They walked down the corridor to Brooks’s office. Sheldon said: “I’ll put Ben Callum on it. He’s good at that sort of thing. How’s Lyman coming with the DeWitt case?”

  Brooks shook his head. “Tough, Roger, tough. Fred’s got a job on his hands. By Christopher, if Mrs. DeWitt only knew what a slim chance DeWitt has of getting off, she wouldn’t worry about the action. More chance of becoming a widow than a divorcee!”

  Scene 12

  THE HAMLET

  SUNDAY, OCTOBER 4, 3:45 P.M.

  Mr. Drury Lane was strolling through his English gardens, hands loosely clasped in the small of his back, sniffing the flowered air. At his side, brown teeth champing in his brown face, puttered Quacey, a characteristically silent Quacey, for the mood was upon his master, and upon the vagaries of his master’s moods Quacey served with the loyalty of an old hound.

  “If I seem to complain, monkey,” murmured Lane, without looking down on the scraggling dome of Quacey, “forgive me. Sometimes I grow impatient. And yet the master of us all had much to say about unhurrying, not-to-be- hurried Time. For example,” he continued in the oratorical vein, “ ‘Time is the old justice that examines all such offenders, and let Time try.’ And beautiful Rosalind never said truer words. And ‘Time shall unfold what plighted cunning hides; who covers faults, at last shame them derides/ Awkward, for a change, but not unpenetrating. And again, monkey: ‘The whirligig of Time brings in his revenges,’ which is also very true. So you see…”

  They came to a curious old tree with thick twin-stems, gnarled and gray and above their heads oddly humped. Between the stems a bench had been hollowed and here Lane sat down, motioning Quacey to sit beside him.

  “The Quacey tree,” murmured Lane. “You see, honored ancient, we have dedicated a monument to your infirmity… He half-closed his eyes and Quacey sat forward anxiously on the seat.

  “You’re worried,” grumbled Quacey, and grasped his whiskers at once, as if he had uttered an indiscretion.

  “You think so?” asked Drury Lane with a sly sidelong glance. “But then you know me better than I know myself… Yet, Quacey, this waiting upon Time is not soothing to the nerves. We stand at an impasse. Nothing has happened of a mobile nature and I am asking myself if anything of such a nature is likely to happen. We are watching the development of a human Sphinx. John DeWitt, from a man gnawed by a hidden fear, has become a man braced by a hidden tonic. Who knows what medicine has steeled his soul? I saw him yesterday and he was like a Yogi - aloof, serene, untroubled, seeming to wait for death with the equanimity of the esoteric East. Strange.”

  “Maybe,” squeaked Quacey, “he’ll be acquitted.”

  “Perhaps,” continued the actor, “what I took to be resignation may be Roman stoicism. The man has in his roots cells of iron. An interesting character… As for the rest - nothing. I am impotent, and now I’m reduced to the role of inactive Prologue… The Missing Persons Bureau has been courteous, but its reports have been as sterile as Pope’s pilfering bard. Inspector Thumm informs me with his humorless efficiency - a naive gentleman, Quacey - that he has investigated the private lives of all the passengers who rode that Charon’s ferry, and that their addresses, identities, and backgrounds seem quite in order. Checkmate again… How little it means, after all! So many disappeared from the scene and are unaccounted for, unaccountable… The ubiquitous Michael Collins visits John DeWitt in his legal tomb with the earnestness of a penitent crawling to the cave of Paphnutius - and with no salve to his soul, Quacey… District Attorney Bruno, a much harassed man, informs me through Attorney Lionel Brooks that Mrs. DeWitt has slunk into her lair - preferring, it would seem, neither to accept nor reject at this time the proposal of her husband. A shrewd and perilous woman, Quacey… And my colleague of the illegitimate theater, Miss Cherry Browne, haunts the District Attorney’s sanctum with offers of aid in the prosecution’s case against DeWitt, having little to tender the prosecutor save her carefully alluring personality - a tangible asset on the witness- stand, no doubt, when it is accentuated by lovely calves and peeping breasts…”

  “If it was around April, Mr. Drury,” volunteered Quacey after an awed silence, “I’d say you were rehearsing one of the soliloquies from Hamlet.”

  “And poor Charles Wood,” continued Drury Lane, sighing, “has left the sovereign State of New Jersey his immortal legacy, since no one comes forward to claim it - nine hundred forty-five dollars and sixty-three cents. The five dollars in the bankbook, undeposited, will probably molder in the archives… Ah, Quacey, we live in an age of miracles!”

