Murder in Stained Glass. Armstrong Margaret

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СКАЧАТЬ and femurs, added a clavicle and a few other tidbits of his own for good measure, and finally consented to accept his esteemed colleague’s conclusion: the bones were undoubtedly human bones. In his opinion, those of an adult, probably a man. He declined to give any opinion as to age or physical condition.

      A moment of mild excitement was provided by Mrs. Podsnap, mother of the hungry baby, who had seen smoke rising from the chimney of the glass shop on Sunday morning last at five minutes past four. Asked how she could be sure of the exact time, she said the baby always woke about four for his bottle and screamed bloody murder—one of the jury snickered at this point, finding the phrase humorous, under the circumstances—and she always kept an eye on the clock while she was heating the milk so’s it would be just right. Asked whether she had perceived any peculiar odor, as of roasting flesh, she faltered a wan:

      “I—I might of, except for the milk boiling over. It burned.” She was excused, and Skinner took her place.

      Like the medical examiner, the detective began with a scolding. Valuable evidence had been destroyed, bones moved and practically reduced to ashes, footprints and fingerprints obliterated, by well-meaning but thoughtless persons. Phyllis and I exchanged uneasy glances. At length he reached his own discoveries. He had made a great many. He had found a bullet hole in one of the ground floor windows, a minute blood stain on the hose where it was attached to the stand-pipe, and an axe, recently washed; also he had observed that the cellar floor was still damp under a pile of excelsior and boards. Two buttons and a small shred of cloth had been found among the ashes left in the furnace after the fragments of bone had been removed by Dr. Greely. No fingerprints of any value had been discovered, nor bullets among the ashes or elsewhere. Possibly the victim had been killed by the bullet that went through the window. The ground outside had, of course, been carefully examined, but that bullet had not been found. Fortunately, the search for a weapon that could have been used by the murderer had been more successful.

      Skinner raised his voice and thrust out a triumphant forefinger.

      “That revolver,” he announced, indicating the table beside the coroner, “was found in the skating pond!”

      We all craned our necks and stared at the pistol on the table. A woman behind me whispered to another:

      “Ain’t he the mean man! It was my Elmer found that gun and Skinner, he’s taking all the credit.”

      “What do you expect?” the friend hissed back. “You don’t get walnuts off a pig-nut tree!”

      Asked to reconstruct the crime for the jury, Skinner announced that in his opinion two persons, probably only two and one a man, had entered the glass shop on Saturday night last. One had shot the other while a passing train muffled the sound; had dismembered the body, in all probability with the axe already mentioned; lighted a hot fire in the kiln and succeeded in cremating the remains, except for the fragments of bone and the aforesaid buttons and shred of cloth. As soon as the remains were safely in the furnace, the murderer had washed the axe and the cement floor clean with the hose installed for washing cars when the building had been used as a garage. As there was a powerful head of water, it was a simple matter to flush the blood down the drain so rapidly that no traces were left except the dampness previously mentioned. The excelsior was not, however, stained with blood, merely damp with clear water. The only blood to be found anywhere after an exhaustive search was the smear, not a fingerprint, on the hose. Chemical analysis proved this smear to be human blood. The murderer had wiped the hose clean except for this small spot. He probably wore gloves. The cleverness with which he covered his traces indicated a person of intelligence. On the other hand, the brutality of the murder indicated a low type. The identity of both murderer and victim would soon be known, Skinner ended, throwing out his chest and glancing about for approval. The murderer would be traced through the revolver and the victim by means of the cloth and buttons; although badly melted, the latter proved on examination to be trouser buttons bearing the name of L. P. Fortune, a New York tailor. A report from Mr. Fortune was momentarily expected.

      All this was most satisfactory. The faces of the jury showed relief. Their verdict would be arrived at without much difficulty.

      But it seemed that Skinner hadn’t quite finished. He whispered to the coroner’s assistant. Culver nodded and asked Peter Curtis to return.

      Peter took the stand again, looking worried.

      “Mr. Curtis,” Culver said. “In answer to a question, you said just now that you were not an expert on firing glass, and Clarence Burbank appears only to have heated the oven. Who then had charge of the firing?”

      To my surprise, Peter flushed as if this question bothered him. I glanced at Leo and realized that he too found this question disturbing. He sat gazing at Peter as if the man’s answer were of vital importance.

      Peter hesitated, glanced uneasily at Clarence, and then blurted out.

      “Jake Murphy did the firing.”

      “Jake Murphy? Is he present in the room?”

      “No, he ain’t. He’s in New York. Went there last Thursday and didn’t come back.”

      A ripple of excitement ran through the audience. The jury looked depressed, foreseeing complications.

      “Why has no one mentioned this Jake Murphy before? Didn’t you realize that his continued absence was peculiar, under the circumstances?”

      “Well, no; we didn’t. Jake is sort of uncertain and he likes a holiday once in so often. We’ve been looking for him to come back any day.”

      “You didn’t connect his disappearance with the crime we are investigating?”

      Peter stared and shook his head.

      “It did not occur to you that the body might be that of Jake Murphy and . . . .”

      Culver broke off abruptly. Leo was on his feet, beckoning to Sam Beers. Sam came. Leo told him to let Peter step down. He, Leo, had something important to say.

      In another moment Leo, very pale but quite calm, had taken Peter’s place.

      “Your Honor,” he said. “The bones found in the kiln are not the bones of Jake Murphy. They are the bones of my father, Frederick Ullathorne.”

      A long sigh swept through the room. The jury registered dismay. The coroner straightened himself in his chair, and, for the first time, spoke:

      “This is an extraordinary and most horrifying statement, Mr. Ullathorne. On what is it based? Have you any concrete evidence?”

      “This!” Leo held up his hand. “I found it in the ashes from the kiln on Sunday evening.” He advanced to the table and laid a small object upon it.

      The coroner peered at it. The legal lights crowded around and peered at it. Everybody stood up, trying to see what it was. I didn’t have to. I had seen it when Leo first picked it up. It was a tooth. All along I had been wondering why Leo had not spoken of it. Now I knew.

      “This appears to be what is called by dentists an ‘appliance,’ ” the coroner said. “Are we to understand that it was used by your father?”

      “Yes. About a month ago he broke a tooth, stepped off a scaffold while plating a window, slipped and struck the ladder. He went to the dentist in Banbury at once—he was proud of his teeth—and Doctor Pratt made this appliance. He can identify it.”

      “No СКАЧАТЬ