Out on Bail

By R. L. Goldman

Out on Bail, first published in 1937, is a fast-paced murder mystery involving a doctor arrested for murder, who, while out on bail, delves into the city’s dark underworld and discovers the real criminal. His trial ends in an exciting climax with the guilty person revealed. Author Robert Leslie Goldman (1895-1950) was a prolific author of novels and detective and crime books.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Phocion Publishing
• Release date: Nov 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9781789128772

R. L. Goldman

Author Robert Leslie Goldman (1895-1950) was a prolific author of novels and detective and crime books.

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Publisher’s Note

Although in most cases we have retained the Author’s original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern reader’s benefit.

We have also made every effort to include all maps and illustrations of the original edition the limitations of formatting do not allow of including larger maps, we will upload as many of these maps as possible.

OUT ON BAIL

R. L. GOLDMAN

Out on Bail was originally published in 1937 by Coward-McCann, Inc., New York.

• • •

For

Carrie, Mary Lee and Helen

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Contents

TABLE OF CONTENTS 4

ONE — CORPUS DELICTI 5

TWO — INFORMATION 32

THREE — REASONABLE HYPOTHESIS 60

FOUR — WRIT OF ERROR 86

FIVE — REASONABLE DOUBT 120

REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER 159

ONE — CORPUS DELICTI

IN response to the light, rapid knock I went to the door of my apartment and opened it, wondering who could be calling at one o’clock in the morning. There were two men in the corridor, one standing a pace behind the other. I looked at them and knew that I had never seen either of them before. They were as tall as I, about six feet, and powerfully built, with thick necks, large hands and weather-beaten faces. Somehow, I knew they were policemen, though they weren’t in uniform.

What’s up? I asked.

Are you Dr. Robert Jason? asked the man in front.

Yes, I said.

I was standing a little to one side and they stepped past me into the living room, the second man closing the door and leaning back against it. The first man glanced swiftly around the room and then looked searchingly at me. I still had the notion they were policemen, but I said, not too seriously:

What is this? A hold-up?

I’m Captain Masters of the Detective Bureau, the first man said, and showed me the badge under his lapel.

My conscience was reasonably clear, but I had a queer feeling at the pit of my stomach. My mind Hashed back over my recent past but I remembered nothing I had done to invite the interest of the police. Yesterday I had traveled something over sixty miles an hour on Lincoln Boulevard and this morning I had accidentally gone through a red light at the intersection of Carney Avenue and High Street. But those were things a citizen got away with, if he were not tagged on the spot.

The detectives were looking me over. I had not finished undressing and I still wore shoes, socks, underwear and trousers. Masters said:

Just get home?

About twenty minutes ago, I replied. Do you mind telling me what this is all about?

Yes, right now. Let’s sit down. I want to ask you some questions.

The temptation was strong to put on an act of righteous indignation, but I decided to be even-tempered and agreeable. I shrugged my shoulders and seated myself in the Cogswell, taking a cigarette from the package on the end-table. The captain’s companion remained standing at the door and Masters took a chair facing me. I could deduce nothing from his manner. He was neither courteous nor gruff. His red beefy face was utterly impassive and inscrutable.

He drew a handkerchief from his pocket and held it out to me.

This yours?

I took it and glanced at it. It was of white linen with an embroidered J in one corner. It was one of several that Mary Amberson had given me for Christmas.

Where did you get this?

I’ll ask the questions, Masters said. You answer ‘em. That belong to you?

Yes.

Have it with you tonight?

Yes. I carried it in the breast pocket of my coat.

He stretched out a hand and took the handkerchief from me, returning it to his pocket. I realized that I was in serious trouble, but I could not even guess at the nature of it. I quieted my inner panic with the thought that, having done nothing wrong, I had no need to fear. I would keep cool, be patient and answer truthfully every question asked me. If he would only tell me what had happened! How had he come into possession of my pocket handkerchief, now unfolded and wrinkled, as if it had been washed but not ironed? Masters was observing me closely.

You visited Dr. Amberson this evenin’, he said slowly. You got there at about eight-thirty. What time did you leave?

