“I should have suspected,” Simpson said in fierce self-recrimination. “This Bosler certainly gave me enough hints. Once I heard her sound off on the subject of Corby, I should have had enough sense to call the whole thing off.”
“Bosh! Nobody could have suspected!” Briggs insisted angrily. “How the devil—”
“Gentlemen!” Carruthers’ stern voice cut them short. Now that the predicted disaster had actually struck, all vacillation had left him. “An end to this feckless discussion! The fact is we have erred badly, and we shall not save the situation by meaningless disputation. Let us be either constructive or quiet!”
For the moment, at least, they chose quiet, using it to think. Then:
“But what are we worried about?” Briggs suddenly asked. “We’re not under any suspicion. We’re in the clear.”
Carruthers froze him with a glare. “You know very well that we don’t operate that way,” he said sternly. “What kind of an organization would we be if we killed people and then let utter strangers take the blame? We’re above that sort of thing, and I had hoped,” he added pointedly, “that we all knew it.”
Briggs leaned back, deflated, but only for a moment.
“I have an idea,” he began, and then noted Carruthers’ narrowed eyes. “Oh, no! This would be completely legal—I mean, quite in keeping with our purpose.” He searched for words that would satisfy the exigencies of the white-haired man. “Just suppose,” he said finally, “that we were in possession of a letter commissioning us to eliminate Mr. Corby. Certainly there is nothing in our bylaws to prevent us from cooperating with the hangman in order to fulfill our obligation, is there? When we agree to kill someone, we don’t agree to use any particular method, and you have to admit the hangman is one way of killing a person.”
Carruthers thought about it a moment and then shook his head.
“It might be a possibility except for two things,” he said. “One, we have no such letter. And two, even if we did have, we have no guarantee he will hang.”
But Briggs was not one to give up easily. “As for the letter, if your conscience really demands it, I’ll write it myself.”
“But where would you get the thousand pounds?” Simpson inquired, in an interested tone.
Briggs shrugged. “Well, we ought to be able to do this one for that forty pounds eight shillings and fivepence, if it comes down to that. We already have our ten thousand quid. And it isn’t as if we would be put to any additional work.”
Carruthers looked at the little man in disgust. “Timothy Briggs, you should be ashamed of yourself! Not only are your arguments specious, but forty pounds! We agreed at the start to be firm with hardship cases, and I feel strongly we must not stray from our principles, even if the hardship case happens to be ourselves.”
“So what’s the answer?” Briggs asked sourly.
“An unfortunate one, I’m afraid.” Carruthers’ face fell. “Clifford, I’m afraid you must confess.”
“Cliff confess?” For a small man Briggs could get a lot of power into his voice when startled.
Carruthers spread his hands helplessly. “I’m sorry, but I see no other solution. After all, we can scarcely let that poor porter continue to suffer the inconvenience, let alone the danger, of his incarceration.”
“What danger!” cried Briggs, incensed. “Drunk, obviously potty—there’s no chance on earth they’d ever hang him!” If this went counter to his previous argument, no one pointed it out.
“Leaving aside the matter of the hangman, the fact is that the Bow Street jail is a damp place, and, as I recall from Mr. Corby’s dossier, he suffers from asthma. No, gentlemen, we must face it. We cannot allow an innocent man to suffer for our mistakes.”
“You’re right, of course,” Simpson acknowledged simply. “Actually, I knew that as soon as we saw the headlines this morning.”
“Now, wait a minute!” Briggs cried.
But Carruthers paid him no attention. “I’m extremely sorry, Cliff, but I can see no other way out. We shall, of course, get you the very best advocate there is. Beyond this, we can only hope for the best.” He fell into thought. The others waited, for it was obvious from his manner that he was not through speaking.
