“Yes, yes, exactly. Now just what happened after you left Mrs. Ives, Mrs. Platz?”
“Well, after that, sir, we had a pretty hard time. We weren’t happy, you see. I couldn’t forget, and that made it bad for us; and I guess he couldn’t either. Maybe he didn’t want to.”
The flood gates, long closed, were open at last. The small, quiet, tidy person in the witness box was pouring out all her sore heart, oblivious to straining ears, conscious only of the ruddy and reassuring countenance before her.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Platz, but we aren’t permitted to learn the opinions that you formed or the conclusions that you reached. We just want the actual incidents that occurred. Now will you just try to do that?”
The frustrated, troubled eyes met his honestly. “Well, I’ll try, but that sounds pretty hard, sir. What was it you wanted to know?”
“Just what you did when you left Mrs. Ives.”
“Yes, sir. Well, first we tried to get a job together, but we didn’t get much of a one. It was a family of seven, and we did all the work, and Dolph didn’t like it at all; so when spring came he decided to take a position as gardener on Long Island at Oyster Bay, where they wanted a single man to sleep in the garage. We fixed it up so that I was to take a job at Locust Valley as chambermaid, and we’d spend Sundays together, and evenings, too, sometimes. It looked like a pretty good plan, the way things were going, and it didn’t work out so bad until I got that letter.”
“You haven’t told us about any letter, Mrs. Platz.”
“No, sir, I haven’t, that’s a fact. Do you want that I should tell you now?”
“Well, I don’t want you to get ahead of your story. Before you go on, I’d like to clear up one thing. What was the date on which your husband took this position?”
“It was the . I didn’t get mine till about two weeks later.”
“Did you consider that he had left you for good at that time—deserted you, I mean?”
“I certainly didn’t understand any such a thing.” A spark shone in Mrs. Platz’s mild eye. “He came to see me every Sunday of his life just like clockwork, and about once a week besides.”
“He had talked of leaving you?”
“He certainly didn’t, except once in a while when both of us was mad and didn’t mean anything we said—like he’d say if I didn’t quit nagging he’d walk out and leave me cold, and I’d say nothing would give me any more pleasure—you know, like married people do sometimes.”
Mr. Lambert permitted himself a wintry smile.
“Quite. Divorce was not contemplated by either of you?”
“No, sir, we couldn’t contemplate anything like that. Divorces cost something dreadful; and besides, we hadn’t been married no more than a year about.” Mrs. Platz blinked valiantly through the straw-coloured lashes, her mouth screwed to a small, watery smile.
“So, at the time you were speaking of, your relations with your husband were amiable enough, were they?”
“Yes, sir; I don’t have any complaints to make. Everything was nicer than it had been since the fall before.”
“What changed your relations?”
Mrs. Platz, the painful flush mounting once more, fixed her eyes resolutely on the little patch of floor between her and Mr. Lambert.
“It was that—”
“Just a little louder, please. We all want to hear you, you know.”
“It was that waitress of Mrs. Ives’. She sent for him to come back.”
“How do you know that?”
“Well, I’ll tell you how I know it.” Mrs. Platz leaned forward confidentially. It was good, said her quick, eager voice—after all these weary months of silence, it was good to find a friend to listen to this ugly story. “This was the way: Sunday evening came around and he hadn’t never turned up at all.”
“Sunday of what date?”
“Sunday, , sir. I didn’t know what in the world to make of it, but Tuesday morning, what do I get but a letter from Dolph saying that—”
“Have you still got that letter?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have you got it with you?”
“Yes, sir.” Mrs. Platz dipped resourcefully into her shiny black leather bag and produced a soiled bit of blue notepaper.
“This is the original document?”
“Oh, yes, sir.”
“In your husband’s handwriting?”
“Yes.”
“Your Honour, I ask to have this note marked for identification, after which I offer it in evidence.”
“Just one moment, Your Honour. May I ask on what grounds the correspondence of the Platz family is being introduced into this case?”
“If Your Honour will permit me, I’ll explain why these documents are being introduced,” remarked Mr. Lambert briskly. “They are being introduced in order to attack the credibility of one of the prosecutor’s star witnesses; they are being introduced in order to prove conclusively and specifically that Miss Melanie Cordier is a liar, a perjurer, and a despoiler of homes. I again offer this letter in evidence—I shall have another one to offer later.”
Judge Carver eyed the blue scrap in Mr. Lambert’s fingers with an expression of deep distaste. “You say that this proves that the witness was guilty of perjury?”
“I do, Your Honour.”
“Very well, it may be admitted.”
Mr. Farr permitted himself a gesture of profound annoyance, hastily buried under a resigned shrug. “Very well, Your Honour, no objection.”
“The envelope containing this letter is postmarked Atlantic City, ,” remarked Mr. Lambert with unction. “It says:
“Dear Frieda:
“Well, you will be surprised to get this, I guess, and none too pleased either, which I am not blaming you for. The fact is that I have decided that we had better not see anything more of each other, because Melanie and I, we have decided that we can’t get along any longer without each other and so she has come to me
