Coroner’s bringing his jury out here for the inquest. Don’t get excited and soon you’ll know all that anybody knows.”
As he spoke the Coroner arrived, with another deputy shepherding the jury, six unhappy-looking wretches, four men and two women, all middle-aged except one of the men, who looked like a young law student. On their heels came the interne who had responded to the first call and the two orderlies who had come with him, all looking like members of the high school football team. A dozen other men arrived. The Coroner at once took the jury and a number of others into the office, where Mr. Flynn pointed to the spot where the body had been found. The Coroner was evidently hurrying, for he bowed once or twice, in an apologetic sort of way, to Sylvia, and kept saying to his jury: “Just so you get the picture, that’s all. We’ll put it all in evidence in the regular way, under oath when we examine witnesses, but it’ll save time if you look the place over and get it all clear in your minds.”
He then led the way back to the casino, where a roulette table had been set in the middle of the floor for his convenience, with chairs for the jury and a single chair as a witness stand. He sat down and Mr. Flynn sat beside him, rapping for order with the croupier’s stick and announcing the opening of an inquest into the death of (with a glance at a memorandum he held in his hand) Victor Alexis Olaf Hermann Adlerkreutz, and summoning all who had knowledge of the event to come forward and give their evidence. He then directed witnesses to hold up their right hands, so that they might all be sworn together. Quite a few hands went up, including a number of constabular hands. He then bound them to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, and the Coroner cleared his throat and called the young interne who had pronounced Vicki dead. He gave his testimony briefly, and the orderlies, on inquiry from the Coroner, said that was how they remembered it. Next was the physician who made the autopsy. He reported with considerable medical verbiage. Then police photographers were called and identified their work. Tony was called. He hadn’t witnessed the shooting itself, he said, but he had supplied the gun on Mr. Spiro’s plea they wanted to rehearse a picture scene. Mr. La Bouche was next, and repeated what he had said earlier in the day, with gruesome details this time, about how he had been manipulating the imaginary camera, as represented by the electric fan, and had seen the handkerchief tighten on the trigger, paying not the least attention to it, and not even realizing the significance of the pistol report for some moments, so accustomed was he to blank cartridges in his work. The Sheriff stared at him, after this glib and wholly convincing tale, in wonderment.
It must have been an hour before Dmitri was called, and he took his place in the chair with the air of one who had indeed played many tragic roles in his life, not all of them on the stage.
Prompted by the Coroner, he told once more the harrowing tale he had told in the afternoon. But he filled it with little variations, he noted how odd he had thought it that Vicki should insist on all this pother to understand a scene which was really the director’s business anyway, a point he hadn’t bothered to mention before. He told how he expostulated at the time it was taking, on the ground that he was hungry, a bit of evidence that drew a smile from all, even the Coroner. At one point the Sheriff interrupted sharply: “Are you trying to tell us that this here Adlerkreutz killed himself?”
“I don’t know, Sharf. I really don’t know. It was all very funny. I tell you, I feel sure I saw Tony take shell from a gun. How did one more shell enter this gun? Did Vicki put it there? I don’t know. I only tell what happened.”
The Coroner looked at him sharply, and said: “Wait a minute, wait a minute. You didn’t say one word about this
As he spoke the Coroner arrived, with another deputy shepherding the jury, six unhappy-looking wretches, four men and two women, all middle-aged except one of the men, who looked like a young law student. On their heels came the interne who had responded to the first call and the two orderlies who had come with him, all looking like members of the high school football team. A dozen other men arrived. The Coroner at once took the jury and a number of others into the office, where Mr. Flynn pointed to the spot where the body had been found. The Coroner was evidently hurrying, for he bowed once or twice, in an apologetic sort of way, to Sylvia, and kept saying to his jury: “Just so you get the picture, that’s all. We’ll put it all in evidence in the regular way, under oath when we examine witnesses, but it’ll save time if you look the place over and get it all clear in your minds.”
He then led the way back to the casino, where a roulette table had been set in the middle of the floor for his convenience, with chairs for the jury and a single chair as a witness stand. He sat down and Mr. Flynn sat beside him, rapping for order with the croupier’s stick and announcing the opening of an inquest into the death of (with a glance at a memorandum he held in his hand) Victor Alexis Olaf Hermann Adlerkreutz, and summoning all who had knowledge of the event to come forward and give their evidence. He then directed witnesses to hold up their right hands, so that they might all be sworn together. Quite a few hands went up, including a number of constabular hands. He then bound them to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, and the Coroner cleared his throat and called the young interne who had pronounced Vicki dead. He gave his testimony briefly, and the orderlies, on inquiry from the Coroner, said that was how they remembered it. Next was the physician who made the autopsy. He reported with considerable medical verbiage. Then police photographers were called and identified their work. Tony was called. He hadn’t witnessed the shooting itself, he said, but he had supplied the gun on Mr. Spiro’s plea they wanted to rehearse a picture scene. Mr. La Bouche was next, and repeated what he had said earlier in the day, with gruesome details this time, about how he had been manipulating the imaginary camera, as represented by the electric fan, and had seen the handkerchief tighten on the trigger, paying not the least attention to it, and not even realizing the significance of the pistol report for some moments, so accustomed was he to blank cartridges in his work. The Sheriff stared at him, after this glib and wholly convincing tale, in wonderment.
It must have been an hour before Dmitri was called, and he took his place in the chair with the air of one who had indeed played many tragic roles in his life, not all of them on the stage.
Prompted by the Coroner, he told once more the harrowing tale he had told in the afternoon. But he filled it with little variations, he noted how odd he had thought it that Vicki should insist on all this pother to understand a scene which was really the director’s business anyway, a point he hadn’t bothered to mention before. He told how he expostulated at the time it was taking, on the ground that he was hungry, a bit of evidence that drew a smile from all, even the Coroner. At one point the Sheriff interrupted sharply: “Are you trying to tell us that this here Adlerkreutz killed himself?”
“I don’t know, Sharf. I really don’t know. It was all very funny. I tell you, I feel sure I saw Tony take shell from a gun. How did one more shell enter this gun? Did Vicki put it there? I don’t know. I only tell what happened.”
The Coroner looked at him sharply, and said: “Wait a minute, wait a minute. You didn’t say one word about this
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