Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Crooked Candle

“In fixing the time of death,” Dr. Newbern said, “I am acting only upon the evidence which I found in my examination of the body itself. As far as my examination of the environment of the body, that is a matter for the detective. I am testifying here only as an expert medical witness. I am fixing the time of death from various evidences as to the body temperature, the onset of rigor mortis, and the state of progress of certain other very definite post-mortem changes. I am not engaging in any detective work or any speculation predicated upon the position of the body other than as that position has some medical significance.”

“I see. That is, of course, a very conservative and a very proper position for you to take, Doctor.”

“Thank you.”

“I take it, Doctor, that there was every evidence that the blow which caused death was a severe one?”

“The blow was very severe.”

“In your opinion, could that blow have been sustained by a man stumbling and falling back against the threshold?”

“I doubt it very much. In my opinion, that blow was very severe. If it was sustained when the head was thrown against that threshold, then the blow must have been more severe than would have been the case if it had been sustained in an ordinary fall occasioned through stumbling. The man must have been knocked back against that threshold with very considerable force.”

“A force which could have resulted from a blow?”

“That could have done it, yes — a blow struck by a very powerful man.”

“Then it is possible that the victim could have been struck on the point of the chin at the place where you saw that bruise, and the force of that blow would have thrown him back against the threshold and inflicted the injury which caused his death?”

“That’s objected to,” Linton said, “as incompetent, irrelevant and immaterial and improper cross-examination. It assumes a fact not in evidence, and is a frantic attempt by the defense to secure some peg upon which it can hang — a defense of manslaughter.”

“Objection overruled,” Judge Newark said. “The defense is entitled to cross-examine any witness upon any theory he sees fit, just so that theory is pertinent to the issues, and the questions cover matters which directly or by inference were touched upon in the examination in chief. Answer the question, Doctor.”

“That could have been the case.”

“It is possible?”

“It is possible.”

“That’s all.”

Linton said, “Just a minute, Doctor. Inasmuch as this element has been injected into the case, while you say that it is possible that the injury could have been received in such a manner, assuming for the sake of this question that it had been received in such a manner, what would have been the nature of that blow?”

“It would have been a very violent blow. The man must have been struck in such a manner that much of the force of that blow was transmitted to the impact of the head against the threshold. In other words, the head must have struck with greater force than would have been the result of an ordinary fall.”

“A blow that would have taken the injured person entirely off guard?”

“Well, a very violent blow.”

“Not a blow which would have been struck in a combat where the recipient was braced, but a blow which was struck in such a manner that the recipient was caught entirely off guard — is that right?”

“That isn’t at all what I said,” the doctor answered. “I am not an expert on fighting,” he added with a faint smile. “I am only an expert on medical matters.”

“But that seems to be a necessary inference to be drawn from your testimony,” Linton insisted.

“Draw it then,” the doctor announced in a dry, crisp voice. “It is an inference for you to draw. I am only stating the conditions as I found them.”

“But the blow must have necessarily been very violent?”

“It took a very great amount of force to cause the injury which I have described.”

“But can’t you tell us any more than that, Doctor?”

“I can only repeat that it was not the type of injury one would expect to find from the striking of the head caused in an ordinary fall such as is occasioned when a person loses balance. It was an injury that was caused by an impact occasioned by considerable violence. That is not exactly the way I wish to express it, either, Counselor. I will say that under the circumstances which we are now discussing, and the possibility which is being considered in my testimony, the head of the deceased must have struck the threshold with greater force than would have been the result of an ordinary fall. That’s as far as I care to go, and I think that’s as clear as I can make it.”

“In the event that force which contributed to the fall had been a blow, it would have been a heavy blow?” Linton asked.

“Yes.”

“A blow struck by a trained fighter?”

“I cannot swear to that.”

“But definitely a blow that was very violent?”

“In the generally accepted, popular meaning of the word, yes.”

“I think that’s all,” Linton said.

“That’s all,” Mason announced.

“Call your next witness,” the judge said.

“Thomas Lawton Cameron,” Linton announced.

Thomas L. Cameron turned out to be a weather beaten man in the late fifties, broad-shouldered, stocky, competent, with a face covered with a fine network of wrinkles from which steady eyes regarded the world in an intent scrutiny from under black, bushy eyebrows. He was, it transpired, a caretaker at the yacht club where Roger Burbank kept his yacht, and he answered questions in a low-pitched voice, wasting no words, most of the time answering questions in a frank, conversational manner.

Cameron testified that it was Burbank’s custom to take his yacht out over week-ends; that usually he left on Friday about noon; that on the particular Friday in question he had arrived at the yacht club about eleven-thirty; that he had boarded his yacht, cast loose the moorings, hoisted sail, jockeyed the yacht out into the channel and sailed around the point and up the lagoon or estuary, whichever you wanted to call it. That he had then, within an hour, returned in the yacht’s dinghy powered with an outboard motor, had tied the dinghy up and had been away all afternoon. That sometime around five o‘clock the witness had heard the noise of the outboard motor and had glanced out of the window of his cabin workshop. He had seen the yacht’s dinghy chugging down toward the main estuary. There was someone in the stern, but the witness wasn’t prepared to state this person was the defendant. He hadn’t seen the figure clearly enough to identify it.

“Are you acquainted with the deceased, Fred Milfield?” Linton asked.

“Yes.”

“Did you see him that Friday afternoon?”

“I did.”

“When?”

“He arrived at the yacht club about five-thirty and rented a rowboat from me.”

“You’re certain it was Fred Milfield?”

“Yes.”

“Was there some mark of identification on this row boat?”

“Yes, a number.”

“What was the number?”

“Twenty-five.”

“When did you next see this rowboat?”

“Almost twenty-four hours later. We found it Saturday afternoon where it had run aground after having been carried by the tide.”

“Where did it run aground?”

“Up the estuary, about half a mile below where Burbank’s yacht was anchored.”

“ Below the spot where the yacht was anchored?”

“Yes.”

“So the boat must have been cast loose while the tide was running out — sometime after high tide?”

“Well... I guess that’s a matter of deduction.”