The Pumpkin Coach
The story of the American Ambassadress was not the only onerelated on this night.Sir Henry Marquis himself added another, in support of thecontention of his guest . . . and from her own country.The lawyer walked about the room. The restraint which he hadassumed was now quite abandoned."That's all there is to it," he said. "I'm not trying this casefor amusement. You have the money to pay me and you must bringit up here now, tonight."The woman sat in a chair beyond the table. She was young, butshe looked worn and faded. Misery and the long strain of thetrial had worn her out. Her hands moved nervously in the frayedcoat-cuffs."But we haven't any more money," she said. "The hundred dollarsI paid you in the beginning is all we have."The man laughed without disturbing the muscles of his face. "Youcan take your choice," he said. "Either bring the money up herenow, to-night, or I withdraw from the case when court opens inthe morning.""But where am I to get any more money?" the woman said.The lawyer was a big man. His hair, black and thin, was brushedclose to his head as though wet with oil; his nose was thick andflattened at the base. The office contained only a table, somechairs and a file for legal papers. Night was beginning todescend. Lights were appearing in the city. The two persons hadcome in from the Criminal Court after the session for the day hadended.The woman seemed bewildered. She looked at the man with thecurious expression of a child that does not comprehend and isafraid to ask for an explanation."If we had any more money," she said, "I would bring it to you,but the hundred dollars was all we had."Then she began to explain, reiterating minute details. When thetragedy occurred and her husband was arrested by the police theyhad a small sum painfully saved up. It was now wholly gone.Like persons in profound misery, she repeated. The man haltedthe recital with a brutal gesture."I'll not discuss it," he said. "You can bring the money in herebefore the court convenes in the morning, or I withdraw from thecase."He went over to the file, took out a packet of legal papers andthrew them on the table."All right, my lady!" he said, "perhaps you think your husbandcan get along without a lawyer. Perhaps you think the devil willsave him, or heaven, or Cinderella in a pumpkin coach!" Therewas biting irony in the bitter words.A sudden comprehension began to appear in the woman's face. Sherealized now what the man was driving at. The expression in herface deepened into a sort of wonder, a sort of horror."You think he's guilty!" she said. "You think we got the moneyand we're trying to keep it, to hide it."The lawyer turned about, put both hands on the table and leanedacross it. He looked the woman in the face."Never mind what I believe; you heard what I said!"For a moment the woman did not move. Then she got up slowly andwent out. In the street she seemed lost. She remained for sometime before the entrance of the building. Night had now arrived.Crowds of people were passing, intent on their affairs,unconcerned. No one seemed to see the figure motionless in theshadow of the great doorway.Presently the woman began to walk along the street in the crowdwithout giving any attention to the people about her or to thedirection she was taking. She was in that state of mental comawhich attends persons in despair. She neither felt norappreciated anything and she continued to walk in the directionin which the crowd was moving.Some block in the traffic checked the crowd and the womanstopped. The block cleared and the human tide drifted on, butthe woman remained. The crowd edged her over to the wall and shestood there before the shutter of a shop-window. After a timethe crowd passed, thinned and disappeared, but the woman remainedas though thrown out there by the human eddy.The woman remained for a long time unmoving against the shutterof the shop-window. Finally she was awakened into life by avoice speaking to her. It was a soft, foreign voice that lispedthe liquid accents of the occasional English words:"Ma pauvre femme!" it said; "come with me. Vous etes malade!"The woman followed mechanically in a sort of wonder. The personwho had spoken to her was young and beautifully dressed in fursthat covered her to her feet. She had gotten down from amotorcar that stood beside the curb-one of those modern vehicles,fitted with splendid trappings.Beyond the shop-window was a great café. The girl entered andthe woman followed. The attendants came forward to welcome thesplendid visitor as one whose arrival at this precise hour of theevening had become a sort of custom. She gave some directions ina language which the woman did not understand, and they wereseated at a table.The waiters brought a silver dish filled with a clear, steamingsoup and served it. The girl threw back her fur coat and thedazed woman realized