Sight

Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
Go to Home Page
This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
RGL covers) is proprietary and protected by copyright.

ARTHUR B. REEVE

CRAIG KENNEDY AND THE SIX SENSES
SIGHT—SMELL—TASTE—TOUCH— HEARING—SIXTH

SIGHT

RGL e-Book Cover^©

First published in Flynn's, 31 Jan 1925

Reprinted in Los Angeles Times Sunday Magazine, 11 Oct 1925

Collected in "The Fourteen Points,"
Grosset & Dunlap, New York, 1925

This e-book edition: Roy Glashan's Library, 2022
Version Date: 2022-02-23

Produced by Art Lortie, Matthias Kaether and Roy Glashan

All content added by RGL is proprietary and protected by copyright.

Click here for more Craig Kennedy stories

Flynn's, 31 Jan 1925, with "Sight"

"The Fourteen Points," Grosset & Dunlap, New York, 1925

Illustration from "Los Angeles Times Sunday Magazine."

"When did you see your aunt Susanna Crowe alive last?"

"LET me get you off, Craig. You're too busy just now with that counterfeit case and all the other cases. I know a politician in the office of the commissioner of jurors, I'll have it fixed."

Kennedy's brow was knitted in a deep frown as he held in his hand a paper that is unwelcome to millions of us—a jury notice. This summons was returnable in General Sessions, Part IV, in the old Criminal Courts Building down on Centre Street, with the Tombs back of it and the famous Bridge of Sighs between the two. I knew it was Judge McLean sitting and that there were only criminal cases tried in this court. Kennedy noted the time and place, folded up the unwelcome paper, and placed it carefully in his pocket.

"No, Walter," he replied, slowly. "It's every man's duty to serve on jury. Especially is it mine and for men like me. No, I'm going to serve."

THUS it was that the following Monday morning at nine thirty, having nothing better to do, I accompanied Kennedy down to that brick-and-stone structure which to a newspaperman is a ceaseless story factory, the Criminal Courts Building.

Avoiding the elevators at this hour, we passed on up the wide stairs under the rotunda to Part IV, through the crowds, friends of the court, friends of the prisoners, friends of somebody in particular and of everybody in general, professional bondsmen, alleged fixers of this, that, and the other, lawyers, witnesses, policemen, detectives, court attendants, the idle public, the worried public.

They always make me think of my friend Goldstein, the lawyer, who told me, "Yes, Mr. Jameson, it is all very well to know the law—but it is much better to know the judge." As I pass through the carbolic odor of sanctity that overhangs justice in the Criminal Courts Building I am always wondering each time how much closer the great city is getting to that high ideal of justice.

I knew McLean. But I would never have attempted to presume on that personal acquaintanceship in behalf of Kennedy, nor would Craig have allowed it, even had he been disposed to accept my offer to get him off. There are other ways far more effective than by wrongfully trespassing on the friendship of the judge.

It happened also that I knew the doorman in Part IV. It turned out to be Pat McCarthy, a captain in a rock-bound political district downtown. He took Kennedy's notice, glanced at it, waved toward the rapidly filling benches where some scowled and fidgeted, crumpling folded newspapers, others read newspapers, and still others gazed curiously about, regardless of their newspapers. I have noticed that in the morning in court everybody appears with a newspaper. Perhaps it is as a badge of some special fitness, proof of literacy, although I am sure that our newspapers are now mostly for the illiterate, half-tone readers.

Kennedy passed in, and I was about to follow him when out of the corner of my eye I caught a resigned look on McCarthy's face as he wagged his head resignedly. I paused, glanced at him inquiringly. Evidently he had not noticed that I was with Kennedy. He seemed to assume that I had come to court to report the trial.

"Do yea know who thot mon is?" McCarthy jerked his head toward the disappearing figure of Kennedy. "He's that scientific detective, Craig Kennedy. I get the Kennedy, all right; but where did he get the Craig, huh? Now why do they dhraw a mon like thot, I'm askin' ye? What's gointer happen when this here labor-a-tory detective gets up against facts, real evidence as we have it down here? I'm askin' ye. Oh, I forgot, Mr. Jameson, beggin' yer pardon. He's a frind of yourn. Well now, just the same, I shtick to it." He wagged his head sagely as if he foresaw trouble looming for the austere goddess of justice. "We'll see!"

I made no comment beyond returning his friendly smile, went on in, made my way to sit down with Kennedy on the bench outside the rail. But I was mentally determined, if Kennedy was accepted on the case, to take a seat in the back and get the ear of McCarthy. At least there would be some recompense for the hours in the big, dingy, yellow, oak-paneled court room.

SLOWLY the minutes dragged. The clerk and the other attendants of the inner circle appeared. The time came when at the signal all in the court rose as the majesty of the law strode in and took his dignified position on the bench. McLean was a big man, physically, mentally, and in soul, with a shock of whitening iron-gray hair and a florid face, by contrast, a man who, when not on the bench, was most at home out on his wonderful estate on the heather hills of Shinnecock.

Then came the reading of names of the panel, the answers, "Here!" "Present!" from the unfortunate victims of the mill of justice whose prospective duty it was to become those cogs in the jury machine which is the hereditary palladium of our rights as free men. Came next the time when those with excuses were allowed to present them, when they matched wits with the keen judge as to whether they were deaf, ill, all but in the grave, or so busy that the business of the nation would be ruined by their absence—excuses that show the profound resourcefulness and inventive ingenuity of the human mind. Kennedy did not take his place in this line, but it seemed to me that nearly half the panel did. Very few got away with it.

