WHERE THE WEAK MUST BE STRONG
THE TRIAL was called for early June, and Baptiste reached the city a week or ten days before the time set. He had become very friendly with the Negro lawyer who was conducting his case. He also secured a Gregory lawyer, the one who had conducted the contest case. When he arrived in the city, the lawyer advised that, inasmuch as they had a spare bedroom at his home, and that it would be imperative for them to be close to discuss various phases of the prosecution, he could have the room if he liked. So he accepted it.
It so happened that the lawyer's home was located in the same block on Vernon Avenue as was the McCarthys, and on the same side of the street. Moreover, it had been built at the same time as had that of the McCarthys, and was very much like in appearance the one in which they were living.
One afternoon a few days before the trial, while lingering at the bar of the Keystone Hotel, Baptiste was approached by Glavis, who invited him to a table nearby, where they were very much alone. He ordered the drinks, and when they were served he began:
"Now, Baptiste, it seems we ought to be able to get together on this case without going into court."
"Yes?" replied Baptiste, regarding the other noncommittally.
"Yes, I think we could, and should. I think you andOrlean ought to be able to console your differences without such an extreme."
"Youthinkso?"
"Why, I do. Orlean has always—ah—rather loved you, Baptiste, and I think you two could make up."
"But this is not between Orlean and me, Glavis. You seem to misunderstand. It is between N. Justine McCarthy and me."
"Of course, but it is over Orlean. You have sued father for this sum, a sum you know he cannot pay in the event you should secure judgment. So there would be nothing left for you but to remand him to jail, which seems to be your desire."
"Possibly so." The other was still noncommittal.
"Then why not you and I get together on this proposition before the trial is called?"
"I don't see as I can oblige you, Glavis. There comes a time when compromise is impossible, only vindication can suffice. And it's vindication that I want now and, regret to advise, am determined to have."
"That seems rather severe, Baptiste."
"Why so?"
"Well, you see, I understand that the old man kinda—er, gave you the worst of it, but you ought to forget some things. Look at it from a broad viewpoint. See how expensive it is going to be, and all that."
"I considered all that before I went into it, Glavis," replied Baptiste calmly.
"Well, now, Baptiste, I want to stop this thing before it goes to court. If you had of kinda flattered the old man a little in the beginning as I did, all would have been well."
"Why should I have done so when I didn't feel to?"
"Oh, Baptiste, you aresosevere!"
"When a man has suffered as I have, it is time to be severe, my friend. For your own benefit, I will say that I do not trust your father-in-law. I do not love him and never have. If it wasn't because I wish to observe and subserve to the law of the land, I would have killed him long ago.Even when I think of it now, my bitterness is so great at times that I must repel the inclination to strike him down for the coward he is. So if that's all, we will call the meeting to an end," so saying he arose, strode toward the bar and ordered drinks for both. He drank his with a gulp when served, and turned and left the saloon.
Glavis proceeded to his lawyer, and advised him of his inability to dissuade the plaintiff.
"Couldn't dissuade him, eh?"
"Couldn't do a thing!"
"That's too bad. It might be to your advantage if you could settle this case out of court. When will your father-in-law be in?"
"I'm looking for him here in a day or so, now."
"M-m." The attorney was thoughtful. "This is rather an unusual case," he resumed, "and I have been studying the complaint of the plaintiff. The old man, it seems to me, committed some very grave blunders."
"You think so?"
"Quite obvious. And while it will be difficult for the plaintiff to secure a judgment in such a case; it is, however, apparent that the sympathy of the court will be against your father-in-law in the proceedings."
Glavis was uncomfortable.
"Now I take notice here that the plaintiff states that his wife drew a check for two hundred dollars unknown to her husband, and that the Reverend had it cashed. That may be regular, but it will not help her father's case. Again,he complains that her father influenced the girl to sell a quarter section of land for less than one-tenth what it cost the plaintiff. Of course these are technicalities that while they cannot justify a judgment will win the sympathy of the jury. What the plaintiff must show, however, is that his father-in-law actually was the direct cause of and did alienate the affections of his wife. Such a case is not without parallel, but it is uncommon. A father alienating the affections of his daughter.
"Now where is your sister-in-law?"
"At home."
"Wish you'd bring her down. This is a complicated case, and we've got to conduct it with directness. She can be of great assistance in extricating her father from this predicament."
"All right, sir. When shall I bring her?"
"Oh, any time that is convenient. Tomorrow morning at nine will perhaps be the best. And, now, say! Have you any idea who the plaintiff is going to use as witnesses?"
"Why, I think he plans to bring his grandmother from what I can hear, for one."
"His grandmother? What does she know about it?"
"Well, she was in the house when my father-in-law went on the visit and the girl came away with him."
"I see. I'd like to know just what passed and what she heard and will testify to. I wonder whether she will testify that she overheard your father-in-law abusing this Baptiste to his wife?"
"I really don't know."
"Who else?"
"I heard something about him going to bring a doctor down, and also a lawyer."
"The doctor, eh?" He shook his head then a littledubiously. "This physician attended the girl while she was confined?"
"I think so."
"M-m. I see here where we have recorded that your father-in-law claims that the girl was neglected; didn't have proper medical attention. What about this? Have you any knowledge as to how many visits this doctor made to the bedside of this girl when she was sick? Any knowledge of what kind of bill was rendered by him?"
"I hear that his bill amounted to something like two hundred dollars."
"Two hundred! Great Scott! And for a dead baby! Gee! We'll have to keep away from neglect as an excuse. That's a fact. No jury will believe such a statement if that fellow shows where he's paid such a bill as that!"
Glavis shifted uneasily. He was seeing another side of the controversy. Before he had only seen one side of it, and that side was as the Reverend had had him see it.
"You send or bring the girl down here tomorrow. It will be up toherto keep her father out of jail, that's all. It will be up toherto convince the court that she never loved this man, that all he did for her was by persuasion, and that her father only followed her instructions. In short, it's almost directly up to her; for the plaintiff has certainly got the goods on her dad if he can prove that she ever loved him."
