Halfway House (21 page)

The State had amply proved, he said vigorously, her movements on the day of the crime up to its actual commission. She had been seen on the road leading to the shack only a few minutes before the murder. She had been seen driving her car toward that shack. Her car had then left its clear tire prints in the mud before the shack, under such circumstances that it was possible to prove, as the State had proved, that the car had visited that shack during the general period of the murder. This had placed the defendant, he went on, at the scene of the crime circumstantially. And, he pointed out, if there was any doubt concerning her identity as the driver of the Ford, it was completely and irrefutably dispelled by her fingerprints on the knife which killed her husband.

“Fingerprints,” he said ironically, “aren’t framed—except, perhaps, in those books I mentioned.” The jury grinned. “This defendant had her hands on that knife in that shack. The State, then, has led her to the corpse.” That was sufficient connection, he went on, in a circumstantial case, to remove all doubt. What was the answer of the defense to this all-important question of fingerprints on the knife? That her prints had got on the knife the night before in her own home! But where was the proof of this transparent story? There was not a single witness to support her explanation. There was not a single proof that the victim even spent that Friday night in his Philadelphia home… And when was this explanation given?
After
it was brought out that the fingerprints were on the knife! Didn’t that show all the evidences of a hastily trumped-up story to explain away a damaging fact?

“I give you my word,” said the prosecutor earnestly, “that my heartfelt sympathy goes out to this poor young man who has so ably defended his sister in this trial. He has toiled long and tirelessly to make the best of a bad, bad case. We are all deeply sorry for him. But that should not sway you, ladies and gentlemen, in your judgment of this case. A jury determines facts and ignores its sympathies. You must not permit yourselves to be influenced in your verdict by emotions which would defeat the ends of justice.” Moreover, he added dryly, the defendant had been wholly unable to prove an alibi for the night of the crime.

When Pollinger was through outlining the motives he went briefly into the question of deliberation. “The motive here,” he said, “was twofold, as I have shown: revenge on the man who had lied to her for ten years, and the natural desire to benefit, while punishing him for that awful living lie, from his death. To have known that he was Joseph Kent Gimball, to have known that he carried a million-dollar policy and had recently changed his beneficiary from Mrs. Gimball to herself, Mrs. Wilson must have had knowledge well in advance of June first. In fact, there is nothing to show that she did not compel Gimball to assign his insurance to her in ‘payment’ for the wrong he had done her; indeed, psychologically everything points to it. In the light of this, how can anyone doubt that this was a murder planned in advance?

“And if there is any doubt in your minds, consider that this defendant came disguised—clumsily, it is true, but there was an effort at concealment—to the shack in which she murdered her husband. The defense has tried to argue that the use of the newly-purchased paper-cutter as the killing weapon indicates in itself a spontaneous crime, a crime on the spur of the moment; and that, therefore, even if Lucy Wilson had killed her husband it could not be construed as anything but an unpremeditated murder. But how false that is when examined in the naked light! For if I adopt the defense’s own theory—that Lucy Wilson was framed for this crime—you will see at once that the use of the knife was merely a convenient alternative for this defendant. If someone framed Lucy Wilson it could only have been with intent and plan far in advance of the actual commission. This flimsy ‘someone’ could not have known that Joseph Wilson would buy a desk-set the day before his death; therefore the so-called ‘framer’ must have planned to kill Wilson by some other means—a revolver, strangling, even a knife. But not this knife. Nevertheless, this knife was used. Wouldn’t that seem to show that there was no framer? The argument is fallacious all along the line. It shows no such thing. Lucy Wilson came prepared to kill Joseph Kent Gimball with a gun, perhaps, or another knife. In the heat of the encounter she used a knife already on the scene. The point is meaningless.”

His peroration was a masterpiece of shrewd persuasion. Then he sat down, quietly rubbing his neck with a handkerchief.

Judge Menander’s charge to the jury was surprisingly short. It outlined the possible verdicts and explained the law of circumstantial evidence. It was observed with astonishment by trained spectators that the famous jurist refrained from injecting into his short charge—it took only twenty-five minutes—the slightest hint of his own convictions in the matter, an unusual phenomenon in a State which permitted its presiding justices in capital cases the widest latitude for the expression of their own views.

