Friday before. His failure to write from there. And then, the
full horror of the charge returning, as suddenly collapsing again,
lying perfectly still and white while Grant and the others agreed
among themselves that the best thing to be done was to break up the
camp, either now or early in the morning, and depart for Sharon.
And Sondra returning to consciousness after a time tearfully
announcing that she must get out of here at once, that she couldn't
"endure this place," and begging Bertine and all the others to stay
close to her and say nothing about her having fainted and cried,
since it would only create talk. And thinking all the time of how,
if this were all true, she could secure those letters she had
written him! Oh, heavens! For supposing now at this time they
should fall into the hands of the police or the newspapers, and be
published? And yet moved by her love for him and for the first
time in her young life shaken to the point where the grim and stern
realities of life were thrust upon her gay and vain notice.
And so it was immediately arranged that she leave with Stuart,
Bertine and Grant for the Metissic Inn at the eastern end of the
Lake, since from there, at dawn, according to Baggott, they might
leave for Albany--and so, in a roundabout way for Sharon.
In the meantime, Mason, after obtaining possession of all Clyde's
belongings here, quickly making his way west to Little Fish Inlet
and Three Mile Bay, stopping only for the first night at a
farmhouse and arriving at Three Mile Bay late on Tuesday night.
Yet not without, en route, catechizing Clyde as he had planned, the
more particularly since in going through his effects in the tent at
the camp he had not found the gray suit said to have been worn by
Clyde at Big Bittern.
And Clyde, troubled by this new development, denying that he had
worn a gray suit and insisting that the suit he had on was the one
he had worn.
"But wasn't it thoroughly soaked?"
"Yes."
"Well, then, where was it cleaned and pressed afterward?"
"In Sharon."
"In Sharon?"
"Yes, sir."
"By a tailor there?"
"Yes, sir."
"What tailor?"
Alas, Clyde could not remember.
"Then you wore it crumpled and wet, did you, from Big Bittern to
Sharon?"
"Yes, sir."
"And no one noticed it, of course."
"Not that I remember--no."
"Not that you remember, eh? Well, we'll see about that later," and
deciding that unquestionably Clyde was a plotter and a murderer.
Also that eventually he could make Clyde show where he had hidden
the suit or had had it cleaned.
Next there was the straw hat found on the lake. What about that?
By admitting that the wind had blown his hat off, Clyde had
intimated that he had worn a hat on the lake, but not necessarily
the straw hat found on the water. But now Mason was intent on
establishing within hearing of these witnesses, the ownership of
the hat found on the water as well as the existence of a second hat
worn later.
"That straw hat of yours that you say the wind blew in the water?
You didn't try to get that either at the time, did you?"
"No, sir."
"Didn't think of it, I suppose, in the excitement?"
"No, sir."
"But just the same, you had another straw hat when you went down
through the woods there. Where did you get that one?"
And Clyde, trapped and puzzled by this pausing for the fraction of
a second, frightened and wondering whether or not it could be
proved that this second straw hat he was wearing was the one he had
worn through the woods. Also whether the one on the water had been
purchased in Utica, as it had. And then deciding to lie. "But I
didn't have another straw hat." Without paying any attention to
that, Mason reached over and took the straw hat on Clyde's head and
proceeded to examine the lining with its imprint--Stark & Company,
Lycurgus.
"This one has a lining, I see. Bought this in Lycurgus, eh?"
"Yes, sir."
"When?"
"Oh, back in June."
"But still you're sure now it's not the one you wore down through
the woods that night?"
"No, sir."
"Well, where was it then?"
And Clyde once more pausing like one in a trap and thinking: My
God! How am I to explain this now? Why did I admit that the one
on the lake was mine? Yet, as instantly recalling that whether he
had denied it or not, there were those at Grass Lake and Big
Bittern who would remember that he had worn a straw hat on the
lake, of course.
"Where was it then?" insisted Mason.
And Clyde at last saying: "Oh, I was up here once before and wore
it then. I forgot it when I went down the last time but I found it
again the other day."
"Oh, I see. Very convenient, I must say." He was beginning to
believe that he had a very slippery person to deal with indeed--
that he must think of his traps more shrewdly, and at the same time
determining to summon the Cranstons and every member of the Bear
Lake party in order to discover, whether any recalled Clyde not
wearing a straw hat on his arrival this time, also whether he had
left a straw hat the time before. He was lying, of course, and he
would catch him.
