But there was another kind of pause or change as well—that is, if it did not exist only in my own prejudiced mind. Up to this time, sallow-faced and stiff-lipped Reginald had seemed (in a quiet way) inspired. He compelled belief. He brought to this case what it had heretofore lacked: an eyewitness to support circumstantial evidence. It may have been a certain turn in his last sentence, “I suppose I shall incur penalties for not telling this—” which gave a slightly different glimpse. It did not last long. But it was as though a cog had failed to mesh, or a shutter had been drawn aside, or the same glutinous quality of hypocrisy had appeared in his speech which had appeared once before. The man was lying: I felt convinced of that. More, you could see he had gone into the box with the deliberate intention of lying in just that way. He had made an obvious attempt to draw Sir Walter Storm’s attack—
But surely H.M. knew that? H.M. must have been prepared for it? At the moment H.M. was sitting in the same quiet way, his fists at his temples. And the point was its effect not on H.M., but on the jury.
“I have no more questions,” said Sir Walter Storm. He seemed puzzled. H.M. roused himself to a reexamination which was really a cross-examination of his own witness. And when H.M. did get up, he used words that are not common at the Old Bailey, and have not been since the days of Sergeant Arabin. But there was not only violence in it; there was a sort of towering satisfaction which made him seem about a foot taller.
“I’ll give you just two seconds,” said H.M., “to admit that you had an attack of delirium tremens, and that everything you said in that examination was a lie.”
“You will retract that, Sir Henry,” said the judge. “You are entitled to question the witness on any matters that have risen out of Sir Walter’s cross-examination; but you will express yourself in a proper manner.”
“If yrludship pleases,” said H.M. “It’ll be understood why I’m takin’ this line when I do question....Captain Answell, do you want to retract any statement you’ve made?”
“No. Why should I?”
“All right,” said H.M. with massive unconcern. “You saw all this through the glass panel of the door, did you?”
“Yes.”
“Was the door open?”
“No. I didn’t go inside.”
“I see. Aside from the night of January 4, when was the last time you visited that house?”
“Nearly a year ago, it may have been.”
“Uh-huh. I thought so. But didn’t you hear Dyer testify yesterday that the door with the glass panel the old door, had been removed six months ago; and they substituted an ordinary solid wooden door? If you got any doubts on the matter, look up the official surveyor’s report—it’s one of the exhibits here—and see what he has to say about it. What do you have to say about it?”
The witness’s voice seemed to come out of a gulf. “The—the door may have been open—”
“That’s all,” said H.M. curtly. “At the conclusion of our evidence, my lord, I’m goin’ to suggest that something’ is done about this.”
To say that the blow was a staggerer would be to put the matter mildly. A witness had come out of the void to testify to James Answell’s certain guilt; and, just eight seconds later, he was caught in flat perjury. But that was not the most important point. It was as though a chemical change had affected the sympathies of the jury. For the first time I saw some of them honestly looking at the prisoner, and that is the beginning of all sympathy. The word “frame-up” was in the air as palpably as though it had been spoken. If H.M. had expected Reginald to play a trick like that, it could have been no more effective. And the sympathy was mounting.
If H.M. had expected...?
“Call your next witness, Sir Henry,” said the judge mildly.
“My lord—if the Attorney-General’s got no objection—I’d like to ask for one of the Crown’s witnesses to be recalled. It’s merely for the purpose of identifyin’ some articles I’d like to put in evidence; and it could be done best by a member of the household whose knowledge of the articles has been established.”
“I have no objection, my lord,” said Sir Walter Storm, who was surreptitiously mopping his forehead with a handkerchief.
“Very well. Is the witness in court?”
“Yes, my lord. I’d like to have Herbert William Dyer recalled.”
We had not time to reflect over each new twist of this infernal business when Dyer entered the box. But the prisoner was sitting up, and his eyes were shining. The grave Dyer, as neat as yesterday if in slightly less somber clothes, bent his grizzled forehead attentively. By this time Lollypop was busy arranging near the table a series of exhibits mysteriously swathed in brown paper. H.M.’s first move was to display a brown tweed suit with plus-fours—a golf suit. Evelyn and I looked at each other.
