The Oxford Book of American Det (78 page)

The irony of the situation stabbed me: for Poggioli to intend a purely materialistic solution to the situation, and the minister who had besought his aid to hope for a miracle. It really was ironic. Fortunately, no one knew of this inner conflict except me or there would have been a swift outbreak of public indignation. The scientist began his proof:

“Ladies and gentlemen, your minister has recalled to your memory how Mrs. Cordy Cancy forged her husband’s will by tracing each letter of it with a carbon paper from a package of her husband’s old love letters. But he did not mention the fact that after she did this—after she had underscored and overscored these letters and made them the plainest and most conclusive proof of her forgery—she still kept those love letters! She did not destroy them. She put them in a trunk whose key was lost, and kept them in the family living room. Now every man, woman, and I might almost say child, sees clearly what this proves!”

Of course in this he was wrong. He overestimated the intelligence of his audience.

Those nearer to him, who could make themselves heard, yelled for him to go on and explain.

“Further explanation is unnecessary,” assured the psychologist. “If she felt sufficiently sentimental about her husband to preserve his love letters, obviously she did not mean to murder him. Moreover, she must have realised her marked-over letters would constitute absolute proof of the minor crime of forgery. She must have known that if her husband were murdered, her home would be searched and the tell-tale letters would be found. Therefore, she not only did not murder her husband herself but she had no suspicion that he would be murdered. Those letters in her unlocked trunk make it impossible that she should be either the principal or an accessory to his assassination.”

A breath of astonishment went over the crowd at the simplicity of Poggioli’s deduction. Everyone felt that he should have thought of that for himself.

Poggioli made a motion for quiet and indicated that his proof was not concluded.

Quiet returned and the psychologist continued.

“Your minister tells us, and I also read it in the evidence printed in your county paper, that Mrs. Cancy did not hire an attorney to defend her in her trial. She used the entire money to place a new roof on the old Leatherwood church, and she told the court the reason she did this was because God would defend her.” Here shouts arose. “He did! He’s doin’ it now! He’s sent you here to save her!” Poggioli held up a hand and shook his head grimly. This was the point of his whole appearance in the square—the materialistic point by which he hoped to rid these hill people of too great a reliance on providential happenings and place them on the more scientific basis of self-help. He intoned slowly:

“I regret to say, ladies and gentlemen, that my appearance here is pure accident. Why?

Because I have come too late. If a supernal power had sent me here to save an innocent woman—and she is an innocent woman—if a supernal power had sent me, it would certainly have sent me in time. But I am not in time. The trial is over. All the proof is in. We cannot possibly ask a new trial on the ground of a reinterpretation of old proof, which is what I am giving you. That is no ground for a new trial. So this innocent woman who is on her way to the penitentiary must go on and serve out her unjust term. My appearance here today, therefore, can be of no service to anyone and can be attributed to nothing but pure chance.”

At this pitiful negation an uproar arose in the square. Men surged toward the sheriff, yelling for him to turn the woman free or they would do it for him. Cooler heads held back the insurgents and voices shouted out:

“Dr. Poggioli, who did do the murder? You know ever’thing—who done it!” The criminologist wagged a negative hand. “I have no idea.”

“The devil!” cried a thick-set fellow. “Go ahead an’ reason out who killed Jim Cancy—jest like you reasoned out his wife was innocent!”

“I can’t do that. It’s impossible. I haven’t studied the evidence of the murder, merely the evidence that proves non-murder—a completely different thing.”

“Go ahead! Go ahead!” yelled half a dozen voices. “The Lord has he’ped you so fur—

He’ll stan by you!”

It was amusing, in a grim fashion, for the crowd to twist the very materialistic point Poggioli was making into a logical basis for a spiritualistic interpretation. However, I do not think Poggioli was amused. He held up his hands.

“Friends, how could I know anything about this when I stopped over for lunch in this village only one hour ago?”

A dried-up old farmer, whose face had about the colour and texture of one of his own corn shucks, called out, “Somebody shot Jim, didn’t they Dr. Poggioli?”

“Oh, yes, somebody shot him.”

“Well, have you got any idyah of the kind of man who shot Jim Cancy?”