“When I say confess,” he continued at long last, “I mean confess to being there. To being in Bosler’s presence when she—ah, fell. Do you understand?” He sighed deeply. “We have been so erroneous in this case that it is apparent we shall require aid in recovering our position. Only the finest of counsel can help us now.” His deep eyes searched the steady face of Simpson. “I see nothing to be gained by saying more than the minimum. This should clear our unfortunate friend Mr. Corby. Should the law press you, you may say your reticence is simplicity itself: in your opinion Scotland Yard has a tendency to jump to conclusions, as witness the attitude they have taken with the poor porter.”
He searched his brain for further comment that might be of use, but found none. Attempting to smile lightly at his friend, he finished by saying, “Believe me when I say we shall do our best to free you from your cell before the oakum-picking season starts.”
Simpson arose, impressive in his elongated dignity. “I am sure you will both do your best,” he said sincerely. “But even should you fail, I want you to know that the past three months have been the happiest in my life. And I do not mind having to pay for my pleasures. If I am forced to,” he added after a moment’s thought.
The three shook hands emotionally, and Simpson turned toward the stairs.
“Ta,” he said bravely.
“Ta,” they replied, and watched his thin figure disappear beyond the curve of the staircase railing.
“And now,” Briggs said excitedly, once they were alone, “exactly what plan do you have in mind? I know you, Billy-boy, and I’ve known you for a long time. You have something in mind. What is it?”
Carruthers sighed deeply. “I appreciate your confidence,” he said sadly. “I wish you were right. But, unfortunately, for once you have caught me planless.” He arose heavily. “Other, of course, than getting us the best barrister available, and that as quickly as possible!”
Sir Percival Pugh, seated at his luncheon table, was again catching up on his reading of the journal, for he had slept in that morning. He had again paid the Personal column his usual inspection, had read the letters to the editor with faint scorn, and was now concentrating on the crime news. The main story dealt with the death of Mrs. Sarah Bosler and the arrest of the porter, Mr. Arthur Corby, for the deed. And it was while he was wondering if perchance there might be something for him in it that his valet entered and advised him that he had visitors. A Mr. Carruthers and a Mr. Briggs wished to see him, he was told, on a matter of vital importance.
The names struck faint chords in his memory. While his classmates at the university had been swotting on torts and misdemeanors, at-that-time Mr. Pugh had already known that criminal defense was to be his way of life and was poring over the exploits of the more celebrated American lawyers in this field. And as a natural part of his studies he also read every mystery novel he could lay his hands upon. He realized, of course, that Carruthers was far from an unusual name, and offhand he was sure the London Directory contained enough Briggses to fill Wimbledon Stadium; but still the conjunction of the two names was sufficiently indicative as to warrant investigation. He signaled his valet to escort his visitors into his study, and, rising, made his own way there.
He was pleased to note, upon seeing the two, that his memory was as fantastic as ever. While never having met either when they were leading the mystery best-seller lists, he had complete recall even of dust-jacket portraits of thirty years before. With a courteous nod he seated himself and inquired after their business.
There was a slight hesitation, and then Carruthers cleared his throat nervously. “I wonder,” he said at last, “if you have seen the article in today’s journal regarding the mysterious death of a certain Mrs. Sarah Bosler?”
No muscle chan
ged on Sir Percival’s face, but his mammoth brain began warming up for action. He nodded.
“Then,” Carruthers continued, twisting his fingers, “you may be interested in some more recent developments.”
Sir Percival indicated that he would indeed.
“Within the last hour,” Carruthers went on miserably, “a very dear friend of ours has presented himself to the authorities and confessed his presence at the scene. The porter, Corby, is completely innocent, and may even now be free.”
Sir Percival’s eyebrows began to shoot up, but stopped after only a fraction of an inch. He had learned quite early the value of eyebrow control in his profession. A suspicion was beginning to form in his mind that he could shortly change the tab on that interesting folder of his, this time from Future Clients to Present Clients. But was it possible? Of course it was possible! In fact, the style of that advertisement, now that he recalled…
“Please be more explicit,” he said with interest. “Your friend confessed to exactly what?”