  Scene 13

  RESIDENCE OF FREDERICK LYMAN

  THURSDAY, OCTOBER 8, 8 P.M.

  Mr. Drury Lane’s limousine stopped at an apartment house on West End Avenue and a doorman bowed the actor from his car to the foyer.

  “Mr. Lyman.”

  The doorman manipulated a speaking-tube. Mr. Drury Lane was conducted to an elevator, carried skyward, and deposited on the sixteenth floor. A Japanese showed his teeth in greeting and ushered him into a duplex apartment. A rather handsome man of medium height, in dinner clothes, with a round face, a white scar under his chin, a high wide brow and thin hair came forward. The Japanese took Lane’s cape, hat, and stick; the two men shook hands.

  “I know you by reputation, Mr. Lane,” said Lyman, escorting Lane to an armchair in the library. “I needn’t tell you it’s an honor and a pleasure to receive you here. Lionel Brooks has told me of your interest in DeWitt’s case.” He skirted a flat desk heaped with papers and legal books, and sat down. “I take it you are encountering difficulties in your defense, Mr. Lyman?” The lawyer slumped sideways in his chair and began fretfully to finger the scar under his chin. “Difficulties?” He moodily surveyed the litter on his desk. “The case is almost impossible, Mr. Lane, although I’m doing my best. I have assured DeWitt repeatedly that unless he alters his attitude he’s in for it. And he persists in that devastating clammishness of his. The trial’s been on for days now, I can’t get a thing out of him, and it looks black enough.” Lane sighed contentedly. “Mr. Lyman, do you expect to have an adverse verdict turned in?”

  Lyman looked glum. “It seems inevitable.” He spread his hands: “Bruno’s been at his persuasive best - he’s an infernally clever trial-lawyer - and he’s presented a very strong circumstantial case to the jury. I’ve watched those twelve good men and true, and there’s no question but that they’re impressed. Idiots, the lot of ’em.”

  Lane observed that the lawyer’s eyes were underscored with dull pouches. “Would you say, Mr. Lyman, that DeWitt’s refusal to disclose the identity of his mysterious telephone caller is dictated by fear?”

  “Hell, I don’t know.” Lyman pressed a button and the Japanese stole in bearing a tray. “You’ll have something to drink, Mr. Lane, of course? A little crème de cacao? Anisette?”

  “No, thank you. Black coffee, perhaps.”

  The Japanese disappeared.

  “I’ll tell you frankly, Mr. Lane,” continued Lyman, plucking at a paper before him, “DeWitt has puzzled me from the start. I really don’t know if he’s merely resigned or has something up his sleeve. If it’s resignation he’s sealed his own fate. I’ve done my best. Bruno rested for the State this afternoon, as you know, I suppose, and I launch my defense tomorrow morning. I saw Grimm in his chambers after the day’s proceedings, and the old man was more reticent than usual. As for Bruno, he’s out for blood, or he’s pretty confident, because one of my men overheard him saying that the case is in the bag…Yet I’ve always said, from the things I’ve seen in this law business, that Bei so grosser Gefahr kommt die leichteste Hoffnung in Anschlag.”*

  * “In so great a danger the faintest hope should be considered.”

  “A Teutonism worthy of Shakespeare,” murmured Lane. “What have you planned in defense?”

  “All I can do is present the alternative of Bruno’s argument - that is, the frame-up plea. Of course,” said Lyman, “I’ve already attempted on cross-examination to discredit Bruno in one particular - guying him before the jury on his inability to explain how Wood could have discovered DeWitt’s guilt, even considering that DeWitt had been on Wood’s street-car twice after the murder. After all, he was in the habit of taking that car, and I made the jury understand that thoroughly. But what was Bruno’s weakness does not counteract, I’m afraid, the direct evidence of that cigar on Wood’s dead body. That’s a hard nut to crack.”

  Lane accepted a mug of black coffee from the Japanese and sipped thoughtfully. Lyman toyed with his liqueur-glass.