He stood looking over the faces in the court room a moment, waiting, daring the culprit not to answer, at a penalty of not less than two hundred and fifty dollars. Kennedy rose. The man waved with a lordly gesture toward the twelve vacant seats in the jury box. Kennedy stalked over toward them, was about to sit down.

"Sit here, sir." It was emotionless, impersonal, this grinding of the wheels of that thing we call justice. He had indicated seat No. 1. Kennedy changed, sat down.

The clerk was asking Kennedy's name, his address, his brief pedigree for this purpose. Judge McLean was as oblivious as if he were blind justice. But be was far from blind. He was employing every minute, listening, signing papers, pausing to emphasize with his gold pencil some point to the officer who brought them.

For once the court room was stilled. The assistant district attorney and two with him conferred. The attorneys for the defense conferred. It was not until then that I realized what indeed it was that I had heard upon the opening of the case. "People of New York against Thomas Brainen."

This was the Crowe case! Susanna Crowe, a wealthy old lady, an invalid, was alleged to have been poisoned. Her nephew, Thomas Brainen, an attorney, and a slick one, was alleged to have first influenced her to make a new will, mainly in his favor. Then, one Saturday night last August, she had died. A suspicion had arisen that her demise had teen hastened. It had grown into the covert assertion that she had been poisoned. There had been an autopsy by the medical adviser to the district attorney. The exact findings I did not know. They, of course, had not been made public. But the implication, when a week later the grand jury handed up an indictment against Brainen, was that there had been discovered evidences of poison. Somehow it had leaked to the newspapers that the poison in this case had been good, efficient, sudden cyanide. That, in brief, was all that I knew.

I had been cudgeling my recollection to recall that much, mechanically watching the two groups of attorneys, waiting for the examination and perhaps challenge for cause, or, in Craig's case perhaps a peremptory challenge, when suddenly I heard another name called.

The man in front of me rose. Then I woke up. They had accepted Kennedy. This was to be a famous murder case. Kennedy was sitting in No. 1 chair. Barring the unexpected, Kennedy would be foreman of that jury. This was a story for the Star—Craig Kennedy on a jury, this jury, the Brainen jury!

My place was not on these benches outside the rail. I should be in there at that table just before and one side of the clerk of the court with the other newspaper men and women of the various morning and evening journals, the city news and other associations. But our man from the Star, Lindsey, was there. No, my original idea was best. I got up, moved back quietly. McCarthy's scowl changed to a smile as I sat down in one of the few remaining seats back by the door and him.

"What'd I tell ye?" he whispered back of his hand. "This ain't right! What's them attorneys thinkin' about? I'm an old man, an old hand at this business. It ain't right! I tell ye there's gointer be fireworks! This is a court. This ain't no college nor no Sunday supplement!"

McCord was excused after a lengthy and bitter clash. It was on a Scotch reluctance to commit himself on whether he would convict on circumstantial evidence. I thought of Kennedy's contention that, after all, the only really reliable evidence is the right kind of circumstantial evidence. Then it began to dawn on me that that presaged the course of the case, that it was a case built up largely on circumstantial evidence.

It came to the recess for lunch and still there were only five men in the box. The afternoon moved faster than usual, though. The New York courts were clogged and Judge McLean was not disposed toward red tape that would clog his court. By night, when all the challenges were worn out by both sides, the box was filled by the acceptance of a draftsman, Wanger.

The judge turned, bowing in his official robes toward the jury. He made his little speech.

"And if Mr. Kennedy will agree to restrain his imagination," he beamed, "I will designate him as foreman of this jury. Court is adjourned until ten o'clock tomorrow morning!"

It was late, well into the dinner hour, as Craig and I left. I was uncomfortable. I think I would rather have been with Judge McLean. On technicalities, like discussing a case with a juror, under such circumstances, Kennedy is inclined to stand so straight that he leans backward. However, we managed to exist and I did not forfeit his friendship.

SOME murder mysteries are just ordinary, lacking that stimulating quality which is so necessary if Kennedy were to take up the case. Otherwise he would have been overwhelmed by the mere volume of his professional business. Always there must be a touch of the unusual to arouse Craig to activity. A pitiful twist to it, unusual characters involved, or what seems an immovable impossibility in the solution, will lure Kennedy.

"For once," he smiled grimly, "I am concerned with a case not because I want to be but because I have to be. It is a solemn duty. But in this case, Walter, I think I shall be rewarded. I believe it has the elements that satisfy me."

I wanted to ask a leading question, why this Susanna Crowe murder case suddenly loomed important in his mind. But I did not dare. "The papers haven't played it up—much," was all I could say, colorlessly. "The attitude seems to have been: Another old lady possibly put out of the way for somebody's benefit. It's not exactly sordid—and it isn't just what you'd call exciting. It lacks romance, human interest, I guess, seems dull."

"There was nothing dull about Susanna Crowe—and nothing dull about her death." Kennedy said it with a finality that did not encourage me. He might as well have added, "And that's that!"

I had been with Craig at many murder trials, but never when he had acted in this capacity. It was a novel situation for me and I was prepared to derive all the satisfaction I could out of it. In the crowded courtroom, as it filtered about that Kennedy was the scientific detective, it had seemed to me to be the feeling that they expected a speedy and sure conviction. Tom Brainen's path to Sing Sing and the electric chair seemed to them to be made straight and sure by Kennedy's presence among the jurors.

