Q. Mr. Briggs! No more questions, your Lordship.
Witness: Mr. William Carruthers.
Examined by: Sir Percival Pugh for the Defense.
Q. It is my understanding, Mr. Carruthers, that you, Mr. Briggs, and Mr. Simpson formed a triumvirate at your club, and that for this reason you were usually present when Mr. Briggs and Mr. Simpson were. In order to save the time of the court, therefore, allow me to put one over-all question: Do you corroborate Mr. Briggs’s statements?
A. Completely.
Q. Thank you. Now one thing further, and possibly a delicate and unexpected subject, but I must ask you to bear with me. How old are you, Mr. Carruthers?
A. Sixty-nine years old. I shall be seventy next month.
Q. Are you a wealthy man?
A. You must be joking. I have nothing.
Q. When you came to me and asked me to undertake the defense of Mr. Simpson, did you find my fee, shall we say high?
A. Yes. Extremely high. Exorbitantly high.
Q. Yet you made no attempt to have me reduce it. Why was that?
A. To be honest, I knew your reputation as far as fees went. But it seemed to me to be far more important that Cliff—Mr. Simpson, that is—be freed of this monstrous charge.
Q. I see. Tell me, Mr. Carruthers, how were you able to arrange the money for the payment of my fee?
A. I don’t quite see how that matters.
Q. Allow me to connect it up later. Just answer the question, please.
A. Well, we—Briggs and myself, that is—cashed the last of our Postal Savings, which actually weren’t very much; then we sold everything we had, our books, our few pitiful mementos of the past that we had gathered so painfully over the years, our miserable, shabby belongings. Cliff, of course, also chipped in his tiny mite. And we borrowed, from all who would listen to our anxious plea. You have been paid, Sir Percival, but, believe me, the cost will burden us for the rest of our lives!
Q. Tell me, Mr. Carruthers, would either you or Mr. Briggs have taken such drastic financial steps had you felt for one moment that Mr. Simpson was guilty of a crime?
A. Never; nor would Mr. Simpson have permitted us to. But we did not hesitate, for it was obvious to us that some horrible mistake had been made, and the most important thing—far more important than mere money—was that it be rectified.
Q. Thank you, Mr. Carruthers. Your witness, Sir Osbert.
Cross-Examination by Sir Osbert Willoughby for the Crown:
Q. Tell me, Mr. Carruthers, exactly what was Sir Percival’s fee?
A. I’m afraid I must refuse to answer that question. I prefer to keep the extent of our shameful poverty to myself and my two friends.
Q. Hmmm! Thank you, Mr. Carruthers. No more questions.
Witness: Mr. Arthur Corby.
Examined by: Sir Percival Pugh for the Defenses
Q. Hullo, Mr. Corby. We meet again. Tell me, to renew our refreshing conversation of yesterday, have you ever in your life met, or even seen, Mr. Simpson before yesterday?
A. Never.
Q. Are you sure? You never sat beside him in an omnibus, or ran across him in a pub, or stood beside him in a cinema queue?
A. I’m positive. I wouldn’t have forgotten anyone that tall and skinny.
Q. Then, Mr. Corby, could you please explain how, if Mr. Simpson wished to drug you, he knew enough of your habits to select whiskey as the medium? For all he knew, you may have been a firm believer in abstinence. You may have even been addicted to yoghurt, or even milk.
A. I never said he drugged me.
Q. No, you didn’t. And neither did I. However, the fact remains that you were drugged, and if Mr. Simpson didn’t do it, someone else must have. Were you away from your cubbyhole for any length of time at all during the evening in question?
A. No. Yes. I remember: some flibbertigibbet up on the sixth floor pushed the porter’s button for a joke. When I got up there the place was empty, so I came back.
Q. What time was this?
A. About seven, or maybe seven-thirty, as well as I remember.
Q. And when you came back you found the bottle awaiting you? In a state that tempted you to investigate it further, let us say?
A. That’s right. It was there when I came back.
Q. I see. In your first statement you repeated, as well as you could recall, the contents of the note you found wrapped about the bottle. You stated that it was addressed to a person called Chickie and was signed by a person named Pinky. And that the note dealt with the systematic looting of the liquor stocks of this Pinky’s superior. Is that true?
