will keep him out of harm."
"Why not go?" Van Bult urged. "It will do you good—you need rest even more than Littell."
"No," I said, "I will stay here."
By this time we had reached the front door and no one seemed disposed to linger. Though our little dinner had begun auspiciously and full of promise of a pleasant evening, its ending had been rather melancholy and I knew they all felt so and, try as they would, could not throw the weight off. Somehow or other, this death of White seemed fated to bring us all constant trouble.
Davis and Van Bult nodded me a farewell as they went away, but Littell held out his hand and, as I took it, said earnestly, almost affectionately:
"Your fidelity to your purpose may prove to your sorrow, Dick, but I respect you for it, and I wish some of us could be more like you."
"It is you that I would be like," I answered him.
"Good-night," he said, and joined the others as they crossed the square.
As I stood for a moment, looking after their retreating forms, I saw again the detective I had seen shadowing Winters the day I had met him by White's house.
It was nearly two weeks after my little dinner that I sat late one afternoon alone in my office. The rain without pattered dismally against the single window that looked into a deserted court and within the room was dimly lighted by the fading daylight and the fire that flickered on the hearth. The gloom of the close of a rainy winter's day was over everything and my thoughts and heart seemed full of the vague shadows that haunted the room. I was awaiting the coming of Miles, who that morning had sent me word that he had something to report. During the past fortnight he had been persistently engaged in working on his new theory of the case, but with what results I did not know, for he had told me nothing.
I also had at first made an effort to accomplish something along the same lines, for I had found inaction almost unbearable, but it proved to no purpose. The time had passed for analyses of conditions; what was now needed was expert detective work, and this I could not do, and so I had to give it up and in despair resign myself to idly waiting on Miles.
I might have sought the companionship of Van Bult and Davis, for they were about as usual, doing the same old things in the same old way, but I was not disposed to engage in their amusements and I doubt much if they were anxious for the society of a man in a condition of mind such as mine. From Littell I had only heard once since his departure and that letter recently received from Florida was but to tell me that he was about starting for home. He was coming back, he wrote, to again conduct the defence of Winters; if it were so, it would prove but a wasted errand, I feared, for there seemed little likelihood of Winters needing our services again. He was very ill, and no longer confined in a cell, but in the hospital ward of the prison to which he had been removed by the physician's orders after the trial. His strength was gone, and it did not need the professional eye to see that he was dying.
As soon as I had learned of his condition I had gone to him, not once but almost daily, and each time I had spent long hours at his bedside. No one was ever with him but his jailors and nurses; they were attentive, considerate, but to them he was only a criminal whom they had in charge and they performed their duties and no more. I was his only visitor, his only friend; even the hysterical women whose habit it is to shower their attentions and tears on hardened criminals found nothing heroic enough by the silent bedside of this dying man to call for their ministrations. His case, now become but a nine day's wonder, forgotten or neglected by the press and public, furnished no longer a gallery to be played to. Poor fellow! he must have spent many weary hours alone on that prison bed with only his wasted life and his wrong-doings and his wrongs to think of, but when I visited him he had always a smile and a pleasant word with which to greet me,—there was never a complaint. Sometimes he would talk of himself and of his early life when he and I had been at college together, and he would ask about his old friends and the outside world, and all in the manner of a man who had done with it, but he seldom referred to the charge against him or to the death of White. Once he asked me about Littell and Miles and when I assured him of their continued interest in his behalf he shook his head and bade me tell them to think no more of it—"they have been very kind," he said—and I knew he meant he would not live for a second trial, and I could not contradict him.
Sometimes during these days I would doubt, too, if it were worth while—this task I had set myself—of hunting down the murderer, for it could no longer avail to help Winters and must only bring more trouble in its trail. The authorities would be content to let it pass with the death of Winters into the long category of undetermined crimes and why should not I also? and I would be tempted to call Miles from his work, but always something—a vague fear I wanted quieted, held me back. I would recall many things that had happened and that had made little impression on me at the time, but which seemed now in the hours of my solitude and depression to be fraught with some strange significance. That speech of Littell's to the jury in which he had described the murderer as a friend of White's, and his strange words of admonition to me at our dinner, and the refusal of Miles to let me longer share in his work, and the presence of the detective, lurking near our club when my friends took their leave, what did it all mean? Was there something in the background which I did not know and which they did not wish me to learn? I feared for that which I knew not and which was coming with a fear that gripped my heart, yet I would not lift a hand to stay it, but waited for it with passive submission.
