"You say you listened inside the locked door, and heard no sound, but felt a board rise up under your knee. A moment or two later, when you called the prisoner, he was intoxicated, and reeled. Do you mean to tell us that a drunken man could have made his way in the darkness, through a cabin filled with chairs, tables, and a piano, in absolute silence?"
The prosecuting attorney was on his feet in an instant, and the objection was sustained. I was next shown the keys, club, and file taken from Singleton's mattress. "You have identified these objects as having been found concealed in the prisoner's mattress. Do any of these keys fit the captain's cabin?"
"No."
"Who saw the prisoner during the days he was locked in his cabin?"
"I saw him occasionally. The cook saw him when he carried him his meals."
"Did you ever tell the prisoner where the axe was kept?"
"No."
"Did the members of the crew know?"
"I believe so. Yes."
"Was the fact that Burns carried the key to the captain's cabin a matter of general knowledge?"
"No. The crew knew that Burns and I carried the keys; they did not know which one each carried, unless—"
"Go on, please."
"If any one had seen Burns take Mrs. Johns forward and show her the axe, he would have known."
"Who were on deck at that time?"
"All the crew were on deck, the forecastle being closed. In the crow's-nest was McNamara; Jones was at the wheel."
"From the crow's-nest could the lookout have seen Burns and Mrs. Johns going forward?"
"No. The two houses were connected by an awning."
"What could the helmsman see?"
"Nothing forward of the after house."
The prosecution closed its case with me. The defense, having virtually conducted its case by cross-examination of the witnesses already called, contented itself with producing a few character witnesses, and "rested." Goldstein made an eloquent plea of "no case," and asked the judge so to instruct the jury.
This was refused, and the case went to the jury on the seventh day—a surprisingly short trial, considering the magnitude of the crimes.
The jury disagreed. But, while they wrangled, McWhirter and I were already on the right track. At the very hour that the jurymen were being discharged and steps taken for a retrial, we had the murderer locked in my room in a cheap lodging-house off Chestnut Street.
CHAPTER XXIII
FREE AGAIN
With the submission of the case to the jury, the witnesses were given their freedom. McWhirter had taken a room for me for a day or two to give me time to look about; and, his own leave of absence from his hospital being for ten days, we had some time together.
My situation was better than it had been in the summer. I had my strength again, although the long confinement had told on me. But my position was precarious enough. I had my pay from the Ella, and nothing else. And McWhirter, with a monthly stipend from his hospital of twenty-five dollars, was not much better off.
My first evening of freedom we spent at the theater. We bought the best seats in the house, and we dressed for the occasion—being in the position of having nothing to wear between shabby everyday wear and evening clothes.
"It is by way of celebration," Mac said, as he put a dab of shoe-blacking over a hole in his sock; "you having been restored to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. That's the game, Leslie—the pursuit of happiness."
I was busy with a dress tie that I had washed and dried by pasting it on a mirror, an old trick of mine when funds ran low. I was trying to enter into Mac's festive humor, but I had not reacted yet from the horrors of the past few months.
"Happiness!" I said scornfully. "Do you call this happiness?"
He put up the blacking, and, coming to me, stood eyeing me in the mirror as I arranged my necktie.
"Don't be bitter," he said. "Happiness was my word. The Good Man was good to you when he made you. That ought to be a source of satisfaction. And as for the girl—"
"What girl?"
"If she could only see you now. Why in thunder didn't you take those clothes on board? I wanted you to. Couldn't a captain wear a dress suit on special occasions?"
"Mac," I said gravely, "if you will think a moment, you will remember that the only special occasions on the Ella, after I took charge, were funerals. Have you sat through seven days of horrors without realizing that?"
Mac had once gone to Europe on a liner, and, having exhausted his funds, returned on a cattle-boat.
"All the captains I ever knew," he said largely, "were a fussy lot—dressed to kill, and navigating the boat from the head of a dinner-table. But I suppose you know. I was only regretting that she hadn't seen you the way you're looking now. That's all. I suppose I may regret, without hurting your feelings!"
He dropped all mention of Elsa after that, for a long time. But I saw him looking at me, at intervals, during the evening, and sighing. He was still regretting!
We enjoyed the theater, after all, with the pent-up enthusiasm of long months of work and strain. We laughed at the puerile fun, encored the prettiest of the girls, and swaggered in the lobby between acts, with cigarettes. There we ran across the one man I knew in Philadelphia, and had supper after the play with three or four fellows who, on hearing my story, persisted in believing that I had sailed on the Ella as a lark or to follow a girl. My simple statement that I had done it out of necessity met with roars of laughter and finally I let it go at that.
It was after one when we got back to the lodging-house, being escorted there in a racing car by a riotous crowd that stood outside the door, as I fumbled for my key, and screeched in unison: "Leslie! Leslie! Leslie! Sic 'em!" before they drove away.
