The Murder League

by Fish, Robert L. ;

  A spate of whispers broke out in the jury box; the members of that group were leaning over each other, exchanging conversation. Before Lord Justice Pomeroy could remonstrate with this latest example of non-formula, however, the whispering ceased and the foreman rose.

  “My Lord,” he inquired, “the members of the jury have asked me to find out if it is possible to render our decision without leaving the jury box. Is it necessary to be locked up to vote? For we have discussed it already and are in complete agreement.”

  “It is customary,” answered his Lordship, “but not necessary. In any event, custom went overboard in this trial some time ago. If you are ready with your decision, you may render it.”

  “Thank you, my Lord,” the foreman said, and turned a bit so his voice rang clearly to all parts of the room. “We, the jury, wish to commiserate with a fine and brave gentleman, Mr. Clifford Simpson, for the misfortune which attended his courageous and resolute actions on the night of September 22. We should also like to go on record as expressing to him our profound regret that he was forced to undergo the strain of this trial, and to compliment him on his forbearance and patience during it. We thank you.” And he sat down.

  Lord Pomeroy leaned over the bench.

  “I would be less than truthful,” he said, “if I did not state myself to be in complete accord with the sentiments of the jury. However, there is one part of courtroom procedure I am afraid we cannot dispense with, even in this trial. Will the jury give its verdict on the guilt or innocence of the prisoner?”

  “Oh, yes!” said the foreman, popping back to his feet. “I forgot! We, the jury, find the prisoner not guilty!”

  “Thank you,” said Lord Justice Pomeroy, and, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied smile, he banged his gavel contentedly several times.

  The trial was over.

  11

  Seated in the midst of an admiring coterie at his club (the Barristers), Sir Percival Pugh was on his third martini and was happily basking in the admiration of the doting group about him.

  “Masterful!” breathed one, a young attorney who had just that day decided to switch his allegiance from torts and malfeasances to criminal law. He gazed at Sir Percival with something akin to adoration.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” said Sir Percival, smiling in a kindly fashion. “Or rather, I do know. It’s simply a matter of interpreting facts.”

  “But the delicate manner in which you threaded your way through the maze of distorted information, in order to snatch the gossamer web of truth,” said another, practicing, without doubt, for his first courtroom appearance. “Wonderful!”

  “Really, nothing,” said Sir Percival with practiced modesty. He finished his martini and immediately found another pressed upon him.

  “That porter!” said a third. “Had it not been for your persistent prodding of his memory, the sot would undoubtedly have completely forgotten that he ever saw this Pinky!”

  “Training,” Sir Percival informed this one. “Experience.”

  “But still! Well, I mean, well, marvelous!”

  Their conversation was joined by an outsider, an elderly gentleman dressed in pure black and wearing elastic-sided gaiters, who had been listening quietly from the edge of the group.

  “Sir Percival,” he said. His tone brought them to attention, if only because it was more pensive than adoring.

  “Yes?”

  The gentleman in black coughed a bit apologetically. “Please pardon my interruption. We haven’t met personally, I believe, although I’ve been a member here for over thirty-five years. But I’ve heard of you. I don’t practice law any more, you see—haven’t for years. Still, one thing about this case interested me particularly. Possibly you can’t give me the answer, even if you would. Still…”

  “Yes?” asked Sir Percival, smiling at the elderly gentleman.

  “The thing I wondered about,” continued the elderly man, frowning in thought, “is how those three old men—pardon me, I know that sounds strange coming from one of my age—but how those three elderly gentlemen ever managed to pay your fee?”

  Sir Percival looked at him with a faint lifting of his eyebrows. “I make it a practice never to inquire more deeply than necessary into the personal problems of my clients,” he replied softly. “It is a principle.”

  “I am not questioning your principles, Sir Percival,” said the old man in black, in a tone that indicated he was doing just that. “They are your problem. I was simply curious as to how those three ever managed to pay your fee.”

