commented the coroner.
Pinckney was disappointed. He had hoped for some clue that he could trace. Like Avice, he thought little of the old letters. Those two eminent citizens were most unlikely to murder a colleague, or even to employ a rogue to do it for them. To his mind, there was nothing enlightening in all the inquest so far. Indeed, he had almost no use for the Black Hand theory. It didn’t seem convincing to him. He thought something would yet come out to give them a direction in which to look, or else the truth would never be discovered.
And then there was a commotion in the hall, and an officer came in bringing with him a big, husky-looking Swede, and a pale blue-eyed little woman.
“This is Clem Sandstrom,” the officer informed the coroner. “And this is his wife. You can get their stories best from them.”
The big foreigner was very ill at ease. He shuffled about, and when told where to sit, he dropped into the chair with his stolid countenance expressing an awed fear.
The woman was more composed, but seemed overwhelmed at the unaccustomed splendor of her surroundings. She gazed at the pictures and statues with round, wide eyes, and glanced timidly at Avice, as if the girl might resent her presence there.
“What is your name?” asked Berg of the big Swede.
“Clem Sandstrom, Ay bane a Swede, but Ay bane by America already two years.”
“Where do you live and what do you do?”
“Ay live up in the Bronnix, and Ay work at the digging.”
“Digging? Where?”
“Any digging Ay can get. Ay bane good digger.”
“Well, never mind the quality of your digging. What do you know of this murder of Mr. Trowbridge?”
“Last night, Ay bane goon home, through Van Coortlandt Park wood, and Ay heerd a man groan like he was dying. Ay went to him, and Ay lift his head, but he was nigh about gone then. Ay try to hold up his head, but it drop back and he say, a few words and he fall back dead.”
“How did you know he was dead?”
“Ay felt his heart to beat, and it was all still. Ay saw the blood on his clothes, and Ay know he bane stob. Ay think Italian Black Hander did it.”
“And what did you do then?”
“Ay run away to my home. To my wife. Ay bane afraid the police think Ay did it.”
“Did you see the police there?”
“Yes. Ay bane wait behind the bushes till they coom. Ay bane afraid of everything.”
“Oh, after the man died, you waited around there till the police came?”
“Yes. Ay thought Ay must do that. Then Ay saw all the police and the dead wagon, and Ay waited more till they took the man away. Then Ay ran fast to my home.”
“What did you take from the body?” Coroner Berg spoke sternly and the already frightened man trembled in his chair.
“Ay take nothing. Ay would not rob a corp. Nay, that I wouldn’t.”
“And you took nothing away from the place?”
The Swede hesitated. He glanced at his wife, and like an accusing Nemesis, she nodded her head it him.
“Tell the truth, Clem,” she cried shrilly. “Tell about the strange bottle.”
“A bottle?” asked the coroner.
“Yes, but it was of no use,” Sandstrom spoke sulkily now. “It was an old milk bottle.”
“A milk bottle? Then it had nothing to do with the crime.”
“That’s what Ay think. But the wife says to tell. The milk bottle, a pint one, was much buried in the ground.”
“How did it get in so deeply? Was it put there purposely?”
“Ay tank so. It had in it – ” The man made a wry face, as at a recollection.
“Well, what?”
“Ay don’t know. But it smelled something very very bad. And molasses too.”
“Molasses in it?”
“Yes, a little down in the bottom of the bottle. Such a queer doings!”
“Have you the bottle?”
“At my home, yes. The wife make me empty the bad stuff out.”
“Why?” and Berg turned to the Swedish woman.
“I think it a poison. I think the bad man kill the good man with a poison.”
“Well, I don’t think so. I think you two people trumped up this bottle business yourselves. It’s too ridiculous to be real evidence.”
The jurymen were perplexed. If these Swedes were implicated in the murder, surely they would not come and give themselves up to justice voluntarily. Yet, some reasoned that if they were afraid of the police, they might think it better to come voluntarily than to seem to hide their connection with it. It is difficult to tell the workings of the uncultured foreign intellect, and at any rate the story must be investigated, and the Swedes kept watch of.
Under the coroner’s scrutiny, Sandstrom became more restless than ever. He shuffled his big feet about and his countenance worked as if in agony. The woman watched him with solicitude. Apparently, her one thought was to have him say the right thing.
Once she went over and whispered to him, but he only shook his head.
“Why did you kill the man?” the coroner suddenly shot at the witness as if to trip him.
Sandstrom looked at him stolidly. “Ay didn’t kill him. Ay bane got na goon.”
“He wasn’t shot, he was stabbed.”
“Ay bane got na knife. And Ay na kill him. Ay heerd his dyin’ words.” The Swede looked solemn.
“What were they?” asked the coroner, in the midst of a sudden silence.
“He said, ‘Ay bane murdered! Cain killt me! Wilful murder!’ and wi’ them words he deed.”
The simple narrative in the faulty English was dramatic and convincing. The countenance of the stolid foreigner was sad, and it might well be that he was telling the truth as he had seen and heard it.
Like an anti-climax, then, came an explosive “Gee!” from the back of the room.
People looked around annoyed, and the coroner rapped on the table in displeasure.
“You have heard this witness,” he said pompously; “we have no real reason to disbelieve him. It is clear that Rowland Trowbridge was wilfully murdered by a dastardly hand, that he lived long enough to tell this, and to stigmatize as ‘Cain’ the murderer who struck him down.”
“Gee!” came the explosive voice again; but this time in a discreet whisper.
“Silence!”
