An American Tragedy (114 page)

“Well, it looks to me as if you might have been in love, or hypnotized at that,” insinuated Jephson at the conclusion of this statement, the tail of his right eye upon the jury. “If that isn’t a picture of pretty much all gone, I guess I don’t know one when I see it.” But with the audience and the jury as stony-faced as before, as he could see.

But immediately thereafter the swift and troubled waters of the alleged plot which was the stern trail to which all this was leading.

“Well, now, Clyde, from there on, just what happened. Tell us now, as near as you can recall. Don’t shade it or try to make yourself look any better or any worse. She is dead and you may be, eventually, if these twelve gentlemen here finally so decide.” (And at this an icy chill seemed to permeate the entire courtroom as well as Clyde.) “But the truth for the peace of your own soul is the best,”—and here Jephson thought of Mason—let him counteract that if he can.

“Yes, sir,” said Clyde, simply.

“Well, then, after she got in trouble and you couldn’t help her, then what? What was it you did? How did you act? . . . By the way, one moment—what was your salary at that time?”

“Twenty-five dollars a week,” confessed Clyde.

“No other source of income?”

“I didn’t quite hear.”

“Was there any other source from which you were obtaining any money at that time in any way?”

“No, sir.”

“And how much was your room?”

“Seven dollars a week.”

“And your board?”

“Oh, from five to six.”

“Any other expenses?”

“Yes, sir—my clothes and laundry.”

“You had to stand your share of whatever social doings were on foot, didn’t you?”

“Objected to as leading!” called Mason.

“Objection sustained,” replied Justice Oberwaltzer.

“Any other expenses that you can think of?”

“Well, there were carfares and trainfares. And then I had to share in whatever social expenses there were.”

“Exactly!” cried Mason, with great irritation. “I wish you would quit leading this parrot here.”

“I wish the honorable district attorney would mind his own business!” snorted Jephson—as much for Clyde’s benefit as for his own. He wished to break down his fear of Mason. “I’m examining this defendant, and as for parrots we’ve seen quite a number of them around here in the last few weeks, and coached to the throat like school-boys.”

“That’s a malicious lie!” shouted Mason. “I object and demand an apology.”

“The apology is to me and to this defendant, if your Honor pleases, and will be exacted quickly if your Honor will only adjourn this court for a few minutes,” and then stepping directly in front of Mason, he added: “And I will be able to obtain it without any judicial aid.” Whereupon Mason, thinking he was about to be attacked, squared off, the while assistants and deputy sheriffs, and stenographers and writers, and the clerk of the court himself, gathered round and seized the two lawyers while Justice Oberwaltzer pounded violently on his desk with his gavel:

“Gentlemen! Gentlemen! You are both in contempt of court, both of you! You will apologize to the court and to each other, or I’ll declare a mistrial and commit you both for ten days and fine you five hundred dollars each.” With this he leaned down and frowned on both. And at once Jephson replied, most suavely and ingratiatingly: “Under the circumstances, your Honor, I apologize to you and to the attorney for the People and to this jury. The attack on this defendant, by the district attorney, seemed too unfair and uncalled for—that was all.”

“Never mind that,” continued Oberwaltzer.

“Under the circumstances, your Honor, I apologize to you and to the counsel for the defense. I was a little hasty, perhaps. And to this defendant also,” sneered Mason, after first looking into Justice Oberwaltzer’s angry and uncompromising eyes and then into Clyde’s, who instantly recoiled and turned away.

“Proceed,” growled Oberwaltzer, sullenly.

“Now, Clyde,” resumed Jephson anew, as calm as though he had just lit and thrown away a match. “You say your salary was twenty-five dollars and you had these various expenses. Had you, up to this time, been able to put aside any money for a rainy day?”

“No, sir—not much—not any, really.”

“Well, then, supposing some doctor to whom Miss Alden had applied had been willing to assist her and wanted—say a hundred dollars or so—were you ready to furnish that?”

“No, sir—not right off, that is.”

“Did she have any money of her own that you know of?”

“None that I know of—no, sir.”

“Well, how did you intend to help her then?”

“Well, I thought if either she or I found any one and he would wait and let me pay for it on time, that I could save and pay it that way, maybe.”

“I see. You were perfectly willing to do that, were you?”

“Yes, sir, I was.”

