Changeling, and Other Stories

"If it please the Court," went his heavy, significant voice, "may I say a few words?" "It is hardly regular, at this period, Mr. Donegan," the judge said, puzzled. "Surely you will have an opportunity later on." "The opportunity is opportune only now." Like some strange gargoyle in an old cathedral the great animal appeared. His eyes, under their threatening hoods, were black and beady like the eyes of some malevolent creature of the jungle. His mouth, a wide, thin slit, pouted like the mouth of a fish. His sedentary body was massive and grotesque like some monster of a mad artist's drawing. His voice creaked like unoiled machinery. But--God!--what power was there! "Your Honor, men of the jury, and Mr. District Attorney, at any point I could have obstructed the course of this trial until all of you were weary in your chairs. I could have obfuscated facts and motives and testimony until you were as uncertain of truth as Pilate. The woman Wilkins--I could have shown that her word was no more to be depended on than the word of the village idiot. Mr. Howland Christy, De Vries's relative--I could have shaken him on the stand until he would have been uncertain of his testimony, for he is an honest man. And the usher of the cabaret--if I had concentrated on him, I could have made that whisky-sodden brain, that broken will, contradict everything he had said. "But I did none of these things. I made no haze of doubt out of honest facts. For why? Because these facts are true. I grant them freely!" There were a rustle and a murmur in the room. The public was suddenly aghast. What was this from Donegan? Treachery? Who ever heard of a counsel granting things like that? Good Lord! what was the man doing? The murmuring went on in spite of the judge's gavel, the attendants' cries. Donegan swept the room with his black, minatory glance, and the murmuring died. "Your Honor, Mr. District Attorney, men of the jury, a crime is not an instantaneous action. What goes before a crime is important, and not less important is what follows it. Has the affair been brooded over, or has it been the result of momentary passion, and has the deed been regarded with smug satisfaction, or with quaking horror? "And what effect has this had on the prisoner, on the world, on its time? So many things have to be taken into consideration when we are adjudging the crime. "Gentlemen, the law and legal procedure are as easy to comprehend as a child's primer. The office of the district attorney is to see that a malefactor is brought to justice. The office of the jury is to decide whether that action was or was not done. The object of the judge is to weigh, decide, and in the name of the people say what shall be done with a member of the community who has hurt the interests of the community by his or her action. The duty of the counsel for the prisoner is to see that his client is not traduced by false witnesses, nor his or her liberty endangered by unfacts. "But the object of all in the court-room is to see that justice is done, though the heavens crumble. "I have examined no witnesses. I shall examine none. But I ask this in the latitude of the Court, and in the name of that Justice whose servants we one and all are, as much myself, advocate for the prisoner, as the district attorney for the people of the State of New York, as the jury in the box, as the judge on his bench: that the next witness, Thomas McCarthy, shall be allowed to tell his own story in his own way, relating facts which may not seem germane to the case, but which I claim are as pertinent as the pistol with which the crime was committed or the _corpus delicti_ itself. I ask this of the Court and I request the Court so to direct." "This is hardly regular, Mr. Donegan." "I ask this in the name of Justice!" "This is a court of Justice, Mr. Donegan." The judge's manner had a slight rebuke. "But if the district attorney is agreeable--" The district attorney, a little nettled, but rather awed before the tremendous purpose of Donegan, shrugged his shoulders. "Very well, Mr. Donegan," the judge nodded. "The district attorney--" Donegan addressed the jury--"is calling Thomas McCarthy to prove the identity of Anna Janssen. He is an officer of the City of New York, a witness for the State of New York. The attorney has called him to prove that the prisoner in the dock is Anna Janssen. I shall not examine him. But when he has given his testimony for the district attorney he will have given his testimony for me. "And I shall have proven that the chorus girl who killed Alastair de Vries is not the woman who stands in the dock!" There was an instant's sighing from the courtroom, a momentary relaxation. So Donegan had fought and won his first fight, and now they were going to hear the History of the Spicy Isles. Now all the mystery would be lifted that had been hanging about the court-room like a necromancer's mist. "Call Thomas McCarthy!" Donegan barked from the side of his mouth. "Officer Thomas McCarthy." "Thomas McCarthy to the stand!" As he stood in the witness-box, McCarthy seemed to bulk tremendously in the room. As Anna Janssen seemed to fill the court spiritually, so he seemed to fill it physically. Emanations of strength, emanations of power came from him like current from a battery. He was not six feet tall, but so erect did he stand, so free was his carriage that he seemed to tower above all in the court-room. He was not a big man, but he suggested tremendous strength, so easily with the smallest movement did the sinews ripple beneath his coat. Brown as copper, his face had not the strange mystery of Anna Janssen's, because his eyes and hair were black, where hers were fair. Yet he was strange. It was principally that he was out