PART VII (continued 2)

Mrs. Amelia Temple was the woman she wanted. Mrs. Temple could save him. Couldn’t they bring her at once? Oh, quickly! She wanted to talk to her! When reminded by one of the circle that the old woman had, from the beginning, refused to say anything, she said: “No matter—bring her—bring her—bring her! Don’t waste time!” And went on that way till she came near to hysterical shrieks. But even while she was carrying on like that people had gone out to try and find the old woman.

It was late in the evening—something after eleven—when Mrs. Temple was brought to the house. There had been no difficulty in persuading her to come. It appeared that she had once had an experience. Quite far back in her life she had lost her mother, the only one dear to her at that time, and her loneliness and yearning had drawn her to spiritist gatherings where, she had heard, departed ones are able to come back and speak to those they have left behind. To her unspeakable joy she found that this was so, and became, forthwith, an intense devotee. But after about two ecstatically happy months of it her faith was rudely shaken, for, at a séance where materializations were being accomplished, she suddenly saw something that looked to her like evidence of fraud. At the next of these séances she became satisfied that there was fraud. It was a cruel blow to her. Many times she wished she hadn’t found out. From that time she never attended another séance or spiritist meeting of any kind.

That was long ago. And now, after reading the newspaper accounts of the developments in the tragic affair which so deeply concerned her (she read everything about it that she could find), the extraordinary spirit communications that had been received in connection with it, all but convinced her that, if there had been fraud in that long ago experience of hers, it must have been only because of an untrustworthy medium and did not in any way affect the system or belief itself. One had only to see what marvels it was responsible for in this case, to be made certain that the spirits of the dead are here with us and doing what they can for our welfare.

And so, upon being told that the spirit of Cynthia Cripps Findlay (she very well knew who was meant by that) was begging, through the mediumship of Mrs. Henrietta Belden, that she come and let her speak to her, she dressed immediately—for she’d gone to bed—and went with the two women who’d come from the séance to fetch her.

The spirit of Cynthia began to talk the moment Mrs. Temple entered the dimly lighted room, and continued while she was being silently conducted to a chair near the medium.

“Oh, you’re here! Thank you so much for coming, Mrs. Temple! Oh, I do thank you! And you will help us—you will! You couldn’t refuse—you’re so tender-hearted to anyone in distress! And some one is in distress! Oh, some one is—terribly! It’s the poor Dreek boy, the butler who was with Mr. Haworth, and he’s being tried for murder at this very moment—and perfectly innocent as you know—as you know so well, Mrs. Temple. Why, the poor fellow never raised a finger to hurt anyone or steal anything—but there’s no way to save him unless you will tell them what you saw—just what you saw—that’s all we ask! It’s for his mother, his poor old mother, ill in New York! And, oh, listen to me—your mother is here—she’s here with me because she wants so much to help us, but she can’t speak to you herself—she’s one of those who can’t get through. She tried it long ago, as you may remember. So she asks me to tell you that she’s sure you’ll help us save this innocent boy—for her sake if nothing else. And oh, will you please wait a moment, Mrs. Temple?”

A short pause. Perfect stillness in the room. Then the spirit of Cynthia spoke again.

“Your mother—I was speaking to her—oh, you can’t have any conception of how dear she is—she’s just waiting till you come—and she wants me to say that she loves you as always—it will never change—it couldn’t change—oh, it couldn’t Mrs. Temple! And she’s been with you almost all the time—just staying near—that’s all she could do. And she’s so happy that you’re still keeping the old bonnet she used to wear—she sees it there in your trunk whenever she’s with you in the room—and she knows you’ll think of this poor young man’s mother the same as she does, and what a terrible thing it would be for her if her son—who never did it—was found guilty of such a fearful, awful crime. It isn’t death (as you call it) that matters, but such a death! Oh, Mrs. Temple, think what it would mean to his poor mother, and for her sake and for your own mother’s sake, tell them what you saw—just tell them—oh—tell them!—Oh!...” The voice of Cynthia, uttered through the expert mediumship of Mrs. Belden, trailed rapidly away to nothing and the spirit was gone.

Mr. Forbes (for the defense) was unable to bring in Mrs. Temple’s testimony as a surprise. Though the séance was a strictly private one and held in a private residence and with no reporters admitted, the Inspector had insisted on having a representative at any “spirit circle” in which Mrs. Belden officiated; and although the representative in this case—a plain-clothes man—had seen to it that there were no listeners behind doors or otherwise concealed, and had afterward instructed the medium and all those present not to give away anything that had been said or done, and furthermore had had every one of them shadowed by detectives both in the house and after they left it, the papers next morning had full accounts of the appeal of the disembodied spirit of Cynthia to the still-embodied spirit of Mrs. Temple, and the court room was packed with an eager multitude, rabidly craving excitement.

When her name was called, the crowd, as one person, held its breath, and strained its eyes to see and its ears to hear.

The old woman was given a chair in the witness box, and the usual form of preliminary questioning gone through. After that, she was led by Mr. Forbes to describe how she’d been at one of the side windows of the room where the murder was done, a short time before it took place, and was trying to see in, but owing to its being pitch-dark inside, she was unable to make out anything, though she heard strange and alarming noises; how she then hurried to the rear of the house and tried to get in there, but every door—even the basement—was locked, and she had to give it up; and how, more alarmed than ever about Mr. Haworth, she then started, as fast as she was able to go, toward the front of the house again.

“When you were hastening in this way toward the front, Mrs. Temple, did you pass near the window where you’d been trying to look in?”

“Yes sir; the path warn’t more’n a few yards from the side winders, but it was mos’ly growed up with bushes an’ things in between.”

“Could a person among the bushes at one of the windows, see anyone passing along that path?”

“Ef there was any light, they could.”

“What was your object in hurrying toward the front of the house again?”

“I wanted to git down to the road.”

“What did you intend to do there?”

“I was goin’ to find some one to help me—ef I could.”

“You mean the police?”

“Mercy no! They ain’t no earthly use!”

“I object!” shouted the District Attorney, springing to his feet.

“Just answer the question, madam.” (From the Court.)

“And I ask Your Honor that the remark of the witness be stricken from the record.”

This request was granted, and Mr. Forbes went on.

“Where did you expect to find help, Mrs. Temple?”

“If I didn’t find nobody in the road, I was goin’ to try the house on the fur side a ways up. There was some men there.” She put a very slight accent on the word “men.”

“And did you go down to the road?”

“No sir. I was stopped sudden-like by a bright light flashin’ up inside the room as I was goin’ by. It was so bright it lit up the chinks o’ the winders, an’ thinkin’ I could see then if anyone was there an’ what they was doin’, I pushed through the bushes an’ went up clost to one of ’em.”

“Which one did you go to?”

“Why, the first one I come to I seen the roller shade was pulled down, so I went on to the next.”

“That would be the one nearest the front of the house?”

“Yes sir, that was the one.”

“And did you find that you could see anything inside?”

“I found the shade was down there, too, but it warn’t pulled quite to the bottom so’s it left a narrer crack.”

“And could you see into the room through this narrow aperture below the curtain?”

“Not at first I couldn’t—the light dazzled me some—but in a minute I got used to it an’ then I could.”

“Tell the Court what you saw, Mrs. Temple.”

“Mr. Haworth—it was him I seen first. He was settin’ by the table, readin’ a book. After a minute or two he felt in his pocket an’ got his pipe out an’ filled it an’ was huntin’ around fur a match.”

“Was there anyone else in the room?”

“Not as I could see from the winder I was at. But just as he was lookin’ fur the match I commenced to think mebbe there might be somebody behind him in the back part o’ the room, so I hurried through the bushes to the other winder—the one further back. I knew the shade was down, but I thought mebbe there was a crack at the bottom same as the other, an’ I found there was—on’y not so much, but by twistin’ around I could get a look through to the back part o’ the room, an’ there was a man standin’ there, back against the door o’ the butler’s pantry, an’ he had a black thing in his hand that he was pointin’ at Mr. Haworth from behind.”

A moment of tense stillness followed on this, as Mrs. Temple stopped speaking. I don’t suppose there was one person among the spectators in that packed court room who hadn’t stopped breathing.

After letting the pause have its full effect, Mr. Forbes spoke with all the solemnity he could command.

“Mrs. Temple,” he said, “was the man you saw standing behind Mr. Haworth and aiming a black object at him, the accused you now see on trial in this court—James Dreek?”

The old woman shook her head. “No sir, it warn’t him,” she said.

“Are you sure of that?”

“Yes sir.”

“What makes you certain that it was not the accused?”

“For one thing, he warn’t built no ways like him—he was heavy-set an’ solid. This man” (pointing at Dreek) “ain’t that way.”

“You say his different size and build, for one thing. Was there something else that made you still more positive that this was not the man?”

“Yes sir.”

“Kindly describe it.”

“I was just turnin’ away from the winder to get to the other one an’ warn Mr. Haworth, when I seen this man you’re tryin’——”

“James Dreek?” interjected Mr. Forbes, to prevent any mistake as to the person she meant.

“Yes sir, James Dreek—I seen him come hurryin’ along the walk carryin’ a ladder.”

“Which way was he going?”