Glavis was much disturbed when he went home. For the first time he was able to appreciate the full circumstances. It would be up to Orlean to save her father, and that he could see. He would take her to the lawyer, and have her carefully drilled. The success for them depended on her; on her falsifying to the court, for it could not be otherwise. For her to testify that she did not love—and had neverloved Jean Baptiste, he knew would be a deliberate falsehood. It worried him, but he had to go through with it.
He accompanied her to the lawyer's office as agreed, and there she was made to understand the gravity of the situation, that everything depended on her statements,and her statements only.
Her father arrived the following day, and at the attorney's office in company with Orlean and Glavis, he was impressed with the nature of the defense. All were finally drilled in their course of action.
That night Orlean faced the most serious period in her life. She was a weak woman and her weakness had been the cause of it all. The trial was approaching—and the result wasup to her. Her father's freedom, his continuance in the pulpit, his vindication of the action he had taken depended uponher, andher strength.
And that strength—for on that day she wouldhaveto be strong,—depended upon a lie.
THE TRIAL—THE LIE—"AS GUILTY AS HELL!"
"NOT guilty, your honor!"
The court room was silent for a time before any one stirred. It had been apparent that the decision would be so; because there were several reasons why the jury was constrained to render such a verdict.
Among the reasons, chiefly, was the fact that the plaintiff had failed to produce sufficient evidence to justify a verdict in his favor. His grandmother, his corroborating witness, had answered her last call just before she was to start for Chicago to give hers, the most incriminating testimony. The doctor who had attended his wife during her confinement was indisposed, and was represented only by an affidavit. But what had gone harder than anything against the plaintiff was his wife's testimony. Under the most severe examination, and cross examinations, she had stood on her statements. She had never loved her husband, and had not been, therefore, actuated by her father's influence into leaving him. She had instructed her father in all he had done, and that he was in no wise guilty as accused.
No jury could have rendered a verdict to the contrary under such circumstances, and no one—not even the plaintiff, had expected or even hoped that they would.
But in the minds of every man and woman in the crowded court room, N.J. McCarthy stood a guilty man. Not even the faintest semblance of doubt as to this lingered in theirminds. It was merely a case of insufficient evidence to convict. And while the people filed out into the air at the conclusion, every one had a vision of that arch hypocrite in his evil perpetuation. In their ears would always ring the story Jean Baptiste had told. Told without a tremor, he had recited the evils from the day he had married her up until the day she had sold her birthright for a mess of pottage. So vivid did he make it all that the court was held in a thraldom. For an hour and a half he detailed the evil of his enemy, his sinister purpose and action, his lordly deceit, and his artful cunningness, and brought women to tears by the sorrow in his face, his apparent grief and external mortification.
Never had the black population of the city listened to or witnessed a more eloquent appeal. But justice had been unable to interfere. The trial was over, and Newton Justine McCarthy left the court room a free man, with head held high, and walking with sure step.
Jean Baptiste left it calmly in company with his lawyers. They had anticipated losing the case before going into court, for it had been apparent to them that the outcome rested entirely with Baptiste's wife. If they failed to shake her testimony; that she had never loved him, then they knew it was hopeless. It had all depended on her—and she had stood by her father.
"Well, I'm satisfied," said Baptiste as they went through the street.
"I suppose so, in a way."
"I wanted vindication. I wanted the people to know the truth."
"And they know it now. He goes free, but the people know he is a guilty man, and that your wifeliedto save him."
"Yes," said Baptiste a little wearily.
Somehow he felt relieved. It seemed that a great burden had been lifted from his mind, and he closed his eyes as if shutting out the past now forever. He was free. Never would the instance that had brought turmoil and strife into his life trouble him again. Always before there had seemed to be a peculiar bond between him and the woman he had taken as wife. Always he seemed to have a claim upon her in spite of all and she upon him. But, by the decision of the court, all this had been swept away, and he sighed as if in peace.
They found their way to the "L" station that was nearest, and there took a train for the south side. At Thirty-first Street Baptiste left his lawyer and slowly betook himself toward the familiar scenes on State Street.
While he lost himself in the traffic of State Street, the Reverend, in company with Glavis, Ethel, and Orlean, boarded an Indiana Avenue surface car. The Reverend was cheery for a great fear had passed. A coward by nature, he had been on the verge of a nervous breakdown before the trial, thinking of what might happen. But now that was over. He was free. That meant everything. The fact that he was guilty in the minds of everybody who heard the trial, did not worry him now. He was free and could claim by the verdict that he was vindicated in the action he had taken. That was the great question. Always before he had been sensitive of the fingers of accusation that were upon him, and the worry had greatly impaired his usual appearance.
And while he was relieved, Glavis, sitting proudly by him, was also. He talked cheerfully of the trial, of the decision, and of the future that was before them. He smiled at all times, and the Reverend's large face was also lighted upwith a peculiar delight. But there was another who, in spite of the fact that the testimony from her lips had saved the day for the Reverend, was not happy, not cheerful, not in a mood to discuss the case.
This one was Orlean. Few knew—in fact maybe only one other, and that was her husband—or appreciated how much that false testimony had cost her. She had lied; lied freely; lied stoutly; lied at every point of the case—and this for the man who had brought her to it. Andnowwhen it was over she felt not at ease. While Jean Baptiste was conscious that a burden had been lifted from his mind, and Glavis and her father chatted freely, she sat silently by without even a clear thought. She was only conscious that she had lied, that after a life of weakness, a life that had made no one happy or cheerful or gay, she had for the first time in her life, deliberately lied. And as she became more conscious of what had passed, she felt a burden upon her. Never since the day she had abused her husband; never since the suffering her actions had brought him; never since as a climax to all this, when he lay upon the floor and she had kicked him viciously in the face, had she experienced a happy or a cheerful day.
But today—after that terrible ordeal, she felt as if life held little for her, that she was now unfit to perform any womanly duty. She found no consolation in the fact that she had been encouraged to do as she had done by those who claimed to love her. That seemed to annoy her if anything. She could now, for the first time in her life, realize clearly what duty meant. Duty could not be side-tracked, regardless of what might have passed. Her husband had been good to her. He had given her the love that was his. Never had he abused her in any way, never had he used a cross word in her presence. But she had doneeverything to him. And as a climax to it all, she hadlied.
Oh, that lie would haunt her forever!
They arrived at the street where they must leave the car for home. She arose along with the rest. When they stood upon the walkway and had started toward home, her father paused.
"By the way, children," he said cheerfully. "I think I should call at the lawyer's office and thank him." He turned his eyes to Glavis, his worthy counsellor at all times, and read agreement in his face before the other opened his lips to give sanction.
"I think that you should, too, father," he said, whereupon he turned to accompany him.
"Well, I'll drop by his office. You may go on home with the girls, Glavis," he said. So saying he turned toward the attorney's office to settle his account and talk over the case.
As he walked along his way, he became reflective. He allowed his mind to wander back into the past—back many years to the time when he had gone into the country to take a meal. He recalled that day at the dinner table where he had sat near a certain school teacher. She had been an attractive teacher, a rare woman in those days. And he admired her. It was a privilege to sit so close to her at the table, to wait on her, and be the recipient of her charming smiles. He saw himself now more clearly in retrospection. He saw a little boy standing hungrily at a distance. He saw again now, that same small boy approach the teacher; saw the teacher's motherly face and her arms reached out and caught that youth and then smother his face with kisses. He felt again the anger that little boy's action had aroused in him. He heard again the cries from the summer kitchen as the mother administered punishment for the same. He recalled briefly the years that followed. He recounted thetestimony at the trial. For many, many months he had endeavored to make Baptiste suffer, and this day he had succeeded. But still he was not satisfied. The joy that had come of being freed of the accusation after his unhappy and nervous state of fear, had shut all else out of his mind for a time. After all freedom is so much. But was freedom all? He could not account for the feeling that was suddenly come over him. He recalled then again the severe chastisement he had caused Jean Baptiste to receive when he was a mere child. He recalled also how he had been instrumental in separating him from his daughter. He recalled now the lies, oh, the lies she had resorted to that had kept him out of jail, the tears he had shed from self pity, while Baptiste stood stoically by.
And thinking thusly, he reached his destination.
He found the attorney alone, busy over some papers. He approached him courteously, bowed, and thrusting his hand in his pocket, said:
"Yes, sir. I thought I would drop in and pay you the balance of the fee that is now due, and thank you for your services." He smiled pleasantly as he spoke, and never appeared more impressive. The other regarded him a moment, held out his hand, accepted his fee, and said:
"Well, it's over, and you are free."
"Yes," said the Elder, but now found it rather hard to smile. "I am glad it is over for it was a very awkward affair, I must confess." He paused then, perforce. The lawyer was regarding him, and the Elder wondered at his expression. He had never seen that look in his face before. What did it mean? He was not kept long in suspense, for soon the other spoke.
"Yes, you are free and fortunate."
"Fortunate," the Reverend repeated, thoughtfully, andlooking up found the lawyer's eyes upon him. They were looking straight into his with the same expression of a moment before.
"Yes," said the lawyer then coldly, "you arefreeandfortunate, becauseyou were as guilty as hell!"
GRIM JUSTICE
AGNES decided to visit Chicago and planned to be married there. Besides, since she was now engaged, the legacy in the bank at Rensselaer must be secured, and, according to her mother's will, consulted before she was married. She was curious to know what it was all about. Indeed, she was almost as anxious, if not more so to learn the contents of the legacy than she was to become the wife of the man she had consented to marry.
Accordingly, before the train reached Chicago, she became very anxious. It gave her a peculiar and new thrill to recline in the luxurious Pullman, to have her needs answered and attended to by servants, and to be pointed out by curious people as the writer and composer of a song that had delighted the whole country. She was experiencing how very convenient life is when one has sufficient means to satisfy one's needs. This had been her privilege only a short time. A newsboy boarded the train and passed hurriedly through the cars with the morning papers. She purchased one, and glanced through the headlines. In the index she saw an account of the suit of Jean Baptiste, versus his father-in-law. Curiously and anxiously she turned to the account and read the proceedings of the trial. She laid the paper aside when through and reviewed her acquaintance with him in retrospection. How strange it all seemed at this late date. Beside her, a long, narrow mirror fit betweenthe double windows. In this she studied her face a moment. Some years had passed since that day—and the other day, too, at the sod house. She thought of the man that was to be her mate and of what he would think should he ever know that the only man who had ever touched her lips before him, was a Negro. She found herself comparing the two men, and she was rather surprised at the difference she could distinguish. She tried to estimate what true love was. The life she had so recently entered was the life she had aspired to. She had hopes for it. The life that could now be hers was the goal of her ambition—and she had attained it! She should be satisfied. But was she?
As the train with its luxurious appointments sped along, she felt after all that she was going out of the life that she really loved. Was it because she had always been so poor and unable to have the things she could now partake of at will, that such had become a habit, and indispensable to her happiness? For indeed she had a longing for the old life, the dash and open it afforded. She had a vision of Jean Baptiste and his honor. He had sacrificed her to be loyal to the race in which he belonged. Had it not been for this, she knew she would not be journeying to the great city to become the wife of another. But amid all these thoughts and introspectives and otherwise, there constantly recurred to her mind the man she was to marry and what he would think if he knew that she had once loved and would have married—and even kissed a Negro.
She was glad when at last the train drew into the outskirts of the city, and the excitement about drove such reminiscences out of her mind. She had wired him, and of course, she expected him to meet her.
"Oh, here you are," he cried as she stood upon the platform a half hour later. On hearing him her eyes wandered toward where he stood, and regarded him keenly for a moment. A really handsome man, immaculately attired in the finest tailored clothes and in the fashion of the day. He caught her in his arms and she did not resist the hot kisses he planted upon her cheeks. Still, she was greatly confused, and feared that she would create a scene before she had become accustomed to the ways and dash of the city.
