The jury whispered for two or three minutes, then one of the middle-aged men got up and said: “We find the said Victor Alexis Olaf Hermann Adlerkreutz came to his death by bullet through the heart fired from a gun in his own hands and the hands of Dmitri Spiro in an accidental and unintentional manner.”
“So entered.”
There was a stir as the newspaper people stood up, and the Coroner opened his mouth to declare the inquest at an end.
“Just a minute.”
The sound of feet moving toward the door stopped, and Dmitri caught the Sheriff’s arm, whimpering, whispering, pleading. But the Sheriff paid no attention, being evidently interested in Mr. Layton, who was striding with masterful mien toward the Coroner’s table. Then Dmitri did what was perhaps the first stupid thing he had done in a long and terrible day. As he hung to the Sheriff’s arm, he saw a letter in the Sheriff’s pocket. With Mr. Layton just a few feet away, and Ethel slithering her way forward in his wake, he evidently thought it no time to hesitate. Taking the letter between a roguish thumb and forefinger he flipped it out of the pocket and said: “Sharf, Sharf, you kid me! You didn’t burn this note at all! You—”
But when he saw the envelope he stopped, and his face froze in horror. The Coroner, who had been whispering in puzzlement to Mr. Flynn, stopped too, he being no more than three feet away. For there, in the Sheriff’s handwriting, were the words: “Shoreham Confession.” Reaching out, he took the letter from Dmitri. Then, taking a knife from his pocket, and acting with grave, slow deliberation, he slit it open, took out the slip of paper that it contained, read it. Then, taking off his glasses and looking frighteningly solemn, he said: “Sheriff Lucas, Sylvia Shoreham, Tony Rico, Dmitri Spiro, and Gerland La Bouche, it is my duty to inform you that you are under arrest, that you must submit yourselves at once to search, and that anything you say here may be used against you.”
No matrons were present to search Sylvia, but the Coroner swore in the Domino’s phone girl, and instructed her what she was to take, what to leave on the prisoner. The two women then went off to the ladies’ room. Police, expert on their job, made quick work of the men prisoners, while the reporters, still in the dark as to this unexpected twist, tried to break through the Coroner’s silence for their deadlines. It wasn’t until Sylvia and the phone girl returned, and a little memo book taken from her handbag had been placed on the table, that the Coroner resumed. Looking at the book, he handed it back to Sylvia; then, in a slow measured voice, read the confession. It emptied it, as no fire could have done. The newspaper people stampeded for their deadlines in a noisy, shouting throng, and for a full minute after their departure the air outside was full of the noise of their taxis and cars. The Coroner, who had rapped angrily for order, waited until things quieted down. Then he turned to the prisoners and said: “Is there any statement any of you people wish to make?”
Heads went together and in a moment Mr. Daly said: “I came here, Doctor, to represent Miss Shoreham, but Mr. Rico, Mr. Spiro, and Mr. La Bouche have asked me to take charge for them too. On behalf of them, I inform you that I have advised them to stand on their constitutional rights.”
Mr. Flynn said: “How shall I charge them?”
The Coroner said: “Murder, accessory after murder, suppression of evidence of murder, obstruction of justice, and perjury.”
“Miss Shoreham didn’t testify.”
“Disjoin her from the perjury charge.”
“What murder?”
The Coroner looked at the Sheriff in some annoyance. “Sheriff Lucas, are you in your right mind?”
“I am.”
“The murder of Victor Adlerkreutz as confessed by Sylvia Shoreham in a statement that has just been taken from your pocket.”
“That statement is not evidence.”
“That’s for the grand jury to determine.”
“That statement was given me by Miss Shoreham on my threat to prosecute her sister for killing Victor Adlerkreutz.”
“Why didn’t you present it?”
“It’s false.”
“Or might this be the reason?” Mr. Flynn handed over, and the Coroner grimly accepted, a slip of paper.
“What is it?”
“It’s a check. A check taken from your person when you were searched just now, signed by Dmitri Spiro, and made out to you.”
“To me, as Treasurer.”
“Of what? The Parker Lucas Benevolent Association?”
This got a laugh, but Sylvia suddenly looked up, as though it meant something to her. The Sheriff said: “Whatever I’m Treasurer of, the check’s not evidence and don’t concern this inquest.”
“Bribery might interest the grand jury too.”
“No bribery. Sorry, your honor. Bribery begins with the acceptance and retention of good and valuable things and it generally involves cash. A check proves an honest man. It’s been gone into many times. A check is not evidence until it’s cashed, and the cash is not evidence until it’s kept. What I’m treasurer of I don’t care to say at this time.”
“If Miss Shoreham’s sister committed this murder, or you think she did, why didn’t you put that fact in evidence?”
“There’s been no murder.”
“Sheriff Lucas, will you stop trifling with me?”
“I’m not trifling. Hazel Shoreham is dead.”
The Sheriff related briefly the discovery of the girl’s body earlier in the evening. Then he went on: “A homicide is not a murder until a jury says it is, and with the murderer dead no charge growing out of murder could ever be brought. Just the same, it seemed to me these picture people, in their desire to keep the Shoreham name out of this, had trifled with me and trifled with this state. The question was, how to get something on them, and I deliberately waited until the end of this inquest, or nearly the end of it, when I was going to break in on you with the truth, and then at least we’d have them for perjury. All, that is, except Miss Shoreham, since she didn’t testify, but I didn’t mind about her, because her effort to deceive me was at least from a motive no worse than trying to save her sister. But these men were concerned with money, the film they couldn’t release if this scandal got out. So I was ready to shoot, but this man, this man Spiro here, crossed me up.”
The Coroner’s face had changed quite a lot during this laconic recital, and the jury obviously believed it. The Coroner, in a different tone, said: “How do you mean he crossed you, Parker?”
“By setting this fire.”
“By — what?”
Tony jumped up with an exclamation, but Mr. Flynn rapped for order. The Coroner said: “Well! It’s one thing we could get him for.”
“If Tony prosecutes.”
“You think I won’t?”
“Yeah.”
The Sheriff drawled this out with half-lowered eyelids, then added: “On account of you and Spiro being such good friends lately. You wouldn’t cross a pal, would you?”
“I’d — have to think about it.”
“I thought so.”
The Sheriff turned to the Coroner, went on: “Friend Spiro set the fire to bust up the inquest until he could get me by the arm and try to buy me off. I couldn’t to save my neck figure what he was up to, because I hadn’t let out a peep yet, but when he said some more about suicide, and wanted me to say I’d read that note he talked bout here, I begun to smell insurance. And then I saw a way to get them all, and at the same time get our state what it’s needed so bad all this time, that tuberculosis hospital. I told Spiro to make out his check to me as Treasurer. And I had reason to think that whatever was paid for accident, that wouldn’t be paid for suicide, I could get that for our hospital too, and teach the insurance company a lesson. And I didn’t have to be told how much I could tap Tony for and this La Bouche, and maybe some others of them that had been trying to make suckers out of us.”