I hesitated. I wanted to answer quickly but my tongue was overwhelmed by a rush of thoughts. My mind shouted questions that drowned out Masters’. Had something happened to Dr. Amberson? What had he concealed from me this evening? What had he been afraid of? I remembered his nervous manner. I recalled what he said to me concerning the return of my notes: "I want you to have them. Tear them up. In case anything should happen to me suddenly, I don’t want them to become part of my estate."

With an effort I brought back my mind to Masters’ question.

I left Dr. Amberson’s at about a quarter to ten, I said.

And you just got home twenty minutes ago?

I can account for my time, I said. When I left Dr. Amberson’s I made a professional call. I went to the residence of Mr. John Dixon on Kirkwood Avenue. I got there a little after ten and left around ten-thirty. Then I went to General Hospital and called for a friend. She’s a nurse there and was off duty at eleven. We took a drive and stopped off at Douglas Tavern for something to eat. I took her home at twelve-fifteen and then came back here.

Masters looked away and rested his eyes on my black bag which stood on the table.

Did you have that bag with you at Dr. Amber-son’s?

Yes. I expected to call on Mr. Dixon at ten.

Do you carry ether in that?

Yes, I said.

Masters rose and walked to the table. He put his hand on the bag as if to open it; then suddenly gave his attention to the wastebasket on the floor near the table. The torn papers attracted him and he scooped them out, put them on the table and began to fit the halves together. As I watched him, I had a presentiment of what was in store for me. I knew nothing and yet I seemed to know everything. Fear generates the power of prophecy, and at that moment I was cold with fear and a sense of helplessness.

The detective left his place at the door and stood beside Masters. The captain said in a pleased tone:

Well, Simpson, this looks like the berries. A bunch of demand notes made out to Dr. Howard Amberson and signed by Robert Jason. Look at the dates. They seem to run over a period of years and amount to real money.

Simpson nodded eagerly. You were looking for a motive, Captain. I guess this is it. I told you it was robbery, even though the money and jewelry wasn’t touched. What I said was that the man went through the safe looking for something special. He wasn’t interested in the other valuables. He tapped the papers with his knuckles. These prove I was right.

I sat and listened to them, uncertain whether I was dreaming or awake. Just as in dreams the most illogical events seem plausible and we possess an almost psychic understanding of the past and fore-knowledge of the future, so now I knew exactly what had happened and what was going to happen. I thought: Dr. Amberson was murdered and they think I murdered him. They think I killed him in order to get back my notes.

I knew that I should do something to defend myself, but I didn’t know what to do or say. I ought not to know that Dr. Amberson was murdered. If I revealed the knowledge, the detectives would add it to the evidence against me.

Masters carefully picked up all the scraps of paper and put them into a letter-case. He turned to me.

You’d better get dressed. We’re takin’ you along with us.

Without a word I got up and went into my bedroom. Simpson followed me in and stood by while I put on my shirt and tie and the tan gabardine coat I had worn that evening. When we returned to the living room Masters picked up my bag and said, Let’s get going.

A blue Buick sedan stood at the curb in front of the apartment building. Simpson took the wheel and the captain and I sat in the back. I thought they were taking me down to police headquarters, but Simpson swung the car around and drove west on Lincoln Boulevard. When he turned off into Beechwood Avenue I knew that our destination was the home of Dr. Amberson.

During the brief ride I remained silent. No matter how unnatural my silence appeared, I decided that the less I said the better. Later on I’d have plenty of opportunity to talk. I was able to think a little more clearly now, to examine the deck and see how the cards were stacked against me. I had visited Dr. Amberson that evening and there were no witnesses to our conversation. George, the colored man, had let me in, but he wasn’t around when I left...The detectives had found my handkerchief and implied that there was ether on it...In my wastebasket they had found tom demand notes, the total amount of which was over nine thousand dollars. I could explain everything except the ether on my handkerchief; I could explain, but I couldn’t prove the truth of my explanations.

I tried to reassure myself with the old platitudes: A man is innocent until he is proved guilty. The burden of proof rests on the accuser. A man can’t be convicted on circumstantial evidence. A clean record is a man’s ablest defender. I found a little ease and comfort in them because I did not know then what I know now.