“Ever see this suit before?” questioned H.M. “Hand it up to him.”
“Yes, sir,” said Dyer, after a pause. “It is a golf suit belonging to Dr. Spencer Hume.”
“Dr. Hume not bein’ within call, I presume you can identify it? So. Is that the suit you were lookin’ for on the night of the murder?”
“It is.”
“Now just feel in the right-hand coat pocket. What do you find there?”
“An inkpad and two rubber stamps,” said Dyer, producing them.
“Is that the inkpad you were lookin’ for on the night of the murder?”
“It is.”
“Good. We got some other stuff here,” continued H.M. offhandedly; “laundry, and a pair of Turkish slippers, and the like; but that’d be out of your province. We can get it properly identified by Miss Jordan. But tell me if you can identify this?”
This time there was produced a large oblong suitcase of black leather, having initials stamped in gold on the flap beside the handle.
“Yes, sir,” replied Dyer, stepping back a little. “It is undoubtedly Dr. Hume’s. I believe it is the one Miss Jordan packed for Dr. Hume on the night of the—circumstance. Both Miss Jordan and I forgot all about it; or at least—she having been very ill afterwards; and, when she asked me what had happened to it, I could not remember. I have not seen it since.”
“Yes. But here’s just one more thing that you’re the one to identify. Look at this cut-glass decanter, stopper and all. You’ll see it’s full of whisky except for about two drinks poured out. Ever see it before?”
For a moment I thought H.M. had got hold of one of the prosecution’s own exhibits. The decanter he produced was indistinguishable from the one the Crown had put in evidence. Evidently Dyer thought so too.
“It looks—” said the witness. “It looks like the decanter which Mr. Hume kept on the sideboard in the study. Like—that other—”
“It does. It was meant to. Between those two, could you swear which was which?”
“I’m afraid not, sir.”
“Take one in each hand. Can you swear that my decanter, in your right hand, is not the real one you bought from Hartley of Regent Street; and that the first exhibit, in your left hand, ain’t a copy in inferior glass?”
“I do not know, sir.”
“No more questions.”
Three witnesses then passed in rapid succession, being not more than five minutes in the box among all of them. Mr. Reardon Hartley, of the firm of Hartley and Son, Regent Street, testified that what H.M. called “my” decanter was the original one supplied by him to Mr. Hume; the prosecution’s exhibit was a copy which Avory Hume had bought on Friday afternoon, January 3. Mr. Dennis Moreton, analytical chemist, testified to having examined the whisky in “my” decanter, and to having discovered in it one hundred and twenty grains of brudine, a derivative of scopolamine. Dr. Ashton Parker, Professor of Applied Criminology at the University of Manchester gave the real evidence of the three.
“I examined the crossbow there, which I was told belonged to Avory Hume. In the groove down the center of the crossbow, evidently used for the reception of a missile—here,” said Dr. Parker, indicating, “the micr
oscope showed flakes of what I believed to be dry paint. I judged that these flakes had been rubbed off due to the sudden friction when some wooden missile was fired from the bow. Under analysis, the paint was ascertained to be a substance known as ‘X-varnish,’ used exclusively by Messrs. Hardigan, who sold to the deceased the arrow in question. I present an affidavit to that effect.
“The arrow here was—ah—kindly lent to me by Detective-Inspector Mottram. Here the microscope showed along the shaft of the arrow signs that flakes of paint had been chipped in an irregular line from it.
“In the teeth of the windlass on the crossbow I found the piece of blue feather which you see there now. This I compared to the broken feather on the end of the arrow. The two pieces made up a complete feather, except for an irregular bit which was missing. I have here photomicrographs of the two pieces, enlarged ten times. The joinings in the fiber of the feather can be seen clearly, and leave no doubt in my own mind that they came from the same feather.”
“In your opinion, had the arrow been tired from this crossbow?”