how beautiful she was. Her hair was yellowlike ripe corn and there were masses of it banked and clusteredabout her head; her eyes were blue, and her voice, soft andalluring, was like a friendly arm put around the heart.The miserable woman was so confused by this transformation - bythe sudden swing of the door in the wall that had admitted herinto this new, unfamiliar world - that she was never afterwardable to remember precisely by what introductory words her storywas drawn out. She found herself taken up, comforted and made totell it.Her husband had been a butler in the service of a Mr. Marsh, aneccentric man who lived in one of the old downtown houses of thecity. He was a retired banker with no family. The man livedalone. He permitted no servants in the house except the butler.Meals were sent in on order from a neighboring hotel and servedby the butler as the man directed. He received few visitors inthe house and no tradespeople were permitted to come in. Thereseemed no reason for this seclusion except the eccentricities ofthe man that had grown more pronounced with advancing years.It was the custom of the butler to leave the house at eighto'clock in the evening and return in the morning at seven. Onthe morning of the third of February, when the butler entered thehouse, as he was accustomed to do at eight o'clock in themorning, he found his master dead.The woman continued with her narrative, speaking slowly. Everydetail was vividly impressed upon her memory and she gave itaccurately, precisely.There was a narrow passage or hall, not more than three feet inwidth, leading from the butler's pantry into a littledining-room. This dining-room the old man had fitted up as asort of library. It was farther than any other room from thenoises of the city. His library table was placed with one endagainst the left wall of the room and he sat with his back towardthe passage into the butler's pantry. On the morning of thethird of February he was found dead in his chair. He had beenstabbed in the back, on the left side, where the neck joins tothe shoulder. A carving-knife had been used and a single blowhad accomplished the murder.It was known that on the evening before the old banker had takenfrom a safety-deposit vault the sum of $20,000, which it was hisintention to invest in some securities. This money, in bills ofvery large denominations, was in the top drawer on the right sideof the desk. The dead man had apparently not been touched afterthe crime, but the drawer had been pried open and the moneytaken. An ice-pick from the butler's pantry had been used toforce it. The assassin had left no marks, finger-prints ortell-tale stains. The victim had been instantly killed with theblow of the knife which lay on the floor beside him.The butler had been arrested, charged with the crime, and histrial was now going on in the Criminal Court. Circumstantialevidence was strong against him. The woman spoke as though sheechoed the current comment of the courtroom without realizing howit affected her. She had done what she could. She had employedan attorney at the recommendation of a person who had come tointerview her. She did not know who the person was nor why sheshould have employed this attorney at his suggestion, except thatsome one must be had to defend her husband, and uncertain what todo, she had gone to the first name suggested.The girl listened, putting now and then a query. She spokeslowly, careful to use only English words. And while the womantalked she made a little drawing on the blank back of a menucard. Now she began to question the woman minutely about thedetails of the room and the position of the furniture where thetragedy had occurred, the desk, the attitude of the dead man, thelocation of the wound, and exact distances. And as the womanrepeated the evidence of the police officers and the experts, thegirl filled out her drawing with nice mathematical exactness likeone accustomed to such a labor.This was the whole story, and now the woman added the finalinterview with the attorney. She made a sort of hopelessgesture."Nobody believes us," she said. "My husband did not kill him.He was at home with me. He knew nothing about it until he foundhis master dead at the table in the morning. But there is onlyour word against all the lawyers and detectives and experts thatMr. Thompson has brought against us.""Who is Mr. Thompson?" said the girl. She was deep in a study ofher little drawing."He's Mr. Marsh's nephew, Mr. Percy Thompson."The girl, absorbed in the study of her drawing, now put anunexpected question"Has your husband lost an arm?""No," she said, "he never had any sort of accident."A great light came into the girl's face. "Then I believe you,"she said. "I believe every word . . . . I think your husband isinnocent."The girl was aglow with an enthusiastic purpose. It was allthere in her fine, expressive