The Diamond Bullet Murder Case Part 2

"If he will testify in court, it will be helpful. He will make a very valuable witness. Now, tell me about the diamond bullet."

CHAPTER 4. THE DIAMOND BULLET.

NELLIE Hearthstone ran her hand nervously through her thick dark hair. Gillian, waiting for her to begin, could understand why men lost their senses over her.

"Jim was waiting for me at the quarry. We sat down on a log and he took a little square white box out of his pocket and showed me the diamond. It had been his mother's. It was an heirloom. I don't know how many generations it had been in his family. It had been set in a brooch of gold filigree. Jim had had Mr. Beckwith, the Clinton jeweler, take it out of the brooch. He was going to have it set in a ring for mea"my engagement ring.

"He put the diamond in my hand and I held it up on the tips of my fingers. It flashed and sparkled like a little ball of white fire. We didn't hear Mr. Grundle walk up behind us. We didn't know we weren't alone until a hand reached down and took the diamond.

"Jim turned and looked up at him. Mr. Grundle had a rifle in one hand and a navy rifle he had bought from a soldier. I suppose the soldier had stolen it. Mr. Grundle never used it until last year. After the Memorial Day exercises at Evergreen Cemetery, he found a case of blank cartridges which the soldiers had brought, but hadn't used. He loaded the case into his car.

"After that, he used the cartridges in his rifle for shooting small game. He carried birdshot in his pocket. When he wanted to shoot anything, he would pour some of this shot down the barrel. He loved to kill. I've seen him kill robins and wild canaries and orioles. He pretended he was only shooting crows and hawks."

"Didn't he threaten Jim in any way with that rifle?" Gillian asked hopefully.

"No. He stood there, scowling, with the diamond in his hand. He looked at it and then at Jim. Finally he said, 'This stone would make a good bullet, Truman. How far do you s'pose it would go into that tree over there?' He pointed to a tall pine tree. 'I've a good mind to try and see,' he said. It wouldn't hurt the diamond, because a diamond is harder than flint. You could dig out the diamond and it would still be as good as ever."

"What did Jim say to that?"

"Nothing. He just looked up at Mr. Grundle. He was white and there was the same funny look about his mouth that had scared me the night before. But he didn't say a word. He looked up at Mr. Grundle. Mr. Grundle put a cartridge into the chamber and dropped the diamond down the barrel. Jim stood up slowly, took the rifle out of his hands and shot him."

"Grundle had pointed the rifle at him and Jim thought he meant to kill him," Gillian said.

"No. Mr. Grundle wasn't pointing the rifle anywhere near him. He hadn't threatened Jim in any way. Jim just took the rifle away from him and killed him."

"What happened then?"

"Mr. Grundle slumped down and rolled over the edge of the pit into the water and sank out of sight."

"What did Jim say then?"

"He said, 'I couldn't help it, honey.' He said it over and over. He said they would electrocute him for doing it, but that he couldn't help it. He said that he would do the same thing to any other man who laid a hand on me. But that he had spoiled everything. He said I should go away, start life some place else. Then he went all to pieces. He put his head in my lap and cried like a baby. He said over and over he couldn't help it. No man had ever lived who laid a hand on a Truman womana"and I was the same as a Truman woman. And he said that it had been his mother's diamond that Grundle was defiling.

"I told him I loved him as much as ever. I made him go with me to the county clerk's office for an application for marriage. Of course, we can't get married. I took a streetcar to Greenfield. I made him promise to say nothing until he heard from me. I haven't been in touch with him."

Gillian stood up and began stalking up and down the room. He turned suddenly and said: "But what can I do?"

Nellie Hearthstone's large eyes seemed to shine in the growing dusk.

"You're famous for helping people out of trouble," she said simply. "Certainly no two people were ever in greater trouble than Jim and I are."

"Are you sure," Gillian asked, that you've omitted nothing important?"

"Quite sure. And you'll take the case, won't you?"

"What case is there, my dear?" Gillian asked. "Your lover hated a man and killed him. We admit his hatred was justifiable. We admit it was excusable for him to kill Grundle, who was pawing you and robbing him. Jim was almost out of his mind. But can you make a jury of Grundle's friends believe that? We all hate people, but we don't go around murdering them, do we?"

"I've got to save him," said the girl simply. "I love him. There must be some way. I'll do anything."

"There is a way," Gillian told her.

"Go on the witness stand and swear you saw Grundle murderously attack Jim. If you told such a story, with plenty of realistic embroidery, you would sway a jury. Your beauty would help. It's a slim chance, the only, one."

