An American Tragedy (118 page)

“I don’t know whether I did or not,” replied Clyde, catching a glance from Jephson.

“Well, roughly. You must know whether it was coarse or fine—silky or coarse. You know that, don’t you?”

“It was silky, yes.”

“Well, here’s a lock of it,” he now added more to torture Clyde than anything else—to wear him down nervously—and going to his table where was an envelope and from it extracting a long lock of light brown hair. “Don’t that look like her hair?” And now he shoved it forward at Clyde who shocked and troubled withdrew from it as from some unclean or dangerous thing—yet a moment after sought to recover himself—the watchful eyes of the jury having noted all. “Oh, don’t be afraid,” persisted Mason, sardonically. “It’s only your dead love’s hair.”

And shocked by the comment—and noting the curious eyes of the jury, Clyde took it in his hand. “That looks and feels like her hair, doesn’t it?” went on Mason.

“Well, it looks like it anyhow,” returned Clyde shakily.

“And now here,” continued Mason, stepping quickly to the table and returning with the camera in which between the lid and the taking mechanism were caught the two threads of Roberta’s hair put there by Burleigh, and then holding it out to him. “Just take this camera. It’s yours even though you did swear that it wasn’t—and look at those two hairs there. See them?” And he poked the camera at Clyde as though he might strike him with it. “They were caught in there—presumably—at the time you struck her so lightly that it made all those wounds on her face. Can’t you tell the jury whether those hairs are hers or not?”

“I can’t say,” replied Clyde most weakly.

“What’s that? Speak up. Don’t be so much of a moral and mental coward. Are they or are they not?”

“I can’t say,” repeated Clyde—but not even looking at them.

“Look at them. Look at them. Compare them with these others. We know these are hers. And you know that these in this camera are, don’t you? Don’t be so squeamish. You’ve often touched her hair in real life. She’s dead. They won’t bite you. And these two hairs—or are they not—the same as these other hairs here—which we know are hers—the same color—same feel—all? Look! Answer! Are they or are they not?”

But Clyde, under such pressure and in spite of Belknap, being compelled to look and then feel them too. Yet cautiously replying, “I wouldn’t be able to say. They look and feel a little alike, but I can’t tell.”

“Oh, can’t you? And even when you know that when you struck her that brutal vicious blow with that camera—these two hairs caught there and held.”

“But I didn’t strike her any vicious blow,” insisted Clyde, now observing Jephson—“and I can’t say.” He was saying to himself that he would not allow himself to be bullied in this way by this man—yet, at the same time, feeling very weak and sick. And Mason, triumphant because of the psychologic effect, if nothing more, returning the camera and lock to the table and remarking, “Well, it’s been amply testified to that those two hairs were in that camera when found in the water. And you yourself swear that it was last in your hands before it reached the water.”

He turned to think of something else—some new point with which to rack Clyde and now began once more:

“Griffiths, in regard to that trip south through the woods, what time was it when you got to Three Mile Bay?”

“About four in the morning, I think—just before dawn.”

“And what did you do between then and the time that boat down there left?”

“Oh, I walked around.”

“In Three Mile Bay?”

“No, sir—just outside of it.”

“In the woods, I suppose, waiting for the town to wake up so you wouldn’t look so much out of place. Was that it?”

“Well, I waited until after the sun came up. Besides I was tired and I sat down and rested for a while.”

“Did you sleep well and did you have pleasant dreams?”

“I was tired and I slept a little—yes.”

“And how was it you knew so much about the boat and the time and all about Three Mile Bay? Hadn’t you familiarized yourself with this data beforehand?”

“Well, everybody knows about the boat from Sharon to Three Mile Bay around there.”

“Oh, do they? Any other reason?”

“Well, in looking for a place to get married, both of us saw it,” returned Clyde, shrewdly, “but we didn’t see that any train went to it. Only to Sharon.”

“But you did notice that it was south of Big Bittern?”

“Why, yes—I guess I did,” replied Clyde.

“And that that road west of Gun Lodge led south toward it around the lower edge of Big Bittern?”