A. That’s right.
Q. I find it difficult to believe that one friend would send another friend, especially as a bon-voyage gift, a bottle of drugged liquor. It strikes me as a poor way to exhibit friendliness. What is your opinion, Mr. Corby?
A. I don’t know.
Q. However, I could understand the possibility of the note being a trap. Let us suppose that Pinky simply got tired of having some of the many bottles he stole pilfered before they got past the mail desk. In that case it begins to make sense. Don’t you agree, Mr. Corby?
A. I still don’t know what you mean.
Q. I’ll put it more plainly, although you may not enjoy it. Is it possible that Pinky had sent other bottles along the same clandestine route, and that only a portion arrived at destination? And that he concluded that the embolism in the arteries of his illegal traffic was you? The porter charged with the mail?
A. Now, hold on there! I tell you—
Q. No, Mr. Corby, let me tell you! You are asking us to believe that you stole this bottle of whiskey, but never stole one like it. Although the only logical explanation for your being drugged is that Pinky simply became weary of having his whiskey restolen, and decided to teach you a lesson. However, this is beside the point; this trial is not being held to determine the theft, either at first or second hand, of a pint bottle of whiskey. I have raised the entire issue for quite another reason: Is it not possible that Mrs. Bosler was also aware of Pinky’s fondness for his boss’s private stock, and in some manner made the mistake of letting the thief know? And thereby earned his hatred even as you earned it?
A. If Bosler knew anything about anyone stealing whiskey, she never said anything to me.
Q. And why would she say anything to you? For all she knew—and it would have been a logical supposition—you, having charge of the mail desk, may well have been an accomplice.
A. I wasn’t Pinky’s accomplice, I tell you!
Q. I believe you. However … Tell me, Mr. Corby, was it Pinky you saw in the lobby as you were falling into your drugged sleep?
A. He got away before I could see him.
Q. Most unfortunate. Does it not seem interesting to you, Mr. Corby, with what regularity Pinky appears on the scene? First he lures you from your office; then he drugs your whiskey; then he arouses Mrs. Bosler’s suspicions, and she earns his hatred for it; and finally he manages to cleverly evade you in the lobby. Busy chap, wasn’t he?
A. He was, you know.
Q. He was, indeed. Well, I am sure we have not heard the last of Pinky. In any event, thank you, Mr. Corby. No more questions.
Cross-examination of Mr. Corby having revealed nothing new, the court adjourned for lunch. Sir Percival Pugh, wandering down some nine blocks to a fairly small and unknown restaurant, was not at all surprised to find both Carruthers and Briggs awaiting him in a corner booth. He seated himself, ordered a very dry martini, and tucked his napkin under his chin.
“Well,” he said, in a fashion that indicated he was not exactly displeased with himself, “am I earning my fabulous fee?”
“I haven’t the faintest clue to what you’re driving at,” Briggs said crossly. “What’s all this Pinky-this and Pinky-that stuff?”
“Dust,” said Sir Percival, reaching over and extracting a menu from beneath Carruthers’ arm. He looked up, his eyes twinkling. “As I recall, Mr. Briggs, in one of your books you had
a lone twosome of Foreign-legion blokes staggering across the endless sands of the Sahara when they were attacked by a bloodthirsty band of Tuaregs. And, if my memory serves me, they escaped by having the good fortune to encounter a mirage of French troops, at which, of course, the naughty savages fled. So you should know what causes mirages, Mr. Briggs. Dust.”
He made his selection known to their waiter and then took a sip of his martini.
“But—” Carruthers began.
“Patience,” said Sir Percival, smiling. “Patience and faith.” And he proceeded to put these two virtues into practice by leaning back and awaiting his plat du jour.
The afternoon session of the court opened at three o’clock sharp. The questioning of witnesses was scheduled to continue, and a hushed and reverent silence fell upon the courtroom as Sir Percival rose and called none other than the prisoner himself to the stand.
Mr. Simpson seated himself in the witness box as if relieved to be quit, even temporarily, of the accused’s box—although, in truth, the one chair was as hard as the other.
Q. Tell me, Mr. Simpson, do you have the hour?
A. Certainly. It is exactly two minutes and thirty-three seconds after three o’clock.
Q. Are you always this exact when stating the hour?
A. Always. I’m sorry, but time is a mania with me.
Q. You mean like straightening pictures in someone else’s home when they’re a bit tilted?
A. Exactly. I’m afraid I also have the mania of straightening tipped pictures.
Q. There are people like that. Now, Mr. Simpson, let us get down to business. You went to the Grafton Building on the night of September 22?
A. I did.
Q. It was about eight o’clock, was it not?
A. I arrived there at precisely seven fifty-three, plus sixteen seconds.
Q. And why did you go there?
A. I had read of an organization calling itself Peace Lovers, Incorporated. Their policy of maintaining loving relations among all peoples struck me as expressing my sentiments exactly. Naturally, I wanted to study their platform in greater depth and see if there was some way in which I might contribute to their excellent program.
Q. I see. And when you arrived there, the building was open?
A. It was. True, I saw no one about the lobby, but I had noticed a light on the fifth floor as I approached the building, and I therefore made my way thence.
Q. You took the lift, of course?
A. I’m rather ashamed to admit it, but I walked. You see, I’ve led a rather secluded life these past thirty years or so, and, to tell the truth, I’m not quite brave enough to tackle one of these modern lifts. Alone, that is. Or without an operator.
Q. You looked for an operator?
A. Everywhere. I even went so far as to look in on the porter’s cubbyhole, but the poor chap was sleeping. At the time I thought it was due to exhaustion, but I know better now.
Q. Was he asleep?
A. Yes. I hated to wake him, knowing how hard they work, the poor chaps.
Q. So you walked up?
A. Yes. All five flights. Of course, I took it fairly easily, you understand, but I’d come so far to see these folks I rather hated to lose the opportunity.
Q. And when you arrived at the fifth floor?
A. Well, I looked around, and then went and tapped on the only door that showed a light.
Q. You say you looked around. What do you mean by that?
A. Just that. I looked around.
Q. And when you looked around, did you see something, or touch anything?
A. I don’t believe so. Why?
Q. Think carefully, Mr. Simpson. When you arrived at the fifth floor, did you proceed directly to Mrs. Bosler’s office door, or did you first do anything else?
A. Oh, you mean the clock? Well, I saw it pointed to noon, and I may have automatically adjusted it. It’s a habit of mine, you see.
Q. Adjusted it? In what way?
A. To the proper hour, of course. Now that you mention it, I recall the incident clearly. Is that what they were making all that fuss about? The pointer and all that? What happened was that I started to set it to eight o’clock—these cheap wall clocks, you know, you can’t set them to the exact minute and second—and then I found the thing was broken; only had one arm. So I left it alone. Couldn’t help people if they had a broken clock, you see.
There was a pause in the questioning by defense counsel. Sir Percival Pugh removed the sketch made by Mr. Isbrandt of the Arvo Company, demonstrating the various floor positions of the pointer, and passed it among the jury, while Mr. Simpson watched him owlishly, obviously puzzled by the entire proceedings. The members of the jury nodded profoundly. Sir Percival also nodded profoundly—or possibly he was nodding first and the jury was merely repeating.
Q. Pardon me for the interruption, Mr. Simpson. And then?
A. Well, then I went and rapped on this door. And this woman came out and I asked her if these were the offices of Peace Lovers, Incorporated.
Q. And what did she say?
A. Oh. She said they weren’t; that Plink—that was the word she used—was closed for the day. So I was about to leave when we both heard this weird sound.
Q. What weird sound?
A. A sort of soft buzzing. Like footsteps sliding across the marble surface of the steps.
Q. And then?
A. She said, “Oh, my God! It’s Pinky!”
Q. And what did you say?
A. Well, naturally, I said, “Who’s Pinky?” And she said, “He’s a thief who is trying to get away with all his employer’s whiskey, but I’m on to him! I told him if he ever attempted to steal another bottle, I’d report him, come what may!”
Q. You interest me strangely. And then?
A. We could hear the soft buzz ascending. And she said, “Oh, my God! He’s come to kill me!” And I said, “Fear nothing, madam, I shall protect you.”