  “Curiosity is a luxury in which I never indulge,” Sir Percival replied, and shrugged with a faint, enigmatic smile. “If you have seen, or read of, the trial, you must know that they managed somehow.”

  “Yes,” said the elderly man heavily. “Yes…”

  “Yes, indeed,” Sir Percival replied, and turned away gently to continue to accept the spotlight of adulation from the group about him.

  “You might think,” said Mr. Potter, secretary of the Mystery Authors’ Club, with a touch of asperity, looking over at the three founding members in the northeast corner, “that they would be pleased as Punch, instead of looking like the world suddenly came to an end. Faces ten feet long at least!”

  “You would think so, wouldn’t you?” said a second. “After all, it’s only sheer, blinding luck that old Simpson isn’t in Wormwood Scrubs right this minute. Can you imagine anyone so muddleheaded that he couldn’t tell the difference between a lift pointer and a clock?”

  “Well,” contributed a third generously, “they’re all getting old, you know.”

  “They are that,” Potter said. “They certainly aren’t young any more.”

  “And also,” said a fourth thoughtfully, “I’d guess that old Pugh took them for a bundle. That’s probably put them in the dumps, as well. Pugh doesn’t work for love, you know.”

  “Well, he does in a way,” said the second. “Love of money, that is.”

  They all smiled at this witticism and fell into a silence that Potter finally broke in a questioning voice. “I still wonder where they got the money for Pugh’s fee.”

  “Oh, I suppose it was pretty much as old Carruthers explained at the trial,” said the third. “Sell everything and borrow, you know. Must have hit them pretty hard. Brought them all right back to rock bottom. A bit rough, I’d say, at their age.”

  “You’re probably right,” said the fourth. “I see where old Simpson is back smoking those tarred hawsers of his again.”

  “The three of them are back on ale,” said the third. “And not much of that, either. Have you noticed?”

  “I wonder—” the second said, and then paused. He looked at the others in a rather embarrassed manner. “Well, what I meant was, do you suppose we ought to—well, ought to offer them help?”

  “Oh, I shouldn’t think so,” said Potter hastily. “They’re old, it’s true, and broke, and unhappy and all that, you know, but I should imagine they still have their pride, you know.”

  The three founding members of the Club glowered across the room.

  “At this moment I should judge they’re commiserating with us,” muttered Carruthers. “Young puppies!”

  “They all look guilty,” Briggs observed grimly. “I should judge that someone suggested maybe they ought to offer us some help, and Potter talked them out of it!”

  “They also look a bit puzzled,” Carruthers added bitterly. “Probably thinking we should be chortling like larks instead of practically crying in our ale!”

  “Well,” Simpson commented reasonably, “why shouldn’t they think so? We should be happy. After all, we rid the world of ten people who sorely needed being gotten rid of, and we’re sitting here talking about it. Of course we should be happy! Instead of which we sit here with faces as long as—as lift pointers.” He smiled.

  “Happy!” said Briggs, pushing his ale glass aside in disgust. “Who should be happy? Ten thousand pounds! Our life’s earnings!”

  “I
shouldn’t go so far as to say that,” Simpson said calmly. “After all, we really earned it only in the past three months.”

  “And lost it in the past three weeks,” said Briggs bitterly. He stared at the glass before him. “Back to ale! Occasionally! No more brandy, no more champagne.”

  “I don’t suppose we could start up where we left off?” Simpson asked. “After all, we had a rather good run before this last one.”

  But Carruthers scotched this suggestion at once. “Beyond the fact that I wouldn’t trust myself to plan the purchase of a packet of sunflower seeds without a Land-Army girl at my elbow,” he said, “we must remember that the trial resulted in unfortunate publicity for us all. Our pictures were plastered all over the journals. I’m afraid that after our last fiasco it would be too much to expect clients.” He sat brooding.

  “And also,” he added, “let us be men enough to face the truth. Were it not for Sir Percival Pugh, I shudder to think of the possible consequences of our last case. It was he, and only he, who solved our dilemma.”

