by Andrew Garve
The contention of the prosecution was that Galloway had returned from the Canaries still without a good idea. He’d found Robert Shaw’s manuscript on his desk, and read it, and decided that though the story was badly written, the plot was first class. And he’d stolen the plot. Obviously there’d been risks, but he’d been in a tight spot and he’d gambled on getting away with it. He’d scrapped the verbiage of the aspiring amateur, Shaw, and substituted his own terse narrative. A point that wouldn’t be lost on the jury was that Galloway had kept Shaw’s manuscript for almost three weeks. If he hadn’t been using it—if, as he’d said, he hadn’t even opened it—why had he kept it so long?
The gamble, as it turned out, had failed. Shaw had discovered the plagiarism and had made a fuss. In that connection, the jury must be on their guard against accepting the unsympathetic and one-sided picture of Shaw contained in Galloway’s statement. Shaw had not been a very gifted writer, but his painstaking efforts to achieve success in a sphere that had probably been beyond him had certainly not been unworthy. His indignation at having had what was possibly the one really good story idea of his life stolen from him by a man who had already reached the top of the tree had been very natural. Shaw, too, had put his attitude on record, in an unfinished statement apparently intended for his solicitor which had been found in his typewriter after his death. The statement was being introduced in evidence. It showed that Shaw felt himself to be a deeply injured man, fully entitled to the compensation he had claimed. It was possible, though not certain, that he had pressed his claim in an improper way, but the jury would hardly need to be reminded that unwise threats were no excuse for murder.
When Shaw had produced the note from Arthur Blundell confirming his claim, Galloway had realized, belatedly, the full danger of his position. If he allowed the facts to come out, he stood to lose not only a large amount of money but his reputation as a writer of integrity and probably his livelihood. If he didn’t, he was faced with a demand for compensation which he couldn’t afford to meet. So, the prosecution maintained, after the quarrel on that Easter Saturday evening, when it had become clear that Shaw was adamant for his rights, Galloway had followed him along the dark towpath and struck him from behind and knocked him unconscious into the river to drown. He had chosen to follow him, no doubt, in order to avoid making any incriminating marks on or near the boat itself. The actual assault would have presented no difficulties, for Galloway was an active, muscular man, and Shaw had been a small man, of very poor physique.
Galloway, the Atrorney General concluded, had had the motive, he had had the opportunity—and it also appeared that he had a possible weapon. According to the medical report, the fatal blow had been struck with a heavy, round-headed object, probably a hammer. A hammer with a head of the right size had in fact been found in a locker on Galloway’s boat. Admittedly it had been free from blood or other traces of violent use, but it could easily have been cleaned after the attack. No other weapon had been found anywhere, though the banks had been searched and the river dragged. No other suspect had appeared in the case. There was no indication that Shaw had had any other enemies. All the evidence pointed inexorably to Galloway as the murderer.
Wilson’s report gave little space to the Crown witnesses. There were very few of them, no doubt because most of the facts on which the prosecution relied were undisputed. The usual formal evidence was given of the finding of Shaw’s body and its identification, and of Galloway’s arrest. The medical witness conceded in cross-examination that while a hammer could have caused the wound in Shaw’s head, it was by no means the only object that could have caused it. Donald Thorpe, who with his girl had reported the quarrel on the boat, said that one of the things they’d heard as they walked past was, “You won’t get a penny out of me, you damned blackmailer.’’ It emerged that in view of the violence of the language he’d wanted to stop and listen, and perhaps intervene, but the girl had been scared and had persuaded him to walk on after a moment or two.
Next came the opening for the defense, vigorously presented by a leading Q. C. named Olsen. It was a complete denial that Galloway had either copied Shaw’s plot or murdered him. The prosecution’s case, Olsen said, was as full of holes as a sieve. Galloway was not a man who needed to steal plots, his whole record showed that. His remarks during the TV interview had been largely jocular and too much shouldn’t be read into them. Like other authors, he found himself short of a plot at times, but he’d always managed to produce a good one in the end, and to make a lot of money out of it. His financial embarrassment, though fairly acute, had been purely temporary. Then the jury must consider the practical difficulties in the way of the theft that was alleged against him. They must ask themselves whether Galloway would really have dared to gamble on Shaw first not discovering and, second, not doing anything about, the plagiarism. Would Galloway not have expected that Shaw, an admitted fan of his, would read Full Fathom Forty when it was published? Would he not have expected him to be angry? Would he not have realized that Shaw, in the meantime, would probably have submitted his treasured manuscript to some other author for criticism and so be in a position to bring independent evidence of the theft? Again, if Galloway had stolen Shaw’s plot, would he not have had the sense to make substantial changes in it instead of taking it over more or less intact? On all grounds, the defense maintained, it was most improbable that Galloway had plagiarized.