“Oh, certainly. I have a fairly clear idea of the kind of man who murdered Cancy.”

“I allowed you had, Brother, I allowed you had,” nodded the old fellow with satisfaction. “The Lord put it into my heart to ast you exactly that question.” The old fellow turned to the officer, “Shurrf Matheny, has he got time to tell what kind of a fellow murdered Jim before you start with Sister Cordy to the pen?” The officer held up his hand. “I am extendin’ Sister Cordy’s startin’ time two more hours—so we can find out who murdered her husban’ instead of her.”

“O.K.,” called a woman’s voice, “go ahead and tell us the kind of skunk that done that!”

“Well, Madam, I would say it was a man who shot Jim Cancy.”

“Oh, yes, we all know that,” shouted several listeners. “Women don’t shoot nobody, they pisen ‘em... as a rule.” “Go on, tell us somp’m else.”

“Well, let me see,” pondered Poggioli aloud. “Let us begin back with the forgery itself.

Mrs. Cancy did this. She admits it. But she did not originate the idea, because that is a highly criminal idea and she does not have a highly criminal psychology. She has, in fact, a very religious and dutiful psychology. I also know that if she had been bright enough to think of tracing the will from her old love letters, she would have realised how dangerous they were to keep in her unlocked trunk and would have destroyed them immediately. Therefore, I know somebody suggested to her how she could forge the will.”

More angry shouts interrupted here, as if the crowd were reaching for the real criminal. Some voices tried to hush the others so the psychologist could proceed.

Eventually Poggioli went on.

“All right, Mrs. Cancy did not originate the idea of forgery. Then she was used as a tool. But she is not a hard, resolute woman. Just look at her there in the sheriffs car and you can see that. She is a soft, yielding woman and would not carry any plan through to its bitter end.

But in her trial she did carry a plan through to its bitter end, and this end, odd to say, was to put a new roof on the Leatherwood church. Ladies and gentlemen, a new roof on Leatherwood church was the basic motive for Cancy’s murder. It is fantastic, but it is the truth. Mrs. Cancy refused to hire a lawyer when she came to trial. Why? To save the money to put a roof on Leatherwood church. So the person who persuaded her to commit the forgery must also have persuaded her to withhold the money for the church roof, and that God would come down and set her free from the charge of murder.”

At this the enthusiasm of the crowd knew no bounds. They flung up their hats, they yelled, they cried out that now the Lord had come to help Sister Cordy just like He had promised. The sheriff arose in his car and shouted that he extended Sister Cordy’s leaving time for the rest of the day. He yelled that they were hot on the trail of the man who done it and he would remain in town to make the arrest.

I could see Poggioli was unnerved. It would take a cleverer psychologist than I am to explain why he should be. Of course, his demonstration was going awry. He was not getting where he had intended to go. He lifted up his hands and begged the crowd.

“My friends, please remember this. I do not know the man. I have no idea who he is. I can only give you his type.”

“All right,” shouted many voices, “go on and give us his type, so Sheriff Matheny can arrest him!”

The criminologist collected himself. “As to his type: I ate lunch in the Monarch cafe a little while ago and was reading an account of Mrs. Cancy’s trial in your county paper.

As I read, a gentleman beside me said that he had been watching strangers read the story of that trial for months, as it lay there on the lunch counter. It is possible such a man might have some connection with the murder; or he may have been morbidly curious about crime in general—“

Shouts of satisfaction here—“Go ahead, now you’re gittin’ somewhere!” Poggioli stopped them. “Wait! Wait! I by no means incriminate this gentleman. I am trying to show you the various hypotheses which a criminologist must apply to every clue or piece of evidence.”

“All right, Doctor, if he didn’t kill Jim Cancy, who did?” Poggioli mopped his face. “That I do not know, nor do I know anything whatever about the man in the cafe. I am simply trying to give you a possible psychological description of the murderer. Now, this man at my table also reprimanded my friend here for what he considered to be an infraction of a religious formality. In fact, he became quite angry about it. That would link up with the fact that Jim Cancy was reported to be a free-thinker. A free-thinker would have irritated such a man very deeply. If Cancy had jibed at this man’s faith, the fellow would have felt that any punishment he could inflict on the mocker would be justified, even unto death. Also, he could have persuaded himself that any money he might receive from Cancy’s death should be devoted to the welfare of the church—as for example, to put a new roof on the Leatherwood church. Following these plans, he could have easily influenced Mrs.

