The Judas Window

by Carter Dickson

  “Yes.”

  “From the evidence I have submitted, we concluded that this scuffle was a brief one, terminated when the witness Dyer knocked at the door and asked what was wrong. The door was then bolted on the inside—’”

  “So that they could continue their fight in peace and comfort, you mean?”

  “I cannot say as to that,” returned the witness, completely unruffled. “So that no one could go in.”

  “And they then went on fightin’ for fifteen minutes?”

  “No, the quarrel may have broken out again fifteen minutes later.

  “I see. But if the prisoner bolted the door at 6:15, it must have meant that he was ready for business, mustn’t it? Would he have bolted the door and then sat down to talk peacefully afterwards?”

  “He might.”

  “You expect the jury to believe that?”

  “I expect the jury to believe what my lord tells them is evidence, sir. You are only asking for my opinion. Besides, I have said that the deceased himself might have bolted the door—”

  “Oh?” roared H.M. “In fact, you think it likely that he did?”

  “Well, yes,” admitted the inspector, and squared himself.

  “Good. Now, we’re asked to believe that the accused went to that house with a loaded gun in his pocket. That’d show premeditation, wouldn’t it?”

  “People do not usually carry weapons unless they think they may have a use for them.”

  “But he didn’t use that gun?”

  “No.”

  “Whoever killed the victim ran across the room, yanked down an arrow off the wall, and attacked the deceased with it?”

  “That is our belief, yes.”

  “In fact, it’s your whole case, ain’t it?” demanded H.M., leaning across the desk.

  “It is a part of the case; not the whole of it.”

  “But a vital part?”

  “I leave that up to my lord.”

  H.M. put his hands up to his wig; he lifted one hand and patted the top of his wig with it, as though to cork himself before exploding to the ceiling. The witness’s dry, precise voice was never hurried: Inspector Mottram would not say more or less than what he meant.

  “Let’s take the missin’ piece of feather,” pursued H.M. in a gentle growl. “You didn’t find it anywhere, did you?”

  “No.”

  “Did you search the room thoroughly?”

  “Very thoroughly.”

  “So it couldn’t ‘a’ got away from you if it had been there, eh? No? You agree to that? Where was it, then?”

  Inspector Mottram came as near to a smile as the nature of the place would permit. He was watching H.M. warily out of those nearsighted eyes, for foolish testimony in the witness-box will break a police-officer; but he seemed to have been prepared for this.

  “That had occurred to us, sir,” he replied dryly. “Unless, of course, it was removed from the room by someone else—”

  “Stop a bit,” said H.M. instantly. “Someone else? But in that case it’d have to be by one of the people who have already testified here?”

  “Yes, I suppose it would.”

  “In which case, one of them witnesses was lying, wasn’t he? And the case against the accused is partly built on lies?”

  The inspector had begun to hit back. “You did not let me finish my answer. I said it only to exclude everything, sir—as we have to do.” “Well, what were you goin’ to say?”

  “I was going to say that it must have been carried out of the room in the prisoner’s clothes. He was wearing his overcoat, a heavy overcoat. The piece of feather could have been entangled in his clothes, unknown to himself.”

  “Which,” said H.M., pointing, “makes it pretty certain it was torn off in a struggle?”

  “Yes.”

  H.M. made a sign towards the solicitors’ table. He now seemed to radiate a sort of evil glee. “Inspector, you’re a pretty strong man, aren’t you? Powerful?”

  “As strong as most, I suppose.”

  “Right. Now, look at what they’re holdin’ up to you. Do you know what it is? It’s a feather—a goose feather. We got other kinds here too if you want ‘em. I’d like you to take that feather in your hands and tear it in half. Try to break it, twist it, pull it, rip it: do anything you like: but break it in half for us.”

  Inspector Mottram’s knuckly hands closed round the feather, and his shoulders lifted. He swung from one side to the other, in the midst of a vast silence, and nothing happened.

