Evan Hunter - Lizzie

“Anybody else?”

“Not that I recall.”

“Did you take this out of the box yourself?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Mullaly didn’t?”

“No, I don’t think he did.”

“Now, if I understand you,” Robinson said, showing him the small section of wood, “this piece was in the eye of the hatchet.”

“Yes, sir.”

“That has been driven out since.”

“By somebody.”

“Yes, not by you. And taking those two together, that was all you found in the box, except some old tools which you did not take out at all. Is that right?”

“That is all we found in connection with that hatchet.”

“You did not find the handle ? The broken piece? Not at all?”

“No, sir.”

“You didn’t see it, did you?”

“No, sir.”

“Did Mr. Mullaly take it out of the box?”

“Not that I know of.”

“It was not there?”

“Not that I know of.”

“You looked in so that you could have seen it if it was in there.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You have no doubt about that, have you at all?”

“What?”

“That you did not find the other piece of the handle that fitted on there?”

“No, sir.”

“You would have seen it if it had been, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, sir, it seems to me I should.”

“There was no hatchet handle belonging to that picked up right there?”

“No, sir.”

“Or anywhere around there?”

“No, sir.”

“Or any piece of wood — beside that — that had any fresh break in it?”

“Not that came from that hatchet.”

“Or in that box, anyway?”

“No, sir, not in the box.”

“Or round there anywhere?”

“No, sir, not that I am aware of. I did not see any of it.”

“What did you do with the hatchet head, Mr. Fleet?”

“I put it back in the box.”

My name is Philip Harrington. I’ve been on the Fall River police force ten years last March. My rank is captain. My position in August of last year was patrolman. I was at dinner, had just finished dinner when my attention was called to the trouble on Second Street. I immediately put on my coat and hat and took a horse car. I got to the house between fifteen and twenty minutes past twelve. That’s my judgment, I did not consult a timepiece. I was led to think so by the time the car arrived at City Hall. It was what was known as the “quarter-past-twelve” car.

I went in the front gate, walked along the yard front of the house to the north side, along the north side to the north door on the side. Mr. Sawyer was at the north door. I went into the house and saw Officer Devine on the ground floor. Miss Lizzie Borden was not there. I saw several ladies there, I didn’t know who they were. I asked a question or two, and I was directed to Miss Borden’s room. In that room, I saw Miss Borden and Miss Russell. Miss Lizzie Borden, I mean, of course.

I stepped into the room, and taking the door in my right hand, I passed it back. Miss Russell stood on my left, and she received the door and closed it. There was no one except Miss Russell and Miss Borden there at the time, not outside of myself. Miss Russell stood in front of a chair which was at the north side of the door which I entered. Miss Lizzie Borden stood at the foot of the bed, which ran diagonally across the room.

The dress she had on was a house wrap, a striped house wrap, with a pink and light stripe alternating, the pink the most prominent color. On the light ground stripe was a diamond figure formed by narrow stripes, some of which ran diagonally or bias to the stripe, and others parallel with it. The sides were tailored, fitting — or fitted — to the form. The front from the waist to the neck was loose and in folds. The collar was standing, plaited on the sides and closely shirred in front. On either side, directly over the hips, was caught a narrow, bright red ribbon, perhaps three-fourths of an inch — or an inch — in width. This was brought around front, tied in a bow, and allowed to drop, with the ends hanging a little below the bow. It was cut in semitrain or bell skirt, which the ladies were wearing that season...

“Don’t go quite so fast. Cut in what?” Robinson said.

“A bell skirt.”

“Bell skirt?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You usually called that kind of a dress a bell skirt, did you?”

“The cut of the dress. Not that kind of a dress.”

“That was your description of it? As you spoke in conversation about it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Nobody told you that?”

“No, sir.”

“What has been your business before you became a policeman?”

“I was in the painting business.”

“What before that?”

“I was in the book business before that.”

“Prior to that?”

“Wood business.”

“Were you ever in the dressmaking business?”

“No, sir.”

“Were you ever in the dry-goods business?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you ever have anything to do with colors except as a painter?”

“Nothing any more than to admire them.”

“You admire them. But did you admire a red ribbon on a pink wrapper?”

“Well, I am not speaking of my taste, sir.”

“Go on, then.”

I told Miss Lizzie I would like to have her tell me all she knew about this matter.

She said, “I can tell you nothing about it.”

I asked her when she last saw her father.

She said, “When he returned from the post office with a small package in his hand and some mail. I asked him if he had any for me, and he said no. He then sat down to read the paper, and I went out in the barn. I remained there twenty minutes. I returned and found him dead.”

“When going to or coming from the barn,” I said, “did you see anybody in or around the yard? Or anybody going up or down the street?”

“No, sir,” she said.

“Not even the opening or closing of a screen door?” I said. “Why not? You were but a short distance, and you would have heard the noise if any was made.”

“I was up in the loft,” she said.

I was silent a moment, and then I said, “What motive?”

“I don’t know,” she said.

“Was it robbery?”

“I think not, for everything appears all right, even to the watch in his pocket and the ring on his finger.”

I then asked her if she had any reason to suspect anybody, no matter how slight. “No matter how insignificant it may be,” I said, “it may be of great moment to the police, and be of much assistance to them in ferreting out the criminal.”

“No,” she said. “I... have not.”

“Why hesitate?” I asked.

“Well,” she said, “a few weeks ago father had angry words with a man about something.”

“What was it?”

“I don’t know, but they were very angry at the time, and the stranger went away.”

“Did you see him at all?”

“No, sir, they were in another room. But from the tone of their voices, I knew everything wasn’t pleasant between them.”

“Did you hear your father say anything about him?”

“No, sir.”

About here, I cautioned her of what she might say at the present time. “Owing to the atrociousness of this crime,” I said, “perhaps you are not in a mental condition to give as clear a statement of the facts as you will be on tomorrow. By that time you may recollect more about the man. You may remember of having heard his name, or of having seen him, and thereby be enabled to give a description of him. You may recollect of having heard your father say something about him or his visit. By that time you may be in a better condition to relate what you know of the circumstances.”