Q. And what did she say?
A. Well, I’m rather ashamed to admit it, but what she actually said was, “Who, you? Don’t make me laugh! The day Pinky loses four stone, he’ll still make two of you. I’ve got to escape!”
Q. And you?
A. I didn’t know what to do. Apparently we were about to be trapped by this Pinky. And then she looked up and said, “Thank God! He’s forgotten the lift! It’s still on five!” And she hastily latched the door and made for the lift.
Q. You did not inform her that the lift was not on five?
A. I had no idea where the lift was. How should I have known?
Q. True. And then?
A. She fled to the lift. The bulb within was apparently burned out, for it was completely dark. I slid the door open for her and hastily thrust her inside.
Q. You did not follow her within?
A. Sir! Do you believe I am a cowardly swine? That simply because this Pinky bulked twice my size I would forget my Englishman’s code to the extent of allowing him to persist in his campaign of terror against a fragile woman? You misunderstand me, sir! I slid the doors closed and took up my stance at the head of the stairway, prepared to do battle with this brute who had the incalculable gall to threaten an innocent woman!
Q. You heard no sound from Mrs. Bosler when you pushed her into the lift?
A. You must understand that my hearing is not as sharp as it once was. I thought for a moment that I heard a shriek, but it faded quickly, so I paid it no attention.
Q. I see. And then? This Pinky came at you?
A. He was a coward, as all bullies are. Apparently aware that he was no longer dealing with a member of the weaker sex, but had, instead, a man to face, he slipped down the steps and away.
Q. And you? Once you knew he was escaping, did you not take to the lift to follow him?
A. How can you follow by lift a man who is afoot? Once I knew he was no longer ascending the stairs, I knew I had him! Psychologically speaking, that is. So I slipped down the stairs after him, but he had already made his getaway.
Q. Did you not look for Mrs. Bosler when you arrived at the first floor?
A. I did indeed, and the lift was there, but it was empty. I could only assume that my delaying tactics had permitted her sufficient time in which to make her escape. Alas, I know now, too late, that my actions, rather than saving the life of the poor woman, actually—
Q. It was not your fault, Mr. Simpson. In this vale of tears we can but do our best. But tell me, when did you hear that Mrs. Bosler did not, as you so bravely intended, escape, but remained behind?
A. The following day. It was eleven-sixteen and eight seconds, when I read the journal and discovered the tragic consequences of my poor attempt to aid her. I immediately rushed to the police to inform them that Mr. Corby was innocent.
Q. But the police claim you refused to give them any details. Why was that?
A. My dear sir, I am not a young man. It has been over thirty years since I have been privileged to assume a chivalrous attitude. I could not bring myself to admit, in front of that ring of hardened, suspicious faces, that in my first opportunity in over a quarter of a century to come to a lady’s aid I had failed miserably. I could not allow them to scoff at me for having brought about the tragic end of the one person I was attempting to succor!
Q. But did you not realize the danger of maintaining silence?
A. I had no fears. My faith in British justice is complete. And I knew my two old friends would not let me down.
Q. I see. I admire you, Mr. Simpson. No more questions.
Sir Osbert Willoughby saw, too late, the trap into which he had fallen. No longer willing to concede even one visitor to the Grafton Building that evening; no longer willing to concede the animosity of even one occupant of the building for Mrs. Bosler, he tore into Mr. Simpson tooth and nail, but he was batting on a sticky wicket, and he knew it. The sudden look of shock on the faces of the jury brought him to his senses; this was no way to make friends or influence people. And when he saw the frown on the face of Lord Justice Pomeroy, he sagged. It was number fourteen, and he knew it.
The summing up for the defense was short, dignified, and to the point. Sir Percival Pugh knew when to stop pressing. Sir Osbert Willoughby rose to attempt one last, desperate appeal, but a hiss from the gallery gave him pause. True, Lord Justice Pomeroy banged his gavel at the spectator’s impertinence, but it was plain to see he banged it halfheartedly, as if regretting that he was not free to join in the sibilance. Sir Osbert shuddered, nodded in a bewildered manner, and sat down.
The Murder League Page 16