The Sporting House Killing by G. Powell (free ebook reader for pc .TXT) 📗

did you see there when you first went in?”

“The madam, who was a woman by the name of Jessie Rose, and another bawdy woman by the name of Sadie Wiggins.”

“Describe for the jury the demeanor of these two bawds.”

Quinn faced the jury. “They were distraught. Looked as if they’d both been crying for some time.”

Good actresses. Probably peeled a few onions.

“What did the madam tell you?”

Catfish flew to his feet. “Objection, hearsay.”

“It’s a spontaneous utterance, judge.”

“Overruled,” the judge ruled, shaking his head.

“She said one of her girls had been murdered upstairs by a customer.”

Blair moved to the end of the jury box and faced the witness, arms crossed. “What did you do next?”

“She led me upstairs to a bedroom in the front of the house, overlooking Washington Avenue. I understood it to be the room of a bawdy woman by the name of Georgia Gamble.”

“Who did you first see there?”

“A man named Joe. He worked for the madam. He was holding a pistol on the man on the floor.”

Blair edged closer to the witness. “I’ll come back to that man on the floor in a minute. But first, did you find Miss Georgia there?”

“I did. She was in her bed, shot dead.”

“Describe her body for the benefit of our jury,” Blair said, eying the jurors. “Take your time and be as complete as possible, Sergeant.”

The policeman spoke in an unemotional manner as if describing an ordinary scene. “Yes, sir. She was on her back, completely unclothed. Her head was on her pillow, her eyes open and staring at the ceiling. Her right arm was crooked beside her with the hand open and facing up. Her left arm was hanging over the side of the bed. There was blood all over her chest and on the sheets. I saw a bullet hole in her chest.”

“What age did you judge her to be?”

“Probably in her early to middle twenties.”

“Any doubt in your mind she was dead?”

“None.”

Blair walked to the court reporter’s desk. “Let’s talk about how she got that way. Sergeant, did you see any weapons about?”

“I did. There was a derringer on the floor at the foot of the bed.”

Blair retrieved a small pistol from the desk with a paper tag dangling from the handle by a string. He took it to the witness.

“Is State’s Exhibit One that pistol?”

“It is.”

“Look like the same condition it was in that day?”

“Yes.”

“We offer State’s One.”

“No objection.”

“State’s One is admitted,” the judge said.

“What model of firearm is this?” Blair asked, holding the pistol in front of the witness.

Quinn eyed the gun like a gunsmith. “It’s a Remington Model 95 rimfire double-barrel derringer in forty-one caliber.”

“What do you see on the right side of the top barrel?” he asked, presenting the gun to the officer.

Quinn examined it again. “A bloody mark. It appears to be the impression of a finger. You can see some wavy lines in the dried blood.”

Out of the corner of his eye Catfish noticed Cicero rubbing his hands together. He touched the boy’s arm: None of this points at you, son.

Blair paraded the pistol in front of the jury box, giving each juror a look. It was cold black with bright ivory grips, small enough to conceal in a waistcoat pocket. It had two short, stubby barrels stacked one on top the other.

“Now for the one who used it.” With the gun in his left hand, Blair turned slowly and deliberately to face Cicero and extended his right arm, stabbing his finger at him as he spoke. “Did you see the defendant, Cicero Sweet, in Miss Georgia’s room?”

Catfish cut another glance at Cicero: Don’t react.

The boy squirmed.

“I saw him.”

“Where?”

“On the floor at the foot of her bed. Unconscious and naked.”

Blair marched to a spot directly in front of the jury box, derringer still in his left hand, and pulled off his coat and tossed it onto his chair. “I’m going to demonstrate how he was situated, as you describe it.” He kneeled on the floor, and the jurors leaned forward to see. “Tell the gentleman of the jury how he looked.”

“He was lying on his back with his arms extended to each side above his head”—Blair flopped onto his back, stretching his arms as described—“and his head closest to the door and his feet closest to the bed.”

Catfish leaned back. Blair always had a penchant for drama. Some jurors rose in their chairs to better view his performance.

Blair scooted around so his feet were next to his table. “So if the table there represented the bed and the defendant was laying where I am, then the door would be over my shoulder toward the jury box?”

“Yes, sir.”

Blair’s left hand shot straight up, thrusting the derringer into the air, a veritable P. T. Barnum. Still on his back, head toward the jury and feet toward his table, he fired the next question. “Did you see this pistol anywhere?”

“I did. It was on the floor next to his right hand.”

“His right hand? Are you sure about that?”

“Yes.”

“Step down here, Sergeant Quinn, and take this derringer”—the witness did so—“and place it exactly where you found it when you saw the defendant laying there in Miss Georgia’s room.”

“Here.” Quinn placed the weapon about a foot from Blair’s extended right hand.

“Right there,” Blair echoed. He crawled back to his feet, never taking his eyes off the gun. He bent over it, never looking up. “Did you place it exactly as you saw it?”

“I did.”

Blair bent closer. “Is the blood side up or down?”

The jurors leaned forward to see.

“Up.”

“On which side of the gun?”

“Right.”

“By which of the defendant’s hands?”

“Right.”

Blair rose to his full height, as if filled with the outrage of an indignant people. He repaired to his table and spun slowly to face the jury.

Catfish yawned.

“Who lay lifeless on that bed?” he asked, gesturing as if the bed rather than a table were before him.

“Miss Georgia Gamble.”

He let the name resound a moment.

“You may return to your seat, Sergeant,” Blair said, doing the same. “Did you see