  “Havin’ trouble, son?” said H.M. meekly.

  The other gave him a look from under jutting brows. “Lean across to the foreman of the jury,” pursued H.M., raising his voice, “and have a try at it as though you were strugglin’. Be careful; don’t pull each other over the rail....Ah, that’s got it!”

  The foreman of the jury was a striking-looking man with a gray mustache but suspiciously vivid brown hair which was parted in the middle. The tug-of-war almost sent him out of the box like a fish on a line. But, when the feather eventually began to part, it shredded in long wisps and bits which not so much broke the feather as made it resemble a squashed spider.

  “In fact,” said H.M., in the midst of a startled pause, “it can’t be done like that, can it? I use ‘em for cleaning pipes, and I know. Now take a look at the broken feather on the arrow that was used for the murder. See it? The break is uneven, but it’s absolutely clean and there’s not a strand of the feather out of line. You see that?”

  “I see it,” replied Mottram evenly.

  “Will you acknowledge now that the piece of feather couldn’t have been broken off like that in a struggle?”

  (“My God,” whispered Evelyn, “he’s done it!”)

  Mottram did not say anything; he was too honest to comment. He stood looking from the shredded pieces of the feather to H.M., and shifted his feet. For the first time the prosecution had received a check. Whatever excitement might have been felt was doused by the cold sanity of Sir Walter Storm.

  “My lord, I suggest that my learned friend’s test is more spectacular than conclusive. May I see that feather which was used for the test?”

  It was passed over to him, while he and H.M. nodded to each other. And now the prosecution was going to fight. So far they had experienced such a complete walkover that the business looked perfunctory.

  H.M. made a rumbling noise in his throat.

  “If you got any doubts of it, Inspector, just try the same game on one of the other feathers in the arrow....I repeat: will you acknowledge it could not have been broken off as you said it was?”

  “I don’t know; I can’t say,” retorted Mottram honestly.

  “But you’re a strong man, and you couldn’t?”

  “All the same—”

  “Just keep to my questions. The feather was broken off: how was it broken off?”

  “The guide feather in that arrow was old and—brittle, like. Dried up. So if—”

  “How was it broken off?”

  “I can’t answer you, sir, if you don’t give me a chance to. I don’t suppose a feather is any irresistible force that can’t be broken in two.”

  “Could you do it?”

  “No, not with the feather you gave me.”

  “Try it with one of those two remainin’ old and brittle feathers. Can you manage it? No. All right. Now look at this.” He held up the crossbow. “Suppose you were fittin’ an arrow into this bow. You’d put the guide feather in the middle when you put the arrow into this groove. Wouldn’t you?”

  Mottram was a trifle rattled. “You might; I can’t say.”

  “I put it to you: you’d shove this arrow back in the groove until it fitted against the projectin’ mechanism?”

  “You might.”

  “And consequently, when you wound up the bow, I suggest to you that these teeth on the revolving drum would catch the end of the feather and grip it?”

  “I don’t know anything about crossbows.”

  “B
ut I’m showin’ one to you. Here it is. Finally,” roared H.M., before counsel could make any objection, “I suggest that the only way a clean break could have been made in that feather—a clean break like the one there—was when the weight of a Toledo-steel catapult flew out and snapped it in two!”

  He released the trigger of the crossbow. There was a vicious snap, and the cords banged across the head of the bow.

  “Where is that feather?” inquired H.M.

  “Sir Henry,” said the judge, “you will please question: not argue.”

  “If yrludshippleases,” growled H.M.

  “I further take it that these questions have some relevancy?”

  “We think so,” said H.M., unmasking his batteries. “At the proper time we’re goin’ to produce the crossbow with which we’ll suggest that the crime was really committed.”

  An epidemic of creaking seemed to have afflicted the yellow furniture in the court. Someone coughed. Mr. Justice Bodkin remained looking steadily at H.M. for a short space; then he peered back at his notes, and the pen in his plump hand continued to travel. Even the prisoner was looking at H.M., but as though startled and only half interested.