“Toward the front o’ the house.”

“What did you do then?”

“I kep’ on as fast as I could to the other winder—the one near where Mr. Haworth was—so’s I could call out an’ warn him. As soon as I got there I begun screamin’ out his name an’ beatin’ on the winder glass, but I hadn’t no more’n started doin’ that when there was a terrible loud crash of a gun goin’ off, an’ right after it another, an’ Mr. Haworth turnin’ round an’ tryin’ to ketch a holt o’ the table; but he couldn’t do it, an’ there he was sinkin’ down on the floor—sinkin’ down there right before my eyes!”

It was some time before the old woman could go on, but the Court waited. Finally Mr. Forbes, seeing that she was getting control of herself, went on with the examination.

“Tell us what you did then, Mrs. Temple.”

“I—I kinder sunk down there under the winder—as if all my stren’th was took away. But in a minute I was able to git up again, an’ the first thing I see was this Dreek man on the path there where I’d seen ’im afore.”

“What was he doing?”

“He’d stopped where he was an’ let the ladder fall on the ground. But just as I looked at him he picked it up again an’ set off runnin’.”

“In which direction did he run?”

“The same as ’e was goin’ afore—toward the front o’ the house.”

“And what did you then do, Mrs. Temple?”

“I run as fast as I could toward the back—the kitchen.”

“What was your idea in going there again?”

“Why I—I wanted to get to ’im as quick as I could.”

“To Mr. Haworth?”

The old woman nodded, unable, for a moment, to speak.

“What made you think you could get in? You’d tried it a few moments before, hadn’t you?”

“Yes sir, but this Dreek man had come out sense then, an’ I didn’t think he was liable to ’uv locked the door, carryin’ the ladder like he was.”

“Had he locked the door?”

“No sir, he hadn’t.”

“Which door was it?”

“The basement.”

“So you got in?”

“Yes sir.”

Mr. Forbes indicated that he was through with the witness, and the district attorney took her, his manner conveying the impression that he considered her testimony as almost too flimsy to waste time over. He soon learned, however, that it wasn’t such an easy matter to punch holes in it. As a sample, without going into it as a whole:—

“I believe you made the statement, Mrs. Temple, as other witnesses have done, that the night when all this occurred was a dark one. Did you so testify?”

“Yes sir.”

“Was there a moon?”

“I didn’t see none.”

“But you admit the night was unusually dark?”

“It was dark—I ain’t got no idea how unusual it was.”

“Very well—that’s all I want to know—it was dark. Now Mrs. Temple, on this very dark night—the blackness being almost impenetrable, as has been shown by the testimony of others, although you yourself, for some reason, don’t seem inclined to admit it—in this dense and inky blackness you claim to have recognized the accused going by on a path at some distance from you. How do you explain that?”

“I s’pose you warn’t int’rested when I was speakin’ about them roller shades to the two side winders not reachin’ down to the bottom so’st it left a crack where the light could git through.”

“You mean to say enough light could pass through a little slit like that to enable you to recognize a person on a pitch-dark night twenty feet away?”

“Yes sir.”

“Do you expect me to believe that?”

“No sir.”

“Oh! You don’t expect me to believe it!”

“I ain’t botherin’ one way or the other about what you believe. I’ve got enough to think of besides that!”

“Well then, let’s get a little light on what you believe, Mrs. Temple! We have information that you attended a séance last night, a private séance given by a medium named Henrietta E. Belden, and that you are here giving evidence in this court because disembodied spirits—in other words people who have passed away—requested you to do so. Do you deny that this is the fact?”

“No sir, I don’t deny it.”

“Then am I to understand that you are a believer in the supernatural—that spirits are about us, speaking to us through mediums, and that these dead people can be relied on to give assistance and advice in a case like this? Do you believe that, madam?”

“Well I ain’t certain sure of it, but I’m tendin’ that way, seein’ how much more the dead ones seem to know about this case than you folks that’s still walkin’ around.”

A roar of laughter swept over the crowded room, broken by the court crier’s loud rapping for silence. It might have been observed that the Court itself bowed its head over as if making notes, so that its face was hidden for a moment.

And so it went on, every effort to undermine Mrs. Temple’s credibility as a witness serving the more firmly to establish it. She could not be confused nor rushed nor intimidated, though all three of these methods were attempted. Over and above this it was very soon discovered that she had no idea of going further with her testimony than giving what related to the innocence of James Dreek. As to that, however, her evidence was clear, straightforward, and unshakable.

The confession signed by Dreek when he was out of his mind from the torture of sleeplessness and constant bullying had been riddled by the Defense, and cut no figure at all, so that when the case went to the Jury a verdict of “Not guilty” was returned within fifteen minutes and Jamie Dreek caught the next train home to his old mother, whose devastating anxiety about him had brought her to within a stone’s throw of the grave.

You mustn’t get the idea that the Dreek trial came to an end in the brief time my way of telling about it would seem to indicate. I said just now, that when the case went to the Jury there was a verdict in fifteen minutes; but that when took quite some days. In fact there was a most peculiar delay directly following Mrs. Temple’s testimony.

You’d naturally think that when the entire bottom had dropped out of the thing they’d have got the Jury out on it as quick as they could. But they didn’t, for the State was holding it up in every possible way—recalling witnesses without reason—wrangling over this and that, and playing for time whenever a chance came up. The Defense was brief enough, and the Judge occupied only a few minutes in charging, but the prosecution managed to string it along for four days, and of course the wise ones began to make remarks about the District Attorney having something up his sleeve. The singular part of it is that for once “the wise ones” were right.

On the fifth morning following Mrs. Temple’s appearance on the witness stand, the not guilty verdict was brought in, and that same afternoon Hugo Pentecost was arrested for the murder.

It came to pass at headquarters. Pentecost had been sent for by Chief Inspector McCurran to give further information, and had been answering such questions as he could—which is to say, as he could with safety. There were others in the room—a couple of detectives (plain-clothes men), two or three policemen in uniform, and a stenographer (plain-clothes).

“By the way,” the Inspector asked, carelessly, after a number of commonplace questions had been answered, “did you ever happen to wear a pair of boots that were very much too large for you?”

“Why yes,” (after just enough surprise to go with so odd a question); “I suppose I have—at one time or another.”

“Ah—you have!... But your recollection doesn’t extend, I presume, to your having worn such boots recently?”

“Pardon me,” Pentecost returned, “but is this flattering curiosity as to my wearing apparel merely personal, or are you still seeking information in the case of Haworth?”

The Inspector’s eyes glittered into Pentecost’s for a second or two. When he spoke it was pointedly and with deliberation. “I’m still seeking information in the case of Haworth.”

“That being so,” Pentecost responded in a soft, pleasant voice, “you’ll excuse me for going no further in the direction indicated.”

The Inspector drew his mouth into a mechanical grin.

“I’m inclined to think, Pentecost, that you’ll find yourself going some distance further in that direction.”

“It’s inspiring to meet a real optimist, Mr. McCurran—there are so few.”

“Where were you between ten and eleven on the night Charles Haworth was shot to death?”

Mr. Pentecost appeared to be quite unaware that a question had been asked.

“We’ve got to hold you Pentecost.” The Inspector made a slight motion, and one of the patrolmen stepped forward and stood at Pentecost’s side.

“Want anything from the hotel—toilet articles—clothing—that sort of thing?”

“Many thanks—they’re outside in a grip.”

“Ah!” the Inspector said, after an instant’s pause of surprise. “You looked for it, did you?”

“Great God!—what would I look for with a couple of your teasers running circles around me since the day I first came in here!”

“Noticed it, did you?”

The Inspector pulled his lips back into what you might take for a grin. “But don’t go trying to pass that across,” he added, “as the reason you brought your grip. There’s a better one than that.”

“Sure there is,” said Pentecost.

“You know damned well the game’s up and we’ve got it on you.”

“I know damned well you think you have.”

“Ah! And would you care to tell the reason I think so?”

“Why certainly ... Pittsburgh.”

There was what you might call an instantaneous pause. The mention of the name of the smoke-draped city apparently struck fire somewhere inside of Mr. McCurran.

“What do you know about Pittsburgh?” he demanded in a lowered voice with anger not entirely excluded from it.

“Sorry to upset you,” murmured Pentecost.

“What do you know about Pittsburgh?” the Inspector repeated.

“Much the same as you,” answered Pentecost.

“Where were you between ten and eleven on the night that Charles Michael Haworth was shot?”

There was no answer, and almost at once the Inspector went on, his voice more menacing: “If you’re not the guilty man, tell me your reason for trying to put over that fake alibi on us—yes, an’ a damned foolish fake at that, when we had you cold in Roxbury the same night?... So? Nothing to say about that, eh?”

There was a moment of silence, during which the Inspector managed to subdue any evidences of the fury which the name of the western Pennsylvania city had aroused. Soon he resumed in a voice cold and hard: “We find it to be a rule that a man who is unjustly charged with crime is more than anxious to answer questions and explain his true position. I observe that you have no such desire.”

“Accept my congratulations, Inspector, on having at last discovered the missing exception to your rule.”

“Then you have no explanation to make of that manufactured alibi?”

“None—until the necessity arises.”