face."Now," she said, "tell me about this nephew, this Mr. PercyThompson. Could we by any chance see him?""It won't do any good to see him," replied the woman. "He isdetermined to convict my husband. Nothing can change him."The girl went on without paying any attention to the comment."Where does he live - you must have heard?""He lives at the Markheim Hotel," she said."The Markheim Hotel," repeated the girl. "Where is it?"The woman gave the street and number. The girl rose. "That's onmy way; we'll stop."The two-went out of the café to the motor. The whole thing,incredible at any other hour, seemed to the woman like eventshappening in a dream or in some topsy-turvy country which she hadmysteriously entered.She sat back in the tonneau of the motor, huddled into thecorner, a rug around her shoulders. The flashing lights seemedthose of some distant, unknown city, as though she weretransported into the scene of an Arabian tale.The motor stopped before a little shabby hotel in a neighboringcross-street, and the footman, in livery beside the driver, gotdown at a direction of the girl and went up the steps. In a fewmoments a man came out and descended to the motor standing by thecurb. He was about middle age. He looked as though Nature hadintended him, in the beginning, for a person of some distinction,but he had the dissipated face of one at middle age who haddevoted his years to a life of pleasure. There were hard linesabout his mouth and a purple network of veins showing about thebase of his nose.As he approached the girl, leaning out of the open window of thetonneau, dropped her glove as by inadvertence. The man stooped,recovered it and returned it to her. The girl started with aperceptible gesture. Then she cried out in her charming voice"Merci, monsieur. I stopped a moment to thank you for theflowers you sent me last night. It was lovely of you!" and sheindicated the bunch of roses pinned to her corsage.The man seemed astonished. For a moment he hesitated as thoughabout to make some explanation, but the girl went on withoutregarding his visible embarrassment."You shall not escape with a denial," she said. "There was nocard and you did not do me the honor to wait at the door, but Iknow you sent them - an usher saw you; you shall not escape myappreciation. You did send them?" she said.The man laughed. "Sure," he said, "if you insist." He waswilling to profit by this unexpected error, and the girl went on:"I have worn the roses to-day," she said, "for you. Will youwear one of them to-morrow for me.She detached a bud and leaned out of the door of the motor. Shepinned the bud to the lapel of the man's coat. She did itslowly, deliberately, like one who makes the touch of the fingersdo the service of a caress.Then she spoke to the driver and the motor went on, leaving theamazed man on the curb before the shabby Markheim Hotel with therosebud pinned to his coat - astonished at the incredible fortuneof this favor from an inaccessible idol about whom the cityraved.The woman accepted the enigma of this interview as she hadaccepted the wonder of the girl's sudden appearance and theother, incidents of this extraordinary night. She did notundertake to imagine what the drawing on the menu meant, thewords about the one-armed man, the glove dropped for Thompson topick up, the rose pinned on his coat; it was all of a piece withthe mystery that she had stumbled into.When the motor stopped and she was taken through a little door byan attendant into a theater box, she accepted that as another ofthese things into which she could not inquire; things thathappened to her outside of her volition and directed byauthorities which she could not control.The staging of the opera refined and extended the illusion thatshe had been transported out of the world by some occult agency.The wonderful creature that had taken her up out of her abandonedmisery before the sordid shop-shutter appeared now in a fairycostume glittering with jewels. And the gnomes, the monsters andgoblins appearing about her were all fabulous creatures, as thegirl herself seemed a fabulous creature.She sighed like one who must awaken from the splendor of a dreamto realities of which the sleeper is vaguely conscious. Only thegirl's voice seemed real. It seemed some great, heavenly realitylike the sunlight or the sweep of the sea. It filled the packedplaces of the theater. She sang and one believed again in thebenevolence of heaven; in immortal love. To the distressed womaneffacing herself in the corner of the empty box it was all a sortof inconceivable witch-work.And it was witch-work, as potent if not as amply fitted withdramatic properties as the witchwork of ancient legend.The daughter of an obscure juge d'instruction of the Canton ofVaud, singing in a Swiss meadow, had been taken up by a wealthyAmerican, traveling in Switzerland on an April