Mr. Carruthers hesitated once again and then, aware that muteness could scarcely aid their cause, forced himself to explain. “Only to being with Mrs. Bosler when she took her fatal plunge. Beyond this, he has maintained silence. We—he, that is—felt it would be best to procure adequate legal advice before taking the police into our—his, that is—confidence.”
If Sir Percival’s feelings were ruffled by hearing his legal advice tagged as merely “adequate,” he did nothing to show it, but instead nodded slowly. Briggs, undoubtedly, was the short man seen on the underground platform at the time that American had fallen off, while Carruthers … He put the thought aside; he could sort them out later, if it became necessary. “Your friend’s name wouldn’t happen to be Simpson, would it?”
The two looked startled. They had heard of the famous advocate’s abilities, but this appeared to be magic. Sir Percival smiled at them gently.
“No,” he said, “other than the article in the journal, I know nothing of the case. But I do recall that you two, in conjunction with Mr. Simpson, were the founders of the Mystery Authors’ Club, an organization I have often thought of joining. True, I have never written fiction, but some of my defenses…” He smiled at them in quite a friendly fashion before continuing. “However. So it is Mr. Simpson. Now may I have the complete story, please?”
Briggs leaned forward eagerly to speak, for it was obvious to him that they had been fortunate enough to fall into the hands of a friend; but Carruthers cut him off sharply.
“There really isn’t too much to it,” he said unhappily. “Clifford simply had the misfortune of being present when Mrs. Bosler was about to enter the lift, and, being a gentleman, he slid the door back and allowed her to go in.”
“And then failed to follow because he had a deep-seated fear of lifts?” Sir Percival asked sarcastically, and then paused with a frown. “That’s really not a bad idea.” His fingers drummed the arm of his chair. The fact that his visitors were not telling him the truth did not greatly bother him, since the truth seldom played a great part in his defenses anyway.
“Now, let me see,” he went on, thinking aloud. “I imagine it was necessary to do something about the bulb within the cab. Hmmm. Yes. And of course it would be vital to fiddle with the indicator pointer to have it point to an upper floor while the cab was actually below. And I imagine that afterwards he replaced it in its proper position.”
He didn’t even bother to search the stricken faces before him for verification, but continued almost without pause, his remarkable brain charging along.
“And the doors. Of course he would have to make certain changes in the electrical circuits in order to have the doors open so obediently, but a few hours’ study of the design should have handled that. Hmmm. Yes. Hmmm. I hope, at least,” he said, interrupting his cerebrations long enough to look at the others questioningly, “that he had enough sense to wear gloves?”
“Gloves?” said Carruthers falteringly.
“So he didn’t wear gloves,” said Sir Percival pensively. “And of course he would have to do something about the porter. Hmmm.” He nodded in satisfied agreement with the inner voice that was prompting him. “Yes. The whiskey, of course. It was doped. I begin to see the picture.”
Carruthers looked like a drowning man who, grasping a floating log, suddenly finds himself staring into two beady eyes and a mouthful of jagged teeth. His glance fled to the doorway as if seeking some means of escape.
“Oh, come, now!” said Sir Percival, noting these quite normal reactions. “My dear chaps, I’m a defense barrister, not a member of the police. In order to properly defend a man, I must know exactly what happened.” He drummed the chair arm a bit more, reviewing the picture in his mind with growing satisfaction.
“As I see it, Mr. Simpson went to the Grafton Building with the intent of dispatching Mrs. Bosler under the guise of accident. Had the porter been away from the premises, or had the porter and this Bosler woman not had a history of mutual enmity, Mr. Simpson may well have gotten away with it. But he was not, and they did, so he didn’t.”
Carruthers blinked at the cryptic nature of this last remark; Sir Percival continued, almost as if speaking to himself. “He doped the porter, diddled the pointer, changed the door circuits, and then shoved her down—or let her shove herself down. He then undiddled the pointer, returned the door circuits to their original status, and, being unable to undiddle the porter, left. Leaving the burned-out bulb in position, but also leaving fingerprints in many vital places. Ah, yes.” He stared at the ceiling, a secret smile upon his lips.