I have tried to come through that nightmare experience without cynicism or bitterness, but I learned a few things that I’ll never forget. I know that except in a technical legal sense a man is guilty as hell until he and his few loyal friends, with the help of God, prove his innocence; that circumstantial evidence can be most damning because it can lie more convincingly than any human witness; that a clean record looks clean no longer when the stain of accusation is smeared across it.

As we drove through Riverton’s deserted residential streets that warm June night, another thought gave me momentary hope. I had jumped to the conclusion that Dr. Amberson was murdered. Perhaps the crime committed was robbery. There was that reference to ether. He was anesthetized and had not recovered consciousness when the detectives left to get me. That was why they were taking me to his home. When he came around, he would explain my possession of the notes.

I had the neat solution all worked out by the time Simpson braked the car in front of the Amberson residence. At the curb ahead of us was a radio patrol car and in the driveway stood a Lampkin Brothers ambulance and the maroon Packard sedan that belonged to Jim Lark. I was glad to know that Jim was there, though I wasn’t sure how he could help me. He could speak a good word for me about my friendly relations with Dr. Amberson and the family, but he probably knew nothing about the notes, and he could corroborate very little of the story I would tell.

I walked between Masters and Simpson to the lighted front porch. An officer from the radio car stood near the door and we went past him into the hall. I looked quickly to the right, but the door to Dr. Amberson’s study was dosed. Masters touched my elbow and piloted me toward it. Before we reached it, it was drawn open and Jim Lark appeared. Behind him, standing back in the room, was a uniformed policeman. Jim’s blond hair, usually so immaculately groomed, was rumpled and his lean, handsome face was drawn with sadness. He stood and looked at me in surprise. I said:

What’s the matter, Jim? Is——?

I got no further with my question. Masters stepped between us and said quickly:

I don’t want you two to talk together, Dr. Lark. Please step out here in the hall and wait till I call you.

Jim came out of the study, saying nothing but looking at me in that same perplexed, anxious way. Masters took hold of my arm and in a moment he, Simpson and I were in the study and the door was closed.

Once inside the room I had no need to ask questions. The tragic story of what had happened lay before me. With the exception of several ghastly details, the study was the same as when I had left it three hours ago. The green velour draperies were drawn across the windows despite the warmth of the night. The door of the small safe that stood in a corner between the bookcases was open. It had been open when I had entered the room earlier that evening, and it was open when I left. But now the contents were in disorder and a number of papers were scattered about on the floor. And the odor of ether hung like an invisible fog in the hot still air.

When my eyes dropped to the papers on the floor, I saw Dr. Amberson. He was lying on his back, between the desk and the pushed-back chair. I could see at a glance how he had died; one of the tasseled drapery ropes was pulled and knotted tightly around his throat. With a sharp intake of breath, I turned away from that death mask of horror, the eyes bulging from their sockets, the open, distorted mouth. Looking away I met the level gaze of Captain Masters. I spoke from the depths of my heart.

He was my friend, I said. I didn’t do this.

Masters said, Somebody did, and in his flat, emotionless tone there was neither accusing sarcasm nor a touch of sympathy with me. He stooped over the telephone on the desk and dialed a number.

Hello. This is Masters. Mr. Wilson there?...Put him on the wire.

Waiting, he put the mouthpiece of the telephone against his chest and spoke to the uniformed man who stood near Simpson at the door.

Anything new, Babcock?

Casey was here and took some pictures. He got everything. Nothing was touched.

What about prints?

He got some off the desk, the door of the safe, and the telephone, I think. He said he’d see you at headquarters.

Masters started to attention and spoke into the telephone:

Hello, Mr. Wilson. Masters speakin’. We’re at Amberson’s. We got that young Dr. Jason here...Yeah...You want us to bring him down or do you want to come out here?...O.K. We’ll wait.

He put away the telephone and addressed Babcock.

Tell the fellows on the ambulance they can come and get the body. You’ll have to move Dr. Lark’s car out of the driveway.

