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The Country Gentleman, 1 August 1925, with "Dead Beets"
"Craig Kennedy on the Farm,
Harper & Brothers, New York, 1925
"KENNEDY, this Rowland case is the most preposterous case I have ever had."
We were standing on the stairs in the Riverhead jail with Nathan Briggs, a classmate at college, who had gone into law and made a great success of Briggs & Bartlett, real-estate lawyers in Suffolk County. The deputy warden came up behind us.
"The only thing like it that I can think of is the old story of the debtor. His attorney says, 'Why, they can't put you in jail for debt!' 'But man,' says the debtor, 'I am in jail!'"
The deputy moved a little disk on the wall, about three inches in diameter. I thought it must be some small new engine of the law. But he applied his eye to it, then let the disk slide back, and turned to the steel door in the thick masonry wall to unlock it.
"We're rather proud yet of our county jail, Mr. Kennedy," he nodded. "It was a model when it was built. They still come to visit it from all over the state and copy it."
Kennedy had moved the disk also and applied his eye to what I now realized was a peephole through which the prisoners could be watched without their knowing it.
"Who is she?" Kennedy turned quickly to Briggs.
I stepped up and also peered through the half-inch peephole. Down a long outside corridor of bars a few feet in from the light and airy windows, I caught sight of a vision in blue, slender and graceful as a young willow sapling, her radiant beauty softened by her evident appreciation of the predicament of the man standing on the other side of the bars in the inner cell corridor. The man had those steely blue eyes, earnest, flashing with his keen effort to reassure her that all would be right in a short time
"That's Adele Miller," replied Briggs, "the artist I was telling you about, from over Mirage Lakes way—the one who gave me a retainer and guaranteed I would be paid my fee."
The deputy paused at the lock. "Some gal!" Then he shot the bolt.
We entered.
At the first clank of the steel door, John Rowland had pulled his arm in through the bars. There was just a trace of a flush on the face of Adele as we approached. They were evidently not as strict on visitors' day with this prisoner as with some others.
"Hello, Briggs," greeted the prisoner. "Anything new?"
"Well, the grand jury is sitting on your case this afternoon. I've got my friend, Craig Kennedy, to take it up for you if they indict."
"You're splendid!" He looked from Adele to Briggs. "Both of you!"
"Mr. Kennedy would like to hear the story from your own lips," prompted Briggs, with a glance aside at his watch.
JOHN ROWLAND fixed his eyes on Kennedy with a whimsical smile.
"Six dollars and thirty-five cents in the bank," he began, then paused. The tapering fingers of the sunburned hands slid along the cold tungsten steel bars in front of the little cell in the lower tier. "And I gave Orville Smith a check for two—hundred—thousand!"
"But that check was never presented."
A musical voice, startlingly out of place in the stark barrenness of the jail, interrupted.
John Rowland's face lighted with a smile, and I realized from the expression on it what Adele Miller meant to him.
"Miss Miller," hastened Briggs, "let me present Mr. Kennedy and Mr. Jameson."
Adele acknowledged the introduction and turned to Rowland. "The check has not been presented, John," she emphasized.
"No, of course not," he agreed, "and it's not that that Orville Smith used to land me here either." He looked around at the ivory-painted walls, down at the gray cement floor, back at the bare cell, its door open into the inner corridor. Then he smiled a forced smile. Could this be the John Knox Rowland, once known on Wall Street as a copper king, who had gone broke only six months ago? "You know this Orville Smith deal would be funny—if I was only on your aide of those bars!"
"Orville Smith, Jr.?" inquired Kennedy quickly. "I've heard the old man was the largest owner of undeveloped real estate on the east end of the Island."
"Yes; you see, young Orville was winding up his father's estate. He came to me. Here was his proposition: 'I've got a mortgage on two thousand acres of this so-called worthless land down in the center of the island. I can't sell it. Nobody'll buy it. Worse than that I can't sell the really valuable farm tracts up on the shore of Peconic except at a sacrifice. They seem to think I'm too young; think they can force my price down.
