The Judas Window shm-8

by John Dickson Carr

  'But I repeat (this damned court-room manner is getting infectious): why did Answell confess?'

  H.M. grunted. He was silting back against the cushion, his unwieldy top-hat tilted over his eyes and his thick arms folded.

  'Because somebody's communicated with him. I'm not sure how, but I'm pretty sure who. I mean Our Reginald. Did you notice how he and Reginald kept exchangin' significant glances all afternoon? But you don't know Reginald.'

  'Yes, I met him this afternoon, at the Humes' place.’

  A sharp little eye swung round towards me. 'So?' said H.M. with heavy inflection. 'What d'you think of him?'

  'Well - all right. A little on the oh-really and supercilious side, but decent enough.'

  The eye turned back again. 'Uh-huh. And, incidentally, what was the message from the gal?'

  'She said to tell you yes, emphatically.'

  'Good gal,' said H.M. He stared at the glass partition from under the brim of his tilted hat. 'It may work out well enough. I had some passable luck this afternoon, and also a few nasty jolts. The worst of the jolts was when Spencer Hume didn't turn up as a witness. I was countin' on him: if I had any hair, it'd 'a' been greyer when I heard that. Burn me, I wonder if he's turned tail, I wonder I ' He considered. 'People think I ain't got any dignity. Fine spectacle it is, hey, of Lillypop and me running about gettin' our witnesses and doin' all the dirty work that ought to be done by solicitors. Nice thing for a barrister, I ask you -'

  'Frankly,' I said, 'the real reason is that you wouldn't work with a solicitor, H.M. You're too anxious to run the whole show yourself.'

  This, unfortunately, was so true that it provoked a fiendish outburst, especially as his grousing a moment ago indicated that he was worried about something else.

  'So that's all the thanks I get, is it? That's all the thanks I get? After all the trouble I had runnin' round that railway station like a porter -'

  'What railway station?'

  'Never mind what railway station,' said H.M., checking himself abruptly in mid-flight, and looking austere. But he was so pleased at having caused another point of mystification that he cooled off a little. 'Humph. I say, Ken: on the evidence you've heard to-day, what railway station would you have gone to?'

  'To take what train? How the subject of railway stations got into this conversation at all,' I said, 'is not quite clear; but is this a subtle way of hinting that Dr Hume may have done a bunk?'

  'He may have. Burn me, now, I wonder -' For a moment he stared at the glass partition, and then he turned excitedly. 'Did you by any chance see Dr Hume at their place this afternoon?'

  'Yes, he was there, full of platitudes and benevolence.'

  'Did you follow my instructions about spreadin' a little mysterious disquiet?'

  'Yes, and I thought I succeeded remarkably well; though what I said that was so effective I can't tell you. Anyway, he certainly told us he was going to testify this afternoon. He said he'd put over a strong intimation that

  Answell is insane; and, by the way, there was a mental specialist with him, a Dr Tregannon -'

  H.M.'s hat slid so slowly down over his nose and outwards that it was as though he had attempted a balancing-trick with it. He is proud of that hat; but he did not notice when it tumbled to the floor.

  'Tregannon?' he repeated blankly. 'Dr Tregannon. Oh, Lord love a duck! I wonder if I'd better go round there?'

  'I hope we're not out to rescue any heroines,' I said. 'Look here, what's up? Are you thinking of the sinister uncle again, or what he might do to Mary Hume for testifying on the side of the defence? I thought of all that too; but it's rubbish. Plain cases, H.M., and sticking closely to the Facts of Life: you don't suppose he'd hurt his own niece?'

  H.M. reflected. 'No, I don't suppose he would,' he replied seriously. 'But he's fightin' for his respectability. And psalm-singing Uncle Spencer may turn awful nasty if he discovers she can't find his Turkish slippers ... Now, now!'

  'Is this allied with the secret and sinister connection between an ink-pad and a railway station and a Judas window and a golf-suit?'

  'It is. But never mind. I suppose she's all right, and what I want is grub.'

  It was some time before he got his wish. As the car drew up before H.M.'s house in Brook Street, a woman was mounting the steps. She wore a fur coat, and her hat was put on crookedly. Then she ran down the steps, rummaging in her handbag. We saw the eager blue eyes of Mary Hume: she was now breathless and on the edge of tears.