What, then, was the explanation of these two almost identical plots? How had it happened? The defense had no doubt about the answer. What had occurred was exactly what Galloway had supposed in the beginning—a rare but not unparalleled example of coincidence. The same newspaper story had inspired both plots and the minds of the two men had thereafter worked along similar lines. It was quite possible that, unknown to either of them, they had at some time read some tale that contained the main elements in both their stories—that, quite unconsciously, they had both drawn on the same source. Very little was known about the subconscious mind, but its great retentive power was universally acknowledged. Seeds sown ten or twenty years before might have germinated now. There had been other instances of the same sort of thing.… Here Olsen quoted a number of examples of proved literary coincidence in the past, all of them fairly remarkable. Someone on the defense side had been doing some pretty active research.
As far as the murder itself was concerned, Olsen said, it was most unlikely that Galloway would have gone to the extreme length of silencing Shaw if, as the defense maintained, he knew he was innocent of stealing Shaw’s plot. Anger over Shaw’s allegations and claims would have been natural, but it was a sense of guilt, not a consciousness of innocence, that drove to deliberate murder in such circumstances. An innocent man would have sought for a safer and less drastic way out of his predicament. It was, in any case, difficult to believe that Galloway would have dared to follow and kill a man so close to his boat, knowing that his association with the man would almost certainly be established and that his motive would come out.
There were many other pointers, Olsen went on, to Galloway’s complete innocence of the horrible crime with which he was charged. Had not the police themselves admitted that he had seemed surprised on hearing of Shaw’s death? Was it not true that he had at once volunteered a comprehensive statement covering the whole situation and that he had not departed from it since in any particular? That statement, the defense maintained, had been the work of an impetuous and innocent man, bewildered by events and eager to tell the whole truth as he knew it. The prosecution had suggested that there was something sinister about the finding of a hammer aboard Galloway’s boat, but it had already been established that some other weapon might have been used. Besides, on what boat would a hammer not be found? The answer might well be, on the boat of a murderer! If Galloway had used his hammer as a weapon would he not have thrown it away afterward? Its presence on the boat was actually a point in his favor. Was it not true, too, that no trace of blood had been found on Galloway’s clothes or on any
of his property, and that the evidence against him was entirely circumstantial? It was not part of the defense’s task to produce an alternative suspect, but it must be evident to the jury that anyone might have come secretly to the towpath that night and followed Shaw and killed him. The case against Galloway was certainly not proved.
After the defense speech, Galloway had gone into the box. According to Wilson’s description of him, he had been nervous and visibly suffering from strain. Olsen had taken him carefully through the whole story again, encouraging him to talk and obviously hoping that the jury would get the impression of a man who had nothing to hide. A salient part of the examination-in-chief dealt with how Galloway had come by his plot. It went like this:
How long have you owned a boat?
I’ve owned a boat of some kind since I was twenty.Are you very fond of boats and the sea?
Very.Are you a practical, competent sailor yourself?
Reasonably competent.
How many books have you had published?
Twenty-two.
How many of them were substantially to do with ships and the sea?
About twelve.
So that in choosing a sea theme for your latest book, you were hardly breaking fresh ground?
By no means.
Had any of your earlier plots been based on real-life incidents that you’d read about in newspapers?
Yes, several.
Sea incidents?
Yes, some of them.
When you said in that television interview that you’d “run dry,’’ what exactly did you mean?
I meant that temporarily I hadn’t a plot in mind.
Did you mean that you hadn’t any story ideas in your head of any sort?
No, merely that I hadn’t a definite idea.
Had that happened before?
Yes, it’s a recurring phase with most writers.
Were you worried?
Not in the least.
Why not?
Well, when you’ve thought up twenty-two plots in your life, you take it for granted you’ll be able to think up a twenty-third.
Quite so. Now this plot you actually used—when did the idea for that first enter your mind?
The day I sailed from the Canaries.
Did it come suddenly, as an inspiration?
No, I wouldn’t say that.
How did it come?
Well, I knew when I went away that I’d got to to think up a new plot and almost automatically my thoughts turned to ships. At one time I toyed with the idea of trying a new sort of Marie Celeste mystery, based on the disappearance of a yacht’s company in the Pacific, but I couldn’t get it right. So I went on thinking and presently I remembered this case of the two liners and the automatic course recorder and I thought I could make something of it. After that, I got down to details.
Thank you.
The examination covered a lot more ground, but it didn’t add much to what was already known. Olsen was still exhibiting his client. He concluded by getting clear denials from Galloway that he had either stolen Shaw’s plot or killed him—spoken, Wilson reported, “in a firm voice.’’
The cross-examination was probing and thorough. The Attorney General also began by taking up the story of how Galloway had obtained his plot:
You say you had this idea for your book at the start of your voyage home?
Yes.
Did you happen to mention it to anyone on board ship?
No.
Did you mention it to anyone at any time?
Not till the book was finished, no.
Therefore there is no independent person who can vouch for the fact that you had this plot in mind at the time you say you did?
No.