"'Now, Rowland, they know you're hard-boiled. Give me your check for $200,000—a hundred an acre.'
"'But,' I told him, "I haven't 200,000 mills in the bank, let alone dollars. You know I'm broke, have nothing but ten acres of my own of that useless land!'
"'Oh, that's all right,' he says. 'I know that. But give me the check. I won't present it. I agree to that. I just want to flash it about, make a certain buyer realize I can sell land, even that land. I'll give you an assignment of the mortgage to carry out the bluff. That's as good as a deed in this case. Only, you understand, you are not to record it. You see the game?'
"Well, sir, I gave him a check that was not to be presented for an assignment of a mortgage that was not to be recorded." Rowland smiled at the Orville scheme of lifting oneself by paper bootstraps.
"But," considered Kennedy, " I still don't see how they could put you in jail. The check wasn't presented. Miss Miller says."
JOHN ROWLAND smiled again. His was an infectious sense of humor, even in jail. "Ah, but you see it was this way, Kennedy. I was staying at the Bedford Inn, run by Jethro Jones. I didn't have a shack on that ten acres of mine, nor a tent, even. Well, a couple of nights after I took the assignment, it was stolen from my bag in my room while I was out visiting. When Orville wanted the assignment back I couldn't give it!"
"So," cut in Briggs, "Orville holds Rowland on larceny. Yes see the scheme worked. The other buyer, this McOwen from the city that you'll hear about, said it was that middle island land he really wanted, not the tract on Peconic he had been talking about. Orville Smith has Rowland taken up tor larceny of a piece of worthless paper! They exchanged worthless pieces of paper for worthless land—and suddenly one of these worthless pieces of paper becomes priceless to Orville. Don't you get the humor of the thing?" The lawyer laughed.
"Well, I don't think it's funny," objected Adele seriously. "It may be funny to some people—but it's just plain jail to John!"
Briggs bowed apologetically toward Adele, acknowledging her correction. "Personally," he added, "I think it's a question just what measure of damage there might be to Orville Smith for the loss by this man of a worthless paper anyhow. He say McOwen knew of its existence; he had told him. McOwen says that as long as the assignment of mortgage is out it is a cloud on the title. Orville must get it and destroy it."
"BUT what was his idea in holding Rowland?" I asked, puzzled. "What could he recover?"
"Why, I think Orville has the theory that Jethro Jones, as innkeeper, is liable to me," spoke up Rowland quickly, "and that he can get Jethro through me; that, if I am forced, I can hold Jones, make Jones find out who stole that paper, and get it back." Rowland paused. "He can't get away with a suit on that check. He knows I can show he took it knowing it was no good; in fact, can prove he asked for it himself."
"It is an odd situation indeed, agreed Craig thoughtfully. "As you say, Briggs, preposterous."
"But John's in jail!" Adele tried impatiently to rattle the solid bars with her little hands. "Please get him out!"
Rather a tough proposition for a jail delivery, I thought, if that was in her mind. This lower floor of cells was beneath the upper tiers. In these lower cells were confined only those held for the grand jury, or awaiting trial, or those awaiting sentence. These tungsten-steel bars would dull saws. Oxyacetylene blowpipes and thermite were not precisely feasible.
I looked it Rowland's cell—only a metal cot suspended from the wall, a lavatory and a chair—not exactly home-like and charming. It was too clean, too bare. There was a dearth of that detail that makes environment bearable, except for one thing, his personal belongings about the cell.
Someone had sent him a bunch of wild flowers. I could imagine who that was. To a woman a jail is about as attractive as a pest house. But on his cot I saw scattered about many magazines and pamphlets. My curiosity was aroused and I strained my eyes to see what they were, what manner of man this was.
There were some farm journals, seed catalogues, a brochure issued by the state agricultural school, pamphlets on soil and farming from Washington. Irrelevantly I asked about this unusual literature.
"I suppose you know about the new experiments at the Bedford station in beet-sugar culture out here?" He shot a quick glance at us. Kennedy shook his head.
"Tell them, John." Adele was eager.