THE next day I was early on the job. I did not want to have to rely on McCarthy to save me space beside himself. The prisoner was brought in, the indictment read, and the trial was on. Now there were no empty benches in Part IV.

There was even a thrill in the ordinary tiresome procedure of presenting the facts of the case at length, in that calm, even manner which to the public stresses no act or fact as more important and more incriminating than any other.

Yet, even so, one could see that the accretions were as a mountain of circumstantial evidence built up against the man who was being tried for his life.

Tom Brainen was clever enough lawyer himself to see the impending gravity of his position. And he showed it physically in spite of his debonaire acting. His confinement before the trial had paled his face, robbed it of some qualities of his assertive assurance, tamed him, so to speak. Yet that fire smoldered. It was there, as if banked.

Susanna Crowe had been of the type that clung to her open barouche and team of horses. She would have nothing to do with motors, even now. They, like subways and busses, were things of the devil, to destroy and maim. She entertained rarely and sparely, was of simple tastes. Her wants had made no serious inroads on her fortune. Under her frugality and that of her bankers it had grown until it was computed in seven figures.

There was nothing for Susanna Crowe to worry about in her future. While she was an invalid, she might live for years with no other pain than a growing gradual weakness. The suicide theory must be cast aside.

But she had been found poisoned. At first the servants had been suspected. But there was lack of motive. Their alibis were perfect. They were here merely as witnesses to establish various things.

Thus naturally suspicion had dwindled down to those who might have profited financially in her death. Who would be disappointed in the reading of the will—and who would profit? She had had few near of kin. One by one they had been eliminated, leaving only Brainen. Brainen had a reputation, too, not exactly disreputable, but such that people smiled at the mention of Brainen's legal advice. As an attorney he was of a type increasingly common in these days, sharp and slick. It was better to have Brainen working with you than against you. And as fact and suspicion developed, Brainen had been accused, held, indicted.

I shall make no attempt to give the trial in detail or to present the evidence except in a general way. The servants were called, for example, but not much of importance was developed in that way. However, the eccentricities of the victim were brought to light and her relations with her relatives brought out for judicial eyes as the backstairs and kitchen viewed things.

The state at this stage of the case was banking its strength on the recent will Susanna Crowe had made. There was the motive. Next came the facts of the case, the autopsy, the finding of the poison—cyanide—in the body, proof of the crime.

Now one felt the tenseness in the court room. It is strange how the culling of a name in a case as it is being built up can cause a tenseness where indifference has existed before.

Doctor Norton was a well-known astronomer at one of the universities in the city whose gentleness and industry were bywords to most of the students who studied under him. The man hesitated in his walk to the witness chair. His feet seemed reluctant to carry him from the unobtrusiveness of his place with the others in the colorless background of the court. It seemed that one whose time had been spent in the solitude of studying the heavens revolted at this crowded courtroom, this sea of faces. His hands trembled before him as though he would like to push aside gently this distressing experience through which he must pass.

Doctor Norton went through the formalities of being sworn in, took his oath solemnly, and waited to be questioned.

Followed a succession of perfunctory queries leading up to the points to be developed. "Doctor Norton," began the assistant district attorney, in a casual tone, "just how are you related to the deceased?"

"Always until recently, when there was a slight coolness. One would hardly have called it an estrangement because neither my wife nor myself would allow it to assume such proportions. We realized the age of her aunt, her natural peculiarities that would increase with her infirmities, and we made allowances. We humored and mollified her on all occasions."

Doctor Norton's voice gained a little in strength as he went on with his answers, but his nervousness was apparent. Even Judge McLean smiled kindly on his evident gaucherie on the witness stand. The district attorney let his answers run without cutting them short. They were not accustomed to the scholar in the witness box.

"Did you ever hear Susanna Crowe discuss her intended distribution of her money after her death?"

Doctor Norton's lips opened and closed, emitting no sounds. He seemed overcome with sorrow. With compassion he looked in the direction of Brainen, sitting so tensely in his chair, flanked by counsel and an assistant. He turned to the judge as to a friend.

"Your honor, I can't stand this. I know nothing about this murder—and I don't want to say a thing that will in any way help to jeopardize a fellow man. I..." His voice trailed off.

The judge looked at him kindly. "Just tell the truth, the whole truth, as you know it. Answer the questions the best you can. If what you know convicts, that is up to the prisoner at the bar. He should have thought of those things before."

The district attorney framed his question again. "Is the will placed in evidence the only will with which you are familiar?"

Doctor Norton's white face turned tremulously toward the prosecutor. "There was a will before this last one was found, and my wife had been the principal heir. Her aunt had appreciated her many kindnesses to her, her hours devoted to her when she had been seriously ill. But of late there had been this coldness, not so much interest shown in my wife."

The district attorney nodded, glanced at the jury as if to emphasize the restraint of Norton in refusing to mention that Jack Brainen was the chief beneficiary of the second will. He turned again to the witness. "The new will. Were you present when it was read?"

"Yes. It was read the day after Susanna Crowe was buried. All the relatives were asked to gather at the office of the attorney of her banker. Those who could get there attended, and it was a surprise to most of us when we heard that Mrs. Norton was left only a few hundred dollars by her aunt."