And so no real peace for Clyde at any time between there and
Bridgeburg and the county jail. For however much he might refuse
to answer, still Mason was forever jumping at him with such
questions as: Why was it if all you wanted to do was to eat lunch
on shore that you had to row all the way down to that extreme south
end of the lake when it isn't nearly so attractive there as it is
at other points? And: Where was it that you spent the rest of
that afternoon--surely not just there? And then, jumping back to
Sondra's letters discovered in his bag. How long had he known her?
Was he as much in love with her as she appeared to be with him?
Wasn't it because of her promise to marry him in the fall that he
had decided to kill Miss Alden?
But while Clyde vehemently troubled to deny this last charge, still
for the most part he gazed silently and miserably before him with
his tortured and miserable eyes.
And then a most wretched night spent in the garret of a farmhouse
at the west end of the lake, and on a pallet on the floor, while
Sissel, Swenk and Kraut, gun in hand, in turn kept watch over him,
and Mason and the sheriff and the others slept below stairs. And
some natives, because of information distributed somehow, coming
toward morning to inquire: "We hear the feller that killed the
girl over to Big Bittern is here--is that right?" And then waiting
to see them off at dawn in the Fords secured by Mason.
And again at Little Fish Inlet as well as Three Mile Bay, actual
crowds--farmers, store-keepers, summer residents, woodsmen,
children--all gathered because of word telephoned on ahead
apparently. And at the latter place, Burleigh, Heit and Newcomb,
who, because of previously telephoned information, had brought
before one Gabriel Gregg, a most lanky and crusty and meticulous
justice of the peace, all of the individuals from Big Bittern
necessary to identify him fully. And now Mason, before this local
justice, charging Clyde with the death of Roberta and having him
properly and legally held as a material witness to be lodged in the
county jail at Bridgeburg. And then taking him, along with Burton,
the sheriff and his deputies, to Bridgeburg, where he was promptly
locked up.
And once there, Clyde throwing himself on the iron cot and holding
his head in a kind of agony of despair. It was three o'clock in
the morning, and just outside the jail as they approached he had
seen a crowd of at least five hundred--noisy, jeering, threatening.
For had not the news been forwarded that because of his desire to
marry a rich girl he had most brutally assaulted and murdered a
young and charming working-girl whose only fault had been that she
loved him too well. There had been hard and threatening cries of
"There he is, the dirty bastard! You'll swing for this yet, you
young devil, wait and see!" This from a young woodsman not unlike
Swenk in type--a hard, destroying look in his fierce young eyes,
leaning out from the crowd. And worse, a waspish type of small-
town slum girl, dressed in a gingham dress, who in the dim light of
the arcs, had leaned forward to cry: "Lookit, the dirty little
sneak--the murderer! You thought you'd get away with it, didnja?"
And Clyde, crowding closer to Sheriff Slack, and thinking: Why,
they actually think I did kill her! And they may even lynch me!
But so weary and confused and debased and miserable that at the
sight of the outer steel jail door swinging open to receive him, he
actually gave vent to a sigh of relief because of the protection it
afforded.
But once in his cell, suffering none the less without cessation the
long night through, from thoughts--thoughts concerning all that had
just gone. Sondra! the Griffiths! Bertine. All those people in
Lycurgus when they should hear in the morning. His mother
eventually, everybody. Where was Sondra now? For Mason had told
her, of course, and all those others, when he had gone back to
secure his things. And they knew him now for what he was--a
plotter of murder! Only, only, if somebody could only know how it
had all come about! If Sondra, his mother, any one, could truly
see!
Perhaps if he were to explain all to this man Mason now, before it
all went any further, exactly how it all had happened. But that
meant a true explanation as to his plot, his real original intent,
that camera, his swimming away. That unintended blow--(and who was
going to believe him as to that)--his hiding the tripod afterwards.
Besides once all that was known would he not be done for just the
same in connection with Sondra, the Griffiths--everybody. And very
likely prosecuted and executed for murder just the same. Oh,
heavens--murder. And to be tried for that now; this terrible crime
against her proved. They would electrocute him just the same--
wouldn't they? And then the full horror of that coming upon him,--
death, possibly--and for murder--he sat there quite still. Death!