morning-old,enervated with the sun of the Riviera, and displeased with life.And this rich old woman, her rheumatic fingers loaded withjewels, had transformed the daughter of the juge d'instruction ofthe Canton of Vaud into a singing wonder that made every humancreature see again the dreams of his youth before him leadinginto the Elysian Fields.And to the girl herself this transformation also seemed thewonder of witch-work. Her early life lay so far below in a worldremote and detached; a little house in a village of the Canton ofVaud with the genteel poverty that attended the slender salary ofa juge d'instruction, and the weight of duties that accumulatedon her shoulders. Her father's life was given over to the laborsof criminal investigation, but it was a field that returnednothing in the way of material gain. Honorable mention, a medal,the distinction of having his reports copied into the officialarchives, were the fruits of the man's life. She remembered theminutely exhaustive details of those reports which she used tocopy painfully at night by the light of a candle. The old man,absorbed by his deductions, with his trained habits ofobservation and his prodigious memory, never seemed to realizethe drudgery imposed upon the girl by his endless dictation."To-morrow," the heavenly creature had said softly, like acaress, in the woman's ear when an attendant had taken herthrough the little door into the empty box. But the to-morrowbroke with every illusion vanished.The woman sat beside her husband in the dismal court-room whenthe court convened. The judge, old and tired, was on the bench.A sulphurous, depressing fog entered from the city. Thecourt-room smelled of a cleaner's mop. The jury entered; and afew spectators, who looked as though they might have spent thenight on the benches of the park out, side, drifted in. Theattorneys and the officials of the court were present and thetrial resumed.Every detail of the departed, evening was, to the woman, a mirageexcept the brutal threat of the attorney, uttered before she hadgone down into the street. This threat, with that power ofreality which evil things seem always to possess, nowmaterialized. After the court had opened, but before the trialcould proceed, the attorney for the defendant rose and addressedthe court.He spoke for some moments, handling his innuendoes with skill.His intent was to withdraw from the case. He realized that thiswas an unusual procedure and that the course must be justifiedupon a high ethical plane. He was a person of acumen and of noinconsiderable skill and he succeeded. Without making any directcharge, and disclaiming any intent to prejudice the prisoner andhis defense, or to deprive him of any safeguard of the law, hewas able to convey the impression that he had been misled inundertaking the defense of the case; that his confidence in theinnocence of the accused had been removed by unquestionableevidence which he had been led to believe did not exist.He made this explanation with profound regret. But he felt that,having been induced to undertake the defense by representationsnot justified in fact, and by an impression of the nature of thecase which developments in the court-room had not confirmed, hehad the right to step aside out of an equivocal position. Hewished to do this without injury to the prisoner and while therewas yet an opportunity for him to obtain other counsel. Thewhole tenor of the speech was the right to be relieved from theobligation of an error; an error that had involved himunwittingly by reason of assurances which the developments of thecase had now set aside. And through it all there was themanifest wish to do the prisoner no vestige of injury.After this speech of his attorney the conviction of the man wasinevitable. He sat stooped over, his back bent, his head down,his thin hands aimlessly in his lap like one who has come to theend of all things; like one who no longer makes any effortagainst a destiny determined on his ruin.The thing had the overpowering vitality which evil things seemalways to possess, and the woman felt helpless against it; soutterly, so completely helpless that it was useless to protest byany word or gesture. She could have gotten up and explained thetrue motive behind this man's speech; she could have repeated thedialogue in his office; she could have asserted his unspeakabletreachery; but she saw with an unerring instinct that against theskill of the man her effort would be wholly useless. With hisresources and his dominating cunning he would not only make herwords appear obviously false, but he would make them fasten uponher a malicious intent to injure the man who had undertaken herhusband's defense; and somehow he would be able, she felt, todivert the obliquity and cause it to react upon herself.This was all clear to her, and like some little trapped creatureof the wood that finds