  'It's all right,' she said. 'We've saved Jim.'

  H.M.'s face wore a rather ghoulish expression. 'I don't believe it,' he said. 'Burn me, it ain't possible for us to have any luck! The blinkin' awful cussedness of things in general has simply decided that that lad couldn't have a decent stroke of luck if -'

  --'But he has! It's Uncle Spencer. He's run away, and he's left mc a letter, and it practically confesses -'

  She was rummaging in her handbag, spilling a lipstick and a handkerchief out on the pavement. When she held out the letter, the wind took it out of her hand, and it was only with a flying catch that I retrieved it.

  'Inside,' said H.M.

  H.M.'s house is one of those ornate and chilly places which seem to exist only to give receptions, and most of the time is occupied only by H.M. and the servants: his wife and two daughters being usually in the south of France. Again, as usual, he had forgotten his latch-key; so he pounded on the door and shouted murderously until the butler came out and asked him if he wanted to get in. In a chilly back-library he seized the letter out of the girl's hand and spread it out on a table under the lamp. It was several sheets of note-paper closely written in a fine and unhurried hand.

  Monday, 2 p.m.

  DEAR MARY:

  By the time you receive this I shall be outward-bound; and it will, I think, be difficult for anyone to trace me. I cannot help feeling bitter about this, for I have done nothing - absolutely nothing - of which I need be ashamed: on the contrary, I have tried to do you a good turn. But Tregannon suspects that Merrivale has got at Quigley, and will put him into the witness-box to-morrow; and pertain things I overheard at the house this afternoon lead me to the same belief.

  I do not wish you to think too hardly of your old uncle. Believe mc, if I could have done the least good I should have spoken before. About certain parts of this business I am feeling rather wretched. I can tell you now that it was I who supplied the drug which went into Answell's whisky. It is 'brudine', a derivative of scopolamine or twilight-sleep, with which we have been experimenting at the hospital –

  'Wow!' roared H.M., bringing his fist down on the table. 'This has got it, my wench.'

  Her eyes were searching his face. 'You think that will clear him?'

  'It's half of what we want. Now be quiet, dammit!'

  - its effects are almost instantaneous, and it ensures unconsciousness for a little under half an hour. Answell woke up a few minutes sooner than had been intended: probably due to the fact that he had to be propped up while the mint extract was poured down his throat to take away the smell of whisky.

  'Do you remember what Answell said himself?' demanded H.M. 'The first thing the feller noticed when he woke up was that there was an awful taste of mint in his mouth, and he seemed to have slobbered it a good deal. Ever since the Bartlett case there's been arguments as to whether you could pour liquid down the throat of a sleepin' man without choking him.'

  I still could not make head or tail of it. 'But who drugged him? And why? And what in blazes were they trying to do? Either Avory Hume liked Answell or he hated him like poison: but which was it?'

  I thought at the time that it was a mistake to load the whole decanter of whisky with the stuff, instead of merely putting it into a glass; because it meant getting rid of the decanter afterwards. Believe me, Mary, the thought that someone afterwards might find the decanter has given me some horribly unpleasant moments.

  Finally, I arranged with Tregannon and Quigley to do what was to be done. That is th
e limit of my dereliction. It is not my fault that my well-meant efforts produced such unfortunate results. But you will see why I could not speak. .

  At this point, as H.M. turned over the page, a strangled noise escaped him; and then it became a groan. Our hopes went down with a clang like a broken lift.

  Of course, if Answell had really been innocent, I should have been compelled to speak out and tell the truth. You must believe that. But, as I told you, even the truth would do him no good. He is guilty, my dear - guilty as hell. He killed your father in one of those rages for which his family has been noted for a long time, and I cheerfully let him go to the hangman rather than set him loose on you. Perhaps his protestations of innocence are quite sincere. He may not even know that he killed your father. 'Brudine’ Is still a comparatively unknown quantity. It is quite harmless; but when its effect begins to wear off it often leaves the patient with a partial gap in the memory. I know this will be terrible news for you, but please let me tell you what really happened. Answell thought that your father was drugging him and tricking him in some way. He knew that his drink was drugged as soon as he felt the effects coming on. It remained in his memory, and it was the first thing he remembered when he began to wake up - farther back than his own memory extends now. They had been talking, unfortunately, about killing people with arrows. He got that arrow and stabbed your father before poor Avory knew what was happening: that is how this dear fiance of yours came to be sitting up in the chair when his memory returned to him. He had just finished his work.

