The Murder League

by Fish, Robert L. ;

“Just,” said Briggs sourly, still upset about the ten thousand pounds.

  “Just?”

  “Well,” Briggs said ungraciously, “the pointer is pointing to the fifth floor, and the cab is below on the first. And the electrical door circuits have suffered a short circuit and you can open any door on any floor simply by pulling on it.”

  “Fine!” Sir Percival said, and then paused. “But you said ‘just’?”

  “The porter’s chair,” Briggs explained. “A bit short. I had to stand on tiptoe, and even then it was just—”

  “Oh!” said Sir Percival. He set down his drink. “I also have not been idle. The porter, I am sorry to say, had to be recalled to Bow Street and made to suffer the indignity of a stomach pump. The contents are even now in the hands of the police laboratory. It is my hope that, even after this delay, some trace of the drug may remain.”

  “I don’t understand,” Carruthers said with a frown. “You wish to maintain the affair as an accident, yet you want the indicator obviously tampered with, and you wish to prove the porter drugged. It seems to me—”

  “Patience,” said Sir Percival with his gentle smile. “Patience and faith. I am rather amazed,” he went on quietly, “that you two, who make—or, at least, made—your living with words, should be so careless in your definitions. Take the word ‘accident,’ for example. Certainly the word carries the connotation of the unusual, of the unexpected, of the nonessential. Yet you wish to leave everything in its usual state, and claim an accident. It is scarcely logical.”

  “But—”

  “It is true,” Sir Percival admitted, paying no heed to the attempted interruption, “that facts must be interpreted, and it is often possible to interpret usual facts in an unusual manner. However, consider how much easier it is to interpret unusual facts in an unusual manner. That, my friends, is the basis of establishing accident. And,” he added modestly, “if I say so myself, I’m rather good at it.”

  “Still,” Carruthers said stubbornly, “it appears to me that we have placed Cliff in a rather compromising position.”

  “Compromising? As I said, it all depends upon your interpretation of the facts. My interpretation undoubtedly will not coincide with that of the Crown, but my job is to sell my version to the jury. To date I have never scamped that job.”

  Carruthers was forced to be content with this. “Well,” he said with a sigh, “we shall perforce leave everything in your hands. Is there anything further either Tim or I can do to help?”

  “Heavens, yes!” exclaimed Sir Percival. “You’ve barely started. After all, you are his closest friends, and will be extremely important character witnesses for him. And with your—pardon me—careless interpretation of words, I should like to help you formulate your witness-box impressions in more accurate form. Now, first I shall want to know everything you can tell me about the man Clifford Simpson.” He leaned back comfortably, taking a sip of his drink.

  “The evening is young,” he said, and nodded to Carruthers. “Let’s start with you.”

  9

  The trial of Mr. Clifford Simpson for the willful murder of Mrs. Sarah Bosler might well have passed with minimum notice had it not been that Sir Percival Pugh was the defending counsel. To the public the case had already been judged in the newspapers: the man must have been mad to kill an utter stranger for no reason whatsoever. And while madness is a malady that the British public can condone, it is not a malady that serves to arouse inordinate interest.

  As long as the porter, Mr. Arthur Corby, was the suspect, the public could at least anticipate fascinating stories of bitter fights and taut emotions, and even—possibly—salubrious details. The trial of an aged and obviously educated gentleman for a perfectly pointless murder, however, was a far different thing. Only the presence of Sir Percival Pugh in the case removed it from this state of indifference, for he had never lost a client, even to confinement. And certainly, the public could not help but think, if the chap was mad, and if the mad chap had thrown the lady down the lift shaft, it was difficult to see how he could escape at least being confined.

  Sir Osbert Willoughby, prosecutor for the Crown, was quite pleased both with his case and with the jury that had been painstakingly selected. Thirteen times in the four years since his appointment Sir Osbert had faced Sir Percival, and thirteen times in the same period he had gone down to humiliating defeat. It was pleasant, therefore, to have an open-and-shut case, a case where no amount of pyrotechnics on the part of his adversary could possibly save the accused. Sir Osbert Willoughby rustled his mountain of papers contentedly, already forming in his mind the words of his final summing up. As far as he was concerned, the case was already over and won. And, he thought, even if old Pugh manages to save his client from the gallows only to lose him to a prison for mental criminals, it’s still a win.

