Thomas Stribling - A Daylight Adventure

Frankly, I was moved by the situation, and I was most uneasy about the outcome. I asked Poggioli just what he meant to do.

He glanced at me as we walked. “Cure them of an illusion.”

“Just what do you mean — cure them of an. ”

He nodded at the crowd around us. “I will prove to these people the woman is innocent, but at the same time show that my proof can be of no benefit to the prisoner. This ought to convince the crowd that providence had nothing to do with the matter, and it ought to make them, as a group, a little more rationalistic and matter-of-fact. That is what I consider it my duty to do.”

His whole plan appeared cruel to me. I said, “Well, thank goodness, you won’t be able to do that in five minutes, and the sheriff gave them only that much more time before he starts out.”

My hope to avoid Poggioli’s demonstration was quashed almost at once. I saw the sheriff, a little man, climb out of his car, walk across to the sound-truck, and take the microphone from the minister. Then I heard the sheriff’s voice boom out.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I understand there really is help on the way for Mrs. Cancy. Whether it is miraculous help or jest human help, I don’t know. But anyway I’m extendin’ Mrs. Cancy’s time to prove her innocence one more hour before we start to Nashville.”

A roar of approval arose at this. The minister in the truck then took over the loudspeaker, “Brothers and Sisters,” he began in his more solemn drawl, “they ain’t one ounce of doubt in my soul as to who sent this good man. I’ll introduce him to you. He is Dr. Henry Poggioli the great detective some of you have read about in the magazines. The Lord has miraculously sent Dr. Poggioli to clear Sister Cordy Cancy from her troubles. And now I’ll introduce Sister Cordy to Dr. Poggioli. Doctor, Sister Cordy don’t claim complete innocence, but she’s a mighty good woman. She did, however, forge her husban’s will by takin’ a carbon paper and some of his old love letters and tracin’ out a will, letter by letter. She sees now that was wrong, but she was workin’ for the glory of the Lord when she done it.”

Shouts of approval here—”Glory be!” “Save her, Lord!” and so forth. The divine continued, “Jim Cancy, her husban’, was a mawker and a scoffer. He wouldn’t contribute a cent to the Lord’s cause nor bend his knee in prayer. So Sister Cordy forged his will for religious ends. Now I guess the Lord knew Jim was goin’ to git killed. But Sister Cordy didn’t have a thing in the world to do with that. He jest got killed. And you all know what she done with his money — put a new roof on the Leatherwood churchhouse. Save her, Oh, Lord, from the penitentiary!” (Another uproar of hope and sympathy here.) “And Brothers and Sisters, look how she acted in the trial, when suspicion fell on her for Jim’s murder. She didn’t spend one cent o’ that money for a lawyer. She said it wasn’t hers to spend, it was the Lord’s and He would save her. She said she didn’t need no lawyer on earth when she had one in Heaven. She said He would send her aid. And now, praise His name, He has sent it here at this eleventh hour.” Again he was interrupted by shouts and applause. When a semi-silence was restored, he said, “Dr. Poggioli, you can now prove Sister Cordy innocent of her husband’s murder and set her free.”

In the renewed uproar the minister solemnly handed the microphone down to Poggioli on the ground. I have seldom been more nervous about any event in Poggioli’s eventful career. I didn’t suppose he would be in any actual danger from the irate hill people when they found out what he was trying to do, but on the other hand a mob can be formed in the South in about three minutes. And they are likely to do anything — ride a man out of town on a rail, tar and feather him, give him a switching, depending on how annoyed they are. Poggioli never lived in the South, he had no idea what he was tampering with.

He began, “Ladies and gentlemen, I have little to say. I have just read the report of Mrs. Cancy’s trial in your county paper. From it I have drawn absolute proof of her innocence of her husband’s murder, but unfortunately that proof can be of no benefit to her.”

Cries of “Why won’t it?” “What’s the matter with it?” “What makes you talk like that?”

“Because, my friends, of a legal technicality. If I could produce new evidence the trial judge could reopen her case and acquit Mrs. Cancy. But a reinterpretation of old evidence is not a legal ground for a rehearing. All I can do now is to demonstrate to you from the evidence printed in your county paper that Mrs. Cancy is innocent of murder, but still she must go on with the Sheriff to the penitentiary in Nashville.”

Despair filled the square; there arose outcries, pleas, oaths. The revivalist quashed this. He caught up his microphone and thundered, “Oh, ye of little faith, don’t you see Sister Cordy’s salvation is at hand? Do you think the Lord would send a detectif here when it wouldn’t do no good? I’m as shore of victory as I’m standin’ here. Brother Poggioli, go on talkin’ with a good heart!”

The irony of the situation stabbed me: for Poggioli to intend a purely materialistic solution to the situation, and the minister who had besought his aid to hope for a miracle. It really was ironic. Fortunately, no one knew of this inner conflict except me or there would have been a swift outbreak of public indignation. The scientist began his proof:

“Ladies and gentlemen, your minister has recalled to your memory how Mrs. Cordy Cancy forged her husband’s will by tracing each letter of it with a carbon paper from a package of her husband’s old love letters. But he did not mention the fact that after she did this — after she had underscored and overscored these letters and made them the plainest and most conclusive proof of her forgery — she still kept those love letters! She did not destroy them. She put them in a trunk whose key was lost, and kept them in the family living room. Now every man, woman, and I might almost say child, sees clearly what this proves!”

Of course in this he was wrong. He overestimated the intelligence of his audience. Those nearer to him, who could make themselves heard, yelled for him to go on and explain.

“Further explanation is unnecessary,” assured the psychologist. “If she felt sufficiently sentimental about her husband to preserve his love letters, obviously she did not mean to murder him. Moreover, she must have realized her marked-over letters would constitute absolute proof of the minor crime of forgery. She must have known that if her husband were murdered, her home would be searched and the tell-tale letters would be found. Therefore, she not only did not murder her husband herself but she had no suspicion that he would be murdered. Those letters in her unlocked trunk make it impossible that she should be either the principal or an accessory to his assassination.”

A breath of astonishment went over the crowd at the simplicity of Poggioli’s deduction. Everyone felt that he should have thought of that for himself.

Poggioli made a motion for quiet and indicated that his proof was not concluded. Quiet returned and the psychologist continued.

“Your minister tells us, and I also read it in the evidence printed in your county paper, that Mrs. Cancy did not hire an attorney to defend her in her trial. She used the entire money to place a new roof on the old Leatherwood church, and she told the court the reason she did this was because God would defend her.”

Here shouts arose. “He did! He’s doin’ it now! He’s sent you here to save her!”

Poggioli held up a hand and shook his head grimly. This was the point of his whole appearance in the square — the materialistic point by which he hoped to rid these hill people of too great a reliance on providential happenings and place them on the more scientific basis of self-help. He intoned slowly: