Black Cat Weekly #1

AUROVIA’S FAMOUS LODGE CASE, by Frank Lowell Nelson-3

“Then it is your belief that our interview with Mrs. Williams tomorrow will disclose her guilt?”

“If she is guilty, I have no doubt I shall be able to find it out.”

“But how will you substantiate her guilt in a manner acceptable to a jury?”

“Either by causing her to break through her self-possession and make a full confession—or, failing in this, by gaining some indication of where to look for material evidence. Now, for fear that you may still entertain some skepticism of my poor powers, I want to tell you what you have been thinking within the last few minutes. Your mind says, ‘I believe this man would make a good working companion for me. I wonder if he is so situated that he can share that little flat on Oak street. I wish I dared ask him.’ I will spare you the embarrassment of acknowledging that I am right, my dear Sexton, and will say that I am alone in the world, without ties of any kind, and doubtless when we return to Chicago we can arrange to join interests.”

In the midst of my astonishment and the “good nights,” Clarke slipped away to his room.

* * * *

After breakfasting the next morning, Clarke and I set out to fulfill our tentative appointment with Mrs. Williams. The streets were already crowded, and I marked several rivals from other papers. They gave me pitying glances when they saw me leaving the square. The coroner was expected momentarily, and they thought I was going to miss the inquest.

When we reached the Williams’ cottage, we were ushered into the parlor. The maid assured us that Mrs. Williams would be down in a few minutes.

“You lead in the conversation, Sexton. I want a chance to study her,” said Clarke. “Question her just as if everything I told you last night was fact and as if you knew all about the doctor’s stop here and the meeting yesterday morning.”

“You must come to my rescue if you see me getting into deep water.”

He nodded, and further talk was interrupted by the entrance of the widow. She had a petite little body with a face pretty, yet full of character, framed in a mass of dark hair, defiant of pins and fastenings. Caste was written in the finely-formed nose and the firmly modeled chin. She was of the type which loves much but suffers in silence. Women of her class do not turn to murder to escape trouble.

“Mrs. Williams,” I began rather lamely after her acceptance of our apologies for intruding, “I will spare you, as far as possible, but I would like to ask you a few questions relating to the events of the afternoon previous to it. In the first place, I understand Dr. Smith stopped here on his way home to supper.”

“Dr. Smith stopped to leave a package which I had ordered by phone from the drug store.”

“And I understand that he came into the house and sat a few minutes, leaving his hat and another package which he carried in the hall.”

Mrs. Williams started, grew a shade paler, but quickly recovered her composure and nodded in acquiescence.

“And when Dr. Smith left.” I continued. “I understand that he neglected to take his package with him.”

Again she started, bit her lips, but nodded an affirmative.

“How long did the package remain here after Dr. Smith left?”

“About half an hour.”

“Did he call for it in person?”

“No. He sent a boy who works around his stable.”

“Are you aware of the contents of that package?”

“I am,” and there was a little choking catch in her voice as she said it.

“Now, Mrs. Williams, I want to remind you that neither Mr. Clarke nor myself is an officer of the law, and thus we have no right to ask you to make any statement which will tend to incriminate anyone; but I wish to ask one more question which I leave to your discretion whether or not to answer. Were you aware of the contents of that package during the time it was in your possession?”

“I was. Dr. Smith had told me of the work of the lodge, and when he laid down his hat and the package, he remarked: ‘Here is the fake powder for your husband tonight.’”

I could not but admire her courage as she made this statement, certainly a damaging one if brought before a jury. I cast a furtive glance of appeal at Clarke.

“Mrs. Williams,” he began in his whirlwind fashion, “I will ask you what passed between yourself and Dr. Smith at the early morning meeting you had with him yesterday. Wait a minute. Is it not a fact that Dr. Smith called you to the back door before the neighbors were up and while the watchers were all in the front part of the house with the body? And he confessed to you that he had executed the fatal change in the powders?”

“Did Dr. Smith tell you that?” she asked in a tense voice, while she convulsively clasped and unclasped her hands.

“Dr. Smith has told me nothing. It is a fact, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“But despite his confession to you and the fact that he gave himself up to the police, you believe him to be innocent?”

“Oh, sir, I more than believe it. I know he is innocent.”

“How do you know it?” snapped Clarke, with his eyes rivetted upon the frail bit of femininity before him.

“I know it—because—because I changed the powders.”

I could scarcely believe my senses. I glanced at Clarke expecting a furtive look of triumph. Instead, he seemed completely nonplussed and sat looking into Mrs. Williams’ terrified eyes as if his whole soul was seeking to drag forth her secret. When he finally broke the spell, his voice took on a tone of deepest earnestness.

“Mrs. Williams, why do you, who are not a woman given to falsehood, deliberately tell me what l know to be untrue? Dr. Smith would not ask this sacrifice at your hands. He is innocent, and his innocence alone will save him.”

She arose and grasped the back of her chair for support. She seemed about to fall, but she gathered all the energy of a mighty spirit in a frail body and cried, appealingly:

“Oh, I will save him! You shall not prevent me! Even though he be guilty, I will save him. Mine was the first guilt. Prove that he is innocent, and I will thank you with my whole life. If you cannot, do not stand in my way, for I am the guilty one, and on my head alone should the punishment fall. You have dragged out my secret and made me lay my heart open before you who are strangers. Do not betray me, but let me work this problem out in my own way, I beg of you, gentlemen.”

“You may rely on our discretion, Mrs. Williams,” said Clarke, as he took the cold hand of the woman to help her back into her chair. “But I hope that there will be some other way out of it and that no sacrifice will be necessary.”

Just then the telephone bell rang.