"Well, it's a rotation method, three years: the first year a crop to prepare the soil; the next year cattle grazing to finish getting it into condition; then the third year the sugar beet. You see, I've been studying up on it, wondering what to do with my ten acres. It's the only thing my creditors didn't take—probably because they didn't think it was worth anything. But——" He paused.
"Mr. Kennedy," Rowland went on, with the fire of the old promoter now in his eyes, "I know that out there in that worthless country as they call it this side of Yaphank, a fortune awaits some man with enough enterprise, with capital, and with the ability to get labor. For the waste land there could feed the world with sugar!"
ROWLAND had lowered his voice, and Adele was listening, fascinated by the man. "Sounds like crazy talk from a man whose capital was only six dollars and thirty-five cents... and a measly ten acres. But it's true. I may have on]y ten acres and no money—but I have a million-dollar ambition. I suppose you think I am still just a plain dead-beat!"
He turned to Adele Miller. "I'm not taking this jail seriously, Adele. They charge me with larceny of something that wasn't worth a snap of the fingers. I haven't got it, and if anybody has it, they can't use it any more than I could have done —unless I had two hundred thousand in the bank."
Adele Miller was watching Kennedy eagerly to see whether the predicament of John Rowland was exciting his sympathy. She was about to speak.
"Miss Miller?" It was a court officer who had entered.
"Yes?" She turned.
"They're waiting to take your testimony before the grand jury."
JOHN ROWLAND'S face fell. He saw Kennedy notice it. "All my old friends have gone. I'm forgotten down on Wall Street, I guess. I've only one real friendship left. She hangs on. I don't know why, since success has come to her... And now they cut short this visit!"
Adele Miller smiled aside at Kennedy. "John forgets how kind he was to a little artist struggling along to make a living when he was prosperous and rich in the palmy days. John often took me to dinner. Those dinners might have been amusement to him; they were necessities to me. One remembers such things."
She put her hand through the bars and patted his shoulder. "I'd rather stay here with you, John; get you talking on beets... But if I can help you before the grand jury, I want to do that too."
We started down the stairs and out into the wide alley that led around in front to the courthouse entrance.
"What does she do?" asked Kennedy of Briggs as Adele went ahead with the uniformed court officer.
"A very successful artist. Hit on a decidedly original idea. Makes unique posters. Uses patchwork and paint to put an idea over. All the classy advertisers are hunting her up with big orders. At first she made the posters herself, but now she has a studio that's almost like a factory. They're her ideas; she superintends the work; she's the brains."
"She lives out here? Where's this factory?"
"In the city. Yes, she has a little bungalow. Some people call the place Mirage Lakes, others Artists' Lakes. There's quite a colony of artists summer there."
Adele Miller intrigued me from the moment I had seen her through the peephole. I could see that she intrigued Kennedy too. She was the kind of girl who sees like a man, talks with the practicality and terseness of a man. But when she looked at John Rowland I knew she loved as only a woman can love; a strange combination of gentleness and art mixed with business ability.
Adele was a beautiful woman. She was probably twenty-five years old. Struggle and accomplishment had matured her. But she had lost none of her vivacity and charm. She was good to look at, and as we entered the courthouse I could see that everybody was looking.
The crown of her little close-fitting hat came just below Craig's shoulder. When she raised her head, as she was compelled to do to talk to him or to Briggs, I could see the brown curls framing her face as they escaped riotously from under the modish tight hat-band. Her eyes were blue, scintillating and sparkling with fun and energy. Her small, firm chin gave character to her face. She was a real woman.
In the hall as we mounted the steps toward the grand jury-room we found the miscellaneous crowd of witnesses and those of a curious nature. There were many more men than women, and Adele attracted much attention, which she did not notice.
"There's Orville Smith now," she whispered. "He's the man that caused all this mix-up. How he ever got John into such a foolish thing I can't see. I suppose that to John life is just a game. I'm sure it was just the sporting joke of the thing that got John to do it."
ORVILLE SMITH was standing down toward the surrogate's office looking things over, watching and waiting for the action of the jury. He was not unprepossessing; in fact, had a rather handsome face.
Nothing disturbed Adele's poise. Calmly, as we passed, she nodded to the very man who was responsible for putting Rowland behind the bars. "Everybody seems to be here, Mr. Smith," she smiled.
Orville Smith smiled back in a constrained manner. It was not exactly comfortable to meet the sweetheart of the man whom he was hoping the grand jury would indict. Adele seemed to take an impish delight in introducing us; then, the moment Orville was becoming interested in finding what it was all about, in cutting it short.
She was standing on her toes looking over the heads of people so as to miss no one. "Look who's coming now—Jethro Jones. Don't you want to meet him? He's the man who keeps the roadhouse where John stayed."
Personally I had formed an opinion that Jethro Jones, proprietor of the Bedford Inn, knew more than he was telling about that missing paper. Had he not had plenty of time to search thoroughly the baggage of Rowland while Rowland was away? It was only an instant when Adele had whisked us away from the perplexed Orville Smith.
In the days before prohibition I had heard of the old Bedford Inn and of its proprietor.
Then few frequented the inn, and the living Jethro Jones made out of it was precarious. Still he hung on because he had been trained to nothing else. Bedford was off the much-traveled highway and business was poor. Now that once damaging location for an inn was an asset. The very fact that it was away from traffic made business boom. It was one of those hotels that seemed more prosperous in the dry days than before.
I didn't like Jethro Jones at first sight, and I didn't think Adele very enthusiastic over him either.
I noticed Kennedy touch Adele's arm. "Do you know her, Miss Miller?"
ADELE turned quickly. A girl was coming from the grand-jury room.
"Know her? I'll say I do." She dropped her voice into a whisper. "That's Vilda Speare. She's the friend of the man that really wants to buy that land from Orville Smith—this McOwen."
She caught Vilda's eye as she passed. "Good afternoon, Vilda."
Vilda had been superbly unaware of our presence. That did not ruffle or deter Adele; in fact, she seemed to enjoy it.
"Well, Vilda, were you able to give them any idea where that mortgage assignment is?"
Vilda drew herself to her full height, studied Adele from under half-closed lids. "Should I have told them that I think you took it?" she retorted.
"Why?" came back Adele as her quick woman's wit came to the rescue. "Was it gone when you searched his room to find it, do you mean?"
Vilda shot a scornful look at Adele, then turned down the hall.
A moment later a man brushed past us, stopped a moment or so, looking about as if searching for someone.
"There's McOwen," nodded Adele as he disappeared in the direction of Vilda. "They're together a great deal."
"Who is she?" asked Craig, turning to Briggs and Adele.
"Not much," murmured Adele audibly.
Briggs smiled. "A singer. I believe she's been on the stage in some musical show, but not for about a year. She's one of the colony down at the Lakes, isn't she?"
Adele shrugged. "In it—not of it. Just a bit—well—"
She broke off as she saw them together, McOwen portly and puffy under the eyes, with a couple of rolls on the back of the neck and a strained look about the buttons his waistcoat.
The officer in brass buttons pointed Adele out to one of the assistant district attorneys. She left us, knowing that it was her turn to appear before the twenty-three inquisitors inside.
IT was then that I noticed how inspiring was that girl's mere presence. The moment she left, things seemed dull and flat, the people seemed so ordinary now, as we waited about until Adele came out again.
"It wasn't so dreadful." Adele came at last from the swinging door with a look on her face as if greatly relieved.
"What did they ask?" inquired Kennedy.
"Mostly about the night of the robbery."
"What did you tell them?" pursued Kennedy.
"The truth. John came to see me the night his room was ransacked and the paper stolen."
"Were you with him all the time?"
"That's one of the questions a juror asked. No, I wasn't. I was driving out from my studio in the city; didn't get in until he had been there some time."
"Well, how do you know he was there at the time of the robbery?"
She smiled. "My maid Hattie was home, of course. She told me when I came what paper and book he read while he waited. It was during that time that they have fixed the robbery. He tells me nearly everything he owned was disturbed. It was an awful mess to clean up and put things to rights in his room."