“Am I to understand that it hasn’t yet arisen?”

“Such an understanding would be according to fact.”

“In that case we may be able to assist it to do so.” And the Inspector rose and walked away to another part of the room, motioning, as he did so, to have Pentecost taken away.

The patrolman got the usual safety grip on Pentecost’s twisted coat sleeves near the wrists, and took him out at a side door, one of the plain-clothes men slipping out after him, and shortly thereafter he was safely within the portals of the Charles Street jail.

Inspector McCurran stood at a window revolving a few things in his mind—and their revolution failed to please him. This was not from any doubt of their case against Pentecost, for anyone could see they had the murder buckled to him in every conceivable way—including one that hadn’t been put down by the Inspector as conceivable up to this time. But back of the whole thing was some cursed mystery—every now and then they turned up evidence of it. Could there be, after all, anything in the spirit business? Seemed absurd, but, by God! they had some pretty good names to it!—Not in this country—but look at those big ducks in England who were pushing the game!

And there was the man himself—Pentecost—something about him that made one feel a shiver of apprehension. You’d put him down as slippery in some peculiar, slimy sort of way, that would make any grip you could get on him not worth a tinker’s dam.

The Inspector’s mind came round to Pentecost’s careless reference to the city of Pittsburgh. It had nearly lost him his self-control—an unusual happening with Matt McCurran. For this simple geographical allusion meant that the knowledge of certain spiritistic phenomena which had occurred in that town a few nights before, and which the authorities supposed to be successfully suppressed, was now—or soon would be—public property. If this man Pentecost had knowledge of these occurrences, others had as well, and without doubt the papers would get hold of it and there’d be the very devil to pay.

And you may as well know at once that the papers of the following day did get hold of it, and there was the devil to pay—and he was paid, too! Throughout the length, breadth, and thickness of the country, and including as well our friend and near relation across the St. Lawrence, the press dispatches did the Boston Police Department proud in one place, and then, without knowing it, jabbed a knife through it in another.

In every paper the first thing striking the reader’s eye was a sensational write-up of the arrest of Hugo Pentecost as the murderer, in the strange and mysterious Haworth case, and the astonishing detective work accomplished by the Police Department in tracing the (alleged) guilty man by a pair of old boots left in a cabin of a Metropolitan Line steamer, and in puncturing one of the most ingenious fake alibis on record. The dispatches went on to say that Mr. Henry Harker and his son Alfred, of the firm of Harker & Pentecost, had both waived extradition and were on their way to Boston with detectives, and upon arrival would be held as accomplices. The stenographer of the firm, Miss Dugas, who was wanted as a witness, and who might also be implicated in the crime, was voluntarily accompanying the Harkers.

The foregoing, written up fully and triumphantly, was agreeable reading for those connected with the Department; but in the same editions, and nearly always in an adjoining column, was an A. P. dispatch from Pittsburgh which simply tore the insides out of the first one.

It was headed, in every case, with these disastrous lines—or something similar—and in type that came out and smashed a reader right between the eyes:—

SPIRITS SPEAK AGAIN IN HAWORTH CASE

ADVISE MICROSCOPE IN PENTECOST ALIBI

ASTOUNDING CLUES GIVEN

OPERATOR’S LICENSE 2026

BOOTS LEFT ON “NORTH LAND”

Then it got down to plain reading matter, and described a message that had come through at a séance held in Allegheny—now a section of Pittsburgh and popularly referred to as the North Side—five days before, and instantly telephoned to the Boston chief of police, but which, for reasons stated below, had only now been given to the press. The spirit who got “control” of the medium conducting this séance declined to give his name—in fact allowed that he had too many, his life while on earth having been not precisely what it should have been. He merely saw a chance to get even with a cocky screw who’d once—before he (the spirit speaking) had crossed to the higher realms—put the low-down play on him good and plenty; and the only thing he asked was that some one present at the sitting would send word to the Boston police to go after a big pair of boots that was left in a cabin of the steamer North Land on arrival in New York the next morning after the murder; also he’d suggest that they put a microscope on a few other little items of that beautiful alibi. For instance, it wouldn’t do a damn bit of harm to dig up Operator’s License 2026. “Tell the bulls,” he gave out in conclusion, “to take it from me they’ll pull something out of the fire if they go after it!” And with that he was gone.

The A. P. dispatch on this Pittsburgh occurrence closed with a paragraph in brackets explaining the five days’ delay in getting the news. It stated that the spirit message had been telephoned to the Boston police even while the séance was still in progress with the medium under other controls. The Boston Department, for diplomatic reasons, had withheld the news of this message from the Pemberton Street reporters and had also asked the Pittsburgh police to hush the matter up until the clues (if there was anything to it) could be worked out and a clean-up of the guilty parties made before they got warning. Pittsburgh headquarters found that only eleven persons had been present at the séance, and got them all, together with the medium and her assistant or director, before they left the place. These people, appreciating the importance of keeping it quiet in order to bring the criminals to justice, agreed to say nothing of the affair, and for five days no leakage occurred. Then from somewhere (it could not be traced to any of those concerned in the séance) a full account of the whole proceeding had suddenly reached the Associated Press, and of course could no longer be withheld from the public.

“The account of this amazing occurrence in Pittsburgh,” as one of the Boston papers put it in a bracketed “Ed.” note following the A. P. dispatch, “which is quite in keeping with former developments in the Haworth case, can now be published without disturbing the activities of the police, the ‘clean-up’ referred to having been successfully accomplished, as may be noted elsewhere in this issue.”

This Allegheny episode might not have been so bad served up by itself, but coming immediately under or on parallels with the triumphant write-up of the Department’s detective work, showed that the whole thing was done on a tip from the spirit world. You mustn’t understand me as saying—or even intimating—that there wasn’t any good work done by the police detectives. The trouble was that when they got anywhere they were stood on their heads and everything they’d worked up dumped into the discard by one of those ghostly manifestations or whatever they might be.

Anyway, it isn’t an account of marvelous detective work I’m trying to give you, but something which, as I look at it, is vastly more unusual. The papers will give you stuff about “sleuths”—as they call ’em—every day in the week, including Sundays; and if you want to go into the field of fiction you’ll find there’s one born there every minute. But so far as my experience goes, this was the first time people in the next world ever took a hand in the game.

The public interest in the Pentecost trial came near to being the record for this class of diversion. You’d have thought the feeling against him would have been so bitter that they’d have had to fight off the lynchers. But it’s just as well to go easy on predicting how the public is going to behave. Something about the man—it wasn’t beauty or youth or romance—more like hypnotism, perhaps—in conjunction with his ingenious methods of work so far as they had been made known, and also his silence under fire (My God! how the public adores a man who keeps his mouth shut!) got the people with him, notwithstanding the brutal murder that they could now so plainly see was his doing. Much of the sympathy may have resulted from the hopelessness of his case, for they certainly had it all over him. He hadn’t said a word since his arrest, excepting to state mildly—and even then, only when he was asked about it—that he wasn’t guilty. And he sat in the cage quiet and unassuming, never once dropping to the “cheerful act” nor the “bravado act” nor any act whatever, but only sitting there quietly and hearing witness after witness testify to things that were like so many nails in his coffin.

He saw his marvelously laid-out defensive system crumble and melt away before his eyes; his carefully constructed alibi split into a thousand pieces.

They had the chauffeur (Operator’s License 2026) who took him—dripping with water—at about nine o’clock on the night of the murder, from a place near the Soldier’s Monument just north of the Bourne Highway Bridge over the Cape Cod Canal, and who left him, shortly before half-past ten, at the corner of Centre and Greenough Streets, Jamaica Plain. Even the fact of his having walked in a direction away from Torrington Road when he left the car told against him. Of course he did—that’s precisely what a man with criminal intent would do.

The Captain, Purser, and other officers of the North Land were called and testified against him—at least negatively—although they had, up to this time, been the most important bulwarks of the alibi;—Captain Snow now recalling the fact that he hadn’t seen the face of the man on the forward deck whom he took to be Mr. Pentecost, after his ship passed out of the canal, but only his back; and the other officers realizing, when they came to think of it, that they hadn’t seen him on board after the steamer emerged into Buzzards Bay—that is, until he was disembarking at New York the following morning.

The conductor of the midnight express to New York, and the head end trainman who’d had such difficulty in arousing him from apparent sleep in the morning and getting him off at the Grand Central, were put on the stand and told of his being on their train the night of the murder; men from the New York Central’s railroad pier next south of the North Land’s berth, testified to having seen the rowboat come up under the steamer’s stern as she docked in New York the morning after the shooting, and put a man aboard her by a rope ladder; a man and his wife from Buzzards Bay village, who’d been waiting on the highway bridge over the canal for the “draw” to close at the time the North Land passed through, on the night of the crime, testified to seeing a man in the semidarkness come up from the low flats at the west of the bridge approach, and climb into a car near the Soldier’s Monument, though they couldn’t swear, owing to the darkness, to its being the accused; these things, and scores of others not less important, put Pentecost in the position of having faked an alibi by boarding the steamer in Boston, going overboard from her during her passage through the canal, returning thence to Roxbury by hired automobile, proceeding to the rear of the Cripps mansion a few minutes before the shots were fired, and within half an hour after the murder, staggering, disguised as a drunken laborer, into the North Station, and there taking the 11:50 express for New York, finally getting aboard the steamer again from a rowboat the moment she tied up to her dock.

