The Oldest Confession

by Richard Condon

  She drove away from the hotel and mid-town Madrid along the only perfect stretch of highway in Spain which is called the Avenida de Americas before it reaches the city line then the Barajas Road after that. It is the highway which takes the most exalted foreign visitors of state into Madrid so it has to be perfect. Illogically, the half mile of road leading into the perfect road from the airport has not been repaved or repaired in man’s memory and from its appearance seems to have been shelled regularly every morning.

  Tense looked right through her from his place at a table across the restaurant, making no sign that he saw her. He was wearing a popularization of an alpinist’s hat with what appeared to be a whisk broom sticking out of the band. She sat down beside him. “You wore the right clothes,” he said out of the side of his mouth. “Nobody will remember clothes like that. Good girl.”

  “If nobody remembers clothes like these I’ve been gulled out of four hundred dollars,” Eve snapped at him which made him shake with laughter until she realized he was back at his pleasure of teasing her again.

  “Don’t tell me if you don’t trust me, and if you do trust me you must be crazy,” Tense said, “but what happened with your husband’s business affairs?”

  She omitted nothing. She spoke with relief. She had someone to unburden upon, and Tense had become one of her three closest friends in the world the day she had first met him. He liked the idea of Bourne holding out the Goya, deeming it to be an extremely professional calculation. She wanted reassurance on Bourne’s estimate of the liberating power of the Goya and exulted when Tense told her that there was no doubt but what a deal would be made and the entire matter written off the records once the trial was over. He asked her if she had considered everyone who might want to frame her husband for the Muñoz murder. She could think of no one because there was no one, and her husband was just as baffled as she was.

  They had lunch; paella, wine, flan and coffee. He told her how sentimental Mr. Merton of The Populace had become about her since her husband had been arrested and would be tried on so popular a charge. He arranged all of his sentences so that she would make him laugh with comically affronted reactions throughout the meal. As they were sipping coffee and gazing at each other fondly he asked her if she had been over all of this ground with his friend Enrique López. The question baffled her. It would never occur to her to discuss anything like that with López, whom she had met only in writing, and she told Tense that. Tense explained that López could probably find out who was jobbing her husband. Her lovely mouth formed a perfect O. Tense explained that was what a big organization was for. If López couldn’t find out what was happening on the inside of his own opposition he wouldn’t be able to stay in business very long, now would he? Eve was startled, confused and very interested to think that there was any chance that she could help Bourne. Tense told her he would talk to López, that he had to pay his respects anyway while he was in the country even if he was there in an amateur capacity as a gentleman journalist. He wanted her to understand that the whole inquiry might come to nothing, that Bourne wouldn’t need to know what with that Goya in hand for old-fashioned trading purposes, but a man liked to know who was jobbing him anyway and nothing could be lost by trying. Eve told him that once again she just didn’t know how to thank him and he answered that if she really meant that they could go right back to her place and pop into bed because one thing was for sure, her husband wasn’t likely to dart in on them. The outraged reaction she flashed at him gave him enormous pleasure.

  He insisted that they leave separately. As Eve walked through the airport building she passed Colonel Gomez, chief customs officer. He stared at her, flushed deeply and passed without speaking.

  The courtroom in which Bourne and Jean Marie were to be tried in the Palace of Justice in Madrid was one of the most elegant in Europe. It was about forty yards long and about twenty yards wide with a ceiling twenty feet high. It was splendiferously and richly furnished with panels of dark, polished wood on all walls to a height of six feet, surmounted by a princely, rich maroon cloth that continued to the ceiling.

  On the wall behind the Magistrates’ desk which was made of solid mahogany and richly carved, the royal coat of arms had been fixed signifying that all called to the bar would be accorded the justice of the kingdom of Spain, so designated by its citizens in the public referendum of July 6th, 1947 which returned eighty-two point two four per cent in favor of a promonarchic government. Between the royal coat of arms and the Magistrates’ desk stood a large, brass crucifix whose presence made the swearing of witnesses upon the Holy Bible unnecessary.

  The Magistrates’ desk faced the open end of a horseshoe-shaped dais on which had been placed the desks of the Public Prosecutor, or Acusador Fiscal, and the Private Prosecutor, or Acusador Privado, which were to the left of the direct vision of the Magistrates, and the desk of the Defense Attorney which sat on the arm of the horseshoe to the Magistrates’ right hand. The desks of the Magistrates, the prosecution and the defense were three feet higher than the level of the accused who sat at a desk situated approximately between the arms of the horseshoe facing the Magistrates.

  Attorneys for both sides had their seats by right and even when addressing the President of the Court did not get to their feet. During important cases, attorneys and magistrates not directly connected with the process were allowed to enter the courtroom and to take such seats as were available at the desks of either the defense or prosecuting attorneys and to remain there as spectators wearing their official robes. When anyone crossed the courtroom at any part of it, passing in front of the crucifix, they crossed themselves or genuflected. At recess times, as the court emptied, it was expected that each spectator would nod in acknowledgment of the President of the Court but in late years the practice had been observed only by visitors from the country districts and the aristocrats and surely never by the newspapermen.