He had her arm—held it close, as they passed through the station and crossed the walkway to where an inclosed auto stood. Into this he ushered her, attended to her luggage, and a moment later followed her inside. Through the city with all its bustle and excitement they sped.
"I'm going to take you to my aunt's," he said, when they had gotten started.
"Oh," she chimed. At that moment she could think of nothing to say. It was all so confusing to her. She was so unaccustomed to any kind of a city that she was actually in a fear. She did not realize because of the distinction to which she had attained, that any awkwardness on her part would be looked upon as the eccentricity of a genius. She decided, however, to say as little as possible, to speak only when spoken to. In that way she would try not to cause him any embarrassment or mortification.
"You have certainly been a hard one to pull off the farm, dear," she heard now.
"Oh, do you think so?" she said coyly.
"Do I think so?" he laughed. "Well, say, now, there isn't one person in a thousand who, after writing the hit you have composed, wouldn't have been over all this old land by this time, letting people see them."
"Oh, I could never wish that," she said quickly.
"Oh, come, now! Get into the limelight." He eyed her artfully, winked playfully, and continued: "You'll like it when you get the modesty out of yourself."
"I don't think so."
He regarded her quickly out of the corner of his eye, and then looked ahead.
"Ever heard of State Street?" he inquired.
"Oh, yes. Is this it?"
"This is State Street," he said, and she looked out and started. She didn't know just what she had expected to see, but what met her gaze and made her start was the sight of so many Negroes.
"What's the matter, dear?" he said, glancing at her quickly.
"Why—ah—oh, nothing."
"I wondered why you started," and he again looked ahead. They were across it now, and approaching Wabash Avenue. He turned into this, to where his aunt lived some distance out in the most exclusive part of its residence section.
Agnes, sitting by his side, despite the excitement, the great buildings and fine streets, was thinking of the past, and of what she had just seen. Negroes, Negroes, andthatwould have been her life had she married Jean Baptiste. All such was foreign to her, but she could estimate what it would have meant. She was sure she could never have become accustomed to such an association, it wouldn't have seemed natural. And then she thought of Jean Baptiste, the man. Oh, of him, it was always so different. In her mind he was like no other person in the world. How strange, and singularly sweet had been her acquaintance with him. Never had she understood any one as she understood him. She tried to shut him out of her life, for thetime had come, and she must. Butcouldshe? When she dared close her eyes she seemed to see him more clearly.
The car had stopped now, and he was lifting her out before a large house that stood back from the street some distance in sumptuous splendor. As they went up the walkway, the large front doors parted, and a handsome elderly woman came forth. Upon her face was written refinement and culture.
"Oh, aunt, here we are."
"I saw you coming because I was watching," said his aunt, coming forward, the personification of dignity. She held out her arms, and Agnes felt herself being embraced and kissed. Her head was in a whirl. How couldshereadily become accustomed to such without displaying awkwardness.
Arm in arm they mounted the steps, were met by the butler, who took her bags, and a moment later she found herself in a large, richly furnished room.
"Come now, dear," he said, and led her to a couch. She heard his aunt going upstairs to prepare her room, and the next moment she felt him draw her to him, and whatever difference there was in this convenient life, all men loved alike.
Jean Baptiste lingered late at the Keystone bar. He was alone in the world, he felt, so company of the kind about seemed the best, and was, at least, diverting. It was twelve o'clock and after when he left. He still retained his room at the attorney's residence, and to this he strolled slowly. He attempted to formulate some plans in his mind, and after a time it occurred to him that he should go back West to Gregory. He had hired more than seven hundred fifty acres put into wheat. He hadn't heard how it was, orwhether there was any wheat there or not. But he had seen in the papers that a drought had affected much of the crop in Kansas and Nebraska. He half heartedly assumed that it would naturally hit his country also. If so, there was nothing left for him to do but leave that section. But he would depart from the city on the morrow and see what there was up there, and with this settled in his mind, he quickened his step, and hurried to his room.
He turned into the right number, as he thought, but upon trying to insert the key in the lock he found that he had made a mistake. He glanced up in confusion and almost uttered a cry. It was not the attorney's home, but that of the Reverend McCarthy.
"Chump!" he said to himself as he turned and started back down the steps. "I'll never sleep inside that house again," and laughed.
Upon the walk he heard steps, and when he had reached the street, looked up to meet Glavis and a strange Negro just turning in. Glavis glared at him as if to say, "Well, what business have you here, now?" But Baptiste mumbled some word of apology about having turned in at the wrong number, went directly to his room, retired and forgot the incident.
He had no idea how long he had been asleep or what time it was when he was awakened suddenly by a drumming on his door, and the attorney's voice, saying:
"Heh! Heh! Baptiste, wake up, wake up, you're wanted!"
He turned on his side and drew his hand to his forehead to assure himself that he was awake. Then, realizing that he was, he jumped from the bed and going forward, opened the door.
Two officers, the attorney in a bath robe, and Glavisstood at the door. He regarded them curiously. "What is this?" he managed to say, as they came into the room.
"Seems that they want you," said the attorney.
"Me?" he chimed.
"Yep," said one of the officers. "Will you go along peacefully or shall we have to put the bracelets on. You're arrested for murder."
"For murder!Me, for murder?"
"Just go with the officers, Baptiste. If you'd been a little earlier you might have gotten away; but it so happened that I met you coming out just as I was going in."
"But I don't understand what you're talking about—all of you," persisted Baptiste. "Who has been murdered, and why am I accused?"
The lawyer had been observing him keenly, and now he interposed.
"Why, your wife and her father have just been found murdered, and Glavis here and another assert they met you coming out of the house at midnight or a little after."
The incident of the night came back to him then, "Well," he muttered, and began to get into his clothes. When he was fully dressed he turned to the attorney and said:
"Glavis is right in part, White." He was very calm. "I'll call you up when I need you." And then he turned to the officers and said. "I'm ready. The cuffs will not be necessary."
