The State’s attorney spent little time in cross-examination. He had one telling question, which he brought out with full effect.
“Is it not true, Mr. Leonardos, that you had intimate knowledge, through certain investigators’ reports, of the nights when the largest amounts of money were in play at the different gambling establishments?”
Leonardos was obliged to answer in the affirmative.
“Walter Merrihew!”
A curly-haired young man stepped to the witness box. Sworn, he named the suburb where he lived.
“What is your occupation, Mr. Merrihew?” asked Kent.
“I’m ticket agent at the South Central Depot.”
“Were you on duty there on the morning after these events are alleged to have occurred?” He repeated the date.
“Yes, sir. That morning I relieved a friend who was ill.”
“Did you, on that morning, see the defendant, Mr. Leonardos?”
“No, sir. I saw a man who looks almost exactly like him.”
There was a spreading murmur of amazement, a general craning of necks. The jurymen sat up sharply.
“Did you have any conversation with the man who resembles Mr. Leonardos?”
“I did. I sold him a ticket to Atlantic City.”
“Have you, on any occasion, seen Mr. Leonardos at the depot?”
“Yes; twice. In company with an investigator, Mr. Donaldson.”
Court officers tapped for silence.
Handing the witness two photographs, Kent asked: “Can you tell us which is Mr. Leonardos, and which is the man who resembles him?”
“I cannot, sir. They look too much alike for that.”
Kent gave a swift, shrewd glance at his opponent.
“You may examine,” he said.
The prosecutor rose, facing Merrihew. “If these men, as you say, look too much alike to tell their photographs apart, how were you able to differentiate so positively in your testimony?”
Merrihew smiled.
“Their voices are altogether different,” he replied.
The room was buzzing with excitement when he left the stand. Kent hesitated, drew a calculating breath. He searched the jurors’ faces. It was evident that he had scored heavily. But the State’s case, with six witnesses, was still dangerous.
In a low but resonant tone he called:
“Beatrice Ashton!”
IX
Escorted by Donaldson and Somers, Beatrice advanced between rows of tense faces, beneath the glare of hostile eyes. Sharp intakes of breath, mutterings, told her all too plainly that she was recognized by gangsters among the spectators. Trying to conceal the nameless terror which clutched at her heart, she went steadily forward to the witness stand.
She raised her hand mechanically. The clerk’s voice, administering the oath, seemed to jump and pound in her ears.
Moistening her dry lips, she gave her name and place of residence.
She heard Kent’s tone, calm and reassuring. “What is your occupation, Miss Ashton?”
“I draw designs for clothing advertisements.”
“A little louder, please,” said Judge Kenyon.
Kent repeated her answer. “And you also possess ability to draw faces accurately from memory, do you not?”
“I’ve drawn faces from memory for years.”
“Do you recognize the defendant Mr. Leonardos?”
“Yes.”
“Now, Miss Ashton, were you in the twelve twenty-five Mortimer Avenue car on the Friday night — or, rather, the Saturday morning—”
“On August 31,” replied Beatrice.
She heard a tapping. There was a growing murmur in the room. Glancing for an instant among the rows of spectators, she recognized denizens of gangland there, members of the big mob. These men knew what was coming. She read the implacable hatred in their gaze.
Like wolves in a circle they had gathered, waiting for the kill, waiting to carry the word to the underworld — that the young Greek who had won his way to prominence would trouble them no more. A shudder passed over the girl as she met those burning eyes. She did not hear the attorney’s question.
He repeated: “Was there a man in the car that night who very closely resembled Mr. Leonardos?”
“Yes. He left the car at Columbia Street.”
“We don’t hear you,” the prosecutor said.
“Try to speak a little louder,” the judge again requested.
“Was it Mr. Leonardos who was in the car, Miss Ashton?”
“No, sir.”
“How do you know?”
“There are two slight differences. Mr. Leonardos’s forehead is just a trifle wider; his chin is a little more rounded.”
“Is this witness to qualify as an expert?” the State’s attorney ventured in an acid voice.
“Have you seen the other man since that night?” Kent persisted.
“Yes. In Atlantic City.”
“Can you tell us his name?”
“He is known there as Tony DiRocco.”
“Were you present when a snapshot was taken of him in Atlantic City?”
“Yes, sir.” She identified one of the photographs.
“What others were present when it was taken?”
“Your honor, my brother is leading this witness—”
“Were there others present?” Kent asked.
“Yes. The photographer and Mr. Donaldson.”
“Now, Miss Ashton, when you were in the electric car that night, did you see the two men who have since been summoned by the State?”
“Yes. Mr. Edmund Gormley and his son.”
“Did you draw their likenesses shortly afterward?”
Beatrice replied in the affirmative, and there was a legal wrangle while Kent sought to have her drawings exhibited to the jury. Again, as if in a dread fascination, the girl found her gaze wandering among the spectators. Suddenly she caught sight of a gangster whom she well remembered — Foxcroft. He returned a chilling stare from his dull, pale eyes.
“Miss Ashton,” asked Kent, raising his voice a trifle, “why did you make these two drawings?”
“My services had been engaged for that purpose.”
“By whom?”
There was an instant of silence.
“By a Mr. F. Henderson McHugh,” answered Beatrice.
The district attorney leaped from his chair. He was white.
“I object! This line of inquiry is absolutely irrelevant—”
Judge Kenyon shook his head.
“The State has offered evidence pertaining to the electric car.”
The prosecutor sat down, glaring. Beatrice testified that McHugh had made the request at the Lisbon Café.
“And, as a result, you knew that there would be a man with a Greek newspaper in the car?”
“Yes.”
“You knew that he would leave the car at Columbia Street?”
“Yes!”
“How much did Mr. McHugh pay you for this service?”
“Two hundred dollars.”
“What did you do with the money?”
“I turned it over to Mr. Donaldson.”
“Stool pigeon!” came in a low, guttural voice from the back of the room.
Kent sprang up. “Your honor,” he cried, while officers hastened to restore order, “I ask that the spectators be restrained from making threatening remarks while this witness is testifying.”
“It wasn’t a threatening remark—” the prosecutor demurred.
“If there is another disturbance of this nature,” Judge Kenyon warned, “the offender will be ejected from the court.”
Steadily and calmly, using all her force of will, Beatrice answered the district attorney’s questions. In vain he tried to shake her quiet story.