escape closed on every side and no longermakes any effort, she remained motionless.The judge was an honorable man, concerned to accomplish justiceand not always misled by an obvious intent. The proceeding didnot please him, but he knew that no benefit, rather a continuedinjury, would result to the prisoner by forcing the attorney togo on with a case which it was evident that he no longer cared tomake any effort to support. He permitted the man to withdraw.Then he spoke to the prisoner"Have you any other counsel?" he asked.The prisoner did not look up. He replied in a low, almostinaudible voice"No, Your Honor," he said."Then I shall appoint some one to go on with the case," and helooked up over the docket before him and out at the few attorneyssitting within the rail.It was at this moment that the woman, crying silently, without asound and without moving in her chair, heard behind her the voicewhich she had heard the evening before, when, as now, at thebottom of the pit, she stood before the shutter of theshop-window."Will it be necessary, monsieur le judge?"It was the same wonderful, moving, heavenly voice. Every soundin the court-room suddenly ceased. All eyes were lifted. AndThompson, sitting beside the district-attorney, saw, standingbefore the rail in the court-room, the splendid, alluringcreature that had called him out of the sordid lobby of the HotelMarkheim and entranced him with an evidence of her favor.Unconsciously he put up his hand to feel for the bud in the lapelof his coat. It had remained there - not, as it happened, fromher wish, but because he dare not lay the coat aside.In the interval of intense interest arising at the withdrawal ofthe attorney from the case the girl had come in unnoticed. Shemight have appeared out of the floor. Her voice was the firstindication of her presence.The judge turned swiftly. "What do you mean?" he said."I mean, monsieur," she answered, "that if a man is innocent of acrime, he cannot require a lawyer to defend him."The judge was astonished, but he was an old man and had seen manystrange events happen along the way of a criminal trial."But why do you say this man is innocent," he said."I will show you, monsieur," and she came around the railing intothe pit of the, court before his bench. She carried in her handthe menu upon which, at the table in the café the night before,she had made a drawing of the scene of the homicide.The extraordinary event had happened so swiftly that the attorneyfor the prosecution had not been able to interpose an objection.Now the nephew of the dead man spoke hurriedly, in whispers, andthe attorney arose."I object to this irregular proceeding," he said. "If thisperson is a witness, let her be sworn in the usual manner and lether take her place in the witness-chair where she may be examinedby the attorney whom the court may see fit to appoint for thedefense."It was evident that Mr. Thompson, urging the prosecutor, wasalarmed. The folds of his obese neck lying above the collar ofhis coat took on a deeper color, and his mouth visibly sagged aswith some unexpected emotion. He felt that he was becomingentangled in some vast, invisible net spread about him by thisgirl who had appeared as if by magic before the Hotel Markheim.The judge looked down at the attorney. "I will have the witnesssworn," he said, "but I shall not at present appoint anybody toconduct an examination. When a prisoner before me has nocounsel, I sometimes look after his case myself."He spoke to the girl. "Will you hold up your hand?" he said."Why, yes, monsieur," she said, "if you will also ask Mr.Thompson to hold up his hand.""Do you wish him sworn as a witness?" said the judge.The girl hesitated. "Yes, monsieur," she said, "if that is theway to have him hold up his hand."Again Thompson was disturbed. Again he spoke to the prosecutorand again that attorney objected."We have not asked to have Mr. Thompson testify in this case," hesaid. "It is true Mr. Thompson is concerned about the result ofthis trial. He is the nephew of the decedent and his heir. Itis only natural that he should properly concern himself to seethat the assassin is brought to justice."He spoke to the girl. "Do you wish to make Mr. Thompson yourwitness?" he said.And again she replied with the hesitating formula:"Why, yes, monsieur, if that is the way to cause him to hold uphis hand."The judge turned to the clerk. "Will you administer the oath tothese two persons?" he said.Thompson rose. His face was disconcerted and slack. Hehesitated, but the prosecutor spoke to him. Then he faced thejudge and put up his hand. Immediately the girl cried out"Look, monsieur," she said. "It is his left hand he is holdingup!"Immediately Thompson raised the other hand. "I beg your pardon,Your Honor," he muttered. "I am left-handed; I sometimes makethat mistake."And again the girl cried out: "You see . . . you