“Well, I noticed after I got up there that there was a road of some kind or a trail anyhow—but I didn’t think of it as a regular road.”

“I see. How was it then that when you met those three men in the woods you were able to ask them how far it was to Three Mile Bay?”

“I didn’t ask ’em that,” replied Clyde, as he had been instructed by Jephson to say. “I asked ’em if they knew any road to Three Mile Bay, and how far it was. I didn’t know whether that was the road or not.”

“Well, that wasn’t how they testified here.”

“Well, I don’t care what they testified to, that’s what I asked ’em just the same.”

“It seems to me that according to you all the witnesses are liars and you are the only truthful one in the bunch. . . . Isn’t that it? But, when you reached Three Mile Bay, did you stop to eat? You must have been hungry, weren’t you?”

“No, I wasn’t hungry,” replied Clyde, simply.

“You wanted to get away from that place as quickly as possible, wasn’t that it? You were afraid that those three men might go up to Big Bittern and having heard about Miss Alden, tell about having seen you—wasn’t that it?”

“No, that wasn’t it. But I didn’t want to stay around there. I’ve said why.”

“I see. But after you got down to Sharon where you felt a little more safe—a little further away, you didn’t lose any time in eating, did you? It tasted pretty good all right down there, didn’t it?”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. I had a cup of coffee and a sandwich.”

“And a piece of pie, too, as we’ve already proved here,” added Mason. “And after that you joined the crowd coming up from the depot as though you had just come up from Albany, as you afterwards told everybody. Wasn’t that it?”

“Yes, that was it.”

“Well, now for a really innocent man who only so recently experienced a kindly change of heart, don’t you think you were taking an awful lot of precaution? Hiding away like that and waiting in the dark and pretending that you had just come up from Albany.”

“I’ve explained all that,” persisted Clyde.

Mason’s next tack was to hold Clyde up to shame for having been willing, in the face of all she had done for him, to register Roberta in three different hotel registers as the unhallowed consort of presumably three different men in three different ways.

“Why didn’t you take separate rooms?”

“Well, she didn’t want it that way. She wanted to be with me. Besides I didn’t have any too much money.”

“Even so, how could you have so little respect for her there, and then be so deeply concerned about her reputation after she was dead that you had to run away and keep the secret of her death all to yourself, in order, as you say, to protect her name and reputation?”

“Your Honor,” interjected Belknap, “this isn’t a question. It’s an oration.”

“I withdraw the question,” countered Mason, and then went on. “Do you admit, by the way, that you are a mental and moral coward, Griffiths—do you?”

“No, sir. I don’t.”

“You do not?”

“No, sir.”

“Then when you lie, and swear to it, you are just the same as any other person who is not a mental and moral coward, and deserving of all the contempt and punishment due a person who is a perjurer and a false witness. Is that correct?”

“Yes, sir. I suppose so.”

“Well, if you are not a mental and moral coward, how can you justify your leaving that girl in that lake—after as you say you accidentally struck her and when you knew how her parents would soon be suffering because of her loss—and not say one word to anybody—just walk off—and hide the tripod and your suit and sneak away like an ordinary murderer? Wouldn’t you think that that was the conduct of a man who had plotted and executed murder and was trying to get away with it—if you had heard of it about some one else? Or would you think it was just the sly, crooked trick of a man who was only a mental and moral coward and who was trying to get away from the blame for the accidental death of a girl whom he had seduced and news of which might interfere with his prosperity? Which?”

“Well, I didn’t kill her, just the same,” insisted Clyde.

“Answer the question!” thundered Mason.

“I ask the court to instruct the witness that he need not answer such a question,” put in Jephson, rising and fixing first Clyde and then Oberwaltzer with his eye. “It is purely an argumentative one and has no real bearing on the facts in this case.”

“I so instruct,” replied Oberwaltzer. “The witness need not answer.” Whereupon Clyde merely stared, greatly heartened by this unexpected aid.

“Well, to go on,” proceeded Mason, now more nettled and annoyed than ever by this watchful effort on the part of Belknap and Jephson to break the force and significance of his each and every attack, and all the more determined not to be outdone—“you say you didn’t intend to marry her if you could help it, before you went up there?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That she wanted you to but you hadn’t made up your mind?”