"Had you heard anything about a new will before that reading in the office of the attorney for the banker?"

Doctor Norton smiled wanly. "I suppose the family is like most other families. The members know what is transpiring, at least they think they know. There were rumors and indications that things were not as harmonious as before." He finished regretfully. It seemed he thought the murder was enough unpleasant publicity. It didn't at least warrant all the family bickerings being exposed at the same time.

The opposing attorney was on his feet in an instant with an objection that rumors and indications were incomplete, immaterial, irrelevant. There was an argument over it. Doctor Norton coughed slightly, took his handkerchief and wiped his lips with a vigor that was in contrast with his tremulous condition before. It was apparent he did not want to testify against Brainen. He wished to get out of it, welcomed even this faint hope of doing so.

After an acrimonious discussion over the question as it was framed a second time, the judge overruled the counsel for Brainen. He wanted the jury to get the whole story and this man's manner cf telling his story was such that he had to be treated differently. With an admonition to confine himself to what he personally saw, heard, and knew, the witness was allowed to go on.

"I meant that several times my wife and I had called on Susanna Crowe, a friendly call. Her eyes were bad and Mrs. Norton would read to her. But her last visits to her aunt were decidedly a trial to my good-hearted wife. Now all her kindly ministrations were refused ungraciously and the last two visits she wasn't even seen."

"During all these visits Mr. Brainen was about the house," the astronomer answered, reluctantly. "It seemed as if my wife was not to be allowed with her aunt, alone. There was no way of offsetting this influence. Then we heard through other relatives of a new will to make Thomas Brainen the chief beneficiary."

Questions followed as to what relatives had made these statements about the new will, and the prosecutor was back again, skirting the subject of "rumors and indications."

Doctor Norton continued, after one carefully framed answer: "That, at least, is how it looked to me. Those things I know. But of the murder, if it was murder, I knew nothing." He looked over at his vacated chair wistfully. It was easy to tell that he was not at home in courts.

I could not avoid reflecting how different Brainen's attitude would have been if the situation were reversed. Nor could I understand the almost crushed, hopeless spirit that Brainen could not seem to conceal, try as he would. It was unlike the man whose reputation as a slick attorney was almost national. Was it that he was trying to counteract that unsavory fame? Was an appearance of docile hopelessness calculated to gain a little sympathy, a little leniency from that jury?

"When and where did you see the accused on the day of the murder?" Again there was silence, reluctance, and the question had to be repeated.

"I had hoped," answered Norton, resigned to telling now—"I had hoped to intervene in my wife's behalf. The Saturday noon before the evening of Susanna Crowe's death, we thought we would go to see her. We took a taxi, my wife and I. When we reached the house we saw Air. Brainen entering just ahead of us. It would be a useless call, we knew. We didn't even get out of the taxi—simply turned and left the place. I went to the observatory and my wife went home."

Doctor Norton's tortoise-shell spectacles were the object of his constant solicitude. In his nervousness he took them off repeatedly. Fingering them awhile, he would replace them in a halting, half-absent manner. His life was surely the life of books, of the observatory, and the skies above him. Other questions tending to throw the onus on Brainen were met by disclaimers from him, or so it seemed.

"Where were you the night of the murder, Doctor Norton?" asked the prosecuting attorney, now a bit testy at the failure of the witness to co-operate as he had hoped in building up his case.

A smile spread over the man's face. Now it seemed he could talk about something he knew, something with which he was familiar.

"In my observatory. I had been busy every minute finishing my map of the moon." He said it quietly, confidently, with a touch of pride in his specialty.

"No. One of my brightest pupils was with me, Alma LaSalle, a student of whom I am proud."

At last the district attorney had discovered a subject on which Doctor Norton was not only willing, but eager, to talk. He could talk more about maps and the moon than he could about murders.

"I was completing mapping the mountains of the moon," replied the astronomer, slowly. "You see, I have published several text books on my work, and with Miss LaSalle's help I was completing another. These text books of mine are used a great deal in the universities and my study on the subject has made me somewhat of an authority on the mountains of the moon. Miss LaSalle and I had made many drawings within the weeks previous to that time. I have brought them along, among them that on which I was working the night of the murder." He turned unconsciously toward the table of the prosecution.

The district attorney picked up a sheet of paper. "I hand you this and ask you if you can identify it."

Norton fumbled clumsily with the drawing as it was passed to him by the prosecutor. Again his glasses needed straightening. Now he was away from talking about his beloved subject, in some way back again to this case, and his old nervousness, his indecision, his absent-mindedness came back again. He seemed to lose his realization at moments of just where he was—a fitting example of the absent-minded scholar.

He laid the paper on his knees, leaned forward in his chair, hands clasped nervously, and looked intently about him. "If you care, Miss LaSalle, who was in the observatory that Saturday night of the poisoning, is here, too." His glance seemed to turn instinctively toward the faces in the vicinity of the chair which he had vacated to step up to the witness box.

Kennedy, as foreman, was watching him closely as he had watched all the witnesses. I, too, followed the doctor's glance to where two women were sitting together. One was a woman in her forties, the other a younger girl, apparently not much past twenty. I took the younger to be Miss LaSalle and I was right. As Doctor Norton mentioned her name she smiled toward the district attorney, bowed her head slightly, seemed to acquiesce in the facts as Doctor Norton had presented them.

"Is that drawing the one which you were working on the night of the murder?" The district attorney asked it kindly, getting back to the subject.