God! If only he had not left those letters written him by Roberta
and his mother in his room there at Mrs. Peyton's. If only he had
removed his trunk to another room, say, before he left. Why hadn't
he thought of that? Yet as instantly thinking, might not that have
been a mistake, too, being seemingly a suspicious thing to have
done then? But how came they to know where he was from and what
his name was? Then, as instantly returning in mind to the letters
in the trunk. For, as he now recalled, in one of those letters
from his mother she had mentioned that affair in Kansas City, and
Mason would come to know of that. If only he had destroyed them.
Roberta's, his mother's, all! Why hadn't he? But not being able
to answer why--just an insane desire to keep things maybe--anything
that related to him--a kindness, a tenderness toward him. If only
he had not worn that second straw hat--had not met those three men
in the woods! God! He might have known they would be able to
trace him in some way. If only he had gone on in that wood at Bear
Lake, taking his suit case and Sondra's letters with him. Perhaps,
perhaps, who knows, in Boston, or New York, or somewhere he might
have hidden away.
Unstrung and agonized, he was unable to sleep at all, but walked
back and forth, or sat on the side of the hard and strange cot,
thinking, thinking. And at dawn, a bony, aged, rheumy jailer, in a
baggy, worn, blue uniform, bearing a black, iron tray, on which was
a tinful of coffee, some bread and a piece of ham with one egg.
And looking curiously and yet somehow indifferently at Clyde, while
he forced it through an aperture only wide and high enough for its
admission, though Clyde wanted nothing at all.
And then later Kraut and Sissel and Swenk, and eventually the
sheriff himself, each coming separately, to look in and say:
"Well, Griffiths, how are you this morning?" or, "Hello, anything
we can do for you?", while their eyes showed the astonishment,
disgust, suspicion or horror with which his assumed crime had
filled them. Yet, even in the face of that, having one type of
interest and even sycophantic pride in his presence here. For was
he not a Griffiths--a member of the well-known social group of the
big central cities to the south of here. Also the same to them, as
well as to the enormously fascinated public outside, as a trapped
and captured animal, taken in their legal net by their own
superlative skill and now held as witness to it? And with the
newspapers and people certain to talk, enormous publicity for them--
their pictures in the papers as well as his, their names
persistently linked with his.
And Clyde, looking at them between the bars, attempted to be civil,
since he was now in their hands and they could do with him as they
would.
Chapter 11
In connection with the autopsy and its results there was a decided
set-back. For while the joint report of the five doctors showed:
"An injury to the mouth and nose; the tip of the nose appears to
have been slightly flattened, the lips swollen, one front tooth
slightly loosened, and an abrasion of the mucous membrane within
the lips"--all agreed that these injuries were by no means fatal.
The chief injury was to the skull (the very thing which Clyde in
his first confession had maintained), which appeared to have been
severely bruised by a blow of "some sharp instrument," unfortunately
in this instance, because of the heaviness of the blow of the boat,
"signs of fracture and internal haemorrhage which might have
produced death."
But--the lungs when placed in water, sinking--an absolute proof
that Roberta could not have been dead when thrown into the water,
but alive and drowning, as Clyde had maintained. And no other
signs of violence or struggle, although her arms and fingers
appeared to be set in such a way as to indicate that she might have
been reaching or seeking to grasp something. The wale of the boat?
Could that be? Might Clyde's story, after all, conceal a trace of
truth? Certainly these circumstances seemed to favor him a little.
Yet as Mason and the others agreed, all these circumstances most
distinctly seemed to prove that although he might not have slain
her outright before throwing her into the water, none the less he
had struck her and then had thrown her, perhaps unconscious, into
the water.
But with what? If he could but make Clyde say that!
And then an inspiration! He would take Clyde and, although the law
specifically guaranteed accused persons against compulsions, compel
him to retrace the scenes of his crime. And although he might not
be able to make him commit himself in any way, still, once on the
ground and facing the exact scene of his crime, his actions might
reveal something of the whereabouts of the suit, perhaps, or
possibly some instrument with which he had struck her.
