The Mark of Cain. Wells Carolyn
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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!” roared the coroner, “another such disturbance and the culprit will be expelled from the room.”
There was no further interruption and the inquiry proceeded.
Several employés of Mr. Trowbridge’s office were called. Miss Wilkinson, the stenographer, was an important young person of the blondine variety, and made the most of her testimony, which amounted to nothing. She declared that Mr. Trowbridge had been at his office as usual the day before and that she had written the average number of letters for him, none of which were in any way bearing in this case or of any import, except the regular business of her employer. Mr. Trowbridge, she said, had left the office about two o’clock, telling her he would not return that day, and bidding her go home after she had finished her routine work.
This created a mild sensation. At least, it was established that Mr. Trowbridge had gone from his office earlier than usual, though this must have been presupposed, as his body was found miles away from the city at five o’clock. But nothing further or more definite could Miss Wilkinson tell, though she was loath to leave the witness stand.
Coroner Berg was disheartened. He had a natural dislike for the “person or persons unknown” conclusion, and yet, what other one was possible? Perfunctorily, he called the office boy, who was employed in Mr. Trowbridge’s private office.
A few of the audience noted that this was the youth who had remarked “Gee!” with such enthusiasm and gave him a second look for that reason.
“What is your name?”
“Fibsy, – I mean Terence McGuire.”
“Why did you say Fibsy?”
“’Cause that’s what I’m mostly called.”
“Why?”
“’Cause I’m such a liar.”
“This is no time for frivolity, young man; remember you’re a witness.”
“Sure! I know what that means. I ain’t a goin’ to lie now, you bet! I know what I’m about.”
“Very well, then. What can you tell us of Mr. Trowbridge’s