  Before God, Mary, this is what really happened. I saw it with my own eyes. Good-bye, and bless you for ever even if I do not see you again. °

  Your affectionate uncle, SPENCER

  H.M. put his hands up to his eyes and pressed his forehead. He lumbered up and down beside the table; finally he sat down in a chair. The little worm of doubt was in all of us now.

  'But won't it -?' the girl cried.

  'Save him?' asked H.M., lifting a dull face. 'My dear good wench, if you took that letter into court nothin' in the world could save him. I'm wondering if anything can save him now. Oh, my eye!'

  'But couldn't we cut off the last part of the letter and just show them the first part? That's what I thought of.'

  H.M. regarded her sourly. She was a very pretty piece, and very much more intelligent than this suggestion sounded.

  'No, we couldn't,' he told her. 'Not that I'm above hocus-pocus; but the blazin' bad part of that letter is on the back of the sheet that tells about the drugged whisky. Here's proof - here's evidence - and, burn me, we don't dare use it! Tell me something, my wench. In the face of that letter, do you still believe he's innocent?'

  'I most certainly ... Oh, I don't know I Yes. No. All I do know is that I love him, and you've got to get him off somehow! You're not going back on me, are you?'

  H.M. sat twiddling his thumbs over his paunch and staring at the floor. He sniffed.

  'Me? Oh, no. I'm a glutton for punishment, I am. They get the old man in a corner and whack him over the head with a club; and every so often they'll say: "What, ain't you unconscious yet? Soak him another one"; and yet -burn me, why should that chap lie? I mean your good old uncle. He admits it about the whisky. I was lookin’ forward, you see, to cross-examinin' him to-day. I was all ready to tear him to pieces and show up the truth. I could 'a' sworn he knew the truth, and even knew who the real murderer is. But here he is swearin' that Answell ..." H.M. brooded. ' "I saw it with my own eyes." That's the part I can't get over. Curse it all, how could he have seen it with his own eyes? He couldn't. He was at the hospital when it happened. He's got an alibi as big as a house; we tested all that. He's lyin' - but if I prove he's lyin' about that, the first part of the letter isn't worth firewood. We can't have it both ways.'

  'Even at this late date,' I said, 'will you still keep from giving a hint as to how you mean to defend him? What are you going to say when you get up there to-morrow? What the devil is there to say?'

  An expression of evil glee stole over H.M.'s face.

  'You don't think the old man can be eloquent, do you?' he enquired. 'Just you watch me. I'm going to get up there and look 'em in the face, and I'm goin’ to say -

  X

  Call the Prisoner1

  'ME lord; members of the jury.'

  With one hand behind his back, and his feet planted wide apart, H.M. was certainly looking them in the eye. But I could have wished that his manner was not so much that of a lion-tamer entering a cage with whip and pistol, or at least that he would abate his murderous glare at the jury.

  Court-room Number One was packed. The rumour of sensational developments had been all over town: since seven o'clock in the morning there had been a queue outside the door to the public gallery up over our heads. Where there had been only a few newspapermen in attendance yesterday, to-day every paper in London seemed to have put a man in the somewhat inadequate space provided for the press. Before the sitting of the court, Lollypop had spent some time talking with the prisoner over the rail of the dock; he looked shaken but composed, and ended by shrugging his shoulders wearily. This conversation appeared to interest the saturnine Captain Reginald Answell, who was watching them. It was just twenty minutes to eleven when Sir Henry Merrivale rose to open the case for the defence.

  H.M. folded his arms.

  'Me lord; members of the jury. You're probably won-derin' what sort of defence we're here to offer. Well, I'll tell you,' said H.M. magnanimously. 'First of all, we'll try to show that not one single one of the statements made by the prosecution could possibly be true.'

  Sir Walter Storm rose with a dry cough.

  'My lord, the assertion is so breath-taking that I should like to be quite clear about it,' he said. 'I presume my learned friend does not deny that the deceased is dead?'

  'Ss-s-t!' hissed Lollypop, as H.M. lifted both fists. Well, Sir Henry?'