A FRIEND
BECAUSE she feared that rising as early as she had been accustomed to might serve to embarrass her fiancé and his aunt, Agnes took a magazine from her bag, returned to bed and tried to interest herself in a story the morning following her arrival in the city. About seven, some one knocked lightly at her door, and, upon opening it, she found the maid with the morning paper.
"Would you care for it?" she asked courteously.
"I would be glad to have it," she said as she took it, returned to the bed, and once again therein, turned to read the news. It was but a moment before she started up quickly as she read:
STRANGE MURDER CASE ON VERNON AVENUENegro Minister and His Daughter Found Murdered about MidnightJEAN BAPTISTE, WHO HAD LOST SUIT AGAINST PREACHER, ARRESTED AND HELD WITHOUT BAIL AS SUSPECT. WAS MET LEAVING THE HOUSE JUST BEFORE DISCOVERY OF THE MURDER.Jean Baptiste, Negro author and rancher is under arrest at the county jail this morning, accused of the murder of his wife and father-in-law, the Reverend N.J. McCarthy, at 3—— Vernon Avenue. The dead bodies of the preacher and his daughter were discovered shortly after midnightlast night by his daughter Ethel and her husband, upon his return from State Street where he had seen Baptiste leave the Keystone saloon a few minutes after twelve.The murder appears to be the sequence of a long enmity between the preacher and his son-in-law, Baptiste. Some years ago Baptiste had the preacher's daughter take a homestead in the West, on which he had purchased a relinquishment for her. Some months later they were married and went to live on the claim he had secured. It seems that bad blood existed between the preacher and Baptiste, and some time after the marriage the preacher went on a trip West and when he returned brought his daughter back with him. It is said that the rancher visited Chicago several times following in an effort to persuade her to return. About a year ago, the daughter sold a relinquishment on the homestead and Baptiste accused the preacher of having influenced her to do so. He also accused him of other things that contributed to the separation, and finally sued the minister in the circuit court of Cook County for ten thousand dollars for alienating his wife's affections. The case was brought up, tried, and, yesterday, the minister was adjudged not guilty by the jury. The rancher and author made a strong case against the minister, and it was the consensus of opinion in the court room that the minister was guilty. But it was his daughter's alibi that saved him: she testified that she did not and never had loved her husband, and because the plaintiff was unable to prove conclusively that she had, the jury's verdict was "not guilty."E.M. Glavis, also a son-in-law of the dead man, testified and was corroborated by another, a minister, that just as he turned into his yard last night, he met Jean Baptiste coming out. He moreover claims, that a few days before the trial, he tried to dissuade Baptiste from going through with thecase, and to settle it out of court. But that Baptiste refused to consider it; that he showed his bitterness toward the now dead man, by declaring that if he hadn't wished to observe and subserve to the law, he would have killed the preacher long ago.It is therefore the consensus of opinion that Baptiste, disappointed by losing the suit, entered the house and murdered his wife and father-in-law while they slept. The circumstantial evidence is strong, and it looks rather bad for the author. Only one phase of the case seems to puzzle the police, however, and that is that the preacher and his daughter were found dead in the same room, the room which the minister occupied. Both had been stabbed with a knife that had long been in that same room. The minister's body lay in bed as if he had been murdered while he was sleeping, while that of the daughter lay near the door. It is the opinion also of those who feel Baptiste guilty, that he entered the house and went to the preacher's room, and there killed him while he lay sleeping; and that the daughter, who was sleeping downstairs near her mother, was possibly aroused by the noise, went up to the room, and was murdered as the intruder was about to leave.Baptiste refused to make any comment further than that he was innocent.
STRANGE MURDER CASE ON VERNON AVENUE
Negro Minister and His Daughter Found Murdered about Midnight
JEAN BAPTISTE, WHO HAD LOST SUIT AGAINST PREACHER, ARRESTED AND HELD WITHOUT BAIL AS SUSPECT. WAS MET LEAVING THE HOUSE JUST BEFORE DISCOVERY OF THE MURDER.
Jean Baptiste, Negro author and rancher is under arrest at the county jail this morning, accused of the murder of his wife and father-in-law, the Reverend N.J. McCarthy, at 3—— Vernon Avenue. The dead bodies of the preacher and his daughter were discovered shortly after midnightlast night by his daughter Ethel and her husband, upon his return from State Street where he had seen Baptiste leave the Keystone saloon a few minutes after twelve.
The murder appears to be the sequence of a long enmity between the preacher and his son-in-law, Baptiste. Some years ago Baptiste had the preacher's daughter take a homestead in the West, on which he had purchased a relinquishment for her. Some months later they were married and went to live on the claim he had secured. It seems that bad blood existed between the preacher and Baptiste, and some time after the marriage the preacher went on a trip West and when he returned brought his daughter back with him. It is said that the rancher visited Chicago several times following in an effort to persuade her to return. About a year ago, the daughter sold a relinquishment on the homestead and Baptiste accused the preacher of having influenced her to do so. He also accused him of other things that contributed to the separation, and finally sued the minister in the circuit court of Cook County for ten thousand dollars for alienating his wife's affections. The case was brought up, tried, and, yesterday, the minister was adjudged not guilty by the jury. The rancher and author made a strong case against the minister, and it was the consensus of opinion in the court room that the minister was guilty. But it was his daughter's alibi that saved him: she testified that she did not and never had loved her husband, and because the plaintiff was unable to prove conclusively that she had, the jury's verdict was "not guilty."
E.M. Glavis, also a son-in-law of the dead man, testified and was corroborated by another, a minister, that just as he turned into his yard last night, he met Jean Baptiste coming out. He moreover claims, that a few days before the trial, he tried to dissuade Baptiste from going through with thecase, and to settle it out of court. But that Baptiste refused to consider it; that he showed his bitterness toward the now dead man, by declaring that if he hadn't wished to observe and subserve to the law, he would have killed the preacher long ago.