Doctor Norton picked up the paper, fumbling the edges of it, showing painfully his utter unhappiness over his ordeal.

"Yer know wot I think? That old guy b'longs in a nurs'ry! Some moider case! A germ detective on the jury—and a bug for a witness! Wot with mountains on the moon, I'll be gointer lunch and eatin' mountains o' green cheese!"

I shook my head to silence McCarthy as I watched the thin white hands of Doctor Norton, almost like the paper itself. Finally, after a nervous fluttering about the edges of the drawing paper, he managed to calm his nerves enough so that he could pass it over as a result of his work on the night that Susanna Crowe was murdered.

That done, his face lighted up with pleasure, and I think that if this more serious and distasteful business had not been on hand we would have been rewarded by a dissertation on the mountains of the moon that would have aroused McCarthy's humor. The map had been painstakingly done. It might provoke humor in the uninitiated. It is a human failing to laugh at what we do not understand. Those hands might fumble and fuss with nervousness in a court, but I thought how accurate and steady they must be to accomplish this task—to set down those things that ordinary people can't see.

"I ask that this be marked in evidence," concluded the prosecutor, whereupon it was, and also handed to Kennedy and the jury for their inspection and edification.

"Doctor Norton," began the district attorney again, "had you ever witnessed any friction between Susanna Crowe and Thomas Brainen?"

"Oh," he answered, easily, "wherever there is money there is friction. Where there are two strong-willed people there will be conflicts. Aunt Susanna used to quarrel. When she had nothing else to quarrel about she would make up a good fight with some one. She had reached the stage where she needed a certain amount of emotion and attention to exist. When she didn't get it naturally, she manufactured it. She would have nervous spells, periods of depression when she imagined every hand against her. It was a sort of inferiority complex, I think. We would call in doctors, and when the spells began to cost money she would recover quickly."

There was an audible titter in the court room. Even the quiet scholar could prove himself a gentle humorist. The thing that impressed me was the clever avoidance of the doctor. He had told the truth, evidently. But his reluctance to testify against Brainen had caused him to make light of the quarrels.

"Did you ever hear Thomas Brainen quarrel with his aunt?" The district attorney was not going to let him slip away so easily.

"On one occasion. That was over some investment he had advised. He told her she would regret it. Then another investment he had made turned out profitably, and a few days later she sent for him and there was a fine reconciliation. After that we were out of her good graces entirely."

"Have you ever heard any other quarrels or threats against Susanna Crowe?" persisted the prosecutor.

"No person I know harbored such a feeling as far as I am able to judge. Of course I know nothing about her business."

"Do you know anything about the financial relations that existed between Susanna Crowe and Thomas Brainen? Did he owe her any money?"

Doctor Norton again found the question distasteful. Yet he had to tell the truth and I could see that the prosecutor was leading him on to help really convict the accused. Even by his faltering testimony Brainen had quarreled with the dead woman; the will was all in his favor; he owed her money. It was damning in its implications.

That question, too, carried a kick. A long time he thought of it. It was as if he had been asked, "Would it be possible, from the freedom allowed him, for him to administer poison in her food or drink?" He was pressed. He must answer. "Yes," he admitted, finally, "he had the freedom of the house. He could go anywhere without suspicion."

SO it progressed. It was evident to us all that by the very reluctance of his testimony there was growing a feeling against Brainen such as he sought to avoid. My impression was that he could have said much if he had wanted to say it. But all this was dragged out of him.

The relieved look that swept over the scientist's face was good to see. But how that questioning had weakened him I As he went to his seat he had to put out his hands to the chairs for support, the revulsion of feeling was so great Finally a court attendant assisted him to the chair beside his wife. He sat down, his glasses now off and in one hand for several minutes, the other hand over his eyes as if to shut out all unpleasant memories through which he had just passed.

It was McCarthy who roused me from watching Doctor Norton. "Now, if they'll put the man in the moon on the shtand, we'll get some real evidence!"

Mrs. Norton's story was quite different in character. It passed without comment. She had come home from her aunt's nervous and ill at ease. Toward evening a bad headache had developed which made it impossible for her to sit up. About the time of the excitement of discovering the murdered woman, a doctor had been called in attendance on Airs. Norton. The call from Susanna Crowe's home had been answered by the doctor himself. He had decided not to let Airs. Norton know anything of the tragedy until the next morning.

In her testimony along similar lines to that of her husband, disclosing the unpleasant family relations, Mrs. Norton was businesslike, efficient, answered briefly and briskly, made a splendid witness.

There was a conference between the prosecutors and it was evidently decided not to call Alma LaSalle. Enough irrelevant testimony had been given already by the servants in the house. The case proceeded by calling a couple of expert toxicologists on the matter of cyanide found in the organs of the dead woman.

Step by step the prosecution built up its structure of circumstantial evidence against Brainen, until finally it closed with what was admittedly a strong presumption. Not the least important part in this structure in the minds of any jury, I began to realize, was the impression left by the reluctant, considerate testimony of Doctor Norton.