Then the case went to the jury.

During the seventy-first hour word was sent that the jury had at last arrived at a verdict. It came in late afternoon, during an impromptu conference with the press in Bill’s room at the Stacy-Trent. The long delay had so convinced Bill of ultimate victory that he was his old self, a little gayer than was natural, perhaps, but cheerful and laughing and full of good Scotch whisky. There was ample reason for optimism. Six hours after the retirement of the jury word had leaked out that they stood 10-2 for acquittal. The delay could only mean that two jurors were stubborn; the announcement that a verdict had been reached could only mean that the two had finally been won over.

The summons to the County Court House sobered him like a cold shower. They left on the run.

Bill, waiting for Lucy to be brought back into the courtroom through the Bridge of Sighs from the adjoining jail, carefully looked around. Then he slumped back in his chair. “All over but the shouting,” he sighed to Ellery. “Well, I see the Gimball bunch has skipped.”

“Remarkable eyesight,” said Ellery dryly, and just then Lucy was led in and they both became too busy for conversation. Lucy was in a semi-stupor, barely able to drag her legs to the defense table. Ellery stroked her hand while a doctor administered restoratives, and Bill talked to her so naturally and easily that her eyes became almost normal again and a faint color returned to her cheeks.

There were the inevitable delays. Pollinger could not be found. Then someone managed to get hold of him and he was hustled into the courtroom. The cameramen became involved in an argument with the Sheriff’s staff. Somebody was ejected from the room. The bailiffs shouted for order.

The jury filed in at last. They were twelve tired, dripping people whose eyes seemed affected by an epidemic of shiftiness. Juror Number 7 looked ill and angry. Juror Number 4 looked haughty. But even these two kept their eyes away from the cleared space before the clerk’s railing. From the instant he saw their faces Bill stiffened in his chair. His own face whitened.

In a silence so profound that the ticking of the big clock on the front wall was clearly audible, the foreman of the jury rose and in a trembling voice announced the verdict.

They had found Lucy Wilson guilty of murder in the second degree. Lucy fainted. Bill did not so much as move a finger; he seemed frozen to his chair. In fifteen minutes Lucy was revived and sentenced by Judge Menander to twenty years in the State penitentiary.

It appeared, as Ellery discovered later in the boiling crowds, that Jurors 4 and 7 had managed to achieve the astounding result, after seventy hours and thirty-three minutes in a steaming room, of converting an original 10-2 for acquittal to 12-0 for conviction. Rather handsomely, Ellery thought, Jurors 4 and 7 had compromised from a demand for death in order to win over their weaker brethren.

“It was those fingerprints on the knife did it,” said Juror Number 4 later to the press. “We just didn’t believe her.” Juror Number 4 was a large stout woman with a chin of iron.

There was a painful constriction of Mr. Ellery Queen’s heart as he packed his things, rang for a porter, and plodded down the corridor to Bill Angell’s room. He composed his features and knocked on the door. There was no answer. He tried the knob; to his surprise the door was unlocked. He opened it and looked in.

Bill was lying on the bed, half-dressed. His dusty shoes had left a wide earthy stain on the sheet. His necktie was twisted around his collar, and his shirt was wet all over, as if he had stepped under a shower without taking it off. He was staring up at the ceiling without expression. His eyes were red, and it seemed to Ellery that he had been crying.

Ellery said, “Bill,” in a gentle voice, but Bill did not stir. “Bill,” said Ellery again, and he came in and shut the door to stand with his back against it. “I suppose I don’t have to tell you how…” He found it surprisingly difficult to express himself. “What I mean to say is that I’m leaving. I didn’t want to duck out without telling you that I’m not finished with this thing. In a way, it’s lucky Lucy got what she did. If it had been the Chair… Now there’s no need for racing against time.”

Bill smiled. It was very queer to see him smile, with his eyes red and sunken and his face like a death-mask. “Have you ever been in a cell?” he asked, quite conversationally.

“I know, Bill, I know.” Ellery sighed. “But it’s better than—well, the other thing. I’m going to work, Bill. I wanted you to know it.”

“Don’t think,” said Bill without turning his head, “I’m unappreciative, Ellery. It’s just that…” His lips compressed.

