However, all readers - sooner or later - find for themselves a literary genre that is fundamentally different from all others. The Accused by Harold R. Daniels (books to read as a couple .TXT) đź“–
- Author: Harold R. Daniels
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Stewart nodded. “I suppose,” he said. “Probably about money. That’s what most family quarrels start over. Was it money, Mr. Morlock?”
Morlock, faintly angry, began, “Look here—”
Stewart interrupted. “Don’t be offended,” he said. “I’ll be frank with you, Mr. Morlock. Your wife died a violent death under circumstances that are a little suspicious. As part of my job I have been inquiring around—as much to protect you from publicity if there is nothing wrong as to find anything criminal in your wife’s death. I’m sure you realize that we always investigate these things.”
Morlock, who had not realized anything of the sort, said, “Certainly.”
Stewart reached for the doorknob. “I’m not going to bother you tonight,” he said. “Later in the week I may want you to come in and make a statement.” And he was gone. Hurriedly, Morlock thought.
He went to bed but not to sleep. While the noise of the traffic, the rustle of humanity died about the old house, he lay with his arms folded under his head staring at nothing and seeing a body twisting down, down, down. Not Louise’s body. Marianna’s.
*
Cory could not sleep either, nor had he slept on Sunday night. When he had seen Morlock emerging from the woods with his face painted with blood, he had turned his old car and raced away from that place. Morlock’s appearance, alone and bleeding, could only mean one thing.
He must have forced Louise to tell who had driven her out there, had helped her follow him. If she had told him that, he would have forced the rest of the story from her and now he must know all about him, Cory. God knew what he had done to Louise. Beaten her and left her lying there, probably, while he came looking for Cory.
Cory lived in a dormitory. Morlock, he knew, could find out where he lived and he would be coming for him. Ah, God. It wasn’t fair. She had started the whole thing. Cory took an armful of his clothing and fled the dormitory. He started for Fall River. Morlock wouldn’t think of looking for him there and he could hide in any one of a thousand rooming houses.
When he reached Fall River he felt the need of a drink. There would be plenty of time later to look for a rooming house. He parked the car and walked into a bar. There were people in this place, lots of them. Morlock could not touch him here.
After a time he decided that he might just as well stay here until dark, in case someone had seen the direction he had taken when he left Warfield and Morlock had found out. He was half again as heavy and strong as Morlock, but it did not occur to him that it bordered on the ridiculous for him to fear the smaller man.
Cory had long since recognized the physical cowardice within him and adjusted himself accordingly. He did not know the extreme of fear until he heard the news on the bar radio. Almost as an afterthought the announcer said, near the close of the program, “The wife of a Ludlow College instructor fell to her death this morning from Abram’s Rock, a landmark in the South Danville vicinity. No further details were available at the time of this news broadcast.”
When he heard the broadcast, Cory literally shook, and the bartender asked, “You all right, mister?”
Cory, certain that Morlock had killed his wife and equally certain that Morlock would kill him if he found him, said, “Sure. I’m okay.” He spent the night sleeplessly in a rooming house. Morlock could not possibly know he was here, could not possibly find him, he told himself. But at each creak of the timbers of the old house, at each street noise, each footstep, he started.
The following morning he rushed from the place to buy a newspaper. He riffled through the pages, looking for a further report on Louise Morlock’s death. When he found it, it told him nothing more than the news broadcast had. He was by this time near the edge of panic. He had very little money left; he could not stay here more than a day or so. He could not go back to Warfield, where Morlock was waiting.
He walked the streets until noon, seeking crowds to mingle with. He then telephoned a friend at Ludlow, unable to stand the uncertainty.
“Johnny,” he asked, “anything new? Anybody been looking for me?
Johnny, recognizing Cory’s voice, said, “Not that I know of. Where you been? You missed two classes.”
Cory answered vaguely, “Oh—around. Hey, that was something about Morlock’s wife, wasn’t it? Was Morlock in his classes?”
“Are you crazy? Of course not. Say, what’s on your mind? You didn’t call up just to talk about Morlock’s wife. With the record you’ve got you’d better get on in to class.”
Cory hung up. It had been silly to ask if Morlock was at class. Certainly he would not be, but he had hoped for it against all common sense. If he knew where Morlock was for just a little while he could relax for that time at least. As it stood now, Morlock might be looking for him at this minute.