“You told her so, did you?”

“Yes, sir. She knew that.”

“Well, when neither you nor she could find any one to help her, then what? What did you do next?”

“Well, then she wanted me to marry her.”

“Right away?”

“Yes, sir. Right away.”

“And what did you say to that?”

“I told her I just couldn’t then. I didn’t have any money to get married on. And besides if I did and didn’t go away somewhere, at least until the baby was born, everybody would find out and I couldn’t have stayed there anyhow. And she couldn’t either.”

“And why not?”

“Well, there were my relatives. They wouldn’t have wanted to keep me any more, or her either, I guess.”

“I see. They wouldn’t have considered you fit for the work you were doing, or her either. Is that it?”

“I thought so, anyhow,” replied Clyde.

“And then what?”

“Well, even if I had wanted to go away with her and marry her, I didn’t have enough money to do that and she didn’t either. I would have had to give up my place and gone and found another somewhere before I could let her come. Besides that, I didn’t know any place where I could go and earn as much as I did there.”

“How about hotel work? Couldn’t you have gone back to that?”

“Well, maybe—if I had an introduction of some kind. But I didn’t want to go back to that.”

“And why not?”

“Well, I didn’t like it so much any more—not that kind of life.”

“But you didn’t mean that you didn’t want to do anything at all, did you? That wasn’t your attitude, was it?”

“Oh, no, sir. That wasn’t it. I told her right away if she would go away for a while—while she had her baby—and let me stay on there in Lycurgus, that I would try to live on less and give her all I could save until she was all right again.”

“But not marry her?”

“No, sir, I didn’t feel that I could do that then.”

“And what did she say to that?”

“She wouldn’t do it. She said she couldn’t and wouldn’t go through with it unless I would marry her.”

“I see. Then and there?”

“Well, yes—pretty soon, anyhow. She was willing to wait a little while, but she wouldn’t go away unless I would marry her.”

“And did you tell her that you didn’t care for her any more?”

“Well, nearly—yes, sir.”

“What do you mean by ‘nearly’?”

“Well, that I didn’t want to. Besides, she knew I didn’t care for her any more. She said so herself.”

“To you, at that time?”

“Yes, sir. Lots of times.”

“Well, yes, that’s true—it was in all of those letters of hers that were read here. But when she refused so flatly, what did you do then?”

“Well, I didn’t know what to do. But I thought maybe if I could get her to go up to her home for a while, while I tried and saved what I could—well . . . maybe . . . once she was up there and saw how much I didn’t want to marry her——” (Clyde paused and fumbled at his lips. This lying was hard.)

“Yes, go on. And remember, the truth, however ashamed of it you may be, is better than any lie.”

“And maybe when she was a little more frightened and not so determined——”

“Weren’t you frightened, too?”

“Yes, sir, I was.”

“Well, go on.”

“That then—well—maybe if I offered her all that I had been able to save up to then—you see I thought maybe I might be able to borrow some from some one too—that she might be willing to go away and not make me marry her—just live somewhere and let me help her.”

“I see. But she wouldn’t agree to that?”

“Well, no—not to my not marrying her, no—but to going up there for a month, yes. I couldn’t get her to say that she would let me off.”

“But did you at that or any other time before or subsequent to that say that you would come up there and marry her?”

“No, sir. I never did.”

“Just what did you say then?”

“I said that . . . as soon as I could get the money,” stuttered Clyde at this point, so nervous and shamed was he, “I would come for her in about a month and we could go away somewhere until—until—well, until she was out of that.”

“But you did not tell her that you would marry her?”

“No, sir. I did not.”

“But she wanted you to, of course.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Had you any notion that she could force you so to do at that time—marry her against your will, I mean?”

“No, sir, I didn’t. Not if I could help it. My plan was to wait as long as I could and save all the money I could and then when the time came just refuse and give her all the money that I had and help her all I could from then on.”

“But you know,” proceeded Jephson, most suavely and diplomatically at this point, “there are various references in these letters here which Miss Alden wrote you”—and he reached over and from the district attorney’s table picked up the original letters of Roberta and weighed them solemnly in his hand—“to a
plan
which you two had in connection with this trip—or at least that she seemed to think you had. Now, exactly what was that plan? She distinctly refers to it, if I recall aright, as ‘our plan.’ ”

“I know that,” replied Clyde—since for two months now he, along with Belknap and Jephson, had discussed this particular question. “But the only plan I know of”—and here he did his best to look frank and be convincing—“was the one I offered over and over.”