IT was not until the third day of the trial, which, at that, was proceeding with more than ordinary speed, that the defense opened. It was a carefully planned defense, attacking the credibility of witnesses, going deep into the credibility of the testimony, drawing diametrically opposite conclusions from whatever before had seemed damaging. Yet it was not hard, as one thought about it, to put one's finger on the weak spot of the defense. Shatter as it would at the foundations of the prosecution, it was floundering when it came to offering any alternative theory. Rather it offered so many alternative conclusions that it weakened its own case. Granted that the evidence was insufficient to convict Brainen, who, then was guilty? The very multiplicity of negative arguments weakened the defense. The district attorney had built up a plausible case. There was nothing plausible offered in its place. But there were many things half-plausible.

It was under such circumstances that the story of the accused himself was to swing the tide. At least he could go on the stand and show that, no matter if it were not known who else was guilty, at least he was not guilty.

Thus finally came the time when Brainen took the stand in his own defense. The wretched man stood up, tall and slim, with a face which at a more favorable time and under other conditions would have been prepossessing. It had been his stock in trade as a clever rather than a good lawyer. Now it was lined with care and worry. I wondered at the apparent slump in his former brisk, pert manner. Was it that he realized his own poor fighting chance?

He told a simple, straightforward story, harping on his complete ignorance of the deed, passing lightly over the impossibility of its commission by him to the points where it seemed the deed had not been hung on him. It was a clever defense, but not impressive. We waited expectantly for the cross-examination of Brainen.

Slowly the district attorney rose, then suddenly swung about on him as he shot out, "When did you see your Aunt Susanna Crowe alive last?"

Brainen was expecting it, answered promptly. "That Saturday I had luncheon with her, stayed about an hour afterward to give her some advice on investments she was contemplating. She seemed unusually affectionate, for her; asked me to come back in the evening to talk over automobiles. I had prevailed upon her to give up her carriage and get a modern car of some good make. I think she would have done so if she had lived."

"When the maid found your aunt's body, the maid did not know you were in the house. Why was that?"

"I usually let myself in. I had a key. So did some others. It was always my habit to go directly to my aunt's room. She was usually there after dinner. But this night dinner was exceptionally late for some reason. It was already dark. I waited up there for her to join me, when I heard the maid down in the dining room scream for help.

"Naturally, I rushed down. Aunt Susanna had fallen from her chair and was lying on the floor, very quiet The maid was screaming, and when she saw me enter from upstairs she lost her head and accused me. It was a maid, by the way, who had always sought to curry favor with Mrs. Norton. The first chance she had to prove herself a deliberate enemy of mine she took—and this is the result. She has made the mere fact of my presence in that house, unknown to my aunt, brand me a murderer. I came to see her with only a brief-case full of automobile circulars."

There was a latitude accorded Brainen also in his answers, as if it were the least that could be done for one in jeopardy for his life. His manner and tone were quiet. There was a silence in the court room, a dramatic silence that concealed more emotion than tears or shouting ever betray.

But public opinion was not with the man. He has used his profession too often to outwit the law—not to aid it. There was no reliance now on his statements, and as he looked about him and smiled a bitter smile he must have realized it. I looked at Brainen's face. It was a study. Clever lawyer that he was, he knew only too well that a net was being spread by another clever lawyer to catch him.

"I had won enough on a deal to pay my debt also," he replied to another question touching their financial dealings. "She knew it. Aunt Susanna was money crazy and exact. What she had made through me did not affect in her mind in the least the fact that I owed her that money. I was ready to pay it that very day. I was not broke." There was a bitterness in his tone.

"Why didn't you go into the dining room the night your aunt was poisoned? Did you know or expect the maid would find what she found?"

His pale face flushed at the insinuation as he leaned forward with a flash of his old spirit. "I didn't go into the dining room because my aunt would have made me eat. I didn't care to eat. So I stayed in her room upstairs. That was my only reason."

"Did you have any quarrel with your aunt the day she was poisoned?" came the next insinuation from the prosecutor.

He was ready for that, too, primed. "I wouldn't say it was a quarrel. I got excited at lunch time over the cars. Aunt Susanna and I were much alike. When I am deeply in earnest I am likely to get excited. So did she. I was arguing with her over the various makes of automobiles, the first cost and the upkeep. She wanted the cheapest. I said only the rich could afford the cheapest. She always posed as being so poor. My argument was that a poor car will break a poor man. I suppose the maid heard our excited voices, jumped to her own conclusions again."

I was trying to analyze the man. Were his hopes for evading justice sinking fast? He had the look of a wounded animal, unable to put up the fight he could in health, but with his back to a wall and prepared to fight to the last. I began to pity the man. He had a certain brilliance which, if it had not been diverted from the right road, would have taken him far. This once had he strayed too far from the beaten path and had the jungle of crime overwhelmed him?

Brainen's testimony for his defense in, it seemed that all the witnesses had been called. Their cross-examination and recall was now over. Masterly summing up by his own attorney for the defense and by the state followed.

As the district attorney closed, and when all the legal tricks had been resorted to, I felt unconsciously that it looked mighty black for Tom Brainen, stripped of all the legal verbiage. The evidence had all seemed against the man. I could see his attorney trying to cheer him.

He might, for all I knew, even have been encouraging him with the prospect of another trial if this one went against him. Subtly I felt that the presence of Kennedy on that jury had turned out to be a blow, they felt, for the defense. Perhaps they feared that his acute mind might supply any deficiency they had claimed in the wonderful structure of evidence against Brainen. Brainen was feeling he was not as clever as he had supposed.

THE judge charged the jury. My own impression was that there was scant hope for the accused in that speech which made clear the rules governing circumstantial evidence. The jury filed out of the court room.