I FOLLOWED Kennedy's eyes. He was observing the assistant district attorney in the hall, talking to one of the court officials
"You must have been the last witness." Kennedy nodded toward Adele. "I see the assistant district attorney is calling no more. He is staying out of the room, out here in the hall. The grand jury is deliberating."
A rap on the door from the inside attracted the attention of the door man.
"They have reached a decision!" whispered Kennedy.
A moment later, headed by the foreman, the grand jury filed out and across into the court room.
Suddenly, at a motion from the clerk, everyone in the court room rose. The judge strode majestically in from chambers. It was an impressive moment.
The clerk mumbled something I could not hear. Then the judge spoke to the assistant district attorney. He, in turn, faced about to the foreman. The foreman rose, handed a folded paper to the clerk, who handed it up to the judge.
Slowly the judge unfolded it, read it deliberately. "Gentlemen," he addressed the jury, "I thank you. You are discharged until ten o'clock Wednesday morning."
The judge continued reading the paper as some of the jurors filed out.
"I find handed up to me an indictment of John Rowland for larceny!"
Adele startled. There was a murmur that ran over the room, as of some who whispered, "There! I told you so!"
The judge looked up, and the buzz was quelled.
"I set the date of trial for the twentieth—one week."
Adele looked at Kennedy. Briggs looked it Kennedy. Kennedy rose and tiptoed to the door.
"Now we must get busy!" thrilled Adele as we reached the hall outside. We passed down the stairs and over to a roadster which Adele was driving.
"Well, Miss Miller," reassured Kennedy, "to get him out of jail we must find someone whose interest in that paper is great enough to want him in jail." Kennedy paused. "Who wanted that paper more than John Rowland? Help me find that person and we'll find the real thief."
"You can count on me." Adele slammed the gears in determinedly.
IT was only a moment later that a messenger arrived from the jail hunting us. Rowland had just heard it, was sending for his lawyer and Kennedy.
"There's just one thing I did not tell you fellows," he said in a lowered voice. All Rowland's fighting spirit was now up. "I'm glad you're alone, that Adele isn't here. I have heard there was a woman seen hanging about my room that night of the robbery. I didn't want to tell you before Adele. She mightn't understand, she might think where there was smoke there was fire."
"Where did you hear this?"
"A chambermaid at the inn told me; said she didn't recognize the woman. But maybe there was a woman mixed up in it, a woman who took the paper."
Briggs was smiling skeptically. "Or maybe it was Jethro Jones himself back of it. Your informant may have been working for her employer all the time, to lift suspicion. Perhaps he is already worrying about his own liability as landlord. I shall subpoena them both."
IT was late and the warden hinted at an end of our conference, at least for the night. Outside we parted from Briggs also. We were just about leaving the jail for our own car when I caught a shot of Vilda and McOwen in a sport car nosing up the street. Casually we followed at a safe distance.
It was not much that we could see from the far end of the railroad platform to which Vilda pulled up. The late afternoon train to the city was made up and waiting. McOwen jumped out, spoke a few words, hopped aboard just as the signal was given to start.
Hardly had Vilda ceased waving good-by from behind her wheel to the rather florid face behind the coach window, than from the far end of the platform Jethro Jones sauntered. He quickened his pace as he saw her about to back out and leave.
From our distance we could, of course, hear nothing. But Jethro Jones seemed anxious. Vilda was quite self-possessed. The upshot was that they drove their cars down the street to the old Griffin House, where they had dinner.
Kennedy and I waited outside in the dusk, on the low porch in the armchairs, but after dinner the best we got for our efforts was to see them emerge and separate, each going in the opposite direction in their cars.
However, in the dusk, just as Vilda was getting into her car and before Jethro Jones had climbed into his, we did overhear one remark from Vilda. "I don't see why you should worry unless they try to hold you liable. I'm not worrying myself."
"Just as I told Adele," remarked Kennedy after a long silence, "the first question is: Who had an interest in obtaining that assignment of mortgage? There's nothing for us to do, Walter, but separate—follow each of two lines. You stay out here and watch Jethro Jones and Vilda. I am going into the city to get a line on that bird, McOwen."