And in consequence, on the third day following Clyde's incarceration,
a second visit to Big Bittern, with Kraut, Heit, Mason, Burton,
Burleigh, Earl Newcomb and Sheriff Slack as his companions, and a
slow re-canvassing of all the ground he had first traveled on that
dreadful day. And with Kraut, following instructions from Mason,
"playing up" to him, in order to ingratiate himself into his good
graces, and possibly cause him to make a clean breast of it. For
Kraut was to argue that the evidence, so far was so convincing that
you "never would get a jury to believe that you didn't do it," but
that, "if you would talk right out to Mason, he could do more for
you with the judge and the governor than any one could--get you off,
maybe, with life or twenty years, while this way you're likely to
get the chair, sure."
Yet Clyde, because of that same fear that had guided him at Bear
Lake, maintaining a profound silence. For why should he say that
he had struck her, when he had not--intentionally at least? Or
with what, since no thought of the camera had come up as yet.
At the lake, after definite measurements by the county surveyor as
to the distance from the spot where Roberta had drowned to the spot
where Clyde had landed, Earl Newcomb suddenly returning to Mason
with an important discovery. For under a log not so far from the
spot at which Clyde had stood to remove his wet clothes, the tripod
he had hidden, a little rusty and damp, but of sufficient weight,
as Mason and all these others were now ready to believe, to have
delivered the blow upon Roberta's skull which had felled her and so
make it possible for him to carry her to the boat and later drown
her. Yet, confronted with this and turning paler than before,
Clyde denying that he had a camera or a tripod with him, although
Mason was instantly deciding that he would re-question all
witnesses to find out whether any recalled seeing a tripod or
camera in Clyde's possession.
And before the close of this same day learning from the guide who
had driven Clyde and Roberta over, as well as the boatman who had
seen Clyde drop his bag into the boat, and a young waitress at
Grass Lake who had seen Clyde and Roberta going out from the inn to
the station on the morning of their departure from Grass Lake, that
all now recalled a "yellow bundle of sticks," fastened to his bag
which must have been the very tripod.
And then Burton Burleigh deciding that it might not really have
been the tripod, after all with which he had struck her but
possibly and even probably the somewhat heavier body of the camera
itself, since an edge of it would explain the wound on the top of
the head and the flat surface would explain the general wounds on
her face. And because of this conclusion, without any knowledge on
the part of Clyde, however, Mason securing divers from among the
woodsmen of the region and setting them to diving in the immediate
vicinity of the spot where Roberta's body had been found, with the
result that after an entire day's diving on the part of six--and
because of a promised and substantial reward, one Jack Bogart arose
with the very camera which Clyde, as the boat had turned over, had
let fall. Worse, after examination it proved to contain a roll of
films, which upon being submitted to an expert chemist for
development, showed finally to be a series of pictures of Roberta,
made on shore--one sitting on a log, a second posed by the side of
the boat on shore, a third reaching up toward the branches of a
tree--all very dim and water-soaked but still decipherable. And
the exact measurements of the broadest side of the camera
corresponding in a general way to the length and breadth of the
wounds upon Roberta's face, which caused it now to seem positive
that they had discovered the implement wherewith Clyde had
delivered the blows.
Yet no trace of blood upon the camera itself. And none upon the
side or bottom of the boat, which had been brought to Bridgeburg
for examination. And none upon the rug which had lain in the
bottom of the boat.
In Burton Burleigh there existed as sly a person as might have been
found in a score of such backwoods counties as this, and soon he
found himself meditating on how easy it would be, supposing
irrefragable evidence were necessary, for him or any one to cut a
finger and let it bleed on the rug or the side of the boat or the
edge of the camera. Also, how easy to take from the head of
Roberta two or three hairs and thread them between the sides of the
camera, or about the rowlock to which her veil had been attached.
And after due and secret meditation, he actually deciding to visit
the Lutz Brothers morgue and secure a few threads of Roberta's
hair. For he himself was convinced that Clyde had murdered the
girl in cold blood. And for want of a bit of incriminating proof,
was such a young, silent, vain crook as this to be allowed to
escape? Not if he himself had to twine the hairs about the rowlock
or inside the lid of the camera, and then call Mason's attention to
them as something overlooked!
And in consequence, upon the same day that Heit and Mason were
personally re-measuring the wounds upon Roberta's face and head,
Burleigh slyly threading two of Roberta's hairs in between the door
and the lens of the camera, so that Mason and Heit a little while
later unexpectedly coming upon them, and wondering why they had not
seen them before--nevertheless accepting them immediately as
conclusive evidence of Clyde's guilt. Indeed, Mason thereupon
announcing that in so far as he was concerned, his case was
complete. He had truly traced out every step in this crime and if
need be was prepared to go to trial on the morrow.
Yet, because of the very completeness of the testimony, deciding
for the present, at least, not to say anything in connection with
the camera--to seal, if possible, the mouth of every one who knew.
For, assuming that Clyde persisted in denying that he had carried a
camera, or that his own lawyer should be unaware of the existence
of such evidence, then how damning in court, and out of a clear
sky, to produce this camera, these photographs of Roberta made by
him, and the proof that the very measurements of one side of the
camera coincided with the size of the wounds upon her face! How
complete! How incriminating!
Also since he personally having gathered the testimony was the one
best fitted to present it, he decided to communicate with the
governor of the state for the purpose of obtaining a special term
of the Supreme Court for this district, with its accompanying
special session of the local grand jury, which would then be
subject to his call at any time. For with this granted, he would
be able to impanel a grand jury and in the event of a true bill
being returned against Clyde, then within a month or six weeks,
proceed to trial. Strictly to himself, however, he kept the fact
that in view of his own approaching nomination in the ensuing
November election this should all prove most opportune, since in
the absence of any such special term the case could not possibly be
tried before the succeeding regular January term of the Supreme
Court, by which time he would be out of office and although
possibly elected to the local judgeship still not able to try the
case in person. And in view of the state of public opinion, which
was most bitterly and vigorously anti-Clyde, a quick trial would
seem fair and logical to every one in this local world. For why
delay? Why permit such a criminal to sit about and speculate on
some plan of escape? And especially when his trial by him, Mason,
was certain to rebound to his legal and political and social fame
the country over.
Chapter 12
And then out of the north woods a crime sensation of the first
magnitude, with all of those intriguingly colorful, and yet morally
and spiritually atrocious, elements--love, romance, wealth;
poverty, death. And at once picturesque accounts of where and how
Clyde had lived in Lycurgus, with whom he had been connected, how
he had managed to conceal his relations with one girl while
obviously planning to elope with another--being wired for and
published by that type of editor so quick to sense the national
news value of crimes such as this. And telegrams of inquiry
pouring in from New York, Chicago, Boston, Philadelphia, San
Francisco and other large American cities east and west, either to
Mason direct or the representatives of the Associated or United
Press in this area, asking for further and more complete details of
the crime. Who was this beautiful wealthy girl with whom it was
said this Griffiths was in love? Where did she live? What were
Clyde's exact relations with her? Yet Mason, over-awed by the
wealth of the Finchleys and the Griffiths, loath to part with
Sondra's name, simply asserting for the present that she was the
daughter of a very wealthy manufacturer in Lycurgus, whose name he
did not care to furnish--yet not hesitating to show the bundle of
letters carefully tied with a ribbon by Clyde.
But Roberta's letters on the other hand being described in detail,--
even excerpts of some of them--the more poetic and gloomy being
furnished the Press for use, for who was there to protect her. And
on their publication a wave of hatred for Clyde as well as a wave
of pity for her--the poor, lonely, country girl who had had no one
but him--and he cruel, faithless,--a murderer even. Was not
hanging too good for him? For en route to and from Bear Lake, as
well as since, Mason had pored over these letters. And because of
certain intensely moving passages relating to her home life, her
gloomy distress as to her future, her evident loneliness and
weariness of heart, he had been greatly moved, and later had been
able to convey this feeling to others--his wife and Heit and the
local newspapermen. So much so that the latter in particular were
sending from Bridgeburg vivid, if somewhat distorted, descriptions
of Clyde, his silence, his moodiness, and his hard-heartedness.
And then a particularly romantic young reporter from The Star, of
Utica arriving at the home of the Aldens, there was immediately
given to the world a fairly accurate picture of the weary and
defeated Mrs. Alden, who, too exhausted to protest or complain,
merely contented herself with a sincere and graphic picture of
Roberta's devotion to her parents, her simple ways of living, her
modesty, morality, religious devotion--how once the local pastor of
the Methodist Church had said that she was the brightest and
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