Those vacant seats after a murder trial always give me a thrill. I can imagine what the sight of them must be to the man whose life depends on the conclusion the men who occupied those chairs must reach. At that time imagination must be a curse. But then there is always the inference that a murderer cannot be very imaginative. The very act of killing precludes it. The dreams, nightmares of ages to come would deter him. He feels, but does not dream. The murders of insanity are different. Tom Brainen seemed as sane as anybody.

Even McCarthy felt the drama of the moment. It subdued him. Of those who remained in the court room, some were reading newspapers, others talking in low tones, apprehensively looking toward the door through which the jurors had filed. Doctor Norton and his wife, most of the other witnesses, remained in their seats. None but the judge had left the room. That would come later after the jury was out for hours wrangling and it might look like a disagreement.

The Nortons were talking quietly, the doctor bored and looking weary, wishing it was all over so that he could go to the peace and quiet of his observatory.

Suddenly Mrs. Norton leaned over, touched his arm excitedly, whispered, and pointed to the door that led to the jury room. Naturally my gaze turned in that direction, too. I almost gasped with surprise. McCarthy unconsciously put out his hand, whispered, "Look!"

There stood Kennedy in the doorway. At first I thought the evidence had been so plain that the jurors had been able to agree after an absence of only fifteen minutes or so.

"That's a quare bit of actin', I'm tellin' ye," muttered McCarthy. He was so surprised he had forgotten to take his hand from my arm. "I never saw the likes of this before. That's wot the judge gets for puttin' a book detective in as foreman of the jury!" Amazement, disgust were written on his face, yet underneath was a current of amusement. He seemed to feel that he knew more of court routine than Kennedy, that he could have put him wise not to make such a blunder as this.

Then the rest of the jurors entered quietly, faking their places. The judge was summoned from his chambers.

I grant that I was excited. What decision had been reached? Papers were laid aside. Attention was strained. The reporters were ready for the jury's verdict. Everybody was tense. The time had been so short that almost everybody in that court roam knew what the verdict would be. Kennedy, as foreman, rose to address the judge.

What a reprieve! I do not know how Tom Brainen felt about it, but I know how I as only a casual witness reacted. I was spinning after that sudden let down in suspense.

Tom Brainen had been resting his head on his hand, his elbow on the arm of the chair. At Kennedy's question his elbow slipped; his face would have fallen forward only for the wonderful self-control the man revealed. He moistened his lips and nodded to his attorney when the latter flashed him an encouraging smile.

I think Judge McLean was astounded, too. But in his moat formal manner he answered, "It can be done only with the consent of the court and of the attorneys on both sides."

The prosecutor looked at the counsel for the defendant. Neither wanted to allow the question asked. But on the other hand, if either refused it would not look well for his case.

This was almost unprecedented. "It is allowable for the jury to ask to have any part of the testimony read to it," suggested the judge.

That did not seem to satisfy. From Kennedy's face one could get no idea of the question. Its very passivity concealed whether the question was for or against Brainen. Everyone in the court room was on his toes.

For once opposing counsel agreed. It was with curiosity. What was Kennedy up to? Each hoped the question in some way would help his side of the case.

A moment the judge had it under advisement. Then he granted the request. The granting was much to the disgust of McCarthy, who, never having heard of such a thing done before, thought it was wrong. "Humorin' that glass-bottle detective again!" he exclaimed, peevishly. I smiled at his sarcastic adjective and thought of the quiet chuckle of pleasure Kennedy would derive from it later when I told him.

Doctor Norton started slightly, as if he had not heard aright. Was his tranquillity to be disturbed again? "Oh, why do people do things to get me in these predicaments?" he whispered sorrowfully to his wife. She only smiled gently and helped him to the witness stand. His nervousness was appealing. But he had been recalled as a witness. There was no way to get out of it He sat peering at Kennedy, wondering what he wanted to know now.

"Your frind mighta called on some other geezer," commented McCarthy. "He ought to leave thot mon to his mountains!"

"Better wait until you hear the question," I advised. "Maybe no one else can answer it."

Above the slight whispering could be heard the sound of the gavel. The judge demanded silence. In that silence Kennedy spoke, slowly:

There was a revulsion from sheer overstrain. The man hesitated pitifully, aware of his own weakness in this atmosphere, but unable to help himself. Sitting there mumbling, as if trying to recollect, his eyes were staring about as if trying to find the simple answer in the air about him. There was sympathy on all faces. Such sensitive people should not have to face these abominable situations.

It was the prosecuting attorney who came to the doctor's rescue. "Your honor, I object! That is a matter of record. The witness has already answered that question."

Kennedy had handed to an attendant a paper containing the question and the paper had been handed to the witness. At once the other lawyer was on his feet. He did not know what it was all about, but if the district attorney objected, he was for it. He was a man who could give seven reasons, too.

The judge sustained the objection as Norton held the paper in his hand, feeling nervously about its edges, but with eyes staring in the direction of Kennedy.

Slowly again the jury passed out, closing the little door behind them. It was an exciting interlude. What did it protend?

Again Doctor Norton walked feebly to his chair, gasping with relief as he regained his wife's presence. Again the heart-breaking wait began. This time so many heads did not bend over newspapers. More were intently watching the door. Tom Brainen was watching it too, now, with flashes of excitement gleaming in his dark eyes. Even the Nortons were anxious. I saw Mrs. Norton gently encouraging her husband and talking earnestly with Miss LaSalle, as if trying to convince him that his testimony was not the sole thing that would send Tom Brainen to the chair, but Tom Brainen's own actions.