Cancy to forge Cancy’s will, with the understanding that the money would go to the church. Then he could have waylaid and shot Cancy, and made the will collectible.

This would have accomplished two things; gratify his private revenge and make a contribution to the church... The murderer could be of that type or he could be of a completely different type which I shall now try to analyze...” How many more types Poggioli would have described nobody knew, for at this juncture the sheriff discovered that his prisoner had fainted. This created a tremendous commotion. For a hill woman to faint was almost as unparalleled as for a horse to faint. Sheriff Matheny arose in his car and hallooed that he would carry no sick woman to the Nashville pen, and that Mrs. Cancy should remain here with her baby until she was completely recovered, even if it took a week. After making this announcement, the officer climbed out of his car and disappeared in the throng.

Everybody was gratified. They came pouring around Poggioli to congratulate him on his speech. A fat man elbowed up, seized Poggioli by the arm, motioned at me, too, and shouted at us to come to dinner in his hotel. Poggioli said we had just eaten at the Monarch caf6.

“Then you-all are bound to be hungry. Come on, my wife sent me over here to bring ye. She feeds all the revivalists and their singers who come to preach in the square.” The criminologist repeated that we were not hungry, but the fat man came close to him and said in what was meant for an undertone:

“Don’t make no diff’runce whether you are hungry or not—my wife wants you to come inside while you and your buddy are alive!”

“Alive!” said my friend.

“Shore, alive. Do you think Deacon Sam Hawley will let any man stand up in the public square and accuse him of waylayin’ Jim Cancy, and then not kill the man who does the accusin’?”

My friend was shocked. “Why, I never heard of Deacon Sam Hawley!”

“He’s the man you et by, and he knows you. Come on, both of you!”

“But I was simply describing a type—“

“Brother, when you go to a city you find men in types—all dentists look alike, all bankers look alike, all lawyers look alike, and so on; but out here in these Tennessee hills we ain’t got but one man to a type. And when you describe a man’s type, you’ve described the man. Come on in to my hotel before you git shot. We’re trying to make Lanesburg a summer resort and we don’t want it to git a bad name for murderin’

tourists.”

We could see how a hotel owner would feel that way and we too were anxious to help preserve Lanesburg’s reputation for peace and friendliness. We followed our host rather nervously to his hotel across the square and sat down to another lunch.

There was a big crowd in the hotel and they were all talking about the strange way the Lord had brought about the conviction of Deacon Sam Hawley, and rescued a comparatively innocent woman from an unjust sentence. Poggioli pointed out once or twice that the woman was not out of danger yet, but all the diners around us were quite sure that she soon would be.

The whole incident seemed about to end on a kind of unresolved anticlimax. The diners finally finished their meal and started out of the hotel. We asked some of the men if they thought it would be safe for us to go to our car. They said they didn’t know, we would have to try it and see. Poggioli and I waited until quite a number of men and women were going out of the hotel and joined them. We were just well put on the sidewalk when a brisk gunfire broke out from behind the office of the
Lane
County Weekly Herald,
which was just across the street from the hotel. It was not entirely unexpected. Besides, that sort of thing seemed to happen often enough in Lanesburg to create a pattern for public action. Everybody jumped behind everybody else, and holding that formation made for the nearest doors and alleys. At this point Sheriff Matheny began his counterattack. It was from a butcher’s shop close to the hotel. How he knew what point to pick out, I don’t know whether or not he was using us for bait, I still don’t know. At any rate, the sheriff’s fourth or fifth shot ended the battle. Our assailant, quite naturally, turned out to be Deacon Sam Hawley. He was dead when the crowd identified him. In the skirmish the sheriff was shot in the arm, and everybody agreed that now he would not be able to take Mrs. Cancy to the penitentiary for a good three months to come. She was reprieved at least for that long.