“And what was that?”

“Why, that she go away and take a room somewhere and let me help her and come over and see her once in a while.”

“Well, no, you’re wrong there,” returned Jephson, slyly. “That isn’t and couldn’t be the plan she had in mind. She says in one of these letters that she knows it will be hard on you to have to go away and stay so long, or until she is out of this thing, but that it can’t be helped.”

“Yes, I know,” replied Clyde, quickly and exactly as he had been told to do, “but that was her plan, not mine. She kept saying to me most of the time that that was what she wanted me to do, and that I would have to do it. She told me that over the telephone several times, and I may have said all right, all right, not meaning that I agreed with her entirely but that I wanted to talk with her about it some more later.”

“I see. And so that’s what you think—that she meant one thing and you meant another.”

“Well, I know I never agreed to her plan—exactly. That is, I never did any more than just to ask her to wait and not do anything until I could get money enough together to come up there and talk to her some more and get her to go away—the way I suggested.”

“But if she wouldn’t accede to your plan, then what?”

“Well, then I was going to tell her about Miss X, and beg her to let me go.”

“And if she still wouldn’t?”

“Well, then I thought I might run away, but I didn’t like to think about that very much.”

“You know, Clyde, of course, that some here are of the opinion that there was a plot on your part which originated in your mind about this time to conceal your identity and hers and lure her up there to one of those lone lakes in the Adirondacks and slay her or drown her in cold blood, in order that you might be free to marry this Miss X. Any truth in that? Tell this jury—yes or no—which is it?”

“No! No! I never did plot to kill her, or any one,” protested Clyde, quite dramatically, and clutching at the arms of his chair and seeking to be as emphatic as possible, since he had been instructed so to do. At the same time he arose in his seat and sought to look stern and convincing, although in his heart and mind was the crying knowledge that he had so plotted, and this it was that most weakened him at this moment—most painfully and horribly weakened him. The eyes of all these people. The eyes of the judge and jury and Mason and all the men and women of the press. And once more his brow was wet and cold and he licked his thin lips nervously and swallowed with difficulty because his throat was dry.

And then it was that piecemeal, and beginning with the series of letters written by Roberta to Clyde after she reached her home and ending with the one demanding that he come for her or she would return to Lycurgus and expose him, Jephson took up the various phases of the “alleged” plot and crime, and now did his best to minimize and finally dispel all that had been testified to so far.

Clyde’s suspicious actions in not writing Roberta. Well, he was afraid of complications in connection with his relatives, his work, everything. And the same with his arranging to meet her in Fonda. He had no plan as to any trip with her anywhere in particular at the time. He only thought vaguely of meeting her somewhere—anywhere—and possibly persuading her to leave him. But July arriving and his plan still so indefinite, the first thing that occurred to him was that they might go off to some inexpensive resort somewhere. It was Roberta who in Utica had suggested some of the lakes north of there. It was there in the hotel, not at the railway station, that he had secured some maps and folders—a fatal contention in one sense, for Mason had one folder with a Lycurgus House stamp on the cover, which Clyde had not noticed at the time. And as he was so testifying, Mason was thinking of this. In regard to leaving Lycurgus by a back street—well, there had been a desire to conceal his departure with Roberta, of course, but only to protect her name and his from notoriety. And so with the riding in separate cars, registering as Mr. and Mrs. Clifford Golden, and so on indefinitely throughout the entire list of shifty concealments and evasions. In regard to the two hats, well, the one hat was soiled and seeing one that he liked he bought it. Then when he lost the hat in the accident he naturally put on the other. To be sure, he had owned and carried a camera, and it was true that he had it at the Cranstons’ on his first visit there on the eighteenth of June. The only reason he denied having it at first was because he was afraid of being identified with this purely accidental death of Roberta in a way that would be difficult to explain. He had been falsely charged with her murder immediately upon his arrest in the woods, and he was fearful of his entire connection with this ill-fated trip, and not having any lawyer or any one to say a word for him, he thought it best to say nothing and so for the time being had denied everything, although at once on being provided counsel he had confided to his attorneys the true facts of the case.