“In my opinion, it unquestionably had.”
This was hard hitting. Under cross-examination, Dr. Parker acknowledged the scientific possibility of an error; it was as far as he would go.
“And I acknowledge, my lord,” said H.M. in reply to a question from the bench, “that so far we’ve not shown where this crossbow or the other articles came from, or what happened to the missin’ piece of feather. We’ll remedy that now. Call William Cochrane.”
(“Who on earth is that?” whispered Evelyn. H.M. had said once before that you would no more cause a commotion in Balmy Bodkin’s court than you would cause one on a chessboard; but the curiosity of the court had now reached as flaming a pitch as it could go. It was stimulated still more by the quietly dressed elderly man who took the oath.)
“Your full name?”
“William Rath Cochrane.”
“What’s your profession, Mr. Cochrane?”
“I am the manager of the Left-Luggage Department at Paddington Station—the Paddington terminus of the Great Westcoast Railway.”
“I think we all know the process,” rumbled H.M., “but I’ll just go over it here. If you want to leave a bag or a parcel or the like for a few hours, you hand it across a counter, and you get back a written slip that allows you to claim the parcel again?”
“That is right.”
“Can you tell the date and the time of day when the parcel was handed in?”
“Oh, yes. It is on the ticket.”
“Now, suppose,” said H.M. argumentatively, “a parcel is handed in, and nobody comes to claim it. What happens to the parcel?”
“It depends on how long it has been left there. If it seems to have been left there indefinitely, it is transferred to a storage room reserved for that purpose. If it is not claimed at the end of two months, it may be sold and the proceeds devoted to railway charities; but we make every effort to find the proper owner.”
“Who is in charge of this department?”
“I am. That is to say, it is under my discretion.”
“On February 3, last, did anybody come to your office and inquire about a suitcase which had been left there at a certain definite time on a certain definite date?”
“Yes. You did,” replied the witness with a shadow of a smile.
“Was there anyone else present?”
“Yes, two others whom I now know to be Dr. Parker and Mr. Shanks.”
“A week after we had been there, did another person—another person in this case—also call and inquire about it?”
“Yes; a man who gave the name of—”
“Never mind the name,” said H.M. hastily. “That’s not our business. But about the first people who asked for it. Did you open the suitcase in their presence?”
“Yes, and I was convinced that the suitcase belonged to one of them,” said Cochrane, looking hard at H.M. “The contents of the suitcase, not usual contents, were described before the suitcase was opened.”
H.M. indicated the big black leather suitcase inscribed with Spencer Hume’s initials. “Will you look at that and tell us whether it’s the suitcase?”
“It is.”
“I’d also like you to identify some other articles that were in the suitcase at the time. Hand them up as I indicate. That?” It was the golf suit. “Yes. These?” An assortment of wearing-apparel, including a pair of gaudy red leather slippers. “This?” Up went the decanter H.M. had put in evidence, the decanter containing drugged whisky from which two drinks were gone. “This?”
“This” was a siphon of soda-water with its contents depleted perhaps two inches. Next came a pair of thin gloves in whose lining the name Avory Hume had been written in in indelible ink. Next came a small screwdriver. Next in order, two drinking glasses and a small bottle of mint extract.
“Finally, was this crossbow in the suitcase?” demanded H.M.
“It was. It just fitted in comfortably.”
“Was this piece of feather caught in the teeth of the windlass?”
“Yes, my attention was called to it. It is the same one.”
“Uh-huh. At a certain time of night on Saturday, January 4, then, a certain person came there and left that suitcase?”
“Yes.”
“Could that person be identified, if necessary?”
“Yes, one of my attendants thinks he remembers, because—”
“Thank you; that’s all.”
For a brief space of time Sir Walter Storm hesitated, risen just halfway to his feet.
“No question,” said the Attorney-General.
The whispering of released breath was audible. Mr. Justice Bodkin, whose wrist seemed tireless, continued steadily to write. Then he made a careful full stop, and looked up. H.M. was glaring round the courtroom.