It is tragic how long a minute seems when death hangs. I was intensely anxious to hear how that jury decided. I tried to interest myself in the crowd about me. But the only faces that drew my attention were those of Brainen and Doctor Norton. Even McCarthy's Celtic humor fell flat. Either his jokes were not up to standard or I was not attune to laughter. I looked at my watch. Scarcely ten minutes had passed. It seemed like ten hours.

SUDDENLY I heard a slight commotion, like a shuffling of feet. It came from the direction of the jury room. Again the door opened.

Kennedy entered the jury box, the rest following with serious faces that betrayed nothing. Only poor Tom Brainen gripped his chair a little harder. The judge was summoned. Was this to be another question, or had a verdict been reached? The jurors did not seat them-selves, just stood, waiting for the judge. It seemed as if everybody was taking so much time; things were working too deliberately.

Finally the judge entered. That increased the tension. He stood, justice personified in his black robe. Slowly he asked, "Have you reached a verdict?" The words sounded ominous.

Now that we were certain we were going to hear what we could scarcely wait to hear a minute ago, we could almost wish to postpone it. Would that verdict be the means of hurling Tom Brainen into the other world by way of the electric chair? It seemed as if there was nothing else to expect.

I think the judge was giving Tom Brainen a chance to get a grip on his reserve strength, for he had seen him falter slightly at the answer of Kennedy. He was so slow asking what that verdict was. He even looked the jurors over calmly. I wonder if those solemn-faced men, judges of courts that determine the life of man or woman, are ever tempted to indulge in a wager with themselves? Do they try to outguess the outcome before they ask?

"What is the verdict?" If the idea a moment ago had been ominous to me, this was a death knell, I felt, to one man's hope.

Could I believe my ears? Had I heard correctly? Where under the heavens did they hear any evidence that could lead them to that decision?

The face of the accused man lighted with hope. But he looked about him as if to ascertain whether the other people had heard the same as he. He was leaning forward in his seat, mouth agape, as if to drink in for his famished sou! the next words of Kennedy, for he was plainly about to speak again.

I could not help but admire Kennedy in his new role. He, too, had the sense of dramatic values. He was doling out his words slowly and carefully. It seemed as if that crowded court room might be the harp of life and Kennedy was touching each string slowly, lightly, to get the most expression.

"And, Your Honor, this jury charges the witness on the stand, Doctor Norton, with perjury!"

There was consternation in the room. Mrs. Norton was screaming with anger. Doctor Norton had all but collapsed in his chair, and Alma LaSalle was trying to help them both. Tom Brainen, I think, was the coolest man in the court. He seemed to take good news and bad news with equal self-control.

"Doctor Norton's eyesight must have failed him, without a doubt, just before the murder. Few know it even yet. That carefully framed, plausible alibi he gave, of being in the observatory, is no good. He couldn't have drawn a map if he wanted to. Those drawings of the mountains of the moon were done by the borrowed eyes of his star student, a girl so engrossed in her work, her hobby, she would likely never have noticed the absence of the professor from the observatory for an hour or even more that night."

Kennedy paused. No one, not even the judge, interrupted as he resumed. "With failing eyesight, it was more than ever necessary that his wife inherit that fortune as in the original will. He needed it to live. Possession of poison was not proved on Brainen. Yet Brainen must be convicted, to save himself! Draw your own conclusions as to motive. Members of this jury have asked me to move for the indictment of Doctor Norton for the murder of Susanna Crowe!"

"I quite understand that, Your Honor. I so told my fellow jurymen. But we can present the facts before you."

A moment the judge considered what Kennedy had said. Then he turned suddenly toward Norton. "I hold you, Norton, for the grand jury!" he said, quickly.

An officer stepped over as Norton stared about, with all but sightless eyes, eyes that saw the electrodes fastened to his head and legs in the electric chair.

TOGETHER Kennedy and I were leaving the Criminal Courts Building down the long wide flight of steps under the pillars to Centre Street. I was still keyed up with the drama I had just witnessed.

"Tell me, Craig, how did you get it? That was terrific, that scene in the court. I must go down to the Star, see that it is written right."

Kennedy smiled. "That map as passed elaborately to the jury bore the initials and lettering of Alma LaSalle. It wasn't his map. It was on a special drawing paper with the embossed stamp of the manufacturer. You all have eyes. But only one in a thousand really sees. You're not looking with your eyes. You assumed he could see, because you could see. But that man was blind, nearly blind. He was as a blind man reading Braille when he fingered so carefully that drawing paper for the embossed marks. Besides, when he entered court each day he was almost the only man who never carried a newspaper. I knew then it was an alibi, that carefully framed story of being in the observatory that night. That was enough. One thing led to another. Look back at it. You will see his attitude under all. He must convict Brainen, to save himself and get the fortune for his wife. My first hint came when he testified he saw—and he could not see! The rest was easy."

THE END

ARTHUR B. REEVE

CRAIG KENNEDY AND THE SIX SENSES SIGHT—SMELL—TASTE—TOUCH— HEARING—SIXTH

SIGHT

THE END

CRAIG KENNEDY AND THE SIX SENSES
SIGHT—SMELL—TASTE—TOUCH— HEARING—SIXTH