The dark eyes were staining at him hopelessly. "I can't tell that story. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't: The truth would come out in spite of me."

"If you can't lie," Gillian said, you can't save him."

The telephone at the other end of the room rang. Gillian answered it. A reporter on the Bulletin, a tabloid, wanted to know if he was interested in the Grundle murder case.

"Why should I be?" Gillian cautiously answered.

"A girl, whose description tallies pretty closely with the Hearthstone girl has been seen coming out of your office," the reporter informed him. "Grundle's will has just been read and that foxy little Jane comes into an estate of over a hundred thousand bucks in farm lands, real estate and bank bonds. The county prosecutor says it was her sweetie's motive for killing Grundle. He has a warrant out for her as a material witness. What can you tell me about it, Mr. Hazeltine?"

"Not a thing," Gillian replied.

"Will you take the case if they ask you to?"

"No." Gillian hung up the receiver.

Toro came in to announce dinner. Nellie Hearthstone was looking expectantly at the criminal lawyer.

"We'll have dinner," he said, "then I'll drive you out to Clinton." He waited until Toro was gone, then added: "Dawbridge has a warrant out for your arrest. It always looks better to give yourself up than to be captured. Grundle's will leaves you an estate of a hundred thousand."

"I won't touch a penny of it!" the girl exclaimed; then: "Yes, I will!" she cried. "I'll give you all of it for defending Jim."

"I don't want it," Gillian said. "I'm not taking the case, because there isn't a case. If you were a congenital liar like Nettie Jarvis, the seamstress, and could invent black-bearded strangers with an exotic air, there might be hope. As things stand, Jim Truman must pay for making a foolish mistake."

Nellie Hearthstone stood up. Her mouth was firm with determination.

"Mr. Hazeltine, I know how hopeless the case is. But I also know how brilliant you are. You've used amazing tricks to save men from the electric chair. You could save Jim if you would."

"I've never yet defended a man," Gillian answered, "guilty of deliberate murder. I'll talk to Jim if you wish. Have you told this story to any one else?"

"Not a soul. Only three of us knowa"you, Jim, and I."

"Don't let Dawbridge trap you into talking," Gillian advised her. "He will try to make you talk. He will realize that you are his star witness."

"I won't say a word or answer a question."

"Has Jim a lawyer?"

Yes. His name is Seth Peters. He has been out of college only a couple of years."

"Is Peters in with the Clinton political gang?"

"No. He won't go in with them. They've all but driven him out of town."

"Is he a fighter?"

"Yes, but not at all clever."

"I'll talk to Peters, too," Gillian promised.

CHAPTER 5. THE SPOTLIGHT.

CLINTON, a town of some five thousand population, had the air of a town which has successfully, resisted the inroads of modern civilization. Its streets were narrow and badly lighted. The Randainaii River which threaded its way through the town was flanked on both sides by old-fashioned red brick buildings.

The county jail was one of these. Its small windows were thickly barred. It was a grim and somehow sinister structure.

Gillian entered the town by way of a covered bridge and drove into a lot beside the jail. The lot was packed with cars. A large talking picture truck was parked in front of the jail entrance. Cables as thick as pythons went from the truck, up the steps and into the entrance ball.

The large entrance hall was crowded with men and glaring with high-powered lights. For a moment, no one took notice of Gillian or the pale girl with him.

A tall, dark-eyed man with wavy black hair and the look of an actor, a ham actor, Gillian had always thought, was addressing remarks to a microphone held on a pole. He was waving his arms. His eyes were flashing.

"I would like to say to the great American motion picture audiences," he was saying, "that the man who sent that strange missile, that diamond bullet, into the heart of my fellow townsman, is safely behind the bars of this jail. I have dropped all other work and shall prosecute this case without rest until that monster has paid the penalty he so richly deserves!"

They sounded to Gillian like the words of a cheap politician; but Gillian knew that Elton Dawbridge was more than a cheap politician; he was ambitious and clever and vicious. This was the county prosecutor's golden opportunity. A diamond bullet had shot him to the front pages of the nation and onto the screens of fifty thousand motion picture houses a"and he was going to stay there.

A thickset man with small blue eyes and carrot-colored hair who stood beside the county prosecutor with a hard grin was presumably Sheriff Ranse.

A reporter cried: "Hey! Here's Gillian Hazeltine!" And another yelled: "There's Hearthstone!"

The next moment a flashlight powder went off with a, soft boom and a puff of smoke mushroomed against the ceiling. The sheriff and the county prosecutor were fighting their way through the newspapermen who crowded about Gillian and the frightened girl.