  'No, my lord,' said H.M. 'We'll concede that as bein' the only thing the Attorney-General has been able to find out about this case unaided. We'll also concede that zebras have stripes and hyenas can howl. Without drawin' any more personal comparisons between hyenas and-'

  The zoology of the matter does not concern us,' said . Mr Justice Rankin, without batting an eyelid. 'Proceed, Sir Henry.'

  T beg your lordship's pardon and withdraw the question,' said the Attorney-General gravely; 'submitting the accepted fact that hyenas do not howl: they merely laugh.'

  'Hyenas - Where was I? Ah, I got it. Members of the jury,' pursued H.M., leaning his hands on the desk, 'the Crown have presented their case to you on two counts. They've said to you: "If the prisoner didn't commit this crime, who did?" They've also said: "It's true we can't show you any shadow of a motive for this crime; but therefore the motive must have been a very powerful one." Both of those counts are pretty dangerous for you to go on. They've based their case on a culprit they can't find and a motive they don't know.

  'Let's take first this question of motive. You're asked to believe that the prisoner went to Avory Hume's house with a loaded pistol in his pocket. Why? Well, the police-officer in charge of the case says: "People do not usually carry weapons unless they think they may have a use for them." In other words, you're subtly asked to believe that the prisoner went there with the straight intention of murdering Avory Hume. But why? As a prelude to married life, it's a little drastic. And what prompted the feller to do that? The only thing you've heard is a telephone conversation - where, mind you, there wasn't one bitter or flamin' word spoken the whole time. "Considerin' what I have heard, I think it best that we should settle matters concerning my daughter. Can you manage to come to my house at six o'clock" and all the rest of it. Did he say to the prisoner: "I'll settle your hash, damn you"? He did not. He said it to a dead phone; he said it to himself. All the prisoner heard - all anyone says he heard - was a cold and formal voice invitin' him to the house. And ' therefore, you're asked to believe, therefore he grabbed up someone else's gun and rushed round to th
e house with murder written all over his face.

  'Why? The suggestion creeps in that the victim heard something pretty bad about the prisoner. You haven't heard what it was; you've heard only that they can't tell you what it was. They simply say: "Where there's smoke there must be some fire"; but you haven't even heard about any smoke. They can't supply any reason why Avory Hume suddenly seemed to act like a lunatic. 'But, d'ye see,I can.'

  There was no doubt that he had caught his audience. He was speaking almost off-handedly, his fists on his hips, and glaring over his spectacles.

  'The facts, the actual physical facts in this case, aren't in doubt. It's the causes for these facts that we're goin' to question. We're goin' to show you the real reason for the victim's conduct: we're goin' to show you that it had nothing whatever to do with the prisoner: and we're goin' to suggest that the whole case against this man was a deliberate frame-up from end to end. The Crown can't supply any motive for anybody's actions; we can. The Crown can't tell you what happened to a large piece of feather that mysteriously vanished; we can. The Crown can't tell you how anyone except the prisoner could have committed the crime; we WILL.

  ‘I said a minute ago that the case has been presented to you: "If the prisoner didn't commit the crime, who did?" But you can't say to yourselves: "It is very difficult to think that he didn't do it"; if that's what you think, you'll have to acquit him. But I don't mean to bother with merely provin' a reasonable doubt of his guilt; we mean to show that there's no reasonable doubt of his innocence. Why, burn me -'

  Lollypop warningly flourished that curious typewritten sheet as H.M. began to thrust out his neck.

  'All right, all right I In other words, you'll hear an alternative explanation. Now, it's not my business to indicate who really committed this murder, if the prisoner didn't. That's outside our inquiry. But I'll show you two pieces of a feather, hidden in a place so obvious that nobody in this dazzlin' investigation has thought of looking there; and I'll ask you where you really think the murderer was standin' when Avory Hume was killed. You've heard a whole lot of views and opinions. You've heard all about the prisoner's sinister leers and erratic conduct: first they tell you he's so nervous he can't hold on to his hat, and next he's so coldly cynical that he smokes a cigarette: though why either of them acts should be suspicious is beyond my simple mind. You've heard how first he was supposed to threaten Hume with murder, and then how Hume got up and bolted the door so that he could do it more conveniently. You've heard what he might have done and what he probably did and what he never could have done in this broad green world; and now, by the flaming horns o' Tophet, it's time you heard the truth. I call the prisoner.'