“Answer it, if you please, Mr. Sexton,” said the woman, who seemed too weak to rise.

I went to the telephone.

“Yes?” I said.

“Coroner has arrived. Inquest is beginning. Mrs. Williams is wanted at once at the court house.”

I turned and gave the message verbatim, then hung up the phone receiver. Extracting from her a hurried promise to heed our counsel, we left Mrs. Williams to take her own course.

“What do you think of it. Clarke?” I asked as we left the house.

His brow furrowed. “I don’t know what to think. They’re both innocent. She told the truth. You noticed how I led her into it. She has a remarkably psychic mind, and I knew the storm was coming before it broke.”

I said, “Dr. Smith might confess falsely to the murder if he thought he was saving her.

“Yes. Each believes the other is guilty. I’ll be hanged if I believe either of them is.” He straightened suddenly. “See here, you go back to town and keep an eye on the inquest. Do all in your power to keep Mrs. Williams from making a confession. I have an intuition which leads me in the direction of Dr. Smith’s barn.”

* * * *

When I reached the court house, the proceedings already had commenced. I was in plenty of time, however, as much time was being wasted with the history of the lodge and the evidence of about twenty of those who were present at the time of the tragedy. Each told exactly the same story.

I slipped into a vacant seat inside the bar and directly behind Mrs. Williams, who was flanked by two “Job’s comforters” in the persona of elderly female friends. When I had the chance, I whispered to her: “Do not make any confession until Mr. Clarke comes. He is on the trail of new evidence.”

The first evidence of real importance was that of the drug clerk, who swore to the facts he had told Clarke and myself. Chief Darling’s policeman swore to the early morning meeting between Dr. Smith and the widow, and the effect seemed to be to turn the tide of sentiment decidedly against Smith, who was preserving his composure admirably during the trying ordeal.

Finally, Mrs. Williams was called to the stand. There was a buzz of excitemment and then a hush as the little woman took the oath. The coroner, in questioning her, showed an absolute lack of sympathy, although at no point did he exceed legals rights.

“Now, Mrs. Williams,” continued the coroner, after a few formal questions such as her name and address, “I want you to tell the jury what passed between you and Dr. Smith when you met early yesterday morning.”

“Dr. Smith simply came to ask me if there was any assistance he could render in my trouble. I expected no less of someone I have known since childhood.”

Doubtless she told the truth, but I trust the recording angel overlooked the fact that it was not the whole truth.

“Why did he come to the back door?” asked the coroner.

“After his close connection with my husband’s death, I suppose he wished to avoid publicity.”

“Did Dr. Smith offer you any explanation as to the cause of the tragedy?”

Mrs. Williams hesitated and looked appealingly at me.

I endeavored to instill strength into her wavering courage with all the power of my eyes, but the poor, harassed little woman was unequal to the strain of the ordeal. And perhaps to her mind it seemed that she was being led on to give incriminating evidence against the man she loved. With a pathetic out-throwing of her hands toward her inquisitor, she rose to her feet.

“No! No!” she cried in a pitifully shrill voice. “He had no explanation to offer. I alone know who killed Dr. Williams. It was I who—”

“Stop!” commanded a voice at the back of the hall.

The sudden interruption broke the tension under which everyone was laboring, and all eyes were directed to discover its source. I turned with the crowd and saw Clarke forcing his way up the aisle, half dragging a frowsied, freckled, tow-headed lad of about 13. whose violent sobbing became the only sound in the room as he was led to the coroner’s desk.

“Mr. Coroner,” said Clarke, on reaching the railing with his prisoner, “I wish to put this boy in evidence before Mrs. Williams finishes her testimony. Here is the instrument of Dr. Williams’ death.”

Everybody in the hall was standing, and there was a great craning of necks to see Clarke’s captive.

“Mrs. Williams is excused for the present. You will be sworn, Mr.—?”

“Carlton Clarke,” answered my companion, quickly taking the oath.

“Now,” said Clarke, “this boy is in no condition of mind to be examined, but when he sees that he has not committed a crime and that no harm will come to him, he will corroborate what I have to say. I found him in the corner of Dr. Smith’s hay loft praying for dear life. He is the boy who Dr. Smith sent after the package of imitation powder which he had left at Mrs. Williams’ house when he called there the afternoon previous to the tragedy. This boy intended going rabbit hunting the next day, and on his way to Mrs. Williams’, he stopped at Toby’s Gun Store and bought a nickel’s worth of gun powder. This he slipped into his left pocket. When Mrs. Williams gave him the package Dr. Smith had left, he put it in his right pocket. Being an absent-minded youth, he had forgotten all about his errand when he returned to Dr. Smith’s house. The doctor asked him suddenly for the package, and being left-handed, as may be proved, he reached for his left pocket. The next morning when he heard of Dr. Williams’ death and found what he had done, he hid the other package in the hay, where I found it. He has been in a condition of absolute terror and has been hiding in the hay ever since. Isn’t that so, Timothy Dolan?”

“Y-y-yes, sir,” sobbed the boy.

Then the courtroom broke into cheer, and whatever formalities the court took to free Dr. Smith were lost in the excitement.

Later that day, as Clark and I watched the spires of Aurovia fading in the distance that evening, I could not help wondering if Dr. Smith regretted the mistake of his freckled stableboy.

* * * *

More than a year after the events recorded in the foregoing narrative, Clarke and I were idling in our rooms one morning when the mail brought a square envelope addressed to Clarke.

“Here,” he said, and he tossed the card over to me. “This will recall to your mind the mystery of the famous Aurovia Lodge case.”

It was an announcement or the marriage of Mrs. Lucile Williams to Dr. Homer Smith.