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Tangled Trails

<h2 id="id00395" style="margin-top: 4em">CHAPTER XI</h2> <h5 id="id00396">THE CORONER'S INQUEST</h5> If Kirby had been playing his own hand only he would have gone to the police and told them he was the man who had been seen leaving the Paradox Apartments by the fire escape. But he could not do this without running the risk of implicating Wild Rose. Awkward questions would be fired at him that he could not answer. He decided not to run away from arrest, but not to surrender himself. If the police rounded him up, he could not help it; if they did not, so much the better. He made two more attempts to see Wild Rose during the day, but he could not find her at home. When he at last did see her it was at the inquest, where he had gone to learn all that he could of the circumstances surrounding the murder. There was a risk in attending. He recognized that. But he was moved by an imperative urge to find out all that was possible of the affair. The force that drove him was the need in his heart to exonerate his friend. Though he recognized the weight of evidence against her, he could not believe her guilty. Under tremendous provocation it might be in character for her to have shot his uncle in self-defense or while in extreme anger. But all his knowledge of her cried out that she could never have chloroformed him, tied him up, then taken his life while he was helpless. She was too fine and loyal to her code, too good a sportsman, far too tender-hearted, for such a thing. Yet the evidence assaulted this conviction of his soul. If the Wild Rose in the dingy court-room had been his friend of the outdoor spaces, he would have rejected as absurd the possibility that she had killed his uncle. But his heart sank when he looked at this wan-faced woman who came late and slipped inconspicuously into a back seat, whose eyes avoided his, who was so plainly keyed up to a tremendously high pitch. She was dressed in a dark-blue tailored serge and a black sailor hat, beneath the rim of which the shadows on her face were dark. The room was jammed with people. Every aisle was packed and hundreds were turned away. In the audience was a scattering of fashionably dressed women, for it was possible the inquest might develop a sensation. The coroner was a short, fat, little man with a highly developed sense of his importance. It was his hour, and he made the most of it. His methods were his own. The young assistant district attorney lounging by the table played second fiddle. The first witnesses developed the movements of Cunningham during the evening of the twenty-third. He had dined at the City Club, and had left there after dinner to go to his apartment. To a club member dining with him he had mentioned an appointment at his rooms with a lady. A rustling wave of excitement swept the benches. Those who had come to seek sensations had found their first thrill. Kirby drew in his breath sharply. He leaned forward, not to miss a word. "Did he mention the name of the lady, Mr. Blanton?" asked the coroner, washing the backs of his hands with the palms. "No." "Or his business with her?" "No. But he seemed to be annoyed." Mr. Blanton also seemed to be annoyed. He had considered not mentioning this appointment, but his conscience would not let him hide it. None the less he resented the need of giving the public more scandal about a fellow club member who was dead. He added an explanation. "My feeling was that it was some business matter being forced on him. He had been at Colorado Springs during the day and probably had been unable to see the lady earlier." "Did he say so?" "No-o, not exactly." "What did he say to give you that impression?" "I don't recall his words." "Or the substance of them?" "No. I had the impression, very strongly." The coroner reproved him tartly. "Please confine your testimony to facts and not to impressions, Mr. Blanton. Do you know at what time Mr. Cunningham left the City Club?" "At 8.45." "Precisely?" "Precisely." "That will do." Exit Mr. Blanton from the chair and from the room, very promptly and very eagerly. He was followed by a teller at the Rocky Mountain National Bank. He testified to only two facts—that he knew Cunningham and that the promoter had drawn two thousand dollars in bills on the day of his death. A tenant at the Paradox Apartments was next called to the stand. The assistant district attorney examined him. He brought out only one fact of importance—that he had seen Cunningham enter the building at a few minutes before nine o'clock. The medical witnesses were introduced next. The police surgeon had reached the apartment at 10.30. The deceased had come to his death, in his judgment, from the effect of a bullet out of a .38 caliber revolver fired into his brain. He had been struck a blow on the head by some heavy instrument, but this in itself would probably not have proved fatal. "How long do you think he had been dead when you first saw him?" "Less than an hour." Answering questions, the police surgeon gave the technical medical reasons upon which he based this opinion. He described the wound. The coroner washed the backs of his hands with his palms. Observing reporters noticed that he did this whenever he intended taking the examination into his own hands. "Did anything peculiar about the wound impress you?" he asked. "Yes. The forehead of the deceased was powder-marked." "Showing that the weapon had been fired close to him?" "Yes." "Anything else?" "One thing. The bullet slanted into the head toward the right." "Where was the chair in which the deceased was seated? I mean in what part of the room." "Pushed close to the left-hand wall and parallel to it." "Very close?" "Touching it." "Under the circumstances could the revolver have been fired so that the bullet could have taken the course it did if held in the right hand?" "Hardly. Not unless it was held with extreme awkwardness." "In your judgment, then, the revolver was fired by a left-handed person?" "That is my opinion." The coroner swelled like a turkey cock as he waved the attorney to take charge again. Lane's heart drummed fast. He did not look across the room toward the girl in the blue tailored suit. But he saw her, just as clearly as though his eyes had been fastened on her. The detail that stood out in his imagination was the right arm set in splints and resting in a linen sling suspended from the neck. Temporarily Rose McLean was left-handed. "Was it possible that the deceased could have shot himself?" "Do you mean, is it possible that