  The Magistrates sat in severe, high-backed chairs which were lined with maroon satin, the president in the center. They, as well as the attorneys and the clerks of the court, wore black gabardine robes very nearly identical to those worn at college commencement exercises. A separate black velvet yoke on each hung fore and aft, attached to the robe at the shoulders but not at the sides. Below the waist the robes had eight box pleats which Bourne amazed himself by counting each morning and each afternoon of the trial while the clerk of the court stood and read off the résumé of the proceedings.

  All robes were the same, but the magistrates and the prosecutor wore lace at the cuffs of their tight sleeves, while the defense attorney and the clerk of the court wore their cuffs plain. Had there been a Private Prosecutor retained by the family of the murdered man to insure the most rigorous prosecution of the case against the defendants, as was the custom, he would have worn plain cuffs, but the surviving members of the Muñoz family who were then residents of the Canary Islands had no interest in increasing the probabilities of legal vengeance.

  The press was admitted to the court, with the general public, after the court had been seated and the attorneys and prisoners were at their desks. No places were reserved for newspaper people. At the opening of each session there was a general scramble by journalists of many lands to secure seats in the front row which had a running table in front of it which could be used as a desk. Photographers were not permitted to work in the courtroom but they made up for that in the corridors.

  A dark maroon carpet stretched away from the high desk to where brass posts, joined by maroon velvet ropes, separated the public benches from the trial area. An Usher, wearing a dark suit with brass buttons, stood at the rope ready to lead witnesses from the corridor outside the courtroom into the court. Witnesses were not permitted to remain in the courtroom for any part of the trial, except to give testimony.

  The determination of the press to find seats somewhat defeated the hopes of the various sangrophiles and écouteurs among the public who had planned on attending, but as the red-faced man from United Press s
aid, what the hell did they want to squeeze in there for and get pushed around when they could read all about it if they subscribed to a New York paper. This gratuity did not mean, no matter what it said, that the Spanish press suppressed any news of the Bourne-Calbert trial. They gave it, on a standard crime story policy, about the same amount of space that the New York Times gave to the Jersey City night court.

  The trial was under the protection of a Magistrate President of the Court sitting with two other Magistrates if no death penalty had been requested by the Prosecution and with four other Magistrates if there was a call for judgment requiring the death penalty. There was no jury.

  The trial was broken into two daily sessions and most murder trials in Spain have required three to seven sessions because both the prosecution and the defense are required to submit their entire cases in writing to the Magistrates before the trial starts. The briefs are read aloud to the court at the beginning of each trial session together with a résumé of testimony recorded accumulatively at the trial. Both sides have full right of discovery, access to each other’s complete cases in advance of trial, including the right to examine witnesses, strategy and physical evidence in the manner in which civil cases are conducted under the rules of the Federal Courts of the United States. The attorneys for each side, in Spanish courts, are required by law to advise the opposing side, through the President of the Court, of any changes to be incorporated so that the opposition may adjust its own arguments to offset evidence or reasoning not anticipated. With all technicians so advised, the trial itself is held to hear witnesses and to proclaim publicly all evidence and all intent which have been placed before the court for judgment.

  When the verdict has been reached by a Spanish court the sentence is not passed at the bar but is delivered in writing to the accused in his cell, to his attorneys, to the prosecutors, and to the press.

  Eve had walked the seven blocks from Calle de Marengo to the Palace of Justice on Calle de Bárbara de Braganza to stand helplessly before the building unable to enter. She walked aimlessly away from the building until, four blocks later, she found herself at the Calle Amador de los Ríos then backed out again. She walked most of the day, seldom looking up to find herself. At noon she called the duchess but the duchess had been invited to wait in an anteroom, off the court, until she would be called to testify, a deference to her rank as all other witnesses were required to wait in the corridor. At last Eve wandered about and sat within the tiny parklike plaza called the City of Paris at the side of the Palace of Justice then, all at once, worried that she might be telephoned, summoned by some unknown urgency she hastened back to the hotel to cast sidelong glances at the telephone as she paced and fretted.

  The trial of Robert Evans Cryder known as James Bourne and Jean Marie Calbert began on a Tuesday morning twenty-six days after the day of the murder of Dr. Victoriano Muñoz, the Marqués de Villalba. The President of the Court, accompanied by four magistrates, entered the courtroom from a door in the rear wall and seated themselves at the long desk with the two high, five-globed lamps. The president leaned forward to the Clerk of the Court and said, “Audiencias pública!” in a clear voice. Two attendants opened doors to the side corridor and the procession of attorneys and accused entered. Each prisoner walked between two armed police guards who carried carbines and side arms. They were not handcuffed or shackled. Eight people marched in the procession each to his assigned desk, the guards sitting directly behind each prisoner to which they had been assigned. The attendants opened the doors at the back of the room and the press, with some of the stronger public, boiled in. It was all accomplished in silence which would have been total except for the muffled shuffling of feet. At the instruction of the president, the Clerk of the Court stood and read the case which had been prepared by the prosecution which demanded the death sentence to be passed upon the accused.