Babcock left the room, and Masters and Simpson seated themselves on the divan. They did not speak to each other or to me. I sank into a chair, reached into my pocket for my cigarette case and then realized that I did not want to smoke. I thought of Mary. Did she and her mother know? Had Jim sent them a telegram? What an ending to what Mary had called her parole day, the day of her graduation from Benton College! Mrs. Amberson had gone East to attend the exercises and Dr. Amberson was to have gone with her. But at the last minute, after his suitcase was packed and his train ticket purchased, he had called it off, and Mrs. Amberson went alone. And now....

Two men from the ambulance, wearing rumpled white coats, entered with a stretcher. Masters said,

O.K., boys, and they lifted Dr. Amberson’s body and laid it on the stretcher, covered it with a sheet and carried it out of the room.

2

Masters said:

"Here’s what we have, Mr. Wilson. At eleven-fifty-three the nigger who works here telephoned headquarters. Babcock and Foster, Car 17, got here at eleven-fifty-six. They found Dr. Amberson dead and called me at headquarters. I came out with Simpson and we found everything just as it is now, except the body was layin’ right there between the desk and the chair where it had slumped down off the chair. Casey was here and got pictures. He’ll have ‘em ready by the time we get back to headquarters.

Anyway, me and Simpson looked around and it was plain the motive was robbery. You can see how somebody went through that safe in a hurry. Still, it wasn’t a housebreaking job. In the drawer there’s a couple of hundred in currency and a box of jewels. They weren’t touched. I know I gave you most of this over the ‘phone, Mr. Wilson, but I want to go over it to make sure we got it all straight from the beginnin’.

Wilson nodded. The assistant district attorney was a pompous little man, inclined to stoutness. He had small feet and small plump hands and he wore a solitaire diamond on the fifth finger of his left hand. Another solitaire gleamed from a pin in his tie. He had the important, officious bearing of many undersized men whom nature has cheated with a slightly deficient pituitary gland. At forty-five his thick, wavy hair was iron-gray and I was sure he would not have had it otherwise. It added just that touch of judicial dignity that he desired.

I had the unwelcome opportunity of learning a great deal about Carl Wilson in the next few months. He wasn’t much of a lawyer, but the right political connections had got him the appointment as assistant district attorney. McLeod, the D.A., was in poor health, and for the past year and a half Wilson had run the office. He ran it, if not with notable success, at least with notable publicity. The friendly newspapers called him dynamic and gave him a good deal of space. McLeod, who was waiting for a thrombosis to carry him off, was definitely out of the picture.

Wilson took full advantage of his opportunity. He leaped into the limelight and fought hard to stay there. As Nat Hollis told me, if he were on one side of the fence and the limelight were on the other, if he couldn’t bring the limelight over to his side, he just climbed over. The other lawyers of the DA.’s staff hated him intensely. He let them prepare the cases, but on the day of trial Wilson was in the courtroom where the reporters sat. He had a booming, vibrant courtroom voice, an eye for dramatics and a fondness for hyperbole. Whenever it benefited the right people, he made a political issue out of a case. He made a political issue out of me.

At this moment, while Masters was methodically setting the stage, he ignored me. He was relaxed in his chair, with his fingers clasped over his rounded stomach and his eyelids lowered.

Go on, he said. Masters went on.

"Nobody was in the house except the nigger that works here. We grilled him and found out that Mrs. Amberson went to Boston three days ago for her daughter’s graduation. While she was away the cook was takin’ a vacation and nobody was in the house except the doctor and this nigger who could do the cooking.

"From what the nigger said, nobody called at the house this evenin’ except Dr. Jason. He came at eight-thirty and the nigger let him in. He came in here where Dr. Amberson was sittin’ and shortly after that the nigger went out. He says the doctor let him off for the evenin’ and let him use the car. He called for his brother and another coon and they went to the Jewel. That’s a colored movie on South Main. We checked up on that and the story is O.K. He got back here at about a quarter to twelve. Before he went to his room over the garage he came in the house to see if everything was locked up. The front door wasn’t locked, so he locked it and switched off the hall light. Then he saw that a light was still burnin’ in his study. He rapped on the door and got