of place in his city clothes. One could have imagined him easily as some young athlete in the Olympic games, hurling the discus possibly, or flinging himself over the high jump. Or one might have suffered him in the clothes of summer in the country, soft rolling collar and roomy sport coat. But in the "business suit" of some department-store, he seemed like an actor some inept stage manager had dressed. Grotesquely, a police badge was pinned to the lapel of his coat. As he entered the box, Anna Janssen turned toward him with a swift outpouring of her eyes. It might have been interest, but it was warmer than interest. It might have been appeal, but it was more confident than appeal. "You are plain-clothes officer Thomas McCarthy?" the district attorney examined. "Yes, sir. Number eight thousand nine hundred and seventeen." "Attached to police headquarters?" "Yes, sir." "Tell us the circumstances under which you arrested the prisoner." "The Commissioner--the Commissioner--" McCarthy began, faltered, suddenly stopped. "Yes, the Commissioner." But McCarthy seemed struck by sudden panic. "Yes, yes!" the district attorney became irritable. "The Commissioner--" He rapped the table. Donegan rose. "McCarthy," he explained gently, "has had no one to talk to for seven years but my client. He finds it hard to get his words right. Take your time, McCarthy," he told the witness. "Close your eyes. Say it as if you were saying it to yourself." The prisoner threw him a look of gratitude. "I was on the vice squad under Inspector O'Gara." The witness found words at last. "One morning the Commissioner sends for me. It was when the trouble was on about the graft in the Raines-law hotels. The Commissioner looks at me kind of hard. "'Are you on the square, McCarthy?' he says. "'Yes, Commissioner, I 'm on the square,' I tells him. "'It's news to me they 's any one on the square,' the Commissioner laughs kind o' mean. "'Tell me, McCarthy, were you ever mixed up with a woman?' I gets chilled all over, because I thinks some one's trying to frame me. "'No, sir. Never,' I answers. "'Then why were n't you?' "'I don't know,' I says, 'except it was my people were from Ireland and brought me up their own way. When I was a kid, Commissioner, I could go to confession without holding out, and I guess I can do it to-day.' "'Oh, you 're one of them good Irish cops,' he sneers. 'I heard tell on them, but I never met one before.' "'Well, you meet him now.' I looks him cold in the eye. And then I 'm sorry, because I sees he means nothing. He 's just sore. "'Well, square cop,' he says, 'I got a job for you. Anna Janssen,' he says, 'is found. A rich guy hides her and brings her to Tahiti on his yacht. She's there now. The French authorities,' he says, 'have made a pinch. Go get her.' "'All right,' I says, and turns to go. "'Just a moment, McCarthy,' he says. 'I said: "Get her." You understand? Get her. And keep her. Was a man to try and escape on you, what would you do?' "'I 'd shoot,' I says. 'I 'd bring him in, alive or dead.' "'Well, shoot her.' "'Oh, gee, Chief!' I says. 'I can't shoot a woman.' "'Well, then, shoot yourself,' he says. 'At any rate, if you come home alone, come home cold storage. I 'll pay the freight. And that 'll be all,' he says. "I goes to Paris, and from Paris to Marseilles--" "That's all right, McCarthy," the district attorney waived. "It does n't matter how you went. Tell us what happened at Tahiti." "In Tahiti something tells me all is not right. The steamer I come on docks in the morning and leaves that afternoon, and I hopes to make it with Janssen. Maybe it's because I can't get their French and our consul is not a well man, but they delay me until the steamer goes and then I 'm left flat. The extradition papers must be in order, they say. But there is too much of this belle-prisoner stuff. "Well, all's finished and they takes me to her. 'Well, Janssen,' I says, 'we got you.' 'Now that you got me, what are you going to do with me?' she laughs; and every one laughs. Right away I see they 're all rooting for her, and they like me like a souse likes water. "Honest, Judge, I don't blame them. They's few white women in that place and, such as they are, they 're not lookers. And the Kanaka girls, for all they are pretty as a picture, they ain't human and they _ain't_ healthy, you know, as we white people think. Anna certainly had the looks, and was white, and had the pep, and they were all crazy about her. The Frenchmen are daffy about women, and they don't think nothing about a woman shooting a man--nothing at all. "So they smiles at me and they says, 'You must see our beautiful island before you sail away with the belle prisoner!' "'Your island is fine,' I tells them, 'and, no offense meant, but it's got nothing on Manhattan Island. And as for the belle prisoner,' I says, 'ain't you folks forgetting something? This dame is as nifty a little murderess as ever I sees.' "'It was a crime passional,' they says, and they shrugs their shoulders. "'Tell that to the judge,' I says. 'I 'm only the copper.' "'Well,' they say, 'unfortunately Monsieur will have to enjoy our island for three weeks. The next liner will not be here until then.' "'Oh, is that so?' I laughs. 'Well, let me tell you something. While you guys was examining the papers for your belle prisoner, I was doing a little scouting around the harbor. And they's a schooner leaving to-night for San Francisco. I guess that 'll do us all right.' "'Impossible!' They go wild. 'A lady cannot travel--' "'Cut the lady stuff,' I says. 'She's my prisoner.' "She was a trading schooner, dealing in copra, oranges, cotton, mother-of-pearl, and such like, but once she must have been a fine yacht. There were state-rooms still aboard her, though now they were