It is therefore the consensus of opinion that Baptiste, disappointed by losing the suit, entered the house and murdered his wife and father-in-law while they slept. The circumstantial evidence is strong, and it looks rather bad for the author. Only one phase of the case seems to puzzle the police, however, and that is that the preacher and his daughter were found dead in the same room, the room which the minister occupied. Both had been stabbed with a knife that had long been in that same room. The minister's body lay in bed as if he had been murdered while he was sleeping, while that of the daughter lay near the door. It is the opinion also of those who feel Baptiste guilty, that he entered the house and went to the preacher's room, and there killed him while he lay sleeping; and that the daughter, who was sleeping downstairs near her mother, was possibly aroused by the noise, went up to the room, and was murdered as the intruder was about to leave.
Baptiste refused to make any comment further than that he was innocent.
"Accused of murder!" Agnes echoed, staring before her in much excitement. "Jean Baptiste accused of murder!" She read the account again. She arose and stood on the floor. "Heisinnocent,he is innocent!" she cried to herself. "Jean Baptiste would not commit murder, no, no, no! No, not even if he was justified in doing so." Suddenly she seized her clothes, and in the next instant was getting hurriedly into them.
She completed her toilet quickly, opened the door and slipped down the stairs. The maid was at work in the hall, and she approached her, and said:
"Will you kindly advise the lady of the house that I have gone downtown on some very urgent business. That I shall return later in the day?"
She stepped outside, crossed to State Street, inquired of an officer the way to the county jail, and a few minutes later boarded a car for the north side.
She had no plans as to what she would or could do, but she was going to him. All that he had been to her in the past had arisen the instant she saw that he was in trouble. Especially did she recall his having saved them from foreclosure and disgrace years before. She was determined. She wasgoingto him, he was innocent, she was positive, and she would do all in her power to save him.
It was rather awkward, going to a place she had never dreamed of going to, the county jail, but she shook this resolutely from her mind, and a few minutes following her arrival, there she stood before the bailiff.
"I am a friend of a man who was arrested in connection with a murder last night," she explained to the officer. "And—ah, would it be possible for me to see and consult with him?"
"You refer to that case on Vernon Avenue, madam?"
"Yes, sir."
"And you would like to see this Jean Baptiste?"
"That is the one."
They regarded her closely, and was finally asked to follow the bailiff.
They stopped presently before a cell, and when the light had been turned on, she saw Baptiste sitting on a cot. He looked up, and upon recognizing her, came forward.
"Why, Agnes—Miss Stewart,you!" he cried in great surprise. He regarded her as if afraid to try to understand her presence there.
"Yes, Jean," she answered quickly. "It isI." She hesitated in her excitement, and as she did so, he caught that same mystery in her eyes. They were blue, and again he could swear that they were brown. Despite his precarious position and predicament, he could not help regarding her, and marking the changes that had come in the years since he had seen her. She seemed to have grown a trifle stouter, while her hair appeared there in the light more beautiful. Her face was stronger, while her lips were as red as ever. Withal, she had grown more serious looking. She reminded him as she stood there then, of a serious young literary woman, and he was made hopeful by her visit.
"Now, Jean, I've read all about it in the papers. I happened to be in the city, and so came right over. I know nothing about anything like this, and don't suppose you do either. But, Jean," she spoke excitedly, anxiously, and hurriedly, "I am willing to do anything you ask me to, just anything, Jean." And she regarded him tenderly. He was affected by it, he choked confusedly. It was all so sudden. She noted his confusion, and cried in a strained little voice,
"You must just tellme, Jean."
"Why, Agnes—I. Well, I don't know what to say. I don't feel that I ought to involve you in such a mess as this. I—"
"Oh, you must not speak that way, Jean. No, no, no! I'm here to help you. Youdidn'tkill him, youdidn'tkillher—you didn't kill anybody, did you, Jean?"
"Of course I didn't kill anybody, Agnes."
"Of course you didn't, Jean!" she cried with relief. "Iknewyou were innocent. I said so, and I got out of bed and came at once, I did."
"How brave, how noble, how kind," he murmured as if to himself, but she reached and placed her hand over his where it rested upon the bar.
"Shall I hire a lawyer, Jean? A great lawyer—the best in the city. That would be the first thing to do, wouldn't it, Jean?"
He looked at her, and could not believe it was so, but finally he murmured:
"I have a lawyer—a friend of mine. You may call on him, Agnes. His number is 3—— Vernon Avenue. He will tell me what to do."
"Andme," she said quickly.
"Yes—you," he repeated, and lowered his eyes.
"Well, I'm going now, Jean," and she reached for his hand.
He was almost overcome, and could not look at her directly.
"Be strong, Jean. It will come out all right—it must come out all right—"
"Oh, Agnes, this is too much. Forget it. You should not—"
"Please hush, Jean," she said imploringly, and he glanced up to see tears in her eyes. She looked away to hide them. As she did so, she cried: "Oh, Jean, I know whattheyhave been doing to you—how you have been made to suffer. And—and—I—couldneverstand to see it after all—" she broke away then, and rushed from him and out of the building. He watched her and when she was gone, he went back to the cot and sat him down, and murmured.
"Agnes, oh, Agnes,—and after all that has passed!"
THE MYSTERY
AFTER AGNES had consulted with the lawyer, who was glad to go into the case, and agreed to engage a worthy assistant, she returned to Baptiste and said:
"Now, Jean. Don't you think that if I secured a good detective to look into it—this case, it would be the proper thing?"
"Why—yes, Agnes," he said. He could hardly accustom himself to her in such a situation.
"I think that would be best," she resumed. "As I was coming downtown on the car I observed the Pinkerton Office on 5th Avenue and now, Jean, if you think that would be a practical move, I will go there at once and have them send a man to you. I'll bring him."
"That would be practical, Agnes. Yes," he said thoughtfully, "since you insist—"
"No more, please," and she affected a little smile. "Just let me work until we arrive somewhere," and she was gone, returning in due time with a man.
"I represent the Pinkerton agency, Mr. Baptiste," he said, after greeting the prisoner, "and now if you will state just where you were; what time, as near as you can recall, that you reached home; also what time you turned into this place where the murder was committed, I shall be glad to get down to work on the case."
Since Baptiste had observed the time by the clock in the Keystone before leaving there, he was quite accurate in fixing the time he reached his room. Since we have followed him to his room, we know this phase of the case.
"Well, I'll hike over there and squint around a little. Hope I'll get there before the inquest is held." And so saying, he was gone.
"I will go back to where I am staying, now, Jean," said Agnes, after the detective had departed, "and you may expect me at any time. I want to see you out of here as soon as possible, and I will do all in my power to get you out," and she dashed away.
The detective went to the McCarthy home forthwith. The bodies had been removed and were then at the morgue. He looked into the room where the tragedy had been committed, and then sought Glavis.
"Who discovered the murder, Mr. Glavis?" he inquired when they stood in the death room.
"Why myself and another fellow returned home just after it had been committed."
"How didyouknow it had just been committed?"
"Well—why, my wife was in the hall-way, and when we entered she had just discovered the bodies."
"But that doesn't prove that they had just been murdered."
"But my wife says she was awakened by her sister's scream."
"I see. So it was your wife who first discovered the bodies, or that they had just been murdered."
"Yes."
"Where had you been, and what time did you return home?"
"I had been around town, to the Keystone where Baptiste was until shortly after midnight."
"You saw this Baptiste leave the hotel?"
"I did."
"How long after Baptiste left was it, before you followed?"
"Perhaps fifteen minutes."
"Perhapsfifteen minutes; but you are not positive?"
"No, but I am quite certain."
"When you left the hotel, where did you go?"
"I came here."
"You came directly here. Didn't stop on the way anywhere?"
"I did not."
"And when you arrived, what happened? Did you meet anybody on the way?"
"I passed people of whom I took no notice on the way here, of course. The only person I took notice of was Jean Baptiste."
"Where did you meet him?"
"Coming out of the house upon my arrival."
"You met him coming out of the house upon your arrival?"
"Well, out of the yard. I saw him come down the steps that leads up to the house."
"But youdidn'tsee him come out of the house?"
"Well, no, I didn't see that."
"Did you exchange any words with him when you met him? Did you stop and talk?"
"No. But I heard him mutter something."
"Did you understand the words or any words he muttered?"
"I thought he said something about having turned in at the wrong place."
"How do you account for him having done so—if so?"
"Well, the house where he stops is just a few doors—about a half dozen—up the street—"
"On the same side or the opposite?"
"The same side. And he was stopping there."
"Did you have any conversation with Baptiste after the trial in which he sued your father-in-law?"
"No; but I tried to have him settle the case before going to court."
"What did he say to it?"
"Refused to consider it."
"Did he give reasons?"
"Yes. He said he wanted vindication."
"Anything else?"
"That he would have killed the Elder if it had not been that he was an observer of the law."
"Where were they murdered?"
"She lay near the door, while he lay in bed."
"Any evidence of a struggle?"
"No, not as I could see."
"With what were they murdered?"
"With a knife that has been in the room here for two or three years."
"Was Baptiste aware that such a knife was in the room?"
"Not that I know of."
"When, to your knowledge, was Baptiste last in the house?"
"He has not been in the house for more than three years."
"Then he couldn't have known the knife was there."
"Well, unless he discovered it when he entered the room."
"Providing heenteredthe room. Was he aware also that the preacher occupied this particular room? Is it notreasonable to suppose that he would not know where the preacher slept if he had not been in the house for three years?"
"But he could have looked around."
"Possibly. But how do you account for the girl's body being here in the room also. Where did she sleep?"
"Downstairs near her mother. It is my theory that she was disturbed by the sound of some one walking, went upstairs, and was in time to see the tragedy of her father, and was in turn murdered by her husband."
"That is yourtheory. But why was there no evidence of a struggle? It hardly seems reasonable that she would have allowed herself to be stabbed without some effort to save herself."
"Well, that is beyond me. Jean Baptiste acted suspicious in my opinion, and it is certainly strange that he should have been in the position he was at such a crucial time."
"May I consult with your wife?"
Glavis looked around, uneasily. "She is very much torn up by the incident," he suggested.
"But this is a very grave matter."
"Well," and he turned and entered the room wherein Ethel had enclosed herself.
"Ethel, an officer has called and wishes to consult with you."
"No, no, no!" she yelled. "Send him away. Didn't I tell you I didn't want to see no police," and she fell to crying. The detective had entered the room in the meantime, and when she looked up, she saw him.
"What are you doing in here?" she fairly screamed. He did not flinch under the glare she turned upon him. Indeed, the day was at last come when she could frighten no one. The one she had been able to drive to any lengths withsuch a propaganda, lay stiff at the morgue. The detective regarded her searchingly, and upon realizing he was not going to jump and run, she ceased that unseemly noise making and began crying, woefully.
"You discovered this tragedy, madam?" he inquired calmly, but with a note of firmness in his tone.
"Yes, yes!—oh, my poor sister! My poor father—and that low down man!"
"When did you discover this, madam?"
"Just as soon as it was done, oh me!"
"How did you come to discover it, lady?"
"By my sister's scream. She screamed so loud it seemed everybody must have heard it. Screamed when he stuck that knife into her breast!"
"How long after you heard her scream was it before you came out of the room—your room?"
"I came at once," she said sulkily, and tried to cry louder. The detective was thoughtful.
"So you came at once! And what didyou seewhen you came out?"
At this she seemed overcome, and it was some moments before he could get her answer, and that was after he had repeated.
"My sister and father lying murdered in the room there."
"Isthat allyou saw?"
She was sulky again. After a time she muttered. She wrinkled her face but the tears would not come. Presently she said, and the detective caught an effort on her part to say it.
"Yes. But I think I heard a door slam downstairs."