somebody could have tied him to the chair after he was dead?" "Yes." The surgeon, taken by surprise, hesitated. "That's possible, certainly." James Cunningham took the witness chair after the police officers who had arrived at the scene of the tragedy with the surgeon had finished their testimony. One point brought out by the officers was that in the search of the rooms the two thousand dollars was not found. The oil broker gave information as to his uncle's affairs. "You knew your uncle well?" the lawyer asked presently. "Intimately." "And were on good terms with him?" "The best." "Had he ever suggested to you that he might commit suicide?" "Never," answered the oil broker with emphasis. "He was the last man in the world one would have associated with such a thought." "Did he own a revolver?" "No, not to my knowledge. He had an automatic." "What caliber was it?" "I'm not quite sure—about a .38, I think." "When did you see it last?" "I don't recollect." The prosecuting attorney glanced at his notes. "You are his next of kin?" "My brother and I are his nephews. He had no nearer relatives." "You are his only nephews—his only near relatives?" Cunningham hesitated, for just the blinking of an eye. He did not want to bring Kirby into his testimony if he could help it. That might ultimately lead to his arrest. "He had one other nephew." "Living in Denver?" "No." "Where?" "Somewhere in Wyoming, I think. We do not correspond." "Do you know if he is there now?" The witness dodged. "He lives there, I think." "Do you happen to know where he is at the present moment?" "Yes." The monosyllable fell reluctantly. "Where?" "In Denver." "Not in this court-room?" "Yes." "What is the gentleman's name, Mr. Cunningham?" "Kirby Lane." "Will you point him out?" James did so. The lawyer faced the crowded benches. "I'll ask Mr. Lane to step forward and take a seat near the front. I may want to ask him a few questions later." Kirby rose and came forward. "To your knowledge, Mr. Cunningham, had your uncle any enemies?" asked the attorney, continuing his examination. "He was a man of positive opinions. Necessarily there were people who did not like him." "Active enemies?" "In a business sense, yes." "But not in a personal sense?" "I do not know of any. He may have had them. In going through his desk at the office I found a letter. Here it is." The fat little coroner bustled forward, took the letter, and read it. He handed it to one of the jury. It was read and passed around. The letter was the one the promoter had received from the Dry Valley rancher threatening his life if he ever appeared again in that part of the country. "I notice that the letter is postmarked Denver," Cunningham suggested. "Whoever mailed it must have been in the city at the time." "That's very important," the prosecuting attorney said. "Have you communicated the information to the police?" "Yes." "You do not know who wrote the letter?" "I do not." The coroner put the tips of his fingers and thumbs together and balanced on the balls of his feet. "Do you happen to know the name of the lady with whom your uncle had an appointment on the night of his death at his rooms?" "No," answered the witness curtly. "When was the last time you saw the deceased alive?" "About three o'clock on the day before that of his death." "Anything occur at that time throwing any light on what subsequently occurred?" "Nothing whatever." "Very good, Mr. Cunningham. You may be excused, if Mr. Johns is through with you, unless some member of the jury has a question he would like to ask." One of the jury had. He was a dried-out wisp of a man wrinkled like a winter pippin. "Was your uncle engaged to be married at the time of his death?" he piped. There was a mild sensation in the room. Curious eyes swept toward the graceful, slender form of a veiled woman sitting at the extreme left of the room. Cunningham flushed. The question seemed to him a gratuitous probe into the private affairs of the family. "I do not care to discuss that," he answered quietly. "The witness may refuse to answer questions if he wishes," the coroner ruled. Jack Cunningham was called to the stand. James had made an excellent witness. He was quiet, dignified, and yet forceful. Jack, on the other hand, was nervous and irritable. The first new point he developed was that on his last visit to the rooms of his uncle he had seen him throw downstairs a fat man with whom he had been scuffling. Shown Hull, he identified him as the man. "Had you ever had any trouble with your uncle?" Johns asked him. "You may decline to answer if you wish," the coroner told the witness. Young Cunningham hesitated. "No-o. What do you mean by trouble?" "Had he ever threatened to cut you out of his will?" "Yes," came the answer, a bit sulkily. "Why—if you care to tell?" "He thought I was extravagant and wild—wanted me to buckle down to business more." "What is your business?" "I'm with a bond house—McCabe, Foster & Clinton." "During the past few months have you had any difference of opinion with your uncle?" "That's my business," flared the witness. Then, just as swiftly as his irritation had come it vanished. He remembered that his uncle's passionate voice had risen high. No doubt people in the next apartments had heard him. It would be better to make a frank admission. "But I don't mind answering. I have." "When?" "The last time I went to his rooms—two days before his death." Significant looks passed from one to another of the spectators. "What was the subject of the quarrel?" "I didn't say we had quarreled," was the sullen answer. "Differed, then. My question was, what about?" "I decline to say." "I think that is all, Mr. Cunningham." The wrinkled little juryman leaned forward and piped his question again. "Was your uncle engaged to be married at the time of his death?" The startled eyes of Jack Cunningham leaped to the little man. There was in them dismay, almost panic. Then, swiftly, he recovered and drawled insolently, "I try to mind my own business. Do you?" The coroner asserted himself. "Here, here, none of that! Order in this court, if you please, gentlemen." He bustled in his manner, turning to the attorney. "Through with Mr. Cunningham, Johns? If so, we'll push on." "Quite." The prosecuting attorney consulted a list in front of him. "Cass Hull next." Hull came puffing to the stand. He was a porpoise of a man. His eyes dodged about the room in dread. It was as though he were looking for a way of escape. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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