  H.M. turned back to Inspector Mottram, who was waiting quietly.

  “Take this arrow itself. You examined it as soon as you arrived at Grosvenor Street?”

  “I did,” answered the inspector, clearing his throat.

  “You’ve testified, too, that the dust on the arrow wasn’t smudged except where you found the fingerprints?”

  “That is correct.”

  “Look at photograph number 3 in the book, and tell me if you were speakin’ the literal truth. What about that pretty thin vertical line that runs down the shaft of the arrow—blurred a little—where there’s no dust?

  “I said that there were no other marks in the dust. That was true. There never was any dust in the mark you refer to. That was where the arrow had hung against the wall, and accumulated no dust. Like the back of a picture hanging flat against the wall, you know.”

  “Like the back of a picture, you say. Did you at any time see this arrow when it was hanging against the wall?”

  “Naturally not.”

  “Oh? But you heard the witness Dyer testily that this arrow did not hang flat and dead against the wall; you heard him say it was set out a little on the staples?”

  Pause. “I know from my own observation that the other two arrows were flat against the wall.”

  “Yes. They were two sides to a triangle; they hadda be held upright and flat so that they’d stay like that. But what about this one that was the base of the triangle?”

  “I do not understand your question.”

  “Lemme put it like this. Two sides of that triangle were flat on the wall, hey? The third side, the base, crossed the bases of the other two arrows. Consequently, it was supported against those arrows and was about a quarter of an inch or more out from the wall. Will you accept Dyer’s statement about that?”

  “If my lord has admitted it as evidence, I accept it, yes.”

  “Exactly,” rumbled H.M. “But if it was a quarter of an inch out from the wall, it wouldn’t be protected from dust, would it?”

  “Not entirely.”

  “Not entirely? You agree it wasn’t against the wall? Yes. Then the whole shaft of that arrow would ‘a’ been covered with dust, wouldn’t it?”

  “It is a difficult question.”

  “It is. And the whole shaft of the arrow wasn’t covered with dust, was it?”

  “No.”

  “There was a thin vertical line smudged all the way down the shaft?”

  “Yes.”

  “I put it to you,” said H.M., holding out the crossbow, “that the only way a mark like that could ‘a’ been caused would have been if it had been put into the groove of a crossbow and fired.”

  Still holding out the crossbow, he drew one finger down the groove in the bow, looked so malevolently round the court that we could see his face, and then sat down.

  “Bah,” said H.M.

  There was a slight sign of released breath in the court. The old bear was not yet blind with blood, and he had made an impression. Inspector Mottram, a quite sincere witness, had been given a bad time. It had not shaken him unduly; it had only solidified the lines of his jaw, and given him a look as though he wished for a give-and-take with claws on more equal terms; but he seemed anxious to receive the Attorney-General’s questions in reexamination.

  “We have heard several times,” began Sir Walter abruptly, “about the ‘only way’ a certain effect could have been produced. I call your attention to certain evidence in the photographs. It is clear to you that, when the arrow was snatched off the wall, it was jerked violently from left to right? You have already testified as to that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Wrenched so violently that the staples were pulled out?”

  “That is so.”

  “If you were making a motion like that, you would wrench and shake the arrow, and then pull it sideways?”

  “Yes, that is what would be done.”

  “Consequently, you would pull the arrow along the wall—and make a mark like the one indicated?”

  “Yes, you would.”

  Mr. Justice Bodkin looked down over his spectacles. “There seems to be some confusion here, Sir Walter. According to my notes, there was first no dust at all. Now we hear that the dust might have been scraped off. Which of these two alternatives are you suggesting?”

  “The matter is simple, my lord. Like my learned friend with his crossbow, I was illustrating. My learned friend insists on speaking of the only way a thing could have been done. He can hardly object if I give him way upon way....Now, Inspector. In your own home, I presume, there are pictures on the wall?”