SO it was that next morning found me driving alone through miles of uninteresting scrub oaks and scrub pines.
The Bedford Inn looked like the country, an unattractive, old-fashioned provincial hotel, not old enough to be interesting, not new enough to be nice. Evidently every new arrival was watched. It could not be otherwise in the daylight. Before I had parked the car I saw the proprietor ambling over to greet me.
"It's a remarkable case," I explained. "I'm getting the facts for my paper, the Star."
Jethro Jones looked at me sharply. "Sure you ain't got no other reasons?"
"No, Mr. Jones," I hastened. "Not for me. I don't know enough of the case. I've heard there was a woman in it," I hazarded.
"Humph! Generally is where there's a good-looking chap like this Rowland." It was given in a surly, insinuating tone.
"No, I mean that there's a woman not friendly with Rowland."
"Say, young fellow, just because I lives here and keeps an inn and've made a bit o' money speculating lately, it sets all the country tongues a-wagging. I got an alibi, all right. And no skirt is going to put anything over on me neither. I s'pose you mean that Vilda, Vilda Speare, eh?"
I nodded. I was drawing a bow at a venture. "Yes, I hear she was out here at the inn that night of the robbery."
"Yeh? You do?" He eyed me squarely. I did not bat an eyelash.
"Yeh?" he repeated. I nodded aggressively. He turned, led the way inside to where once had been and still was a bar. It was deserted.
"Now, young fellow, I'll tell you 'bout that Vilda Speare. She did come out to the place the night of the robbery to see me; wanted to see Rowland too. He wasn't in. She just hung about. She was looking over everything, every window, every porch, flattering an old guy like me that she wanted to build a charming little place, so quaint, just like this. I don't fall for it, see? I said, 'Good-night. Come again.' Well, she did. Fifteen minutes later she was back. I got rid of her again. And an hour later one of my best customers from over in Port comes in and tells me he sees her up the road talking to a fellow in a roadster."
"Who was that?" I asked abruptly.
"Well, now, ain't you the inquisitive one? How d'you s'pose I could tell who it was when I wasn't there? You can draw your own conclusions. I'm only telling you what they tell me, see? That must have been after the time John Rowland's room was robbed. I didn't even know then that it had been robbed."
There was nothing further to be gained by questioning old Jethro Jones. There wasn't much news in what he had told.
Taking old Jethro for what he was worth, I turned the car northward over country lanes toward Artists' Lakes.
I didn't find Vilda herself, but I did locate the very pretty bungalow of Adele without any trouble. I made friends with the maid, Hattie, and it wasn't long before I knew that in that colored maid Adele had one faithful soul. Vilda had been there earlier in the day, on a common enough, but despicable, errand; namely to entice one woman's maid away from her by offer of higher wages and easier hours. Hattie had stuck by Adele.
Now, I thought, I began to see through it. If Vilda could steal Hattie, the cook, it might prove serious indeed for Rowland, for, if Hattie withdrew or changed her testimony as to his whereabouts at the alleged time of the robbery, it might be difficult for Rowland to establish the robbery at all.
IT was with anxiety that I awaited Craig's return on a late train to Riverhead from the city. He came back apparently well pleased with his day's work.
"What do you suppose I found in town today?" he asked over dinner in the deserted dining room. I shrugged.
"McOwen represents the Sugar Corporation!"
I knew that it was important, yet my mind was not quick enough to figure out just how.
"How do you know?" I temporized.
Kennedy smiled. "From the telephone book, the directory and other sources. I looked up every Bernard McOwen in the city, every residence address, every business address. McOwen is either in or represents many things in corporation life. I gather that he is what you might call a fixer. I spent a good deal of time down in Wall Street and lower Broadway. You can imagine my surprise at the last address to find McOwen's name on the door under that of Joshua Rogers. Joshua Rogers is one of the most important attorneys for the Sugar Corporation. That shows only one thing. He is either working directly for the Sugar Corporation or very intimate in business with one who stands high with it. What do you make of that?"
"Very interesting. But why would they want all that land out in the middle of the island? I don't get it."
