John Mortimer - Rumpole 1 - Rumpole of The Bailey

by Rumpole of The Bailey(lit)

  'When you sent Doctor Lewis Bleen, the world-famous trick cyclist, the head shrinker extraordinaire, down to see Petey in Brixton. If you'd done a stabbing, and you were offered a nice quiet trip to hospital, wouldn't you take it? If the evidence was dead against you?' 'You mean Peter turned it down?' Leslie Delgardo clearly couldn't believe his ears.

  'Of course he did!' I told him cheerfully. 'Petey may not be all that bright, poor old darling, but he knows he didn't kill Tosher MacBride.' * The committal was at Stepney Magistrates Court and Henry told me that there was a good deal of interest and that the vultures of the press might be there.

  'I thought I should warn you sir. Just in case you wanted to buy...' 'I know, I know,' I interrupted him. 'Perhaps, Henry, there's a certain amount of force in your argument. " Vanity of vanities, all is vanity," said the preacher.' Here was I a barrister of a certain standing, doing a notable murder alone and without a leader, the type of person whose picture might appear in the Evening Standard, and I came to the reluctant conclusion that my present headgear was regrettably unphotogenic. I took a taxi to St James' Street and invested in a bowler, which clamped itself to the head like a vice but which caused Henry, when he saw it, to give me a smile of genuine gratitude.

  That evening I had forgotten the whole subject of hats and was concerned with a matter that interests me far more deeply: blood. I had soaked the rubber sponge that helps with the washing up and, standing at the kitchen sink, stabbed violently down into it with a table knife. It produced, as I had suspected, a spray of water, leaving small spots all over my shirt and waistcoat.

  ' Horace! Horace, you look quite different.' Hilda was looking at the evening paper in which there was a picture of Pete Delgardo's heroic defender arriving at Court. 'I know what it is, Horace! You went out. And bought a new hat. Without me.' I stabbed again, having re-soaked the sponge.

  ' A bowler. Daddy used to wear a bowler. It's an improvement.' Hilda was positively purring at my dapper appearance in the paper.

  'Little splashes. All over the place,' I observed, committing further mayhem on the sponge.

  'Horace. Whatever are you doing to the washing up?' 'All over. In little drops. Not one great stain. Little drops. Like a fine rain. And plenty on the cuff.' 'Your cuff's soaking. Oh, why couldn't you roll up your sleeve?' I felt the crook of my arm, and was delighted to discover that it was completely dry.

  'Now I know why you didn't want to take me to the Scales of Justice annual ball.' Hilda looked at the Evening Standard with less pleasure. 'You're too grand now, aren't you Rumpole? New hat! Picture in the paper! Big case! "Horace Rumpole. Defender of the Stepney Road Stabber". Big noise at the Bar. I suppose you didn't think I'd do you credit.' 'That's nonsense, Hilda.' I mopped up some of the mess round the sink, and dried my hands.

  'Then why?' I went and sat beside her, and tried to comfort her with Keats. 'Look. We're in the Autumn of our years. "Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun..."' 'I really can't understand why I' ''' Where are the songs of Spring ? Ay, where are they ? Think not on them, thou hast thy music too." But not jigging about like a couple of Punk Rockers. At a dance!' ' I very much doubt if they have Punk Rockers at the Savoy. Doesn't it occur to you, Rumpole? We never go out!' ' I'm perfectly happy. I'm not longing to go to the ball, like bloody Cinderella.' 'Well, lam!' I thought Hilda was being most unreasonable, and I decided to point out the fatal flaw in the entire scheme concerning the Scales of Justice ball.

  'Hilda. I can't dance.' 'You can't what?' 'Dance. I can't do it.' ' You're lying, Rumpole!' The accusation was so unexpected that I looked at her in a wild surmise. And then she said, 'Would you mind casting your mind back to the I4th of August 1938?' ' What happened then ?' 'You proposed to me, Rumpole. As a matter of fact, it was when you proposed. I shouldn't expect you to remember.' ' 1938. Of course! The year I did the "Euston Bank Robbery". Led by your father.' 'Led by Daddy. You were young, Rumpole. Comparatively young. And where did you propose, exactly? Can't you try and remember that ?' As I have said, I have no actual memory of proposing to Hilda at all. It seemed to me that I slid into the lifetime contract unconsciously, as a weary man drifts off into sleep. Any words, I felt sure, were spoken by her. I also had temporarily forgotten where the incident took place and hazarded a guess.