When you had this idea on the boat, did you make any notes about it?
No, it hadn’t reached that stage.
Did you make any notes when you got to England?
Yes, quite a lot.
And while you were writing the book, did you make any rough drafts or parts of chapters, or type bits which you subsequently discarded?
There was quite a bit of rough work, yes.
Did you keep any of this material—the notes you made, or the rough work?
No, I destroyed it when the book was finished. I always do, to clear the decks for the next one.
So it’s true to say that you haven’t a single note in your possession, a single sheet of typing, which would help to show how this plot came to you and was developed by you?
I’m afraid not.
That’s a pity! Now in this story of yours, there’s a good deal of technical information, isn’t there, about underwater diving and salvage?
Yes.
Have you ever done any diving or salvage work yourself?
No.
Where did you get your technical information from?
From various sources, over a long period. I’ve always been interested in the subject and I’ve read a lot about it. It was pretty familiar ground.
Have you any books at home now, bearing on the subject?
Not specifically on diving and salvage, no.
Can you name any books that you have read on the subject?
Not offhand, no. I did most of my reading a long time ago.
You didn’t need to consult any expert about the technical aspects?
No.
So apart from your statement that you had picked up information over the years, there is no actual evidence of the source of your material?
No.
Well, now let us turn to the events of a year last February. Did you at any time mention to anyone that you had received a manuscript and letter from Robert Shaw?
No, it wasn’t a matter of any special interest.
If you’d opened it, of course, and decided to make use of it, you naturally wouldn’t have talked about it?
I didn’t open it.
Why didn’t you? Wouldn’t it have been natural to show a little curiosity—enough, at least, to page through it?
I was very absorbed in my own story and didn’t want to be distracted.
Would it have distracted you to glance at a page to two?
Perhaps not, but I hadn’t any desire to. Shaw’s letter struck me as very egotistical and I could easily have got involved with him. Once I’d opened the manuscript I’d have had to say something about it. It seemed much better to have nothing to do with it.
If you made up your mind so quickly not to open it, how was it you were so long in returning it?
I had a lot of accumulated correspondence to deal with and I was preoccupied with my own story.
You don’t employ a secretary?
Not for my correspondence. I have someone to do my final typing, that’s all.
Even without assistance, it wouldn’t have taken you long to put a fresh piece of paper round the manuscript and readdress it, would it?
No.
The work of a few moments?
Yes.
But in fact it took you three weeks?
It was three weeks before I posted it, yes, and I’ve told you why.
Next followed a short passage about Galloway’s financial situation.
How did you propose to deal with the heavy income-tax arrears we’ve heard about if this story of yours had not been a success?
I hoped it would be a success.
Your stories don’t always sell for films, do they?
Not always, no.
If this story had not been bought for a film, and at an unusually high figure, would you have been in a position to meet your obligations?
It might have been difficult for me to meet them at once.
Had you any plans for raising money?
I had thought of selling my boat.
You wouldn’t have like that?
Naturally not.
Perhaps you would also have had to travel less?
It’s possible.
And, in general, to live in a more careful way?
I suppose so.
Finally, the Attorney General turned to the way in which Galloway had handled the problem of Shaw.
When you realized that Shaw suspected you of stealing his story, wouldn’t it have been wise to see a solicitor at once?
I think it would. I wish now that I had.
Why didn’t you?
Well, to start with, I thought I could handle it myself.
According to your statement, you realized you were in an awkward predicament?
Yes, I did.
Did you, in fact, confide in anyone at all?
No.
You have friends, I take it?
Of course.
But you didn’t tell anyone?
No. It was rather an embarrassing situation. I hoped that Shaw might decide to drop the thing.
After your quarrel on the boat, did you still think he might drop it?
No, I didn’t think so then.
So did you then write to your solicitor?
I was going to write on the Sunday evening. Monday was a holiday—he wouldn’t have been at his office anyway.
When the police came to question you, you still hadn’t begun to write to him?
No.
I suggest to you that you never intended to write to him. I suggest that from beginning to end you avoided mentioning your predicament to anyone because you had your own private plans for dealing with it?
If you mean by that that I planned to kill Shaw, it’s fantastically untrue.
That will be for the jury to decide.
There was some re-examination. On the question of why Galloway hadn’t talked about his plot to anyone, Olsen elicited the fact that he rarely discussed his plots with people unless they were turning out badly and he needed to clarify his ideas, and that this one had gone well from the start. On the matter of the three-week delay in returning Shaw’s manuscript, Galloway agreed that he’d considered Shaw’s request for a detailed criticism something of an imposition and had therefore not hurried to send the manuscript back. Finally, Olsen asked some further questions on the subject of Galloway’s financial tangle and how he’d got into it, and brought out the fact that while he’d been extravagant on occasion to the point of recklessness he’d also been recklessly generous in making gifts to other people, particularly to certain seamen’s charities. And that concluded Galloway’s evidence.