He spent Monday night in fear that became increasingly tinged with resentment. Here he was, broke and afraid, and Morlock remained free to find him and kill him as he had killed his wife. Why didn’t the cops—? Cory suddenly grinned as the solution struck him. Of course, he thought. Morlock had fooled them with some lie about an accident. Once they knew the truth—and he would see that they did—they would have to arrest Morlock.
In the morning he called the Warfield Police Station and asked cautiously to speak with the chief.
“You know about what happened to Mrs. Morlock, don’t you? She lived on Kosciusko Street. It was in the newspapers.”
Chief Stewart asked impatiently, “Of course we do. Who is this? What’s your name?”
Cory said, “It doesn’t make any difference what my name is. I just wanted to tell you that Morlock killed his wife. If she went off a cliff it was because he pushed her off.” He hesitated, wanting to make a stronger case against Morlock but wishing at the same time to avoid possibly implicating himself.
“He found out that she was sleeping with some guy,” he said finally, and hung up. He had only to wait until the noon news program now, and he could go back to Warfield. They would have to arrest Morlock now.
Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you have heard the evidence in this case and it now becomes your duty to weigh it, examine it, and determine if the accused is guilty, and, if he is guilty, in what degree. In the last two days the prosecution has brought before you witness after witness to testify against Alvin Morlock. Reviewing them briefly, we have proved that he was heavily in debt, largely as a result of his wife’s extravagance. She gambled with his money and lost it. We know that he held an insurance policy on the life of his wife—a policy taken out only a handful of hours after his marriage. The sum of money was not large—but it would have relieved the pressure of his debts. Isn’t it conceivable that it struck Morlock as a form of grim but poetic justice that she be made to repay the money she had lost? There was only one way that she could pay—with her life. The prosecution contends that Morlock exacted this payment.
Now consider the position of the accused. He was an instructor in a small college in a small town. His character, his reputation, were more important to him than would have been the case had he been a mechanic or a farmer. Louise Morlock left his house. She was arrested in a near-by city and only the merciful consideration of the officer who arrested her saved her from being charged with prostitution. He must have lived in fear that it would happen again and that this time it could not be hushed up. There was literally only one way he could be certain that it could not happen again. If she were dead.
We can believe that she made life intolerable for her husband. You have heard what happened when he made a pathetic effort to entertain his best friend in his own home. She shamed him, humiliated him. If this were not enough, she betrayed him with one of his own students.
All these things the defense will repeat to you in rebuttal, and they are true. We do not deny them. But there is another side to the picture. The side that Louise Morlock would reveal if she were alive.
Through the testimony of Thomas Dodson and Atillio Palaggi we have demonstrated that Alvin Morlock had every opportunity to realize the fact that Louise Palaggi was a woman of little education, little refinement. He took the risk of marrying her for reasons that are still his own since he has not seen fit to take the stand. Perhaps he felt that he could shape her to his own desires. Perhaps he was lonely and sought to warm himself at the fire of marriage. Both of these purposes, I remind you, are selfish.
Let us say that his reasons were the most charitable that we can conceive, and the fact will remain that he took a risk and should have been prepared to pay the price should he lose—and we concede that he did lose. It was a bad marriage. But I remind you that it was a bad marriage for Louise as well as for the accused. She had only one recourse, one escape from it. She could drink, pass her days in drunkenness. Alvin Morlock had no recourse save one. He had to get rid of her. You cannot judge if he was justified in doing so. You can only judge whether or not, on the basis of the evidence you have heard, he did or did not kill her. And if he did, was it a murder of passion, an involuntary act on the part of a man insane with fury, or a cold and calculated obliteration of what he considered an evil.
The defense will plead with you that if he is guilty he is guilty only of the former. He did not know, they will tell you, that she would follow him to Abram’s Rock on a given day and that therefore he could not have premeditated her death. I submit to you that Morlock planned her death over a period of time and that he waited as patiently as any tiger for the opportunity to spring. The law does not set a time limit on premeditation. A man does not have to plan his crime three months or four or two hours or two minutes in advance of its execution in order for premeditation to exist. The actual purpose of the law governing premeditation is to define intent. Did Morlock intend to kill his wife? I say that he did, and that the moment he waited for arrived on the morning of Sunday, May 20th, when she allowed herself to be tolled to the cliff from which she plunged to her death.
Alvin Morlock did not love his wife. If any love ever existed, he helped destroy it. Yet, when he ran to the filling station to report her fall and to seek help, he pretended to be pitifully broken up. He carried on the pretense with Doctor Sedge and with the medical examiner… and I remind you that he was startled when he learned that the medical examiner had been
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