Although no witness to his actually entering the house or to his being in it at the time the deed was done, could be found, there was surely sufficient evidence to convict him without it. At the same time the District Attorney would have given a great deal to be able to cover those points.

Pentecost’s senior counsel, Harvey Brookfield, had little to offer in rebuttal, but he was a crack shot when the witnesses were turned over to him, and many of them were raked raw by the cross fire. His request that the head end trainman explain his remembering, for such a long time, what kind of boots a stranger on his train had worn, brought the reply: “Because every time I went through the car I had to shove ’em off the seat in front of him—they was muddy an’ I didn’t want him fouling up the seat.”

“Very thoughtful of you, too! But you testified a few minutes ago, that this man whose boots you noticed, was seated at the extreme forward end of the car. Didn’t you say that?”

“Why, I said—I—I——”

“Certainly you did! I can have the stenographer read it to you if you’ve forgotten.—Now I ask you to explain to the Court and the Jury how this man—if he was, as you stated that he was, sitting at the extreme forward end of the car, could put his feet on the seat in front of him? How could there be a seat in front of him if he was in the very first seat? Now just tell us that—in your own language.”

“Well, he—he was up there at that end—it might ’a’ been one seat more or less from the end—I didn’t notice. He was——”

“Ah—you didn’t notice!” broke in Brookfield, springing on him like a cat. “That explains it! You didn’t notice! You told us that he was at the extreme end, but you didn’t notice. Now you tell us about his boots—perhaps you didn’t notice in that case, either! A man’s life may depend on it—but you didn’t notice! You’ve rendered your testimony before this court ridiculous by making a man put his feet on a seat that wasn’t there!” And so on. But while this sort of thing might tear a witness to pieces, it couldn’t, to any extent, weaken the prosecution’s case.

In discussing the situation with Mr. Pentecost at the Charles Street jail after one of the worst days in court, Mr. Brookfield declared that there was nothing for it but to fall back on insanity as a plea. But Pentecost wouldn’t hear of it.

“What’s the idea, then? I don’t need to tell you they’re piling it up on us pretty thick.”

“They haven’t got me in the house yet. Keep jabbing on that till you draw blood.”

“It won’t acquit you!”

“No matter—go to it.”

And Brookfield went to it.

It may surprise you to hear of an Attorney taking orders as to the conduct of a case from his client—especially when said client was so evidently a criminal of the most desperate character. But the explanation is simple in the extreme. Pentecost owned Brookfield through having bought and paid for him, and was virtually conducting the case himself.

While the Pentecost trial, owing to its extraordinary developments, had held the interest of the country at large and kept the eastern section of Massachusetts in something like a ferment of astonishment and curiosity, it was toward the latter part of it that things really began to happen.

When the testimony was all in and Mr. Brookfield was about to go on with his summing up, a message was brought into the court room and handed to the District Attorney. After a glance at it he was instantly on his feet, asking to be allowed to bring in another witness whose presence in court had hitherto been impossible, and whose testimony was of the utmost importance in its bearing on the case.

Brookfield, of course, objected, but was overruled, and an old woman, bent and rheumatic, was brought into the court room and assisted between the rows of spectators, past the jurors, and into the witness box. As she turned and faced the onlookers, and it was seen that Mrs. Temple had consented to take the stand for the prosecution, a composite sound of gasps, subdued exclamations, and quick whisperings issued from the audience. Many had seen her when she testified in the trial of James Dreek, and there was hardly one who hadn’t read in the newspapers that the old woman knew everything about the murder—had, indeed, actually witnessed it—yet couldn’t be persuaded to say a word excepting to testify to as much as would clear the young butler of guilt. That was for the Defense in the case of James Dreek—now the Prosecution in the case of Pentecost, had her!

After the first surprise, all eyes shifted across to the prisoner’s cage to see what effect this fearful menace—for that’s what it was—had on Hugo Pentecost. But so far as could be seen it hadn’t any. The man was sitting precisely as before, expressionless, waiting.

While Mrs. Temple was being sworn and the formal questioning gone through, a Court Messenger entered, and threading his way between the tables, handed a written communication to Chief Inspector McCurran, who was seated at the Attorneys’ table, and who arose at once and left the court room, followed by the messenger. Few noticed this, for the attention of the spectators appeared to be divided between the old woman on the witness stand and the accused in the prisoners’ cage, whose death sentence—or what amounted to that—the former was surely about to pronounce.

When the preliminaries were finished, District Attorney McVeigh in—for him—an incredibly soft voice and gentle manner, led the old woman to describe Mr. Pentecost’s behavior while on his several visits to the Cripps mansion before the commission of the crime,—her suspicions regarding his intentions; the attempts she made to warn Mr. Haworth of the danger of dealing with such a man; and following that, her exclusion from the house—and thereafter her efforts to keep watch from the outside. From this she was tactfully brought to the events of that last evening,—the closing of the blinds to the front window; the coming home of Mr. Haworth followed by Augustus Findlay; her attempts to see in at the side windows but the darkness within preventing; her unsuccessful efforts to enter the house at the rear, and then the sudden brilliant light in the room so that she was able to look in through the narrow slits below the roller shades; her seeing Mr. Haworth reading at the table and then filling and lighting his pipe; her hurrying to the other window and seeing a man at the back of the room whose face was covered (except for the eyes) with a cloth or bandage and whose clothing was wet and draggled, pointing some dark object at Mr. Haworth from behind; her turning to run back to the window which was nearer to Mr. Haworth so that she could warn him, and as she did so seeing James Dreek going along the path with a ladder; her attempt to call out to Mr. Haworth; then the shots and his collapse to the floor, and she herself so overcome that she sank down beside the window; her recovering and trying again to get into the house at the rear, and finally succeeding in doing so.

“How did you get in, Mrs. Temple?” the District Attorney asked.

“Through the basement door.”

“But wasn’t that door locked when you tried it before?”

“Yes—but it warn’t locked this time.”

“How long do you suppose this was after you heard the shots and saw Mr. Haworth sink to the floor?”

“It must a’ been some few minutes, fur I wasn’t able to git up very quick from where I’d sunk down.”

“And when you got into the house what did you do?”

“I hurried to him as quick as I could.”

“Do you mean Mr. Haworth?”

There was a pause before she spoke. “Yes,” she said in a lower voice, with eyes seeking the floor. “You might ’a’ known that, I should think.”

“I did know it Mrs. Temple, but it’s important to have others know it too. Now tell me this—if you can: did it take you long to get to him—after you succeeded in entering the house I mean? The time is important. Very likely you were detained by the house being dark?”

“No, I was used to it.”

“It was very dark, was it?”

“There warn’t no light at all—somebody must ’a’ shut it off while I was hurryin’ back to get in. But I got to the stairs easy enough and up into the kitchen; an’ then groped along through the butler’s pantry an’ opened the door of the front room where—where he was.”

“I see. And when you opened that door, Mrs. Temple, could you see anything in the room?”

“Yes, I could.”

“But I understood you to say that the house was entirely dark?”

“It was. But when I pushed open the swingin’ door o’ that room there was a faint light shinin’ on Mr. Haworth’s face as he lay there on the floor, an’ I could see from its not stayin’ still that somebody must be holdin’ it. Then I could make out the figger of a man—the one that had the light in his hand—an’ he was bendin’ over lookin’ at the body, an’ he hadn’t taken no notice o’ my comin’ in. At first I didn’t know anything at all, but the minute I come to my senses I started to run an’ git a holt of him; but just then the light he had in his hand must ’a’ slipped some way so’st the beam of it struck right across his face, an’ he didn’t have no cloth tied around it that time, so I could see who it was.”

The quiet in the room was intense. Every person there might have been a wax figure.

“Mrs. Temple, who was that man?”

“It was him there—the one you’re tryin’.”

“Can you give the Court his name?”

“The one he went by was Pentecost.”

“Was there light enough to see him distinctly?”

“There was plenty for me.”

“Did you have any other means of identification?”

“What sir?”

“Was there anything else you’d know him by—hair, clothes, shoes, hands, teeth—anything at all?”

“Oh!—Well, you see the second after the light struck across his face it went out an’ I couldn’t see nothin’ at all. But I heered his voice plain enough if that’s any good to ye.”

“It certainly is, Mrs. Temple. What was he saying?”

“He was shoutin’ out not to touch anythin’—that everythin’ had got to be left like it was in the name o’ the law, or somethin’ like that.”

“And the voice you heard shouting those things—did you recognize it?”

“Yes sir.”

“Whose voice was it?”

“His—that man there.” (With a motion toward Pentecost.)

“Do you mean the accused—in the prisoners’ cage?”

“That’s who I mean.”

“Had you heard his voice before?”

“Yes—I had.”

“When?”

“He’d spoke to me a number o’ times, an’ then I heered him a-talkin’ to Mr. Haworth quite frequent.”

“What did you do then, Mrs. Temple?”

“I run toward where I’d seen him an’ felt all around there—but he’d gone. An’ then—I—I don’t know.... I must ’a’ sunk down there where—where he was.”