  “And that’s not all,” continued Lyman, shrugging. “DeWitt has been his own worst enemy. If only he hadn’t told the police that he had never given Wood a cigar anywhere! I might have been able to cook up a line of defense that would be convincing. And then the way he lied that night… Disgusting.” He drained the tiny glass. “First he said he was on the ferry for one trip, then admitted having been on for four trips - that fishy story about his caller - to tell you the truth, I don’t blame Bruno for jeering at it in court. If I didn’t know DeWitt as I do, I’d disbelieve it, too.”

  “But you cannot,” said Lane quietly, “expect the jury to accept your personal appraisal of DeWitt in the face of the evidence? Quite so… Mr. Lyman, from your tone this evening it is evident that you anticipate the worst. Perhaps-” he smiled and put down the coffee-cup, “perhaps we can make capital of Goethe’s ‘faintest hope’ by united effort…”

  Lyman shook his head. “I don’t see how, much as I appreciated your offer of assistance. Legally, my best bet is to attempt to throw so many question- marks at Bruno’s circumstantial case that the jury will bring in a verdict of not guilty because of reasonable doubt. It’s a long shot, but my best line of attack. With DeWitt stubbornly keeping his mouth shut, any attempt to prove his innocence would be so much wasted breath.”

  Lane closed his eyes and Lyman was silent, studying the heroic head curiously. The actor opened his eyes, and Lyman saw genuine amazement in their gray depths. “Do you know, Mr. Lyman,” he murmured, “it is a matter of complete astonishment to me that not one of the keen minds surveying this case has pierced the veil of nonessentials and seen the - to me, at least - perfectly photographic truth beneath.”

  Something leaped into Lyman’s face - a hope, a haggard wish. “Do you mean,” he asked quickly, ‘‘that you are in the possession of a pertinent fact of which the rest of us know nothing? - something that will prove DeWitt’s innocence?”

  Lane folded his hands. “Tell me, Mr. Lyman - do you honestly believe DeWitt did not kill Wood?”

  The lawyer murmured: “That’s not a fair question.”

  Lane wagged his head, smiling. “Well, let it go… As for this photographic truth which I mentioned a moment ago, and your instant conclusion that I have discovered something new… Mr. Lyman, I know only what Inspector Thumm, District Attorney Bruno, you yourself from your study of the facts and circumstances surrounding the fatal night, could know. I have the feeling that DeWitt, who has a sharp brain, would have seen the truth under different conditions, perhaps where he was not himself the central figure.”

  Lyman had jumped impatiently from his chair. “For heaven’s sake, Mr. Lane,” he cried, “what is it? I - Good lord, I find myself actually hoping again!”

  “Sit down, Mr. Lyman,” said Lane kindly. “Listen carefully, make notes if you will…

  “One moment, sir, one moment!” Lyman ran to a cabinet and hurried back with a curious apparatus. “Here’s a dictaphone - talk to your heart’s content, Mr. Lane. I’ll study it all night and shoot the works in the morning!”

  Lyman took from a drawer of his desk a black wax cylinder, adjusted it to the instrument and handed Lane the mouthpiece. Lane spoke softly into the dictaphone… At nine-thirty Lane left a jubilant Lyman, all trace of fatigue vanished from his shining eyes, his fingers already clawing for the telephone.

  Scene 14

  CRIMINAL COURTS BUILDING

  FRIDAY, OCTOBER 9, 9:30 A.M.

  Judge Grimm, a small dour old man enveloped in black robes, entered majestically, an attendant pounded with a gavel, a roaring ritual, the rustle and whisper of people, and the fifth day of the trial of John O. DeWitt for the murder of Charles Wood began in a hush that ebbed into the corridors beyond the courtroom.

  The room was crowded with spectators. In the enclosure before the Judge’s bench, flanking the court stenographer’s desk, were two tables. At one sat District Attorney Bruno, Inspector Thumm, and a small corps of legal assistants. At the other sat Frederick Lyman, John DeWitt, Lionel Brooks, Roger Sheldon, and several clerks.

  Beyond the railing familiar faces bobbed in the sea of heads. In a corner not far from the jury-box sat Mr. Drury Lane; in the seat next to him the dwarfed figure of Quacey. On the other side of the room, in a group, were Franklin Ahearn, Jeanne DeWitt, Christopher Lord, Louis Imperiale, and Jorgens, DeWitt’s butler. Near them were Cherry Browne, a ravishing study in black, and the saturnine Pollux. Michael Collins, biting his lip, sat alone; as did Anna Platt, Longstreet’s secretary. And far to the rear, a veil over her face, sat Mrs. Fem DeWitt, inscrutable and motionless.