  “Pictures, sir? Plenty of pictures.”

  “They do not hang absolutely flat against the wall, do they?”

  “No, they have to be hung up.”

  “And yet,” said the other, glancing towards the women on the jury, “they accumulate practically no dust at the back of the frame?”

  “Very little, I should say.”

  “Thank you. With regard to the only way—the only way in the world a feather can be torn in half,” counsel went on, with rich and sardonic politeness, “I understand that in preparing this case you acquired some information about archery?”

  “I did.”

  “Yes. I believe that the guide feather of an arrow—in this case, the one broken off—receives much more wear and tear than the others? What I wish to suggest to you is that it guides the end of the arrow to the string; and is therefore more apt to be chafed and damaged by hand or bowstring?”

  “That is so. They have often to be replaced.”

  “Is it impossible that in a struggle for this arrow between two men, one of them fighting for his life, the central feather should have been broken off?”

  “Not at all impossible, I should say; though I will admit—”

  “That is all,” snapped Sir Walter. He allowed an impressive pause while the witness left the box, and then turned to the judge. “That, my lord, with the accused’s statement, concludes the evidence for the Crown.”

  The worst was over. Despite this reexamination, there had been a very slight lessening of the case against the prisoner: more a feeling of wonder than anything else. But wonder is the beginning of the reasonable doubt. Under cover of the noise, Evelyn whispered excitedly.

  “Ken, H.M. is going to bring it off. I tell you I know it! That reexamination was weak. It sounded well, but it was weak; he shouldn’t have brought up that business about dust on the backs of pictures. Of course there’s dust on the backs of pictures—oodles of it. I was looking at the women on the jury, and I could tell what they were thinking. A little thing like that arrow would have been dust all over unless it had been absolutely flat on the wall. Can’t you feel that they’re not certain at all now?”

  “Ss-t! Quiet!”

/>   The judge was looking at the clock while the clerk’s sonorous voice rose:

  “Members of the jury, when the prisoner was before the magistrates, he was asked if he had anything to say in answer to the charge; and, being told that he need not say anything, but that if he did it would be taken down in writing and used in evidence at his trial, he said, ‘I plead not guilty to the charge made against me, and I am advised to reserve my defense. Through this charge I have lost everything in life that was of any value to me; so do what you like; but I am still not guilty. That is all I have to say.’”

  “If Sir Henry has no objection,” said Mr. Justice Bodkin briskly, “we will adjourn the court until tomorrow.”

  Bumping, shuffling, we all got to our feet as the judge rose.

  “All persons who have anything more to do before my Lords the King’s Justices of Oyer and Terminer, and general gaol delivery for the jurisdiction of the Central Criminal Court”—the rain was pattering steadily on the glass roof; it was the tired hour when you think of cocktails—”may depart hence and give their attendance here again tomorrow, at ten-thirty o'clock.

  God Save the King, and my Lords the King’s Justices.

  Again the pause broke. The judge turned round, and went stumping along behind the bench at his brisk and pigeon-toed walk. Courtroom Number One broke up into individuals, all with lives and thoughts of their own, moving round hats and homes. Someone yawned audibly, and then a voice spoke suddenly with great distinctness.

  “Watch him, Joe!”

  It came with a shock. We all turned round at the commotion in the dock. The two warders had sprung forward with their hands on the shoulders of the prisoner. Nearly at the trap leading down into the cells, Answell had turned round and walked swiftly towards the rail again. We heard his footsteps rap on that dance-floor which has been polished by the feet of so many now dead. But he did not attempt any action. He stood with his hands on the edge of the dock, and spoke with fierce clarity. To hear his voice was like hearing a deaf-and-dumb man speak.

  “What’s the use of going on with this? That piece of feather broke off the arrow when I stabbed him. I killed the old swine, and I admit it; so let’s get this over with and call it a day.”