“You mean Mr. Haworth?”

She nodded her head a little, as it slowly bowed down, hiding her face from view.

Mr. McVeigh waited a moment so that the Jury might get the full effect of the old woman’s grief, and then indicated to Mr. Brookfield that he could take the witness.

But it so happened that Mr. Brookfield had caught a signal from Pentecost, as previously arranged.

“I don’t care to examine, Your Honor,” he said.

Shortly after this, Mr. Brookfield was seen to be addressing the Court, but in so low a tone that few were able to hear him. For this reason a sensation was created when the prison guards took Pentecost from the cage and conducted him to the witness stand.

After the preliminaries there was a pause—whether intentionally so or not, a most dramatic one. Brookfield on his feet ready to question, yet stopping silent before the accused. Pentecost standing motionless as marble in the witness box—the court officer at his side. Reporters at the press table, pencils poised, eyes fixed on Pentecost’s face, ready to catch and record his slightest change of expression. Every man on the Jury regarding him with strained attention. The Judge himself unusually interested. Stillness of death in the court room.

Brookfield began in a low voice, speaking slowly and distinctly.

“Mr. Pentecost, you have heard the testimony given before this Court by Mrs. Amelia Temple?”

“Yes.”

“Have you anything to say regarding it?”

“Yes.” (A pause.) “It’s the truth.”

“All of it?”

“All that concerns me.”

“What can you say as to the rest of the testimony submitted before this Court?”

“The same.”

“By that do you mean that all of it is true as to fact?”

“I do.”

“Now as to this testimony that has been given here, and which you have stated is the truth—can you say that the inferences which would naturally be drawn from it are the correct ones?”

“I cannot.”

“Why?”

“Because they make it appear that I have committed a murder.”

“How does it happen, if they are statements of fact, that they are misleading as to such a conclusion?”

“They describe only a part of my movements and behavior, omitting what would lead to the correct conclusion.”

“Do you claim that these omissions were purposely made?”

Mr. Pentecost shook his head slightly.

“The witnesses,” he said in a low voice, “were doubtless unaware of them.”

“Will you—if it pleases the Court—make a brief statement outlining these omitted facts.”

Mr. Pentecost waited a moment, and then, as the Court made no objection thereto, began to speak in a subdued voice, faintly suggestive of hopelessness.

“I have no witnesses,” he said, “except those who have testified against me. But there are circumstances bearing on my actions which none of these witnesses could have known; and while their consideration by this Court is most vital to me, I have only my unsupported word to offer, and feel that such consideration will almost certainly be denied me. So I will refer to these things as briefly as possible and with little hope. Let me speak first of my getting off the steamer at Buzzards Bay, as that seems the most misleading thing against me. It is true I did this, but not for the purpose of committing the crime with which I am charged. Such an inference, indeed, is quite the reverse of the correct one, for I came back to Boston that night hoping to save Mr. Haworth from some calamity that I feared was about to overtake him—and which, in fact, did so before I could prevent it.

“My association with the young man during the time I was negotiating the purchase of one of his inventions, had awakened in me a most unusual interest. His quiet and almost childlike sincerity, his trustfulness and simplicity, appealed to me in a way that I cannot describe. I am alone, with no family of—of any kind, and the experience of suddenly being deeply interested in a person was something new to me.

“The last day of the negotiations—which was at the end of a fourteen-day option he’d given us—everything was concluded and we paid over to Mr. Haworth a large sum of money. It was in bills—for he’d asked to have it that way. As we were making this payment it suddenly occurred to me that this trustful and helpless young fellow might get into trouble with it, for in these days there are crackerjacks looking for money who can smell it in a house, just passing by in the street. It was a lonely place where he lived and didn’t look good to me, so I cautioned him about it. But he smiled at me—one of his rare smiles that seemed to sink right into you—and said he knew a safe place for it; and anyway he’d have it there only till the next day.

“The three of us—my partner, his son, and myself—took the steamer for New York that same afternoon, and I tried to get my anxiety about the young man off my mind. But instead of going off it increased, and by the time we were well out in the Bay it was like one of these premonitions you read about. I did everything to rid myself of this feeling—talked with the officers, ordered dinner, walked in the wind on the top deck—but it was no use, and by seven o’clock I realized that something had to be done.

“The steamer was due at the canal in about an hour, and I remembered they had to slow down to half speed or less for the passage through. So I got young Harker to make inquiries in a sort of casual way, as if it was only from curiosity on his part, as to whether they’d stop at some place along the canal if a person wanted to get off. If they said no, I told him to throw out feelers to see if money would do it. But there was no use—the thing was impossible.

“By this time I was in a—a most trying nervous condition. Suddenly I realized that, without even thinking about it, I’d made up my mind to jump off the steamer while she was in the canal and in some way get back to Roxbury. I did this as the boat was passing the village of Buzzards Bay. It was quite dark at the time, and I waited till the steamer had passed through the Bourne Highway Bridge, as I knew the passengers would be watching the great draw come down into place, and even if the lights along the canal hit me, no one would be looking.

“After I got out of the swirl a few strokes brought me to shore. It was a sort of low flat along there, and I got across it and up on to the road embankment that is the north approach to the bridge. There wasn’t any garage in sight and in a sort of desperation I stopped a car coming up toward the bridge and asked where the nearest one was. The man inside asked me what was wrong, for I was soaking wet, and I told him it was a matter of life and death for me to get to Boston. He said he’d just come down from there and was only a quarter of a mile from his destination, so I could take the car he had (it was a hired one) if the chauffeur wanted to do it, and he’d go on foot the rest of the way. I suppose my dripping clothes made an impression. I fixed the chauffeur all right with a couple of watersoaked ten-dollar bills, telling him I’d double it if he did the trip under eighty minutes. And I want to say that everything this man has testified to is the truth, for he couldn’t possibly have known who I was, how I got to Buzzards Bay, or where I was going in Boston. I’d be sorry indeed to get this innocent man into trouble.

“My reason for leaving the car at some distance from the house on Torrington Road was not because I planned to commit a murder—as the Prosecution would have it translated, but only that I wanted to approach the place with the utmost caution. Robbers or safe smashers would have their lookouts posted, and it was up to me to get at the inside operators before they had warning.

“I crawled in at the gate and worked along behind shrubbery. But I hadn’t got halfway to the house when I made out the dim forms of two men moving about. This was a tremendous relief, for I took them for the lookouts, and their being there showed I was in time: if the job was done they’d be gone. So I slid in among the bushes and crawled around to the rear of the house.

“The two doors at the back were locked, but I happened to think of the basement door, and on trying, found it was open.

“Luckily for me, my pocket flashlight still worked, and with it I was able to run through the dark basement and up the stairs, across the kitchen (which was also dark) and through the butler’s pantry. I bunted open the swing door and ran into the long room where we’d been sitting that same afternoon, but for a moment couldn’t see anything at all, there was such a strong light on. It dazzled me, and I suppose I must have stood with my electric torch pointing toward Mr. Haworth, as the last witness testified. I really have no idea which way it was pointing as I stood there blinded by the glare and trying to see. In a moment I made out Mr. Haworth standing near the table in the middle of the room lighting his pipe, and instantly started toward him, calling out his name. But just as I did so two gunshots blazed out from somewhere quite near—though I couldn’t say exactly where—and the poor fellow went down. I got to him just as the lights went out, but as my pocket light was still on I was able to see him, and I found he was dead.

“While I was there on the floor by his side I heard a sound from the butler’s pantry, and instantly got to my feet. My light was still on, but I switched it off after some little difficulty with it, and shouting out that nobody must touch anything—for I had the feeling there were people about and I knew the police would want everything left as it was—I hurried out of the house by the way I’d come in. As I got out into the air it began to dawn on me what trouble I’d be in if anyone saw me there and they couldn’t find the man who’d committed the crime. My only safety lay in getting out of Boston without being recognized, for if my presence there was known it would lead to their finding out that I’d jumped off the steamer, and that would put me in a terrible position—always supposing they couldn’t find the guilty man.

“I got around into Boston by way of Brookline, and in a poorly lighted side street I ran across a tough-looking bum wearing old and grimy clothing and carrying a considerable load of alcohol. I struck a bargain with him, and we exchanged clothes in an unlighted alley among factories closed for the night. He understood in a bleary way, that I’d fallen in the water and wanted a dry outfit, which, of course, was the truth—so far as it went.

“While I was hurriedly disguising myself in this way it suddenly came to me that my absence, when the passengers disembarked from the steamer North Land in New York, could hardly fail to be noticed. They’d have to file between the two ticket takers at the gangway, and pass down the gangplank under the watchful eyes of the ship’s officers—several of whom I’d come to know quite well. Harker and his son, leaving the steamer without me, would be more than likely to cause comment.

“It was then that I happened to think of the night expresses, which hadn’t left Boston yet and were due in New York two hours or more before the arrival time of the steamer. Why couldn’t I go back on one of them and manage, without being seen, to slip aboard the North Land from a rowboat the minute she docked? If I was seen doing this it would look bad, but no worse than if I wasn’t on the steamer at all. This way I had a chance—and as the testimony given here has shown, I took it.