  The preliminaries over, a rejuvenated Lyman rose briskly, stepped from behind the table, glanced cheerfully at the jury, grinned over at the District Attorney, and stated to the Court: “Your Honor, as my first witness for the defense, I call upon the defendant, John O. DeWitt, to take the stand!” Bruno half-rose from his chair, staring; Inspector Thumm, in the surprised buzz that swept through the courtroom, shook his head in bewilderment. The District Attorney’s face, heretofore calmly assured, became intangibly expressive of worry. He leaned over to Thumm, whispering behind his hand: “What the devil has Lyman up his sleeve? Calling the defendant in a murder trial! Giving me a chance to get at him… Thumm shrugged, and Bruno sank back muttering to himself: “Something’s in the air.”

  John O. DeWitt, duly sworn, giving the oath, his name, and address in a quiet, tight voice, sat down in the witness-chair, folded his hands, and waited. There was lethal silence in the courtroom; DeWitt, his puny figure, his self- possessed almost detached manner, were mysterious and imponderable. The jury hitched forward to the edges of their seats.

  Lyman said, quite amiably: “Your age?”

  “Fifty-one.”

  “Occupation?”

  “Stock-broker. I was, before Mr. Longstreet’s death, senior partner in the firm of DeWitt & Longstreet.”

  “Mr. DeWitt, will you please relate to the Court and the jury the events of the evening of Wednesday, September the ninth, between the time you left your office and the time you reached the Weehawken ferry.”

  DeWitt said in almost a conversational tone: “I left my branch office at Times Square at five-thirty and took the subway downtown to the Exchange Club, on Wall Street. I went to the gymnasium with the intention of exercising a bit before dinner, perhaps taking a plunge in the pool. In the gymnasium I cut my right forefinger on a piece of apparatus - a long ugly gash which bled immoderately. The Club physician, Dr. Morris, immediately treated the wound, stanching the blood and disinfecting the gash. Morris wanted to bandage the finger, but I didn’t think it was necessary and…”

  “One moment, Mr. DeWitt,” interrupted Lyman blandly. “You say you didn’t think it was necessary to bandage the finger. Wasn’t it rather that you are sensitive about your personal appearance and…

  Bruno leaped to his feet, objecting to the question as leading. Judge Grimm sustained the objection. Lyman, smiling, said: “Was there any other reason for refusing to have your finger bandaged?”

  “Yes. I intended to stay at the Club most of the evening, and since the wound had stopped bleeding through Dr. Morris’s ministrations, I preferred not to be inconvenienced with an awkward bandage. It would also have necessitated my answering friendly questions about the accident, and I am rather sensitive about these things.”

  Bruno was on his feet again. Wrangle, roar, shout… Judge Grimm silenced the District Attorney and motioned Lyman to proceed.

  “Continue with your story, Mr. DeWitt.”

  “Dr. Morris told me to be careful of the finger, since a twist or bump would reopen the wound and it would bleed again. I redressed with some difficulty, forgoing my swim, and went to the Club restaurant with my friend Franklin Ahearn, with whom I had made a dinner appointment. We dined, spent the evening in the Club with other business acquaintances of mine. I was asked to join in a game of contract bridge but was forced to refuse because of my hand. At 10:30 I left the Club and was driven by cab to the ferry terminal at the foot of Forty-Second Street…

  Bruno was on his feet again, protesting violently to the testimony as “incompetent, irrelevant, and immaterial,” demanding that all of the defendant’s testimony be stricken off the record.

  Lyman said: “Your Honor, the defendant’s testimony as given is pertinent and relevant, and important in building up a defense which will prove his innocence of the crime with which he is charged.”

  A few moments’ further discussion, and Judge Grimm overruled the District Attorney’s objection, motioning Lyman to continue. But Lyman turned to Bruno and said in an agreeable tone: “Your witness, Mr. Bruno.”

  Bruno hesitated, scowled, then rose and viciously assailed DeWitt. For fifteen minutes the courtroom was in an uproar, as Bruno badgered DeWitt, attempting to shake his story, to bring out facts relating to Longstreet. To these Lyman inexorably objected and was sustained in every objection. Finally after a dry reprimand from Judge Grimm, the District Attorney waved his arm and sat down, mopping his forehead.

  DeWitt stepped from the stand, paler than usual, and returned to his seat at the defense-table.