"Youthinkyou heard a door slam? What happened next?"
"My husband came."
"How long after the door slammed was it before your husband came?"
"Not long."
"Is it not possible that when you heard the door slam, that it was your husband coming in?"
"No. I heard the door slam behind him, too." Again he thought he detected something singular in her manner, as if she were not telling all she knew....
The detective went downstairs and talked with Mrs. McCarthy a few minutes, and then took his leave. He called up Agnes, and made an appointment and met her some hours later.
"What have you discovered?" she inquired anxiously, her eyes searching his face.
"Well," said he, slowly, "a few things, I think."
"And Jean—Mr. Baptiste?" He looked up sharply and searched her face.
"He is innocent."
"Thank God!" And she clasped her hands and looked down in great relief. Quickly, she looked up, however, and cried: "But the proof. Will you—can youproveit?"
He toyed idly with a pencil he held in his hands, and after a time, drawled: "I think so.When the proper time comes."
"Thepropertime? And—when will that be?" Her voice was controlled, but the anxiety was apparent.
"Well, we'll say at the preliminary hearing tomorrow morning."
"And—and—you have no more to report?"
"Not today. I shall attend the inquest, of course. And where may I see you—say, tomorrow?"
"At the hearing."
"Very well, then. Good day."
"Good day."
VENGEANCE IS MINE. I WILL REPAY
"JEAN," she cried joyfully. "The detective says that you are innocent; and that he feels he will be able to place the crime where it belongs!"
"I'm glad," he said solemnly. She bestowed upon him a kind smile as she said:
"So I thought I would just come over and cheer you up. There is something mysterious about it all, and the newspapers are devoting much space to it. Oh, I'm so glad to hope that it will be all over tomorrow, and you will be let out of this place, so you can go back home and cut your wheat."
"My wheat?"
"Yes, of course, Jean. You have a fine crop of wheat on all your land."
"I have?"
"Yes, it is so," she reassured him. And then she paused, as something seemed to occur to her. "Because of the fact that you have had several failures you cannot realize that you have actually raised a crop, a big crop, better than any crop since—since." She stopped short, and he understood and suppressed a sigh. When he looked up, she was moving down the hallway, her mind filled with something she had almost forgotten during the past two days.
He knew of it. She had been given quite a write-up in the social columns of a Chicago paper and many lovers of her musical hit, were, unknown to her, curious with regard to her coming marriage.
The detective Agnes had retained, called on Baptiste's lawyers and held a lengthy consultation. When he left them, an understanding had been reached with regard to the hearing, and silence was agreed upon.
At the magistrate's office the following morning, the court room was crowded. Scores were turned away, and all the family had been subpœnaed.
Glavis was first called, and related what he knew, which has already been related. Next came Mrs. McCarthy who knew even less. She was followed by Ethel, and the detective and two lawyers questioned her closely.
"Now, you say you heard your sister scream," said the lawyer after the usual formalities had passed. "Will you kindly state to the court just what you overheard and know regarding this affair?"
She glared at him, and then her eyes met those of Baptiste, and she glared again. She told a varied story of the case, and made it very brief.
"You say, madame, that after you heard your sister scream you rushed from your room and to where she was?"
"Yes," she answered, and those near noticed the sulkiness.
"And when you arrived you found her dead near the door, while your father lay murdered in the bed?"
"Yes."
"Do you recall, Mrs. Glavis, whether she screamed long, or whether it was brief?"
She hesitated, somewhat confused. Presently, she stiffened and said: "It was long."
"Did it last until after you had left your bed?"
"It did."
"Until you had left the room you were in?"
"Yes."
"In fact she was screaming still when you arrived at thedoor of the room, no doubt?" the lawyer's tone was very careless, just as though he were not in the least serious. Her reply was prompt.
"Yes."
"Now Mrs. Glavis, do you recall having ever heard your sister scream before in a like manner?"
She started perceptibly. Her eyes widened, as if she were recalling an incident. Suddenly she became oblivious of her present surroundings, and conscious of a night two years before.... When she resumed her testimony, she was seen to be weaker.
"No," she said bravely.
Now it so happened that the attorneys for the defense had consulted with a chemist, who was in the court room by request. At this juncture he was called to the stand. He was asked a number of questions, and then Ethel was again placed on the stand.
"Now, madame, the court has decided to investigate this matter thoroughly. You are positive Jean Baptiste, here, killed your sister, also your father? You remember, of course, in giving your testimony,that we are going to investigate the case and prosecute for perjury!" She had been seen to raise her handkerchief to her eyes with the first announcement regarding the investigation. Now she uttered a loud cry as the tears flowed unchecked. Suddenly she dropped her handkerchief, and with her arms stretched forward, she screamed:
"No, no! Orlean, Orlean! Oh, my God, Orlean!" And in the next instant she would have fallen in a dead faint had those near not caught her. For this is how it happened.
When the family returned from the court house, Orleanhad retired at once, complaining of a headache. Since she had very often since her father brought her home complained of such, no particular attention had been paid it. She stayed in bed until late in the afternoon. In the meantime her father went over to the west side, presumably to call on Mrs. Pruitt. It was late when he returned, about eleven o'clock, that night.
Orlean retired again about ten, and had fallen into a troubled sleep. She felt the same as she did the night she had returned from Mrs. Merley's, and she could not account for the strange nausea that lingered over her.
When N.J. McCarthy returned, he went to the kitchen for a drink of water, after which, he must return through the room in which his daughter, Orlean, lay sleeping. As he had done on that occasion two years before, he had paused at the foot of the bed to observe his sleeping daughter. How long he stood thus, he never knew, but after a time he became conscious of that strange sensation that had come over him on the memorable night before. He tried to throw off the uncanny feeling, but it seemed to hang on like grim death. And as he stood enmeshed in its sinister thraldom, he thought he again saw her rise and point an accusing finger at him. Out of it all he was sure he heard again her voice in all its agony as it had spoken that other night. But tonight the accusation was more severe.