31 Bond Street Read Online Free PDF Page A

pretending offense. “I have come to assure the people of this fine neighborhood that the perpetrator of this abominable act will be brought to justice.” Hall’s voice swelled with traces of the South. As a child, his family had migrated between the North and the South, and the District Attorney could enchant a group of New York ladies at Delmonico’s, speaking with the upper-crust tones of the Northern gentry, and then, chameleon-like, drawl to a visiting congregation of the Southern elite, who had suddenly become numerous at political gatherings all over town.
    “I have heard that there are residents of this house, under house arrest, who are being denied counsel,” stated Clinton.
    “An inquest is under way, and there is no need for attorneys,” replied Hall.
    “A Coroner cannot refuse anyone the right to counsel if they request it,” said Clinton.
    “It is not my jurisdiction to interfere with the Coroner. I’d wager you rushed here fresh from reading your morning paper. As much as you may prefer to be the first, there will be time for the piling on of lawyers later.”
    “And I would wager that prosecuting this case in the full view of the press would warm the Mayor’s seat for you,” said Clinton.
    “You came to elect me Mayor?” asked Hall, bowing with mock gratitude. “Or are you here to offer your calling card to the poor widow upstairs?” The district attorney slid away, leaving his insult trailing in the air. Crossing the street, Hall greeted a man in a fur-collared coat and a yellow-and-black-striped vest, and the two men strolled off, huddled together.
    Clinton pushed past the bystanders and headed toward the house. That a murder would become a sensation did not surprise him, but a crime scene where people were in detention and were being denied legal counsel disturbed him. He presented his card to an officer, and as he suspected, the officer recognized his name and swung open the door. Through the gloom of the vestibule, Clinton could barely make out the group convened in the parlor. The shutters were pulled tight across the tall windows to the street, blocking out the morning light. Cigar and coal smoke hung near the ceiling, and the stale odor of tobacco, broadcloth, and damp wool permeated the room.
    The double parlor had been converted into a makeshift interrogation room for the purpose of the Coroner’s inquest. Extra chairs had been brought in, and every seat was filled, with men standing along the walls and leaning against the mantel. A table on one side of the room was for the stenographers, members of the press, who were recording the interviews, word for word. The New York Times donated this service to city proceedings, and in exchange, the newspaper was permitted to print the reports verbatim, making them “The Paper of Record.”
    Opposite the stenographers sat the Coroner’s jury. They were a motley crew of city dwellers: retired men in fraying waistcoats, working men in faded twill, and a few poorer souls who kept theirclothes from falling away with twine. In a peculiar arrangement, Dr. Burdell’s dentist chair had been brought down from his office and placed in the center to be used as a witness chair. Since his murder forty-eight hours before, the doctor’s home had been transformed into an instrument in the investigation of his own death.
    A gavel banged against a table, accompanied by the Coroner’s booming voice. Edward Connery sat framed by a gilt mirror that hung between the windows overlooking the garden.
    “Order! Order!” Connery called out, his r s trilling: “I have a long list of witnesses to interview,” said the Coroner. “I will commence with the Reverend Marvine.”
    Two policemen brought a confused man with oily whiskers into the room. He was led to the dentist chair, where he sat with trepidation, holding on to the arms of the iron chair as he gingerly settled himself in. He stated his name as Uriah Marvine, Reverend of the Reformed Dutch Church. The