“I’ve done nothing at all. It’s been a most mystifying puzzle. It’s even more mystifying now. But there’s one ray of sunshine… Well, let’s not discuss it now. Bill.”

“Yes?”

Ellery scuffed the rug. “Er—how about money? This thing must have put you in debt to the whole world. An appeal, I mean. It costs a lot, doesn’t it?”

“No, Ellery, I can’t accept… I mean, thanks just the same. You’re a brick.”

“Well.” Ellery stood there irresolutely for a moment. Then he went to the bed and patted Bill’s damp shoulder and went out. As he shut the door behind him he turned to find Andrea Gimball leaning against the wall opposite Bill’s room. For a moment he was shocked. Somehow, the spectacle of this girl standing outside Bill’s room, her gown crumpled, a damp handkerchief in a ball in her fist, her eyes hollow and red—like Bill’s—struck him as indecent. She should have been off with the others, smug in their satisfaction over the burnt offering.

“Well,” he said slowly, “look who’s here. Just in time, Miss Gimball, for the wake.”

“Mr. Queen.” Her tongue wet her lips.

“Don’t you think you had better leave, Miss Gimball?”

“Is he…?”

“I don’t think it’s wise,” said Ellery, “to attempt to see him at the moment, my dear. I imagine he’d rather be alone.”

“Yes.” She fumbled with the handkerchief. “I—I thought he would.”

“Nevertheless, you’re here. That’s kind of you. Miss Gimball! Listen to me for a moment.”

“Yes?”

Ellery strode across the corridor and seized her arm. Despite the heat, it was strangely cold. “Do you know what you’ve done to Bill, to that poor woman condemned to twenty years in prison?” She did not reply. “Don’t you think it would be decent to try to remedy it—the harm you’ve done?”

“I—I’ve done?”

Ellery stepped back. “You won’t sleep well,” he said softly, “until you come to me with your story. Your real story. You know that, don’t you?”

“I—” She stopped, her lips trembling.

Ellery stared at her. Then his eyes narrowed and, deliberately, he turned his back and stalked off down the corridor to his room. The porter was waiting for him, holding his bags, looking curiously at the girl slumped against the wall. He heard very clearly as he walked away what she said. But he knew that she’d said it without realizing that it took the form of audible words. It was a plea and a prayer, and it was so deep with anguish that it almost made him halt and go back:
“What should I do? Oh, God, if I only knew what to do.”

But he conquered the impulse. There was something in the girl’s mind that could only come out by pressure from within. He signaled the porter and they went to the elevator. As he stepped in, he glanced again in Andrea’s direction. He was intent and thoughtful.

Andrea stood where he had left her, twisting the limp handkerchief between her fingers, staring at Bill Angell’s quiet door as if peace lay there, a peace that was just out of reach. Somehow, the picture of torment and despair she made was to linger in Ellery’s mind for a long time. It only emphasized his conviction that around her slender figure shimmered the glowing imponderable that was to change the whole complexion of the sensational Wilson-Gimball case.

“Some… with arrows, some with traps.”

“W
HAT
,” said Inspector Queen with disgust, “again?” Ellery did not stop whistling as he labored over his bow-tie in the mirror above the bureau. “Seems to me,” grumbled the Inspector, “that ever since those friends of yours got messed up in their private brand of hell in Trenton, you’ve turned into a regular Broadway punk. Where you going?”

“Out.”

“Alone, I s’pose?”

“No, indeed. I have what is technically known as a date with one of the loveliest, wealthiest, most desirable and azure-blooded young females on the Island. Furthermore, she’s engaged to be married. Not,” he squinted critically at his reflection, “that I care a damn, you understand.”

“You sound,” growled the old gentleman, jabbing some snuff into his nostrils, “like anybody but the conceited pup I used to know. At least in the old days you were level-headed enough to lay off the women.”

“Times,” said Ellery, “have a deplorable habit of changing.”

“The Gimball girl, hey?”

“None other. The name Gimball, by the way, is currently anathema in certain circles. It’s Jessica and Andrea Borden, and don’t let the Park Avenue crowd hear you call them anything else.”

“Fat chance. What’s the idea, El?”