  'At a bus stop?' ' Of course it wasn't at a bus stop.' 'It's just that your father always seemed to be detaining me at bus stops. I thought you might have been with him at the time.1 'You proposed to me in a tent.' Hilda came to my aid at last. 'There was a band. And champagne. And some sort of cold collation. Daddy had taken me to the Inns of Court ball to meet some of the bright young men in Chambers. He told me then, you'd been very helpful to him on blood groups.' ' It was the year before I did the "Penge Bungalow Murder",' I remembered vaguely. 'Hopeless on blood, your father, he could never bring himself to look at the photographs.' 'And we danced together. We actually waltzed together.' 'That's simple! That's just a matter of circling round and round. None of your bloody jigging about concerned with it!' It was then that Hilda stood up and took my breath away. 'Well, we can waltz again, Rumpole. You'd better get into training for it. I rang up Marigold Featherstone and I told her we'd be delighted to accept the invitation.' She gave me a little smile of victory. 'And I tell you what. She didn't sound like an old boot at all.' I was speechless, filled with mute resentment. I'd been double-crossed.

  My toilette for the Delgardo murder case went no further than the acquisition of a new hat. As I sat in Court listening to the evidence for the prosecution of Bernard 'Four Eyes' Whelpton, I was vaguely conscious of the collapsed state of the wig (bought secondhand from an ex Chief Justice of Tonga in the early thirties), the traces of small cigar and breakfast egg on the waistcoat, and the fact that the bands had lost their pristine crisp-ness and were forever sagging to reveal the glitter of the brass collar-stud.

  I looked up and saw the judge staring at me with bleak dis-anoroval and felt desperately to ensure that the fly buttons were safely fastened. Fate span her bloody wheel, and I had drawn Mr Justice Prestcold; Frank Prestcold, who took such grave exception to my hat, and who now looked without any apparent enthusiasm at the rest of my appearance. Well, I couldn't help him, I couldn't even hold up the bowler to prove I'd tried. I did my best to ignore the judge and concentrate on the evidence. Mr Hilary Painswick, Q.C., the perfectly decent old darling who led for the prosecution, was just concreting in' Four Eyes' story.

  ' Mr Whelpton. I take it you haven't given this evidence in any spirit of enmity against the man in the dock?' The man in the dock looked, as usual, as if he'd just been struck between the eyes with a heavy weight. Bernie Whelpton smiled charmingly, and said indiscreetly, 'No. I'm Petey's friend. We was at university together.' At which Rumpole rose up like thunder and, to Prestcold J's intense displeasure, asked for the jury to be removed so that he could lodge an objection. When the jury had gone out the judge forced himself to look at me.

  'What is the basis of your objection, Mr Rumpole? On the face of it the evidence that this gentleman was at university with your client seems fairly harmless.' 'This may come as a surprise to your Lordship.' ' May it, Mr Rumpole ?' 'My client is not an old King's man. He didn't meet Mr "Four Eyes" Whelpton at a May Ball during Eights Week. The university referred to is, in fact, Parkhurst Prison.' The judge applied his razor-sharp mind and saw a way of overruling my objection.

  'Mr Rumpole! I very much doubt whether the average juryman has your intimate knowledge of the argot of the underworld.' 'Your Lordship is too complimentary.' I gave him a bow and a brassy flash of the collar-stud.

  ' I think no harm has been done. I appreciate your anxiety to keep your client's past record out of the case. Shall we have the jury back?' Before the jury came back I got a note from Leslie Delgardo telline me. as I knew verv well, that Wheloton had a conviction for perjury. I ignored this information, and did my best to make a friend of the little Cockney who gazed at me through spectacles
thick as ginger beer bottles.

  'Mr Whelpton, when you saw my client. Peter Delgardo, kneeling beside Tosher MacBride, did he have his arm round Mr MacBride's neck?' 'Yes, sir.' ' Supporting his head from behind?' 'I suppose so.' 'Rather in the attitude of a nurse or a doctor who was trying to bring help to the wounded man?' 'I didn't know your client had any medical qualifications!' Mr Justice Prestcold was trying one of his glacial jokes. I pretended I hadn't heard it, and concentrated on Bernie Whelpton.