Such thoughts, such feelings as these possessed me as I sat alone in my office this gloomy afternoon waiting for Miles. After a silence that seemed ages he had at last sought me and I knew he had succeeded in his task and was coming to tell me of it. As the hour drew near for his arrival my vague fears grew stronger and would not be shaken off. I had a premonition of evil—I tried and tried again to convince myself that I was morbid and fanciful, but the thoughts and the fears would return and each time with deeper and more sinister meaning. They crowded on me as I sat bowed over my desk till I could bear them no longer and I got up and walked to the window and, pressing my head against the cool glass, stood looking with unconscious eyes through the rain into the darkening court. How long I stood thus I don't know; every faculty was absorbed in the one dreadful thought: "What if Miles has discovered the murderer and is coming to tell me he is some one I know, a friend"—I could get no further, just that train of thought, never finished, but repeated and repeated, till cold and trembling I turned at last from the window. As I did so I faced the detective; the hour had come. There was just a moment of hesitation, and then I steadied myself.
"Well," I said, "what news."
"Let us sit down," he replied, "it is a long story."
I walked to my desk and resumed my chair, and he seated himself opposite to me. By this time the room was in darkness, except for the flickering light of the fire, and though I tried to study his face I could not do so for the shadows.
"Well!" I repeated,—for he had not answered me,—"what news?" He leaned forward and put his hand on my arm, but I shook it off and straightened myself—"What news?" I said again sharply, though my voice was hoarse and my words hardly articulate.
"I have discovered the murderer," he replied.
I tried to ask the name, but could not, and turned away to look into the fire and watch with abstracted gaze the little yellow tongues of flame as they darted here and there over the dark surface of the coal. They seemed to me to be like tiny serpents at play and I smiled at their antics, but underneath in the dull glow of the deep fire I found a silent sympathy with my mood and there my gaze lingered while I thought.
The secret I had worked so long and hard to know was mine for the asking and I was silent. I could feel Miles was looking at me and could read my thoughts and thought me a coward, but what did it matter to me then? I must think if I could think. A man may stop and wait and still not be a coward—and so we sat in silence. At last something, perhaps it was pity, made him offer a last chance of escape.
"I alone know the name of that man," he said; "and I need never tell it."
I listened and I knew then that my struggle was over and won, and I turned back to him and leaning across the desk looked him in the eyes:
"No," I said; "tell me his name."
"Littell," he answered.
I sank back in my chair; it had come at last and I knew now what it was that I had feared and that, unacknowledged to myself, that fear had been with me ever since,—well, no matter when, for I hardly know, but I had guessed it, and it was not a secret that I had feared to hear, but the sound of a name.
So for a long time we sat there while the hissing of the fire alone broke the silence and the shadows deepened in the room. My thoughts were travelling back over the years through which I had known and looked up to the man who was now charged with crime. He had been my friend and guide, and he had fallen. He was a murderer, and I must denounce him. My nature recoiled from the dreadful thought.
"There must be some mistake," I said, "it cannot be"; and I looked at the detective for some sign of wavering or uncertainty, and he understood me, for his eyes fell pityingly, but the grave face gave no hope. "I must have proof, then," I said. For answer he extended a roll of paper he had been holding. I took it mechanically and unrolled it, and, smoothing it out before me, sat staring blankly at it in the darkness till he got up and lighted the gas and then I saw it was his report.
"Read it," he said, and I obeyed, and read it deliberately, dispassionately, each word. There was no need for question or comment, it was all too plain, and when I handed it back to him I knew Littell was guilty. This is what I read:
"This report relative to the case of the death of Arthur White covers the period of my work from the time of the trial of Henry Winters to date. The facts discovered before the trial were presented in the evidence and need not be re-stated.
"They pointed to Winters as the criminal, but I did not believe him guilty. If Winters was not guilty, theft was not the object for which the crime was committed, for all the money missing not traced to him was otherwise accounted for. This made it likely that the crime was committed by a higher order of criminal, some one who had a personal motive for wishing White out of the way. Such a man should be looked for among White's associates. Mr. Littell had taken this line in his defence, and it seemed sound. I was satisfied that the facts would not lead me to the criminal: that course I had tried, and it had failed. I therefore determined to try and find the criminal and trace him to the crime. The method, though not generally approved, is not so haphazard as it might seem to be, and I have tried it successfully before when only circumstantial evidence was available.
