Part 37 (1/2)
”I stripped the accused and confiscated the clothes he wore.”
”These were the clothes he had worn at the time of the fire, also?”
”He stated so.”
”You have preserved those garments?”
”Yes, sir.”
”You also confiscated the desk which Floyd had occupied at the Beacon office?”
”The drawers of it, yes, sir.”
”Have you preserved the contents of that desk?”
”Yes, sir.”
”Will you inform the jury what you found in the drawers of Robert Floyd's desk?”
”Three copies of the anarchist organ, Freiheit. There they are.”
”Do these papers preach philosophical anarchy, Mr. McCausland?”
”I should say not. They are in German, but the leading editorial of this one--which was kindly translated for me by a friend--recommends the 'stamping out by fire and sword of John Burns and all such peace-mongering worms.'”
”A forcible expression, surely. It is the Most organ, in short?”
”Yes, sir.”
”Will you state the further results of your search in the desk?”
”I found this paper of powder, a part of a fuse, a written formula for manufacturing a bomb, a blotter with part of a note on it, legible by the help of a mirror----”
”That will do for the present, Mr. McCausland. And will you state what you may have found in the pockets of Floyd's coat?”
”A quant.i.ty of powder. There were grains of it also on the knees of his trousers.”
”Similar to that found in his desk?”
”Yes, sir.”
”What else?”
”A burnt match,” said the inspector, just as the clock struck five and the constable's gavel sounded a prelude to adjournment.
CHAPTER L.
THE BOMBARDMENT CONTINUES.
Nearly the same gathering was admitted to the courtroom on the second day as on the first. But, wedged in between Mrs. Arnold and the unknown woman in black, Emily had pointed out to her the famous novelist Ecks, who sat with his head inclined toward the still more famous playwright Wye. Wye was mooting volubly the chain of testimony which had been spun around the accused on the foregoing day, which seemed to possess for him all the circ.u.mscribed but inexhaustible interest of the chessboard or a dramatic intrigue. But Ecks was sketching in pencil the princ.i.p.al characters of the trial.
”We shall summon Mr. McCausland again,” said the district attorney. ”At present we surrender him to the counsel for the accused.”
A keen glance shot from lawyer to witness, comparing the two great opponents. s.h.a.garach's face was a mask, stern and impenetrable, but McCausland visibly braced himself for the encounter. Equal they might be in a sense, as Mount Everest is the peer of the Amazon, but as different in their spheres as the river and the mountain. In the detective's subtle eye the keen observer might have discovered a finesse and a suppleness not altogether remote from the corresponding traits in the cracksman whom he had impersonated. But s.h.a.garach could no more have counterfeited Bill Dobbs than McCausland could have acted with success the role of Count L'Alienado.
”Would you hang a kitten on the evidence of a burned match, inspector?” asked the lawyer.
”If he were old enough to scratch it,” answered the detective.
”Will you turn out the contents of your upper right vest pocket?”
McCausland's face became rosy with embarra.s.sment, but he obeyed the request. A ripple of laughter went around when among the broken-up fractions of a card of lucifers there appeared one that was blackened at the end. The inspector allowed the merriment to die, then coolly remarked: ”It is the match I found on Floyd.”
And it was felt that he had held his own.
”Phineas Fowler,” called the district attorney. The old chemist tottered to the stand and held a parchment hand high in air while the clerk administered his oath.
”What is your business, Mr. Fowler?”
The pantaloon trembled visibly and twisted the two horns of his forked board one after the other with nervous fingers, blinking about all the while like an old Rosicrucian projected into the daylight world.
”A chemist,” he piped, in a treble so high that the thoughtless smiled, but so feeble the chief justice bent forward to hear and the stenographer requested him to raise his voice. Ecks began sketching away rapidly at the advent of this character. The very odor of acids seemed to exhale from his s.h.i.+vering person.
”What lines of trade do you supply?”
”Photographers, dyers, armorers----”
”The last cla.s.s with explosives and fulminating compounds, I presume?”
”Also with oils and varnishes,” answered the pantaloon, his voice breaking in the desperate effort he made to be audible.
”Would you call him senile or venerable?” whispered Ecks.
”He must have sold Floyd the powder,” answered Wye, intent on the imbroglio.
”Have you ever met the accused?”
”Yes, sir.”
”When and where?”
”In my office twice.”
”What was the date of the first visit of the accused to your office?”
”June 23.”