  'Were you able to see Peter Delgardo's hands when he was holding Tosher?' 'Yes.' 'Anything in them, was there ?' 'Not as I saw."

  'He wasn't holding this knife, for instance?' I had the murder weapon on the desk in front of me and held it up for the jury to see.

  ' I tell you. I didn't see no knife.' ' I don't know whether my learned friend remembers.' Hilary Painswick uncoiled himself beside me. 'The knife was found in the car.' 'Exactly!' I smiled gratefully at Painswick. 'So my client stabbed Tosher. Ran to his car. Dropped the murder weapon in by the driver's seat and then came back across the pavement to hold Tosher in his arms and comfort his dying moments.' I turned back to the witness.' Is that what you're saying ? * ' He might have slipped the knife in his pocket.' 'Mr Rumpole!' Prestcold J. had something to communicate.

  'Yes, my Lord?' 'This is not the time for arguing your case. This is the time for asking questions. If you think this point has any substance you will no doubt remind the jury of it when you come to make up your final address; at some time in the no doubt distant future.' ' I'm grateful. And no doubt your Lordship will also remind the jury of it in your summing up, should it slip my memory. It really is such an unanswerable point for the defence.' I saw the Prestcold mouth open for another piece of snappy repartee, and forstalled him by rapidly re-starting the cross-examination.

  ' Air Whelpton. You didn't see Tosher stabbed?' ' I was in the Old Justice wasn't I ?' 'You tell us. And when you came out, Tosher...' 'Might it not be more respectful to call that good man, the deceased, "Mr MacBride " ?' the judge interrupted wearily.

  'If you like. "That good man Mr MacBride" was bleeding in my client's arms ?' 'That was the first I saw of him. Yes.' 'And when he saw you Mr Delgardo let go of Tosher, of that good man Mr MacBride, ran to his car and got into it ?' 'And then he drove away.' 'Exactly. You saw him get into his car. How did he do it?' 'Just turned the handle and pulled the door open.' ' So the car was unlocked?' ' I suppose it was. I didn't really think.' 'You suppose the door was unlocked.' I looked at the judge who appeared to have gone into some sort of a trance. 'Don't go too fast, Mr Whelpton. My Lord wants an opportunity to make a note." At which the judge returned to earth and was forced to take up his pencil. As he wrote, Leslie Delgardo leaned forward from the seat behind me and said, 'Here, Mr Rumpole. What do you think you're doing?' 'Having a bit of fun. You don't grudge it to me, do you?' The next item on the agenda was the officer in charge of the case, a perfectly reasonable fellow with a grey suit, who looked like the better type of bank manager.

  'Detective Inspector. You photographed Mr Delgardo's antique Daimler when you got it back to the station?' 'Yes.' The officer leafed through a bundle of photographs.

  'Was it then exactly as you found it outside the Old Justice?' 'Exactly.' ' Unlocked? With the driver's window open?' ' Yes. We found the car unlocked.' 'Then it would have been easy for anyone to have thrown something in through the driver's window, or even put something in through the door ?' ' I don't follow you, sir. Something?' I found my prop and held it up. Exhibit i, a flick knife.' Something like this knife could have been dropped into Peter Delgardo's car, in a matter of moments?' I saw the judge actually writing.

  ' I suppose it could, sir.' 'By the true murderer, whoever it was, when he was running away?' The usher was beside me, handing me the fruit of Mr Justice Prestcold's labours; a note to counsel which read,' Dear Rumpole. Your bands are falling down and showing your collar-stud. No doubt you would wish to adjust accordingly." What was this, a murder trial, or a bloody fashion parade? I crumpled the note, gave the bands a quick shove in a northerly direction, and went back to work.

  'Detective Inspector. We've heard Tosher MacBride described as a rent collector.' 'Is there to be an attack on the dead man's character, Mr Rumpole?' ' I don't know, my Lord. I suppose there are charming rent collectors, just as there are absolute darlings from the Income Tax.' Laughter in Court, from which the judge remained aloof.

  ' Where did he collect rents ?' 'Business premises.' The officer was non-committal.