“I appreciate the forbearance of the Court in permitting this extended recital—made, I confess, in the face of a realization that it cannot save me. But perhaps some time, long after this crowning error in the rather extended series of police blunders has been committed, the fact that it was an error may come to light—and——”

No more could be heard, for Mr. McVeigh was on his feet shouting objections. “I object, Your Honor, and I ask that the reference made by the accused to the police of this city be stricken from the record and the Jury instructed to disregard it!”

The Judge spoke in a voice that seemed especially low, coming after the District Attorney’s vociferous demands.

“That may be stricken out,” he said.

“Will the Court permit me to apologize?” Pentecost asked almost in a whisper and with evident contrition.

“What’s the sense of that?” snapped McVeigh. “It’s off the record—that’s all I want!”

But a man face to face with a death sentence is usually permitted some latitude, and the Judge indicated by a slight motion of the head that he could do so.

“Permit me then, Your Honor, to say that I regret having made use of the expressions I did, and certainly would not have done so had I been aware how sensitive the District Attorney is to the mere mention of the little spiritistic frolics with the Police Department that have recently taken place.”

Pentecost had finally got in a reference to the mediumistic phenomena which had played so amazing a part in the case—something he had been playing for a chance to do since taking the stand. This man’s statement before the court that was trying him was undoubtedly one of the most adroit pieces of pure and unadulterated chicane that he’d ever attempted—at any rate in that line. To fit an innocent and sympathetic tale like that to the multitude of incriminating facts established by the testimony against him;—to bring it out with just the pathetic hopelessness, exactly the sincerity and precisely the manner and inflection which would make every point tell and thus inspire confidence and pity, was something near to marvelous.

He knew well enough that it would do him no good in court, but he knew, too, that it would do him enormous good where he wanted it. The statement made little short of a sensation, and not alone with those who heard it, but with the millions who read it in the newspapers. To most people, of course, it seemed to explain everything. What if Pentecost couldn’t prove it? Let the Prosecution disprove it—that was the thing! How noble of him to say that the State’s witnesses told the truth—and then show exactly how it was! Etcetera,—etcetera.

In court, as I’ve indicated, it was another matter. The only thing Mr. Brookfield (for the Defense) could do, was to review the contradictions in which he’d skillfully entangled many of the witnesses for the prosecution, and end with an eloquent plea for the credibility of the Pentecost statement which agreed with the testimony given before the court at every point, and to challenge anyone, in court or out to find a flaw in it.

The District Attorney, of course, tore it all to pieces. He had declined to cross-examine the accused “after such a ridiculous and flimsy tale,” and took care of it in his summing up. The fact is—but no one was aware of it at the time—he had a decided disinclination to give the accused any further chances with the Jury.

“Here, gentlemen,” he said in his final argument, “we have an illustration—even in this extraordinary plan by a master mind in criminality—of the well-known fact that there’ll always be a weak spot somewhere—a little matter perhaps, but large enough to wreck the whole structure. This tale of the accused is based on the claim that the alibi was never planned beforehand, that it was developed on the impulse of the moment, an innocent person suddenly finding at eleven o’clock on the night of the murder that he might be brought under suspicion if it were known he left the steamer—and so he jumped on a train and managed to get back to it in time to come off with the passengers. An inspiration of the moment! Remember that, gentlemen! And now let us see if it’s the truth that he never thought of it before. Let us consider the behavior of the accused on previous trips, which, you will observe, were always made by the same steamer, although there was another on that line, and although there were three other lines of Boston boats—a choice of four steamers every day, not to speak of fifteen or twenty express trains, all bound for the same destination! But on this steamer North Land, which was chosen by the accused as the theatre in which to perform his alibi, we find from the testimony of eleven of its officers and crew, that he was sociable and talkative to the last degree, making acquaintance with everybody who might thereafter be able to testify that he was on board the vessel on that fatal night. Contrast this with what four witnesses have sworn to regarding the usual behavior of this same individual—that he was naturally silent, taciturn, not easily making acquaintances, not a man given to sociability, reserved, keeping his affairs to himself, never discussing them with outsiders,—and there you have it, gentlemen. He was a different being when on the steamer North Land on those previous trips, when he was planting his alibi; making himself and his alleged business of buying inventions known to everybody, jollying over cigars with the Captain and the Purser—and now telling us on the stand that he never thought of the alibi until after the murder!”

From this the District Attorney went back and recapitulated every point made by the prosecution during the trial, showing that not one of them had been disproved and that there wasn’t even a tremor in the finger of Justice, now extended, and pointing to the accused, Hugo Pentecost, as the guilty man.

As McVeigh was nearing the latter part of his closing argument, the Chief Inspector, followed by a messenger, returned to the court room and resumed his place at the attorneys’ table. At once he took a sheet of paper and began writing with evident haste. In a moment he bunched some papers he had brought with him and put them in a large envelope with the sheet on which he’d been writing. This packet he handed to the Court Messenger, who delivered it to the Judge.

Before closing his argument the District Attorney took up the “impertinent reference” made by the accused before this court to a series of blunders which he attributed to the Police Department of Boston, and called the attention of the Jury, and of all who had heard this slanderous implication, to the fact that there never yet was a murder case where doubt existed as to the guilty party, which was without false clues, and mistaken arrests.

From this he proceeded to a violent denunciation of Hugo Pentecost. “And if this insolent, swaggering fiend in human form” (I got the wording from the newspaper reports) “who coolly, with careful planning and infinite calculation, takes the life of an innocent—a gentle—a defenseless man;—this cowardly assassin who sends two bullets into his victim from behind, and for no other reason than to get a few thousand dollars away from him;—if he is now looking for another of those ‘spiritistic frolics’ to stand between him and retribution, he will look in vain; for even the so-called spirits—whatever they are—can’t help him now! It’s in your hands, gentlemen, to see that the strong right arm of the Law is stretched forth and this red-handed assassin is brought to the punishment he so richly deserves.”

At this point there came to pass one of those curious coincidences—a real and bona-fide one, for it couldn’t have been laid out beforehand even by a master-criminal mind, though such a mind may have figured there was an off chance on it.

For a few moments during the latter part of the District Attorney’s summing up, the faint but strident calls of an “extra” from far down Washington Street could have been heard in the court room—a babel of boyish voices coming through the open windows. This increased in volume, and as the newsboys came running into Scollay Square and up into Tremont and Court Streets, there was a sudden burst of high-pitched shouting, so that following right on Mr. McVeigh’s climactic outburst, “Even the so-called spirits—whatever they are—can’t help him now!” came the screams of the newsboys below: “E-x-t-r-e-e! Spirit message!”—“Spirit Message in the Haworth Case!”—“E-x-t-r-e-e!”—“Haworth’s Spirit Speaks!”—“Message from Haworth!”—“E-x-t-r-e-e!” and so on until the shouts grew fainter again as the boys ran down Sudbury and Hanover Streets toward the North Station, and West and South on Beacon and Tremont.

When the attention of the spectators was again directed to the court proceedings, they realized that everything had stopped. A consultation at the Bench was in progress. All the attorneys concerned and the Chief Inspector were there, evidently having been called up by the Judge.

A peculiar stillness had settled over the place. Charged with electricity it seemed, the tension increasing every moment. Some foolish ones wondered if the newsboys, shouting about another spirit message, could have affected the Court. Once—and not such a time ago at that—the calling of such a piece of news on the streets would have excited only derision. None of that now! Even the pooh-poohers had stopped their pooh-poohing. Too many astounding things!

A sudden straining to see and hear as the Chief Inspector and the attorneys went back to their places, the Inspector leaving the court room immediately afterward.

The Judge sat motionless a few moments, apparently in thought. After that he examined again some of the papers that had been submitted. Finally he rose and turned to the Jury and the twelve men composing it came to their feet at the same instant and stood facing him. Then the Judge, in a voice so subdued that it could scarcely be heard in the further parts of the room, thanked them for the time and labor they had contributed to the cause of justice, and proceeded to remind them that the world we live in is a place of considerable uncertainty, and that in Courts of Law the unexpected is a frequent—and sometimes a welcome—visitor.

Everyone could hear him now, which resulted not so much from the raising of his voice a trifle as from the stillness prevailing. “In the case before us, gentlemen,” he went on, “the arrival of this visitor, the unexpected, must be regarded as most opportune, for it is the means of removing all doubt as to the guilt, or freedom from guilt, of the accused. Mr. Foreman and Gentlemen: Certain facts have just now been called to the attention of myself and counsel, which indicate beyond any question or doubt that this defendant is innocent of the crime with which he is charged; and I therefore instruct you to bring in a verdict of Not Guilty.”

A moment later the Clerk of the Court was saying: “Hugo Pentecost, look upon the Jury; Jurors, look upon the defendant.—Mr. Foreman and Gentlemen: in the case of the Commonwealth against Hugo Pentecost have you agreed upon a verdict?”

“We have,” the Foreman answered.

“What say you, Mr. Foreman: is the defendant, Hugo Pentecost, guilty or not guilty?”

“Not guilty,” answered the Foreman. And after the swearing of the Jury in the usual form, Hugo Pentecost was informed that he was hereby discharged and could go “without day” unless held on some other process.