"White's closest associates were Van Bult, Littell, and Davis, and they had all been with him the night of his death. I therefore immediately put detectives on each of them and began my work on the case of Van Bult. I went to his rooms and interviewed his servant. Van Bult left his rooms about seven o'clock on the evening of the murder. His servant, who slept elsewhere, did not see him again till the following morning about half-past six, when he went again to the rooms and found Van Bult there and assisted him in his preparations for a journey, served his breakfast, and saw him off by the eight o'clock train from the New York Central Depot for Buffalo. He had been told by Van Bult the evening before of his intended trip to Buffalo, and had come early that morning by his order. He had not seen Van Bult again till the next succeeding evening, when he had met him at the depot, in obedience to a telegram sent from Buffalo in the name of Van Bult.
"Van Bult's actions on the night of the murder still remained to be accounted for, and I sought information of them elsewhere. The rooms adjoining Van Bult's are occupied by a gentleman named Dean, who is a friend of his. I interviewed Dean. He recalled the night of the murder and stated that on that night Van Bult had returned to his rooms about one o'clock. He recalled the hour because he had been up and Van Bult had come to his room and they had remained together talking for nearly an hour and afterwards he had heard Van Bult for some time moving about in his own rooms.
"In the meanwhile I had sent a man to Buffalo to trace his actions while there. He reported that Van Bult had arrived there on the afternoon after the murder, stopped at the Wilson House till the following morning, and had then taken a train for New York. While in Buffalo he remained most of the time in the hotel, but made a visit to a private insane asylum, of which his wife had for two years been an inmate.
"Van Bult's actions were thus accounted for fully and I was satisfied of his innocence.
"Next I took up the case of Littell. He parted from Mr. Dallas a little before one o'clock on the night of the murder in Madison Square and apparently continued up Fifth Avenue. He testified at the Coroner's inquest that he walked directly to his hotel, The Terrace, near the Park entrance. It was first important that I should determine about this fact. For that purpose I went to the hotel and interviewed the desk clerks. There are two of them who divide the night work, one relieving the other at 1.30 A.M. Littell, on that night, had not reached the hotel during the hours of the first clerk; he did come in about fifteen or twenty minutes after the second one had taken the desk; therefore he arrived about ten or fifteen minutes before two o'clock. There was no trouble in fixing the occasion with the witnesses I interviewed. Littell's association with so sensational a case had made all his actions of that night a matter to be remembered by those who had seen him. I had thus established the fact that nearly an hour had elapsed between the time Littell left Mr. Dallas and that at which he arrived at his hotel. It was altogether improbable under these circumstances that he had gone directly home as he said he had done, but this was still unimportant unless I could track him to the neighborhood of White's house. It was evident that I could not expect to actually locate him there, but I had another means available of establishing his probable presence on the scene if such were a fact. The hour that intervened between his parting with Mr. Dallas and his arrival at the hotel was too much time to have been consumed in a direct walk there, but it was insufficient to admit of his returning to White's house unless he later used some quicker means of reaching the hotel than by walking. In such event he must either have taken the elevated road or a cab. The former seemed the more probable and the easier to determine, so I tried it. I found that at about half-past one o'clock on the night of the murder, a man wearing a long light coat and a soft gray hat, such as Littell had on, took a north-bound train at the Eighteenth Street station. This I learned from the night-guard, whose attention had been especially directed to the passenger because of the necessity of changing a five-dollar bill to make the fare. By itself this was not sufficient to establish the identification but I had a further means at hand. If that man was Littell he must have gotten off at some station near his hotel. At the Fifty-eighth Street station on the same night about ten minutes later Littell got off a north-bound train. The night-guard at this station knew him and spoke to him, for he had been using the station almost daily for several years. I had thus located him at four points within an hour, that is Madison Square, a little before one o'clock; Eighteenth Street elevated station about half after one; Fifty-eighth Street, about ten minutes later, and at the hotel about a quarter before two. I then accounted for his movements in the following way: he had consumed about half an hour from the time he left Madison Square till the time he took the train at Eighteenth Street. Of this period, he was about five minutes returning to White's house; he was there about ten minutes; the remaining fifteen minutes were divided between a journey to Belle Stanton's and thence to the station.
"This all required action, but Littell is a man of quick action. Note that I allowed time for him to have gone to Stanton's. I did this because I have always believed that it was the murderer who left the ulster there.
"The man the night-officer saw leave White's house about a quarter after one o'clock was not White as he supposed, but the murderer wearing his ulster and cap as a disguise. Note again the hour, a quarter past one o'clock; the same at which my calculations place Littell there. There remained another point to be determined.