  'What sort of business premises?' ' Cafes, my Lord. Pubs. Minicab offices.' 'And if the rent wasn't paid, do you know what remedies were taken?' 'I assume proceedings were taken in the County Court.' The judge sounded totally bored by this line of cross-examination.

  'Alas, my Lord, some people have no legal training. If the rents weren't paid, sometimes those minicab offices caught on fire didn't they Detective Inspector?' ' Sometimes they did.' I told you, he was a very fair officer.

  'To put it bluntly, that "good man" Tosher MacBride was a collector for a protection racket.' 'Well, officer, was he?' said Prestcold, more in sorrow than in anger.

  ' Yes, my Lord. I think he was.' For the first time I felt I was forcing the judge to look in a different direction, and see the case from a new angle. I rubbed in the point. 'And if he'd been sticking to the money he'd collected, that might have provided a strong motive for murder by someone other than my client? Stronger than a few unkind words about an impediment in his speech?' 'Mr Rumpole, isn't that a question for the jury?' I looked at the jury then, they were all alive and even listening, and I congratulated the old darling on the bench.

  ' You're right! It is, my Lord. And far no one else in this Court!' I thought it was effective, perhaps too effective for Leslie Delgardo, who stood up and left Court with a clatter. The swing doors banged to after him.

  By precipitously leaving Court, Leslie Delgardo had missed the best turn on the bill, my double act with Mr Entwhistle, the forensic expert, an old friend and a foeman worthy of my steel.

  'Mr Entwhistle, as a scientific officer I think you've lived with bloodstains as long as I have?' 'Almost.' The jury smiled, they were warming to Rumpole.

  'And you have all the clothes my client was wearing that night. Have you examined the pockets ?' ' I have, my Lord.' Entwhistle bowed to the judge over a heap of Petey's clothing.

  'And there are no bloodstains in any of the pockets ?' 'There are none.' ' So there can be no question of a bloodstained knife having been hidden in a pocket whilst my client cradled the deceased in his arms?' ' Of course not.' Entwhistle smiled discreetly.

  ' You find that a funny suggestion?' 'Yes I do. The idea's ridiculous.' 'You may be interested to know that it's on that ridiculous idea the prosecution are basing their case.' Painswick was on his feet with a well-justified moan. 'My Lord...' 'Yes. That was a quite improper observation, Mr Rum-pole.' 'Then I pass from it rapidly, my Lord.' No point in wasting time with him, my business was with Entwhistle. 'Had Mr Delgardo stabbed the deceased, you would expect a spray of blood over a wide area of clothing?' ' You might have found that.' ' With small drops spattered from a forceful blow?' ' I should have expected so.' ' But you found nothing like it ?' 'No.' 'And you might have expected blood near the area of the cuff of the coat or the shirt?' 'Most probably.' ' In fact, all we have is a smear or soaked patch in the crook of the arm.' Mr Entwhistle picked up the overcoat, looked and, of course, admitted it.

  'Yes.' 'Totally consistent with my client having merely put an arm round the deceased when he lay bleeding on the pavement.' ' Not inconsistent.' 'A double negative! The last refuge of an expert witness who doesn't want to commit himself. Does "not inconsistent" translated into plain English mean consistent, Mr Entwhistle?' I could have kissed old Entwhistle on the rimless specs when he turned to the jury and said,' Yes, it does.' So when I got outside and saw Leslie Delgardo sitting on a bench chewing the end of a cigar, I thought he would wish to congratulate me. I didn't t
hink of a gold watch, or a crinkly fiver, but at least a few warm words of encouragement. So I was surprised when he said, in a tone of deep hostility,' What're you playing at, Air Rumpole? Why didn't you use Bernie's conviction?' 'You really want to know?' Other members of the family were thronging about us, Basil and a matronly person in a mink coat, dabbing her eye make-up with a minute lace hanky.

  ' We all want to know,' said Basil,' all the family.' 'I know I'm only the boy's mother,' sobbed the lady in mink.

  'Don't underestimate yourself madam,' I reassured her. 'You've bred three sons who have given employment to the legal profession.' Then I started to explain. 'Point one. I spent all this trial trying to keep your brother's record out. If I put in the convictions of a prosecution witness the jury'll get to know about Peter's stretch for unlawful wounding, back in 1970. You want that?' ' We thought it was helpful,' Basil grumbled.