“My lord, I’ve got one last witness. That’s for the purpose of demonstratin’ an alternative theory as to how a murderer got in and out of a locked room.”
(“Oh, Lord, here we go!” whispered Evelyn.)
“This witness,” continued H.M., rubbing his forehead reflectively, “has been right here in court since the beginnin’ of the trial. The only trouble is, it can’t talk. Therefore I’m bound to do a bit of explaining. If there’s any objection to this, I can always do it in my closin’ speech. But since a couple o' words of explanation will tend to produce another actual bit of evidence—another exhibit for the defense—I’d like the court’s indulgence if I say that our evidence can’t be completed without it.”
“We have no objection to my learned friend’s proposal, my lord.”
The judge nodded. H.M. remained silent for what seemed a very long time.
“I see Inspector Mottram is at the solicitors’ table,” said H.M., while Mottram’s heavy face turned round abruptly. “I’ll just ask him to oblige me by pullin’ out one of the Crown’s own pieces of evidence. We’ve had shown here the steel shutters on the windows of the study, and the big oak door as well. Let’s have the door out again....
“The inspector—and all policemen here too—will have heard of a little dingus called the Judas window. It’s supposed to be confined exclusively to gaols. The ‘Judas window’ is in the doors of cells. It’s the little square opening, with a cover over it, through which coppers in general can look in and inspect the prisoner without being seen themselves. And it has a good deal of application to the case.”
“I do not understand you, Sir Henry,” said the judge sharply. “There is no ‘Judas window,’ as you call it, in the door there before us.”
“Oh, yes there is,” said H.M....
“Me lord,” he went on, “there’s a Judas window in nearly every door, if you just come to think of it. I mean that every door has got a knob. This door has. And, as I’ve pointed out to several people, what a whackin’ big knob it is!
“Suppose you took the knob off that door; what’d you find? You’d find a steel spindle, square in shape, runnin’ through a s
quare hole—like a Judas window. At each end of this, a knob is attached by means of a little screw through a hole in each end of the spindle. If you took everything out, you’d find in the door an opening—in this case, as we’ll see, an opening that must be nearly half an inch square. If you don’t realize just how big a space half an inch can be, or how much you can see when you look through it, we’ll try to indicate it in just a minute. That’s why I objected to the word ‘sealed.’
“Now, suppose you’re goin’ to prepare this simple little mechanism in advance. From the outside of the door, you unscrew the knob from the spindle. You notice that there’s a very small screwdriver contained in the suitcase that was left at Paddington Station; so I’ll just ask the inspector to do it for us now. Ah! That gives you, in the end of the spindle, a little hole where the screw has been. Through this hole you tie tightly a very heavy length of black thread, with a good length of slack. Then you take your finger and push the spindle through its hole to the other side of the door, the inner side of the door. There’s now only one knob—the one inside the door—fastened to the spindle; on the other end is attached your length of thread, and you’re playing out the slack. Whenever you want the spindle and knob back up again, you simply pull the thread and up it comes. The weight of the knob inside the door is sufficient to make it hang down dead straight, so you’ve got no difficulty in gettin’ the square spindle back in the square hole; it comes up in a straight line and slides in as soon as the edge of the spindle crosses the edge of the Judas window. As soon as it’s back in again, you jerk off your thread; you put the outside knob of the door back on the spindle again; you screw it up again...It’s heartbreakin’ly simple, but the door is now apparently sealed.
“Again suppose you’d prepared the mechanism in advance, with the thread already twined. Somebody is in that room with the door bolted. You start to work your mechanism. The feller inside don’t notice anything until he suddenly sees the knob and spindle beginnin’ to be lowered a little way into the room. You want him to see it. In fact, you begin to talk to him then through the door. He wonders what the—he wonders what is goin’ on. He walks towards the door. He bends down, as anyone will when wantin’ to look close at a knob. As he bends forward—a target only three feet away from your eye, where you can’t miss—”
The Judas Window Page 21