Gillian felt uncomfortable. He hadn't wanted to step into the limelight, and he wanted to avoid Elton Dawbridge. They were political enemies, and nothing was to be gained by a public quarrel. A tabloid reporter was plucking at his sleeve.

"Are you taking Truman's case, Mr. Hazeltine?" he eagerly asked.

"No," Gillian said.

The county prosecutor did not hear this question and answer. He made his way to Gillian and said dramatically: "So you've decided to stick your finger into this pie!"

Nellie Hearthstone was clinging to Gillian's arm and was staring at the ring of men as a mouse might stare at a pack of yapping fox terriers.

"I haven't," Gillian made himself heard, "the slightest interest in your pie, Elton. Miss Hearthstone came to me for advice. I advised her to surrender herself. I promised her to have a talk with Truman. Can it be arranged?"

Elton Dawbridge laughed. It was a very irritating laugh. It did something to the hair at the back of Gillian's neck.

The reporters were silent now. Here was news.

"Hazeltine," the county prosecutor said loudly, "I've been wondering if you'd horn into this case. It's just your type, isn't it? Premeditated murdera"beautiful orphan. Let me tell you that the citizens of this county want none of your trickery. Oh, we know how you've bought judges and bribed juries and employed perjured witnesses. But we don't want anything of that kind in Clinton. A decent, fine, kindly member of this community has been foully murdered by a jealous man, a dangerous, vicious man. As the representative of the people, I am going to see that this murderer receives his just deserts."

Gillian remained calm. His enemies had been throwing such insults his way for a good many years. He looked at Elton Dawbridge gravely. A motion picture man said: "Will you give us your opinion of the case, Mr. Hazeltine? The American public will be interested in knowing how you feel about it.

Lights glared into Gillian's eyes. A microphone was held before him. A camera began to grind.

Gillian had never overcome his original feeling of microphone fright. He didn't like the idea of his words going bellowing out into fifty thousand theaters. But he spoke now, as he always did, directly and crisply.

"I have no interest in this case except as a private citizena"as private citizens I always feel that it is unsafe to leap at conclusions or to permit mob madness to influence intelligent decisions. My hope is that mob madness will not result in an innocent man being sent to the electric chair. That is all I have to say."

A nervous-looking man inquired, "Do you say positively that you will not defend James Truman?"

Gillian glanced at the county prosecutor, and said: "My present intentions are not to touch this case. If circ.u.mstances arise which cause me to change my mind, I will change my mind."

Elton Dawbridge now intruded himself into the picture. He came forward with an upraised fist, but he did not strike. It was only a dramatic gesture., "We don't want you to change your mind," he declared oratorically. "This is a decent, clean community. We can wash our dirty linen without help from legal tricksters.

He did not look at Gillian when he said this, but into the twinkling lens of the camera.

The cameraman said, apologetically: "I'm sorry, Mr. Dawbridge, but I ran out of film just before you started. Do you want to say it over again, after I reload?"

Gillian looked at the county prosecutor and grinned. It looked very much like his fighting grin.

"It's too bad, Elton," he said wickedly, "that fifty million motion picture fans are going to be deprived of that gem."

Reporters again crowded about and shot questions. They wanted to know how the Hearthstone girl had got in touch with him, what she had said to him, and what he had said to her.

"She came to my office for advice," he answered. "After Mr. Grundle disappeared, she grew worried. A man with a black beard had been hanging around-"

"That's bunk!" Mr. Dawbridge shouted. "That's a fairy tale!"

"I have nothing more to say," Gillian smiled.

Over against the wall, he saw news photographers posing Nellie Hearthstone. A battery of cameras, suggestive of a firing squad, was clicking away to the blaze of flash light powders.

The lovely orphan had been s.n.a.t.c.hed up by the greedy machinery of publicity, and the equally greedy machinery of the lawa"as practiced in Clinton.

Gillian, as he fought his way to the door, wondered if they would grind and tear her to destruction.

There was no question in Gillian's mind as he left the jail and climbed into his roadster that a special grand jury would rush through an indictment and remand James Truman to the superior court for trial. He would be tried, Gillian guessed, before Judge Lindley.

Shaking off the reporters who had followed him to his car, Gillian drove to a filling station, made inquiries pertaining to Judge Lindley's whereabouts, and was presently parking in the judge's driveway.

Ushered into the study, Gillian found his honor eagerly reading newspaper accounts of the Diamond Bullet murder case.

Judge Lindley was a man of about fifty with moody blue eyes, a thin, cruel mouth and a predatory nose. He was, Gillian well knew, a power not alone in county, but in State politics.