On the evening before these final proceedings, and at a time approaching the hour of midnight, a private “circle” in West Philadelphia was about to adjourn. Mr. Ernest Everett Blatchford, well known among the spiritists of that region as a talented and highly successful materializationist and trance medium, had brought about during the evening a number of visits from the other side, and in all but two the spirit had become visible to human eyes—in a shadowy way.

As the director or assistant (I’m not sure what they call those people) turned to switch on the lights, there came strange muffled cries issuing from the darkness in the further part of the room, and a cold musty current of air breathed across the circle of “sitters.” At the same instant a whitish cloud appeared, faintly wavering in the darkness. It rapidly grew in size and seemed to be trying to shape itself into something resembling the human form. Vague suggestions of a man’s face began to appear in the misty cloudiness, the features gradually forming themselves, like the fade-in of a picture; and when, as it came to be more and more distinct, somebody whispered the name of Charles Haworth, there were several involuntary gasps of astonishment and a breathless “Oh!” or two could be heard. The papers had used his picture so often (taken for that first write-up in a Boston “Magazine Section”) that there was no difficulty about the recognition after the whispered name had started it. (No one ever traced that important whisper to its source.)

In a few moments it was seen that the lips of the apparition were moving—yet no sound came. The cloudlike human form with a face resembling Haworth’s, was trying to speak.

A voice from somewhere in the circle—a man’s voice—was heard asking, “Isn’t this Mr. Haworth?” and the head resembling Haworth’s nodded slowly in affirmation. Almost at once some sort of a sound was heard—confused and broken, as though pushed through a barrier that gave way, and after that the spirit began to speak in a low voice and with what seemed like a sort of eager breathlessness. “Machine!—Machine!—Machine!” repeated over and over many times more than that, was what it said, and between two of them a loud whisper came from somewhere in or near the circle, “It’s Haworth’s voice!” and an answering whisper, forceful and penetrating, “Yes—oh yes!—His own voice!” So that everybody knew, though they’d never seen the man Haworth nor heard him speak, that it was he now appearing before them.

For some time the apparition or spirit—if that’s what it was—seemed unable to utter anything more than this repetition of the word “Machine,” and the director and some others, although they asked encouraging questions, proved unable to get anything further.

But again some sort of obstruction was seemingly overcome, for after many unsuccessful attempts, the voice suddenly broke out with: “In the wall!—In the wall!—In the wall!—Why don’t they look? It’s there! The Machine! Find it!—Find it!—Make the court wait!—That man—that man—nothing—nothing—nothing to do with it—nothing—nothing! Nobody can hear me in Boston—I can just reach this one—but not for long! Tell them the wall—inside the wall—that same room—further end—the machine—papers on the pendulum!—the pendulum!—Papers!—Oh——I’m going!—” (The voice becoming faint and far away) “—I can’t hold out—and I want to speak to someone else—oh, I do—I do——” and nothing more could be heard.

The voice was growing weaker and the features were dissolving back into mistiness even while he spoke; and in a moment there was only the whitish floating haze which seemed rapidly drawing itself to a point, at which it wavered for a moment and then flickered out in the blackness.

No reporters were present at this séance nor were the Philadelphia police keeping an eye on mediumistic activities; and as it was already after two in the morning, no one who’d been there took it upon himself to communicate with anybody as to what had come through. It was consequently nearly eleven o’clock the following morning before news of it reached the Boston newspaper offices; and an effort made later to find out who sent the news met with no success. Whoever it was completely ignored the police. Not a word of this astounding communication from the alleged spirit of Charles Haworth was wired or telephoned to them. Their first intimation that anything of interest had taken place in West Philadelphia came from the newspaper “extras” on the streets.

The Department—as it had in another and similar instance—got particulars without giving it away that this was the first they’d heard of it. And so important did the matter seem that the Inspector was called out of the court room. And so important did it seem to the Inspector that he proceeded with the utmost speed and a bunch of detectives to the Cripps mansion. Reporters were kept outside the line that had been established.

Within twenty minutes after the Inspector’s arrival with his gang, the rear end of the wall of the room on the left was what you might call a near ruin, and a most extraordinary mechanical arrangement that had been constructed within it was exposed to view.

The first, and it might be said the most striking, thing they had come upon as they were ripping the lath and plaster away and prying off the heavy paneling, was a 44 Colt revolver bolted to the studding (the upright timbers within the wall) just behind one of the panels of the wainscot, and down within eighteen inches of the floor. It was bolted so securely as to be absolutely immovable, and was aimed straight out into the room. The husky plain-clothes man who smashed away the panel in front of it was seen to spring suddenly to one side.

“Careful now!” the Inspector shouted, as he came running. “Keep away from that!” he yelled to the other men who were coming over to see. And they were ordered well to one side while the two working there reached over and ripped away the panels above and on each side of the one that had concealed the gun.

It took but a few minutes to expose the whole thing: a simple but ingenious device built in there for firing two revolvers at nearly the same instant—discharging them about twelve minutes from the time the mechanism was set in motion. The second gun, a matter of six inches below the other, was behind the same panel, but hadn’t been noticed at first as it was so close to the floor—just clearing the panel frame at the bottom.

They found that this panel—the one concealing the guns—had been made to slide up and down, the guides holding it on the inside so there was no evidence of them in sight; when pushed up, the muzzles of the revolvers were exposed; when dropped down into place, they were hidden. And so carefully had this sliding panel been handled that no scratch or abrasion could be found on its surface, nor did it differ in any way, so far as appearances went, from the other panels in the wainscoting; neither did it display the slightest evidence of being movable—which, indeed, it was not, after the discharge of the revolvers; for on dropping down into place it automatically locked itself by the swinging across the top of it, of a block of wood on a pivot—all within the wall, of course. To get it open again it was necessary to push this block away from the inside.

Both guns were immovably aimed to throw bullets directly across the middle of the room and out through the upper part of the window at the front; and as they were set so low down, the course of the bullets would be upward. A man of a certain height standing at a certain spot near the center of the room would get the bullet from the upper revolver through the head and from the lower one through the heart—if he could stand there long enough after the shot from the first one—hardly more, probably, than half a second.

The mechanism which—twelve minutes from its starting—fired the revolvers, and at the same time released the movable panel and allowed it to slide down into place and automatically to lock itself there, was an escapement device with a pendulum swinging to seconds. About halfway of the fifteenth revolution of the escape-wheel (a very large one carrying fifty teeth or jump-cogs) the powerful springs that connected with the two rods—one to the trigger of each revolver—were released, which discharged the guns nearly, but not quite, simultaneously, and on the next jump of the escape-wheel a lever pulled back the catch that held the sliding panel up, allowing it to drop down and close the opening. It locked itself there automatically as I’ve explained.

There were many minor arrangements to safeguard and insure the perfect operation of the device, such as the weighting (on the inside) of the sliding panel; the carrying of the rope that unwound from a drum on the main shaft, up through a pulley at the top, so the heavy weight attached to it would have room to descend in that space—for of course it couldn’t go below the floor; the setting of the two revolvers at the place where the wall of the breakfast room joined this rear wall of the room on the left, so that, as they were too long for the normal wall thickness, their butts might project back into the transverse wall.

The whole device had been built in through a large aperture from the basement below, and on completion of the job this opening was closed up with the very same old grimy boarding, and even fastened in place with the same ancient and rusted nails driven into their original holes, that had been taken out of them. Even the rust on the nail heads where the hammer would strike them was undisturbed; safeguarded probably by the use of a cushion of leather or blotting-paper.

It was evident that the machine couldn’t have been set going on its final performance, from the basement, for by no possibility could the opening down there have been closed with all the care required, within the twelve minutes between the starting and the automatic discharge of the guns. Undoubtedly the sliding panel was opened from below and held open (that is, up) by its catch, and the block above adjusted to swing in when it next slid down; and after that, at whatever time it was desired to start the pendulum on its last gruesome swing, it would only be necessary to reach in through the open panel in the room on the left, and give it a shove. That was all. There would be twelve minutes left for reading awhile and then lighting a pipe.

Of course all these small details weren’t figured out by the police until afterward. The Inspector was there to learn what there was, if anything, to the latest alleged spirit message, and they found it of such vital import, too, that it required instant action. No time to be wasted on conjectures as to the method of starting. There it was——The Machine! And secured to its great pendulum which, you might say, ticked Charles Haworth to his death, was the envelope of papers.

Quick investigation followed; the Inspector raced back to town; the newly discovered evidence was brought to the Judge’s attention; his conference with the attorneys and the Inspector followed, and after that came the Court’s instructions to the Jury and the Jury’s verdict in accordance therewith.

The large envelope which they found lashed securely to the great pendulum contained three instruments or documents—the Last Will and Testament of Charles Michael Haworth; a Statement made by Charles Michael Haworth; and an Insurance Policy on the life of Charles Michael Haworth. The Statement had been sworn to before a Notary Public (of course without his learning anything of its purport) three days before Haworth’s death, and was to the effect that he intended within a week to take his own life and to do it by means of a mechanical contrivance which he, and he alone, had devised and built for that purpose; that no one but himself was in any way connected with, or responsible for, this determination on his part, or involved in its carrying out, for he had built the device with the utmost secrecy, locking himself into a room in the basement of the house while at work on it, and allowing no one to come near. His housekeeper, Mrs. Amelia Temple, had, he stated, been aware of his labor in this room night and day for nearly two weeks, though she could have had no knowledge of the character of the work he was doing; and the butler, James Dreek, could not have been aware that anything of the kind existed, as he arrived after the completion of the machine and its sealing up inside the wall.