"Don't get it? Why would the Sugar Corporation want that land? Don't you suppose their chemists and agriculturists know all about this beet-sugar scheme that Rowland was telling us, and the land on Long Island? Of course they do—maybe more than Rowland knows. Why, it would hurt them badly if it ever went over big. If you can raise enough sugar in the middle of Long Island on those waste lands to feed the world, it's hardly likely they're going to sit idle and see competition built up that will ruin their business now, is it?"
I nodded, understanding.
"If they can tie up any sale of such property they'll do it, even if they have to buy it, eh?"
"Much easier if they merely have try to steal a worthless assignment of a mortgage," I supplied. "That puts a different light on McOwen's real estate activity. It wouldn't surprise me if he had both Vilda and Jethro Jones working for him now."
"Whom do you think I saw at the City Bank?" Kennedy asked presently. "Adele Miller. I was making some inquiries about Rowland. He used to bank there. They have a splendid information service to which I have access."
"Was she surprised?"
"Neither astonished nor surprised," corrected Craig. "You see, I ran into her leaving the private office of one of the vice presidents. She banks there, you know. She's a real business woman as well as an artist. We had a chat. I found out a great deal about herself and some facts that put Rowland in a still better light with me."
THE day of the trial came at last. Adele and Briggs were waiting for us near the court-room door.
Already the court room was nearly filled. I could see Jethro Jones, Vilda Speare, Orville Smith and Barney McOwen in front seats.
Both sides were ready and the picking of the jurors proceeded. It was done quickly, but it consumed a great part of the morning before twelve of Rowland peers were seated in the box to the left of the judge.
"Orville Smith."
Orville Smith was duly sworn in and the district attorney proceeded to bring out his story and establish the crime. There was nothing new developed in his questioning. He seemed nervous, to realize that it did not place him in precisely a pleasing or dignified position.
Briggs contented himself with just two main questions in his cross-examination. "You have testified, Mr. Smith, that the defendant would not give you back the mortgage assignment on demand. What reason did he offer?"
Orville hesitated. "He said it had been stolen from him."
"I see. Why have you not presented the check for payment?"
"Because I knew I couldn't cash or deposit it."
"That will do."
There was a murmur. Briggs was passing up a fine opening. The murmur was lost in the calling of Barney McOwen by the county.
Barney McOwen rose jauntily, two hundred and twenty pounds of jauntiness, and took the stand. Hashing over the facts, it came to the fact that McOwen would not buy the land with the mortgage undestroyed.
"Just what in your opinion, may I ask," demanded Briggs on cross-examination, "is the value of this worthless paper just now to Mr. Smith?"
"Exactly two hundred thousand dollars!" snapped McOwen.
"That will do."
I was watching the jury. They seemed impressed by the case for the county as court adjourned for lunch.
THE defense opened the afternoon session.
"Adele Miller."
The very name of the girl seemed to electrify the air. Adele was beautiful this afternoon, in her simple but modish tan and brown. A sunbeam seemed to shine about her as if seeking to show more strikingly the beauty of the girl who had defended John Rowland.
In a low, bell-like voice she testified she had known the defendant three years, that for weeks past he had been a constant visitor.
"Was he at your bungalow the night of the seventh?"
"He was. He came at seven-thirty and left at eleven."
"You are aware what happened the night of the seventh?" cross-examined the district attorney when Adele was turned over to him.
"It was the night of the robbery, yes."
"Were you home all the evening?"
"No."
"When did you arrive?"
"About nine-thirty."
"That will do." The district attorney smiled knowingly as he glanced over at Hattie, the negro cook.
Briggs called Jethro Jones next. Jethro frowned as he was called. It was evident he was a very reluctant witness on either side.
"When did you hear first about the robbery, Mr. Jones?"
Jethro cleared his throat. "When Rowland came out of his room; running down the stairs like a crazy man."
"What time was that?"
"Shortly after twelve."
"Did you enter the room?"
"I certainly did."
"How did it look?"
"Like the German advance through Belgium—like the devil struck it!"