"If my theory was correct and Littell the man who left White's house, disguised in the ulster, and if he disposed of it at Stanton's house, some explanation had to be found of his means of access to the house. If he had such access it was most likely he secured it through Stanton, with whom he was acquainted.
"From her I learned that Littell probably possessed a key to the front door of the house where she lived; she told me that shortly before the murder Littell had taken her home from a supper somewhere and that she had given him her key to let her in and that he had failed to return it to her. With this key in his possession his means of access to the house is explained. With these facts brought out I had accomplished all I could expect to from the events of that night.
"I could not actually fix the crime on any one because no one saw it committed,—but I had demonstrated:
"1st. That Littell had testified falsely as to his movements on that night.
"2d. That he had been in the neighborhood of the scene of the crime and the place where the ulster was found, because he must have passed that way to get from Madison Square to the corner of Sixth Avenue and Eighteenth Street.
"3d. That he occupied over half an hour in covering the distance, which is but six blocks, and therefore must have delayed in some way.
"There are also many peculiar circumstances in the case all explainable on the theory of Littell's guilt:
"1st. The criminal secured admission to White's rooms, although the doors were generally locked. Littell was there that night and had opportunity to fix the catches so as to permit of the doors being opened from the outside.
"2d. If White did not leave the ulster at Belle Stanton's house the criminal did, and his object in so doing was plainly to convey the impression that White had done so, and such purpose suggests a man intimate with White and having knowledge of his personal affairs.
"3d. If White did not wear the ulster and the cap out that night the criminal did, but the cap was back in White's room in the morning. The criminal therefore must have found some opportunity of returning the cap. Littell was on the scene and by the divan where the cap was found before it was discovered the following morning.
"A strong circumstantial case was thus made out against Littell, but the necessary motive was still lacking.
"For this motive in the case of a man like Littell, it was necessary to look into White's life and actions, for the motive would not be of an ordinary kind. The evidence had disclosed the fact that White had some trouble of some kind and that another was involved in it; it had also disclosed the fact that White felt under some great obligation to his cousin Winters and the language used in the will, that he left his estate to Winters as 'the reparation of a wrong,' pointed to the disposition of his uncle's estate as the possible explanation of it all. It was extraordinary under any circumstances that a father should leave practically all of a large fortune to a nephew and cut off his only child with almost nothing. I therefore investigated the circumstances under which the will of Winters, Sr., was made. The will was witnessed by the butler and a trained nurse who was in the house at the time, and was made on the testator's death-bed. I found the butler and the nurse and from them learned the following facts:
"On the morning of his death the testator in the presence of the nurse told White he meant to leave him a bequest of ten thousand dollars and asked him to go for his lawyers, who were Dickson & Brown. White departed on the errand and returned in about an hour with Littell.
"The butler let them in and knew the latter.
"The nurse heard the testator ask White why he had not brought his lawyers, to which White replied that they were both out of town. The testator then instructed Littell as to the provisions of the will; his voice was very weak and the nurse could not distinguish what they were. Littell then left the room with White, and they went to the library, where the butler provided them with materials for drawing the will. They returned to the room of the testator and Littell read the will to him. The nurse was standing in the embrasure of a window near the bed and heard the will read. She remembered distinctly that as read by Littell it gave to White the ten thousand dollars the testator had promised. The testator did not read the will himself, he was not able to do so. The will was thereupon duly executed by the testator and the witnesses, and the former directed that it be given into the custody of Dickson & Brown, who, as afterwards appeared, were named as executors. The testator died that afternoon. I did not in any way suggest anything to the nurse about the provisions of the will,—merely asked her if she remembered them and she volunteered the statement about the bequest of ten thousand to White. She did not even know that the will actually gave to him a hundred thousand, for she had never given it further thought or heard of it again. I visited the law firm of Dickson & Brown, and from them learned that after the death of the testator but on the same day White had delivered the will to them and also that they were neither of them out of town on that day.
"Six months after the death of the testator they distributed the estate. White received from them his bequest of one hundred thousand dollars and deposited it in the bank as I on inquiry learned; within a week he withdrew fifty thousand dollars and the succeeding day Littell deposited that amount in a bank in Jersey City, subsequently withdrawing it and depositing most of it—forty-odd thousand—in his own bank in this city. This latter fact I learned from his New York bankers and through them I was enabled to trace the deposit in the Jersey City bank, from which bank the transfer had been made direct.
"The witnesses necessary to substantiate the foregoing facts are all at hand and can be produced at any time.