He then went on to speak of the property he was leaving, mentioning the eighteen-thousand-dollar Insurance Policy and the thirty-five thousand dollars which was to be paid him by the firm of Harker & Pentecost of New York, for one of his inventions which the said firm had purchased—“a combination gas and compressed-air engine.” Following that was only a brief paragraph to the effect that a little something might be realized from the sale of a few pieces of machinery that were still in his possession—but nothing worth writing down.

The statement ended with that, but he had written a few lines on the margin three days after it had been signed and sworn to. “This is to say,” he wrote in a hand without sign of tremor (and it must have been only a few hours before he reached in and set swinging that pendulum of death), “that the Messrs. Harker & Pentecost have now paid what was due me from them ($35,000) which amount (less the sum of $500 that I have taken from it for a certain present requirement), as it is in bills, and as Mr. Pentecost has cautioned me that there is danger of robbery, I have had James Dreek conceal in the stone foundation at the northeast corner of the barn in the rear of this house.” And to this marginal memorandum he signed his initials.

The will was simple and brief. After payment of debts, only two bequests. “To my faithful and beloved friend Amelia Temple” was left the sum of five thousand dollars—and the statement followed that all the money in the world could not wipe out the debt he owed her. The rest of his property went to Edith Carrington Findlay.

By this time you are likely to be aware that Mr. Hugo Pentecost of the firm of Harker & Pentecost, Promoters, had something to do with the unusual happenings in what might be a trifle incorrectly spoken of as the Haworth Homicide Case. I’m inclined to doubt, though, whether you quite appreciate the extent of his work. To say that he was behind every move in the whole affair comes near to putting it mildly.

When, on his first visit to the mansion, he went down into the basement with Charles Haworth and got an idea of what the desperate and half-crazed young man proposed to do, and the instrument with which he intended to accomplish it, even he, a person never known to be disturbed by danger, horror, or dilemma of any description, was near to the experience of amazement. This, though, didn’t prevent him from jumping in at once and making an earnest effort to dissuade the young inventor from carrying out his gruesome enterprise. The realization that Haworth couldn’t be persuaded out of it—indeed, that he was in a mad frenzy to carry it through if only for the insurance money—struck Pentecost at about the same time that there flashed into his mind a most extraordinary “operation” that could be carried on in connection with it. A born adventurer and intrepid explorer in the shady mazes of criminality, keen for danger in unusual forms, to be baffled by unusual and skillfully contrived defenses, with, of course, the chances of a good haul to make it financially interesting, he was hardly the man to throw down an unbelievably attractive proposition when he had it in his hand.

Mr. Harker added his own protests the first time he was at the house on Torrington Road. He watched his opportunity and got Haworth aside—for he didn’t want his partner to know what he was up to—and did his best to induce the young fellow to abandon the grisly idea that seemed to have taken possession of him.

In the ordinary run of things, the only course left to the firm was to turn a person having such unlawful designs on himself, over to the police. But this happened not to be in the ordinary run of things. It was distinctly extraordinary. Furthermore the firm alluded to wasn’t in the business of turning unlawfully behaving citizens over to the police. Quite and much otherwise. And the reason for this was because it was composed of two conscienceless crime experts, one of them—the controlling member—a consummate operator in strategic chicanery if there ever was one on the earth.

Neither of the methods that Haworth had in mind for profiting by the tragic act to which he was apparently driven by some desperate need, had met the approval of Mr. Pentecost. One was based on a life insurance policy which the young inventor had recently taken out, having, by inquiry, found a company which was supposed to pay in such cases; the other depended on the sale of a motion picture which should be taken of the actual occurrence—showing not only the operation of the machine, but, as well, depicting its frightful consequence. But this master crook had declared himself willing to give both these things a fair try-out and with every advantage he was able to command, if the young man would consent, in return, to have his own (Pentecost’s) extraordinary scheme go into operation. He would play Haworth’s ideas to the limit, even though it involved the taking of the picture himself—for he wasn’t going to let any of his men in for a job like that. The ghastly situation might send any one of them up in the air.

Mr. Pentecost’s scheme, which had struck him like a blow while Haworth was explaining the working of the Machine, concerned and depended upon the alleged spirits of the dead, as known through and represented by persons who called themselves mediums; and it took him into a field he’d long desired to negotiate—one where the hunting, he happened to know, was exceedingly good. Furthermore, his astounding method of handling the mediumistic output involved, was beyond anything dreamed of before.

You are doubtless acquainted with the fact that information concerning the lives and the families of more or less prominent people who have made the crossing to the other side—or who, for various undesirable reasons, are expected soon to make it—is dealt in by a number of bureaus or clearing houses for that class of goods. High prices are paid by their customers (the mediums) for information of value, and if the bureaus haven’t anything in stock as to the life and characteristics of a person called for, they have facilities for getting it without delay.

But this thing of Pentecost’s, although of a decidedly spiritistic nature, was by no means a matter of information about dead people; on the contrary, it involved the sale to mediums of information which dead people could get across—through them—about the living, and under the most unusual circumstances. That’s where the great mercantile possibilities came in, the operation of his scheme giving these spirit communications such astonishing advertising value to mediums who passed them through, that they’d pay almost any price to get them—if they had it. In addition to this price down (on delivery as you might say) he’d take—in each case and for a limited time—a slice of the increased business which was sure to follow.

It would have been entirely possible to sell out his “spirit information” in a lump to one of the bureaus, but by handling it personally he could take advantage of the immense increase in advertising value as the Haworth case attracted more and more attention.

To give these “messages” or “communications” an enormously high market value was the object of the entire operation. What such value means to professional mediums is realized by very few outside of spiritist circles. I’m referring, of course, to those who practise the methods alluded to. It has been said that there are others in the spirit game who go perfectly straight and have a great time believing every word they say; but if such is the case I don’t know where they live.

A regular—or professional—medium will sometimes make a small fortune on one skillful (and lucky) performance. To attract wealthy clients, preferably those who have been hypnotized by the loss of those who are dear to them—that’s the top of the game. And it’s the unusual—the extraordinary—manifestations that do it. Taking this into consideration, you will understand why the Pentecost messages, before he got through with them, had run up into the twenty and thirty thousands each. From asking three thousand in Montreal, and six of Mrs. Belden in Boston, the price went up by jumps of five thousand. This, together with the rake-off on increased business for two years from every medium in the game, put Harker & Pentecost nicely to the good—even though quite vast expenses, including the Haworth money, had to come out of it.

Using his gang of picked sharps (his correspondents you might call them in the big cities) Pentecost could cull out the mediums who had the money, and make his cash sales without difficulty; this same gang also made prompt payment of percentages as near a certainty as such things ever come. Extraordinary experiences in misfortune would overtake anyone in any town or in any part of the country who tried to hold back on him. And they knew it. It was made strikingly evident to them by the “agents” who, under instructions, engineered the sales and delivered the “spirit” messages at the precise time required.

As to the vital matter of secrecy, no leakage could possibly occur, for the very simple reason that there was nothing to leak. Not a medium in the lot had the faintest idea where “the goods” came from nor what was the manner of their origination. Even had one of them known, it would hardly have been cause for alarm; this owing to the fact that the basic principle in their guild is the keeping of things dark.

Now you have the key to the whole affair. With it—if you haven’t been picking the locks as we went along—you gentlemen can let yourselves in on what the man was playing for at any stage of the game; and how it came to pass that everybody concerned—public, police, witnesses for the prosecution, reporters, editors, spiritists, jurors, lawyers, even the District Attorney himself, and the Chief Inspector with his choice assortment of plain-clothes men, were dancing for Hugo Pentecost according as he pulled the strings. What was it if not that? Anyway, you have the facts—call it what you like. And don’t imagine, when I speak of this man’s scheme, that this consummate operator had a set and rigid plan to be followed whether or no. On the contrary, his arrangements were elastic to an extreme degree. If you’ll notice how it went, he played each part of the thing as far as it would safely go, and then pulled it back to the line with a voice from the tomb, as you might say. Where one of several things might happen he had substitute plays for each, every one carried back to the safety point in whatever direction it went. Had old Mrs. Temple persisted in her refusal to testify, notwithstanding the appealing spirit messages he’d carefully planted, he was ready to work in another witness to the murder, to Dreek’s being outside the house at the time, and to his own presence in the room aiming the terrible black object (which was, of course, the movie camera) at Haworth as the poor fellow stood lighting his pipe. If the head end trainman hadn’t remembered getting him off the day coach at the Grand Central Terminal in New York, and had failed to recognize the boots he had shoved off the seat so many times, there was a waiter at the lunch counter of the restaurant on the lower level who would answer all purposes, owing to his (Pentecost’s) unusual behavior while getting a cup of coffee at that place.