  The prosecution’s case was as long and as tedious as extreme thoroughness demanded. It foretold that it would prove that neither of the defendants were morally competent, that Robert Evans Cryder, known as James Bourne, was in Spain under forged documents and identity, that he had devoted in excess of two years to the planning and preparation of a robbery of certain paintings and of substituting copies for these paintings which had been painted by the co-defendant, Jean Marie Calbert, who would be shown to have been an infamous trafficker in forged paintings for criminal purposes over a number of years. The prosecutor covered every point which had been so neatly set down in the confession which Jean Marie had provided to Captain Galvan plus several other nuts and bolts. The prosecution mentioned Eve Bourne in passing, as the courier who had brought the copies of Spanish masterpieces into Spain through three different points of entry, which was not a crime per se, and stated that the Customs Department would supply further testimony in this regard.

  No mention was made of the painting by Francisco Goya called “The Second of May” or “The Attack Upon the Mamelukes in the Puerta del Sol.” No mention was made of the murder of Cayetano Jiminez. The Minister of Justice and the Minister of Government had met with the President of the Court and with the Acusador Fiscal and the Defense Attorney and had exposed all of the government’s knowledge of the crime involving the Goya and Jiminez together with reasons for bypassing these points at the present and both sides had agreed that justice would be served were the defendants tried for murder without the bulky necessity of bringing in evidence of extraneous crimes. The government’s position was that the Goya was merely missing at the present time, and they had faith that, at the right time, someone would come forward to assist them in recovering it. Since the prosecution was willing to concede that this possible area of the case was irrelevant to a successful trial leading to a conviction, the defense readily agreed inasmuch as one more murder and an attempted crime as extraordinary as the theft of a Goya of that nature from the Prado could not enhance his clients’ chances. He discussed the matter with his clients before acceding to the request of the government. Jean Marie gave it no consideration and left the decision entirely in Bourne’s hands. Bourne thought about little else. This knowledge of the government’s interest in painting confirmed that they had not been able to discover the Goya’s hiding place nor fathom why a freshly painted duplicate had been found propped up against the wall where the original had been hung. It had the effect of permitting Bourne to watch his own trial for his own life with considerable detachment and without any taint of degrading morbidity and it buoyed up Jean Marie’s erratic spirits no end because he had learned that, until the original could be found, his own representation of Goya’s conception of the attack upon the Mamelukes would continue to hang in the Prado—until, that is, as an old-time popular song once had sung, the real thing came along.

  As the voice of the reading Clerk droned on, Bourne relaxed in his chair, smiling slightly with certain expressed kindliness toward the proceedings. The direction of the brief emphasized that Robert Evans Cryder, known as James Bourne, and Jean Marie Calbert had come to a thieves’ falling out with Victoriano Muñoz and had murdered him in consequence thereto. It seemed to express professional smugness that due to Jean Marie’s confession, his fingerprints on the murder weapon, and the testimony which would be forthcoming from witnesses who had discovered the defendants an instant after the execution of the murder, the boom could be lowered by the court without any other needless consideration. The statement by the prosecution took up the entire first session. The court was adjourned to meet again at three that afternoon. The judges left the court, then everyone else in the courtroom, including the prisoners and their guards, made their own way out as best they could.

  As the armed guard closed in, Bourne signaled to the Defense Counsel who nodded and moved on. The prisoners were taken to separate cells in the basement of the building. The defense attorney, still in his robes, joined Bourne immediately. His name was Rafael Corruno-Baenz. He was a leading monarchist, that is a politician for monarchistic party activity, a friend of the duchess
’s who was a self-consciously, impatiently brilliant man whose constant quickness darted about to cover up an ugly temper which had been born of almost everyone else’s inability to keep up with him. He was still too young to slow down and his political development had been slow because his arrogance had insured resentment, so he had needed the duchess’s great, good will among the powers of the Monarchist Party, to be able to continue along with any promise at all.

  Aside from a personality and vanity wholly unfit for the most remote practice of politics he was the most successful, most expensive, and best-known trial lawyer in Spain, a country where youth is so poorly served that his feat of pre-eminence was equal roughly to the improbable ascension of a Negro physician to the presidency of the Mississippi Medical Association. Many hands had reached for him before Bourne’s arrest. Other cases had been scheduled on court calendars to be tried simultaneously with Bourne’s during the time of Bourne’s trial. He had taken the Bourne case because the duchess had suggested that he take it.

  He was efficient, if not compassionate. He admired Germans for science, orderliness and the military; the British for their literature and for their experience of and with the law although he was mystified by the jury system which left the outcome of their justice at the disposition of the emotions of amateurs-at-law; and those Americans who had retained his services in various capacities, and no others. His feeling for the French deplored the French. For the Italians he had a shrug and a sigh and a harsh noise made at the back of his throat. The rest of the world was made up of fantasts like the communists or non-Catholics like the Swedes and the Chinese, both free to do any horribly sexual thing they wanted without fear of sin. To them went more than disapproval. They got his hatred.