Biggs lowered his voice. "Mr. Jones, was there anybody about the hotel during the evening, before—a woman?"
"Yes." It was dragged out. Jones was avoiding looking at Vilda Speare. Instead he looked blankly at Adele.
"Who?"
Jones hesitated and the judge ordered him to answer.
"Vilda Speare."
There was a murmur in court. The district attorney smiled knowingly as he passed up cross-examining Jethro Jones for the present.
"Vilda Speare." Briggs was calling her out The room was tense. Everyone was thinking: "Now for the fireworks!"
Defiantly Vilda came forward. She was a bold, beautiful witness. Her lips had been rouged a brilliant red. I found myself watching intently the play of the saucy, excessively rosebud quality of those lips.
Briggs looked at her carefully and she smiled keenly back.
"It has been testified that you were at the Bedford Inn the night of the robbery. Were you?"
"I was." Defiant still.
Briggs leaned forward. "Did you or did you not enter the room of John Rowland on that night?"
The same defiant smile. "I was in it.... But I didn't get in soon enough."
It came as a shock. Vilda was laughing openly. There was a gasp of murmurs in court. It was unexpected. The judge rapped.
"Someone had been there before me. You know if two people clean out a room for a man, there isn't much left!"
An audible laugh followed. The judge rapped again.
"You admit you entered Rowland's room unlawfully?"
"I entered it. The unlawful part I don't admit. I was looking for that assignment. But that man was too clever for me. Everything had been ransacked before I got there. It was a beautifully planned robbery. He has that paper!"
"Stop!"
A shrill voice interrupted before even Briggs could object.
"He hasn't that paper, judge, because I took it myself!"
THE court room momentarily forgot silence and dignity. It was Adele, risen next me, eyes flashing. I was astounded to see Kennedy slipping quietly from the other side of me out of the door.
"Your Honor, may I as a friend of the court tell what I know?"
If was evident Adele had the court with her. The judge nodded, dismissing Vilda and summoning Adele. John Rowland's face showed every evidence of consternation. Adele! Of all people!
Adele's cheeks were glowing with the color that comes from natural combat.
"Your Honor, I learned from the gossip of the artists' colony-why Barney McOwen was here—why Vilda Speare was here. I knew because John Rowland confided in me his wonderful dreams of an Independent Beet Sugar, as he called it. I knew that John Rowland was too proud to let me help him up again on the ladder of success. I knew if 'twere done, 'twere best done quickly!
"I took that assignment just before Vilda Speare searched for it. I didn't know it was going to put John Rowland into jail. But since then I have been hiding it. I have been holding it. I knew it was John's only chance."
The judge was severe in his question.
"But, Your Honor," she hastened, "I have only held it until with the help of Mr. Kennedy and some of John's former friends, real friends, in Wall Street, there was money in the Riverhead Bank to meet that check!"
The judge hesitated a moment, puzzled. Adele swept right ahead.
"If Mr. Orville Smith will present that check this instant up the street, it will be honored!"
ORVILLE SMITH looked at the district attorney; the district attorney looked at Briggs; Briggs looked at the judge.
"You testified you had never presented it," the judge cut the Gordian knot. "Present it!"
Court was adjourned as a messenger accompanied Smith out to the bank. But there was no adjournment of excitement. Rather it mounted more tensely.
Orville Smith and the messenger returned. The messenger handed up the check to the judge. The check was now certified!
Prom the bench back of me came a sneering laugh as someone rose.
"Your Honor, if I may! The assignment is still worthless paper—just a scrap of paper from one dead-beat to another!"
Adele turned, smiled quietly back at McOwen, then glanced at the door. I saw Kennedy standing there, waving something in his hand.
"Your Honor, if I may not be in contempt of court, I have recorded this assignment right here in the courthouse at the same time that Mr. Orville Smith and the messenger were certifying the check. It is a valid transaction. There is no crime committed by this defendant!"
"Dead-beats!" Adele had turned sharply upon the puffy McOwen. "John Rowland, all of us in Independent Beet are going to be millionaires. Thank you so much! It's Barney McOwen that's off his beat!"
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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