  Mr. Carruthers and Mr. Briggs, seated near the front, gazed about with interest. Mr. Carruthers had not been in a courtroom since his police-reporting days, while Briggs—whose mystery stories had always seemed to deal with remarkable escapes from foreign dungeons, or similar episodes—had never been in one before. In front of them, and a bit to one side, was the table of defense counsel, and here they saw Sir Percival in company of his assistant. Before him was a pitifully thin folder, and Carruthers, noting the difference between Sir Percival and Sir Osbert, in weapons of foolscap at least, felt his old doubts return reinforced.

  Sir Percival, leaning back comfortably, saw their eyes upon him and nodded in a friendly manner.

  “Look at him!” Briggs whispered fiercely. “Fat and happy with our hard-earned ten thousand quid!”

  “Don’t blame him,” Carruthers whispered back. “The whole thing was our fault, after all. The important thing now is to save Cliff.”

  “That’s all very well,” Briggs came back, his irritation almost causing him to raise his voice to audible level. “But all that money! All we worked so hard for!”

  “Life!” Carruthers said sadly. “At least we’re no worse off than we were three months ago—other than Cliff, that is. And we’re a lot of good food and drink ahead.”

  “You be philosophical,” Briggs said sourly, “I’ll still be bitter. When I think—”

  “Shhhh!” Carruthers whispered, for the jury was finally seated and Lord Justice Pomeroy had entered the courtroom and was standing patiently behind the bench.

  Simpson was led in, looking tired and gaunt, and seated in the accused’s box. Silence fell; the audience arose dutifully; the necessary ritual was attended to and the audience sank back into their seats gratefully. When the clerk of the court had rambled through the details in a voice scarcely heard beyond the first row, and when Lord Justice Pomeroy had adjusted his wig to his satisfaction, there was a sharp bang of a gavel.

  The trial was on.

  The jury having been formally instructed, Sir Osbert Willoughby rose to state first for the Crown. He could not help but cast a triumphant glance at his opponent as he made his way before the bench. Poor old Pugh! he thought gleefully. I’ve finally got him by the ears!

  “My Lord, gentlemen of the jury,” he began, his rich voice filling the chamber in varying tones as he sought and quickly found the proper pitch for the room’s acoustics, “the Crown shall prove to the satisfaction of the jury of peers that on September 22, at eight o’clock in the evening, Mr. Clifford Simpson did with malice aforethought bring an abrupt end to the life of Mrs. Sarah Bosler, by throwing her down the lift shaft on the premises of the Grafton Building in Clayton Street.

  “The Crown shall prove that Mr. Simpson appeared on the scene for just this purpose; that in order to simulate an unfortunate accident he made changes in the position of the pointer which indicates the floor at which the lift stands; and that he also caused a short circuit in the lift-door controls so that the fifth-floor door, from which Mrs. Bosler was flung, could be opened while the lift cab was on a different level. We shall prove that the porter was drugged in order not to be in a position to eithe
r witness the culpability of the accused or to offer succor to the victim.”

  He paused gravely. “My honorable opponent, the counsel for the defense, will undoubtedly claim that the Crown is unable to prove motive for the crime. That is true. But, as the Lord Justice will undoubtedly inform the jury in his instructions, while motive is considered a laudable adjunct to proof of guilt, it is not an essential. The Crown will admit, if it please our honorable opposition, that we have searched the past of both the criminal and his victim without being able to discover any previous connection in their lives. But, before the counsel for the defense makes too much of this point, may we state that we have something which is considered, in a court of law, much better!” His voice rose dramatically. “My Lord, gentlemen of the jury—we have a confession!”

  Whatever effect Sir Osbert wished to achieve with this statement was possibly diluted by the fact that the journals had revealed exactly to what extent the confession went. The jury, therefore, studied the prosecutor for the Crown with no perceptible change in their fishlike eyes, and he, having failed to cause the sensation he had wished for, cleared his throat and continued in a more subdued voice.