notice it . . .it is true, then . . . he is left-handed.""I see he is left-handed," said the judge, "but what has that todo with the case?""Oh, monsieur," she said, "it has everything to do with it. Iwill show you."She moved up on the step before the judge's bench and laid themenu before-him. The attorney for the prosecution also arose.He wished to prevent this proceeding, to object to it, but hefeared to disturb the judge and he remained silent."Monsieur," she said, "I have made a little drawing . . . I knowhow such things are done . . . . My father was juged'instruction of the Canton of Vaud. He always made littledrawings of places where crimes were committed. . . . Here youwill see, and she put her finger on the card, "the narrow passageleading from the butler's pantry into the dining-room used for alibrary. You will notice, monsieur, that the writing-table stoodwith one end against the wall, the left wall of the room, as oneenters from the butler's pantry. It is a queer table. One sideof it has a row of drawers coming to the floor and the other sideis open so one may sit with one's knees under it. On the nightof the tragedy this table was sitting at right angles to the leftwall, that is to say, monsieur, with this end open for thewriter's knees close up against the left wall of the room. Thatmeant, monsieur, that on this night Mr. Marsh was sitting at thetable with his back to the passage from the butler's pantry,close up against the left wall of the room."Therefore, monsieur," the girl went on, "the man whoassassinated Mr. Marsh entered from the butler's pantry. Heslipped into the room along the left wall close up behind hisvictim . . . . Did it not occur so."This was the evidence of the police officials and the experts.It was clear from the position of the desk in the room and fromthe details of the evidence."And, monsieur," she said, "will you tell me, is it true that thestab wound which killed Mr. Marsh was in the shoulder on the sidenext to the wall?""Yes," said the judge, "that is true."The prosecutor, urged by Thompson, now made a verbal objection.The case was practically completed. The incident going on in thecourt-room followed no definite legal procedure and could not bepermitted to proceed. The judge stopped him."Sit down," he said. He did not offer any explanation orcomment. He merely silenced the man and returned to the girlstanding eagerly on the step before the bench."The wound was in the base of the man's neck at the top of theleft shoulder on the side next to the wall," he said. "But whathas this fact to do with the case?""Oh, monsieur," she cried, "it has everything to do with it. Ifthe assassin who slipped along the wall had carried the knife inhis right hand, the wound would have been on the right side ofthe dead man's neck. But if, monsieur, the assassin carried theknife in his left hand, then the wound would be where it is, onthe left side. That made me believe, at first, that the assassinhad only one arm - had lost his right arm - and must use theother; then, a little later, I understood . . . . Oh, monsieur,don't you understand; don't you see that the assassin who stabbedMr. Marsh was left-handed?"In a moment it was all clear to everybody. Only a left-handedman could have committed the crime, for only a left-handed manstanding close against the left side of a room above one sittingat a desk against that wall could have struck straight down intothe left shoulder of the murdered man. A right-handed assassinwould have struck straight down into the right shoulder, he wouldnot have risked a doubtful blow, delivered awkwardly across hisbody, into the left shoulder of his victim.The girl indicated Thompson with her hand. "He did it; he'sleft-handed. I found out by dropping my glove."Panic enveloped the cornered man. He began to shake as with anague. Sweat like a thin oil spread over his debauched face andthe folds of his obese neck. With his fatal left hand he beganto finger the lapel of his coat where the faded rosebud hungpinned into the buttonhole. And the girl's voice broke theprofound silence of the court-room."He has the money, too," she said. "I felt a bulky packet when Igave him the flower out of my bouquet last night."The big, thin-haired lawyer, leaving the courtroom after hiswithdrawal from the case, stopped at a window arrested by theamazing scene: The police taking the stolen money out ofThompson's pocket; the woman in the girl's arms, and thetransfigured prisoner standing up as in the presence of aheavenly angel. This before him . . . and the splendid motorbelow under the sweep of the window, waiting before thecourthouse door, brought back the memory of his biting, sarcasticwords". . . or Cinderella in a pumpkin coach!"And there occurred to him a doubt of the exclusive dominance oflife by the gods he served.
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