“We need not delve into his motives for these strange actions. In the first place, we have no intention of pleading self-defense, and in the second, it must be arranged to remain an accident. But,” he added chidingly, returning his eyes to the startled pair before him, “a logical accident. Not an amateurish attempt that could not even fool the police.”
“But how—” Carruthers began, and then stopped to shake his head to clear it of confusion. When he spoke again it was with more control. “Assuming your analysis correct, Sir Percival, how can you change facts which point so accusingly to our friend?”
“They do?” Sir Percival sounded surprised. “I didn’t think so. Of course, we shall have to make some changes in the script. The pointer will have to go back to its diddled position, and the door—ah, yes, the door! That had best be put out of commission altogether. Some innocent short circuit, or something of that nature.”
He coughed delicately. “I note from the newspaper report that the building is locked and empty, and that at least for today the police have not felt it necessary to place guards there. How long this condition will prevail one cannot say, since Mr. Simpson’s surprising confession may lead them to second thoughts. As to access to the building, I’m afraid one would have to use one’s own resources.” He stared at Briggs as if measuring him for size. “There should be a chair in the porter’s cubbyhole.”
There was a brief silence as Briggs and Carruthers digested this.
“Time,” Sir Percival reminded them gently, “is slipping away.”
“Of course,” Carruthers said shortly, and rose. A sharp throat-clearing from the advocate brought him back to his surroundings. “Oh, yes. I forgot. And your fee?”
Sir Percival’s pleasant expression remained. Even during his previous expostulation his brain had not overlooked this feature of the case. Let me see…. Five hundred pounds per murder would have been beneath their dignity…. Fifteen hundred? Not the types to deal in odd numbers…. Nine clippings in the folder, plus this one….
His voice remained gentle. “Ten thousand pounds,” he said quietly.
Briggs, who had remained silent during the majority of the interview, did not remain so now. He leaped to his feet as if skewered on a sharp spit. “What? Ten thousand pounds?”
“Yes,” said Sir Percival, pleased that he had not been misunderstood. “And by this evening, I’m afraid.”
&
nbsp; Briggs stared at him in shocked disbelief. “But where would we get ten thousand pounds?”
Sir Percival spread his hands. “You have presented me with a problem. In turn, I have presented you with one. I am sure we shall both manage to find solutions.” The small, bright eyes which watched his visitors were gentle and grave, but also adamant.
“But—”
Carruthers stared down at Sir Percival with no expression at all in his eyes. “We shall arrange it somehow,” he said quietly. “As I see it, we have no choice.”
Briggs turned to him in mortal pain. “But—”
“He shall have it!” Carruthers said heavily. “And by this evening. Come, Timothy!”
Their host rose and escorted them to the door. With the subject of fee out of the way, he was his old, gracious self.
“I’m sorry I cannot offer you the use of a screwdriver, but I’m sure you can manage.” He paused. “This evening, when we meet, we can discuss further steps; at the moment the details to be attended to at the Grafton Building must take precedence. I myself shall be quite busy this afternoon. I shall have to speak with my client, and also have a word with the Bow Street jail physician.
“I hope,” he added thoughtfully, “that Mr. Simpson was not so mercenary as to use one of those cheap and unidentifiable drugs in the porter’s whiskey.”
It was evident that Carruthers had had a long and forceful talk with Timothy Briggs that afternoon, for, except for a black scowl as the ten thousand pounds changed hands that evening, the smaller man remained quiet. With the money laid away in his study safe, Sir Percival turned to his two new acquaintances and courteously offered them drinks. To his surprise they refused his offer of either brandy or champagne, but seemed to be content with plain ale. Glasses in hand, he led the way into the library and waited until the others were seated before lowering himself comfortably into his deep chair.
“And now,” he said, opening the conversation, “may I assume that the conditions at the Grafton Building have been met?”
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