  “My Lord; gentlemen of the jury. Here is a man, driven by no unrequited passion, no hope of immediate or long-term gain, nor even by desire for revenge for a real or imagined hurt—a man driven, in fine, by no known or recognizable motive—who in cold blood planned and executed the murder of innocent Mrs. Sarah Bosler on that fatal night of September 22, such a short time ago!” His voice fell craftily as he scotched, he was sure, one of the defense arguments.

  “Nor was the man insane. The Crown will produce alienists who will prove this point very definitely. No; at the moment that Clifford Simpson flung Mrs. Sarah Bosler into that yawning abyss from the fifth floor of the Grafton Building, he was in complete charge of his mental facilities!”

  He sighed, a great sigh calculated to carry to the very last row of the spectators. “No; we cannot even find the motive of madness. We have here not a murderer who murders on whim—for this murder was exceptionally well planned—but a murderer who murders for the simple love of killing, and without motive.” He shrugged elaborately. “Counsel for the defense may choose to call this, in his opinion, madness. The alienists who have studied the man in prison disagree.”

  He raised his head dramatically, building to his climax. “It is the Crown’s contention that there can be no more dangerous type of person walking the streets of our fair country than a murderer who can bring himself to snuff out innocent lives in this fashion—brutally, intelligently, and without motive! The Crown must ask both his Lordship and the jury to consider these facts when determining whether or not the ultimate penalty is deserved. The Crown believes it is!”

  He turned, facing first, as if by accident, the spectators, then the jury, and finally the bench. “My Lord. Gentlemen.” A brief bow of his head and he sat down.

  There was the sound of bodies shifting restlessly on the hard oaken seats of the courtroom. Everyone had known, more or less, what the Crown’s charge would be. What they really wanted to hear was the statement of the defense, and utter silence fell as Sir Percival Pugh lifted himself from his nearly supine position and turned to face the court.

  “My Lord; gentlemen,” he began, and then shrugged. “You know,” he said conversationally, taking both the jury and the spectators into his confidence, “the defense really has nothing much to say at this point.” He waited patiently as his Lordship’s gavel beat against the loud buzz that burst from the crowded bank of spectators.

  “Other,” he added, and then waited as the tattoo of the gavel still fought the rising volume of startled whispers. Out of the corner of his gleaming eye he could see the looks of utter disbelief and suspicion which paraded across the face of Sir Osbert Willoughby in rapid succession. Within himself Sir Percival Pugh grinned, but the visage he presented to the court was exceedingly solemn.

  “Other,” he continued, once a semblance of order had been attained, “than to state that the Crown can save the expense of its alienists, because the defense will stipulate unconditionally that Mr. Simpson is sane, was sane, and, we hope, will continue to remain sane. And to further state that it is the fond hope of the defense to give my worthy opponent of the Crown sufficient rope with which to hang himself.”

  The banging of the gavel this time far outlasted the sharp intake of breath which broke the silence. Lord Justice Pomeroy, leaning down from the bench and attempting to speak into the clamor, suddenly realized that it was he himself who was responsible for the racket, and he flung the gavel down.

  “The bench will advise counsel for the defense,” his Lordship thundered, red-faced and shocked, “that it will tolerate no comments of this nature during this trial! There will be no talk of giving rope to hang anyone!”

  Sir Percival Pugh bowed meekly before this onslaught. “I should certainly hope not, your Lordship,” he said piously, and, having made his point, sat down.

  Sir Osbert, a bit flustered by this exchange, jumped to his feet.

  “If it please the court,” he said, “and if, in fact, the defense has finished its statement, the Crown would like to call its first witness.”

  Lord Justice Pomeroy had been about to offer further chastisement to Sir Percival for his last uncalled for comment, but in the interests of peace and a smooth-running trial he checked his gavel and nodded abruptly. The spectators settled back for what promised to be a good show.