“Yes.”

“Well, do you recall the cook-book and the salt and pepper shakers and the spoons and knives and so on that she put in her bag?”

“Yes, sir. I do.”

“What do you suppose she had in mind when she left Biltz—with those things in her trunk—that she was going out to live in some hall bedroom somewhere, unmarried, while you came to see her once a week or once a month?”

Before Belknap could object, Clyde shot back the proper answer.

“I can’t say what she had in her mind about that.”

“You couldn’t possibly have told her over the telephone there at Biltz, for instance—after she wrote you that if you didn’t come for her she was coming to Lycurgus—that you would marry her?”

“No, sir—I didn’t.”

“You weren’t mental and moral coward enough to be bullied into anything like that, were you?”

“I never said I was a mental and moral coward.”

“But you weren’t to be bullied by a girl you had seduced?”

“Well, I couldn’t feel then that I ought to marry her.”

“You didn’t think she’d make as good a match as Miss X?”

“I didn’t think I ought to marry her if I didn’t love her any more.”

“Not even to save her honor—and your own decency?”

“Well, I didn’t think we could be happy together then.”

“That was before your great change of heart, I suppose.”

“It was before we went to Utica, yes.”

“And while you were still so enraptured with Miss X?”

“I was in love with Miss X—yes.”

“Do you recall, in one of those letters to you that you never answered” (and here Mason proceeded to take up and read from one of the first seven letters), “her writing this to you; ‘I feel upset and uncertain about everything although I try not to feel so—now that we have our plan and you are going to come for me as you said.’ Now just what was she referring to there when she wrote—‘now that we have our plan’?”

“I don’t know unless it was that I was coming to get her and take her away somewhere temporarily.”

“Not to marry her, of course.”

“No, I hadn’t said so.”

“But right after that in this same letter she says: ‘On the way up, instead of coming straight home, I decided to stop at Homer to see my sister and brother-in-law, since I am not sure now when I’ll see them again, and I want so much that they shall see me respectable or never at all any more.’ Now just what do you suppose, she meant by that word ‘respectable’? Living somewhere in secret and unmarried and having a child while you sent her a little money, and then coming back maybe and posing as single and innocent or married and her husband dead—or what? Don’t you suppose she saw herself married to you, for a time at least, and the child given a name? That ‘plan’ she mentions couldn’t have contemplated anything less than that, could it?”

“Well, maybe as she saw it it couldn’t,” evaded Clyde. “But I never said I would marry her.”

“Well, well—we’ll let that rest a minute,” went on Mason doggedly. “But now take this,” and here he began reading from the tenth letter: “ ‘It won’t make any difference to you about your coming a few days sooner than you intended, will it, dear? Even if we have got to get along on a little less, I know we can, for the time I will be with you anyhow, probably no more than six or eight months at the most. I agreed to let you go by then, you know, if you want to. I can be very saving and economical. It can’t be any other way now, Clyde, although for your own sake I wish it could.’ What do you suppose all that means—‘saving and economical’—and not letting you go until after eight months? Living in a hall bedroom and you coming to see her once a week? Or hadn’t you really agreed to go away with her and marry her, as she seems to think here?”

“I don’t know unless she thought she could make me, maybe,” replied Clyde, the while various backwoodsmen and farmers and jurors actually sniffed and sneered, so infuriated were they by the phrase “make me” which Clyde had scarcely noticed. “I never agreed to.”

“Unless she could make you. So that was the way you felt about it, was it, Griffiths?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’d swear to that as quick as you would to anything else?”

“Well, I have sworn to it.”

And Mason as well as Belknap and Jephson and Clyde himself now felt the strong public contempt and rage that the majority of those present had for him from the start—now surging and shaking all. It filled the room. Yet before him were all the hours Mason needed in which he could pick and choose at random from the mass of testimony as to just what he would quiz and bedevil and torture Clyde with next. And so now, looking over his notes—arranged fan-wise on the table by Earl Newcomb for his convenience—he now began once more with: