“I made a transverse incision for the body of
the name, and two vertical ones—one longer
for the J, the other shorter, for the stem
of the h. There was a dot after the name.
I made a half-inch incision for it.”
“Will you sketch the cicatrix as you recall
it?”
The doctor made a careful drawing on a pad that was
passed to him. The drawing was much like this.
Line for line, dot for dot, it was the scar on the
body found at Sewickley.
“You are sure the woman was Jennie Brice?”
“She sent me tickets for the theater shortly
after. And I had an announcement of her marriage
to the prisoner, some weeks later.”
“Were there any witnesses to the operation?”
“My assistant; I can produce him at any time.”
That was not all of the trial, but it was the decisive
moment. Shortly after, the jury withdrew, and
for twenty-four hours not a word was heard from them.
After twenty-four hours’ deliberation, the jury
brought in a verdict of guilty. It was a first-degree
verdict. Mr. Howell’s unsupported word
had lost out against a scar.
Contrary to my expectation, Mr. Holcombe was not jubilant
over the verdict. He came into the dining-room
that night and stood by the window, looking out into
the yard.
“It isn’t logical,” he said.
“In view of Howell’s testimony, it’s
ridiculous! Heaven help us under this jury system,
anyhow! Look at the facts! Howell knows
the woman: he sees her on Monday morning, and
puts her on a train out of town. The boy is telling
the truth. He has nothing to gain by coming forward,
and everything to lose. Very well: she was
alive on Monday. We know where she was on Tuesday
and Wednesday. Anyhow, during those days her
gem of a husband was in jail. He was freed Thursday
night, and from that time until his rearrest on the
following Tuesday, I had him under observation every
moment. He left the jail Thursday night, and
on Saturday the body floated in at Sewickley.
If it was done by Ladley, it must have been done on
Friday, and on Friday he was in view through the periscope
all day!”
Mr. Reynolds came in and joined us. “There’s
only one way out that I see,” he said mildly.
“Two women have been fool enough to have a name
tattooed over their hearts. No woman ever thought
enough of me to have my name put on her.”
“I hope not,” I retorted. Mr. Reynold’s
first name is Zachariah.
But, as Mr. Holcombe said, all that had been proved
was that Jennie Brice was dead, probably murdered.
He could not understand the defense letting the case
go to the jury without their putting more stress on
Mr. Howell’s story. But we were to understand
that soon, and many other things. Mr. Holcombe
told me that evening of learning from John Bellows
of the tattooed name on Jennie Brice and of how, after
an almost endless search, he had found the man who
had cut the name away.