  (Note: The following represents only the most important excerpts from the testimony of witnesses. Those who wish to find the entire text are referred to Official Legal Proceedings, Crown v. Simpson, Vol. MXVI, 1003/1245.)

  Witness: Mr. Arthur Corby.

  Examined by: Sir Osbert Willoughby for the Crown.

  Q. Now, Mr. Corby, you stated you found a package on your mail desk and that this package contained both a note and a bottle of whiskey.

  A. That’s right.

  Q. You further stated that you destroyed both the note and the wrapping. Can you tell us why?

  A. Well, I figured it might have been one of the chaps in the building, trying to smuggle a bottle out, and I figured I’d help him.

  Q. And how, exactly, did you feel destroying the note and wrapping would help this unknown?

  A. Well, until it actually went into the post, he wasn’t a crook, was he?

  Q. That is open to considerable question.

  A. Anyway, I couldn’t read the address to know where to send it.

  Q. You realize, I hope, that you destroyed valuable evidence. With these papers we would have been able to further prove Mr. Simpson’s complicity—Interruption by Defense Counsel. Objection, your Lordship, to this editorializing on the part of the Crown’s prosecutor.

  Lord Justice Pomeroy. Objection sustained. The prosecutor for the Crown is reminded that at this stage he is merely collecting evidence. At the proper time he shall have an opportunity to interpret it.

  Q. Your pardon, your Lordship. Now, Mr. Corby, you state that you then took a sip of this whiskey. Exactly how large a sip did you take?

  A. Well, now, that’s a funny thing. I would have sworn, when I took it, it was only a little sip, but when I woke up it was all gone. So I guess it was a bigger sip than I figured.

  Q. But even with a larger sip you would not ordinarily have dropped off to sleep, would you? If it had been normal whiskey, that is.

  A. Who, me? I can drink any man in this room under the table. A pint make me sleepy? Don’t make me laugh.

  Q. But if the whiskey were drugged, could one sip have made you sleepy?

  A. Well, sure.

  Q. Now, Mr. Corby, on the day of your arrest, after you were freed, were you recalled to Bow Street Infirmary and asked to submit to a stomach pump?

  A. I certainly was! And a nastier—

  Q. Please! There is no need to elaborate. Just answer the question.

  A. Yes.

  Q. And were the results—No, I
’ll handle that with the doctors. That’s all, Mr. Corby. Your witness, Sir Percival.

  Cross-Examination by Sir Percival Pugh for the Defense:

  Q. Your Lordship, my worthy opponent seems to be working inordinately hard to prove that Mr. Corby was drugged in his whiskey. It will save considerable time if the defense not only concedes this point, but, in fact, insists upon it. We should also like to point out at this time that it was only through the efforts of the defense that this fact became known.

  INTERRUPTION BY THE CROWN. Objection, your Lordship.

  LORD JUSTICE POMEROY. On what grounds? Isn’t it true? According to my notes, it’s true. Overruled. You may proceed, Sir Percival.

  Q. Thank you, your Lordship. Mr. Corby, you were drugged, as the defense (and not the Crown) so ably proved. It is for this reason—had you been worried—that your capacity was so drastically reduced. Now, Mr. Corby; in the process of falling under the influence of this nefarious narcotic, did you hear any disturbance which might have indicated to you the presence of a second—or really, in this case, a fourth person—on the premises?

  A. Pardon? Could you put that into plainer language?

  Q. Certainly. When you were falling asleep, did you hear anyone around? Before you answer, consider this: The so-called confession on which the Crown is basing its case has already placed Mr. Simpson on the fifth floor in company with Mrs. Bosler. According to the timetable, also prepared by the Crown, this must have been just about the time you were succumbing—passing out—from your drugged drink. Now, Mr. Corby, my question is simply this: At what time did you hear any strange sounds?

  A. Strange sounds?

  Q. Think hard. A man’s freedom, if not his life, may depend upon your answer. Did you hear nothing? No shuffling sound, no ringing of bells, no distant buzzing, for example?

  A. Say, that’s odd. Now that you mention it, I do seem to recall a sort of buzzing just before that drink really hit me.