  “There’s an idea,” said Simpson, grimacing painfully at the taste of his cheap cigar. “Why not take him into partnership?”

  “He doesn’t need duffers like us,” said Carruthers sadly. “We’d only be a drag on a brain like that.”

  “Anyway, he’s a twister,” said Briggs disdainfully. “Look at that defense of his! And at his prices we’d have to limit ourselves to killing caliphs.”

  They sat awhile in contemplative silence.

  “Well,” Simpson said at long last, “at least we can’t say we didn’t come out of it with a profit. We still have the forty pounds, eight shillings and fivepence.”

  “Thirty-eight pounds twelve and six,” said Carruthers automatically, as if he had reviewed the figures sufficiently to have memorized them. “That bottle of whiskey for Mr. Corby, remember? We could scarcely have enticed him with cheap rum.”

  He sighed, drank his ale, and then rang for the waiter.

  “Thirty-eight pounds and change! Well, it may not be enough to properly drown our sorrows, but it should serve to hold their heads under ale for a while.”

  To his surprise, the bell was answered not by the waiter, but by the doorman, who held out a bulky envelope to him. He took it idly, and then sat up in alarm as he recognized the letterhead.

  “Addressed to all three of us.” His voice was worried. “From that foundation outfit where Bosler used to work. D’you suppose they’re wise? But then, they can’t charge a man twice.”

  He slit open the envelope, leaning forward and reading to himself rapidly. The other two watched him intently, but could detect little from the frozen, shocked expression on his face. And then their waiter appeared and stood quietly at his elbow. Carruthers looked up, a dazed expression in his eyes.

  “I think I should read this aloud,” he said. “But first—” He turned to the waiter. “Brandy and champagne,” he said calmly.

  “Brandy and—!” Briggs snatched for the letter, but Carruthers pulled it beyond reach.

  “Patience,” he said with a small smile. “Patience and faith. And let it never be said, despite all evidence to the contrary, that the Murder League was a failure!”

  “Billy-boy!” said Briggs threateningly. But Carruthers continued to hold the missive beyond reach, and to smile his most beatific smile.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, “allow me to read you a most interesting communication. It is addressed to the three of us, and is signed by a person who calls himself Lord Hough.” He looked up, remembering. “Oh, yes. The pivot between Mrs. Whimple and Mrs. Bosler, as I recall. Well, anyway…” He cleared his throat dramatically and began:

  Dear Sirs:

  I have but this week returned from the Continent, and have only yesterday had my first opportunity to speak with Sir Percival Pugh regarding the trial of one of your members in connection with the unfortunate demise of our former secretary.

  First, may I congratulate you on your delivery from the toils of the police. As a former advocate myself, I know that while the mills of the law grind exceeding fine, at times they also grind the wrong grist. I am happy that you were snatched from the wheels in time; miscarried justice to me is the gravest of all evils. Forgive the loquaciousness of a young man—about one year younger than yourselves—but I wished to be clear on this before continuing. And, being happy, I wished to share this happiness. I am sure it means little to you gentlemen, but while on the Continent I met a fine lady of French extraction, and we are now happily married.

  (“Poor Whimple!” Simpson interrupted. “One thousand quid down the drain!”)

  But I digress. As you may or may not know, our Foundation each year extends a certain beneficence to the person or persons we consider most worthy of our reward, based on their having exhibited manifestations of personal sacrifice beyond that which is normal for the majority of people. Your willingness to give all, one for the other, has been to me personally, as well as to the committee which also passes on these awards, a matter of complete gratification, for all too seldom in this world do we find the fortitude and character exhibited by that self-sacrificing native bearer who served our founder, Mr. Harley P. Jarvis, and who, by flinging his body before a charging mad elephant, was able, on that distant day so many years ago…

  “My God, how he goes on!” Briggs complained. “Hasn’t he ever heard of a period?”

  Their waiter arrived at that moment and, setting down the brandy and champagne, diplomatically withdrew. They were celebrities now, and he knew his place.

  “May I go on?” Carruthers asked sarcastically.

  “No!” Briggs cried. “Get to the point! How much is the award?”

  “We get an award?” Simpson asked wonderingly. “For what?”

  “Never mind for what!” Briggs cried. “How much?”

  Carruthers leaned forward. With steady hands he filled the three glasses to their brims with brandy and set the champagne firmly in the center of the ice bucket, ready for instant service. Then, lifting his glass, he studied his companions somberly.

  “Guess,” he said quietly.

  Briggs stared at him, astonished despite his hopes. “No! You can’t mean …?”

  “You can’t possibly mean …!” Simpson said, and laid aside his cigar.

  “If you two are talking about ten thousand quid, of course I don’t mean,” Carruthers said a bit testily, and set aside his glass. “We have a problem,” he continued with a faint frown. “You realize, of course, that our original plan, had we not fallen foul of a fickle fate—not to mention an avaricious advocate—was to amass a sum sufficiently large to enable us to live on its proceeds. At no time did we consider what we would do with a sum different from this amount.”

  Briggs subsided. Simpson reached again for the bit of tarred rope he had been smoking.

  “What would you suggest?” he asked, raising his cigar with a faint grimace.

  “I’m not sure.” Carruthers frowned. “A trip, possibly. A cruise, perhaps. We’ve all had rather a sticky time of it lately, and the rest would do us good.”

  “Fine!” Briggs said, bitter in his disappointment. “A cruise would be just the thing. Where would you suggest? To Brighton or across the serpentine in Hyde Park?”

  “I still think we should invest whatever it is,” Simpson said stubbornly.

  Carruthers nodded. “I tend to agree with both of you.” He studied their puzzled expressions a moment and then allowed himself to grin at last.

  “The first ten thousand we invest as planned. The second ten thousand we use for a trip. But not,” he added hastily, “to either Brighton or across the serpentine. I was thinking more of South America…”

  “Like little children,” said Potter with envious distaste. “One minute sulking, and the next whooping!”

  Turn the page to continue reading from the Carruthers, Simpson, and Briggs Mysteries

  1

  Captain Charles Everton Manley-Norville, master of the luxur
y liner the S.S. Sunderland out of Southampton, stood on the bridge of his pride and joy and smiled mechanically down on the bobbing heads of passengers clambering bravely up the sharply tilted gangplank to disappear gratefully into the purser’s square on the Main Deck. Behind the captain, his youngish executive officer leaned casually on the polished railing, awaiting the time to call the idling tugs into action to pull them into the Solent, wondering what was in store for lunch and if any single girls with decent shapes and indecent morals might be included in the passenger list for the cruise. Beyond him, the stained red brick and chimney pots of Southampton appeared lilliputian from the august height of the liner’s bridge.

  The dock below was strewn with friends and relatives screaming to the travelers above; those on deck screamed back. Nobody could understand a word, but then, nobody was truly expected to. At the stern of the ship, using a second gangplank leading to the open portion of a lower deck, porters trundled back and forth, handing luggage with the insouciance and the it’s-not-my-bloody-luggage-it-belongs-to-them-rich-baskits attitude of porters the world over, throwing the bags at the room stewards as if testing their bowling ability. On the deck children dashed back and forth, adding their shrill cries to the cacophony and knocking down other children while pursued by parents, nannys and deck stewards. The tall yard cranes, finished with their loading tasks, waited patiently like so many gigantic flamingos; their operators, perched midway up the monsters, blew their horns every few minutes for no reason whatsoever. With a good half hour yet until the actual sailing, the lineup for complaints had already formed in the purser’s square, interfering with incoming traffic and compounding the general confusion. Unintelligible noises issued echoingly from loudspeakers mounted haphazardly about the ship; they sounded quite official and even dire. The ship’s whistle, as if to clear its throat in order to be prepared for any contingency, blasted at irregular intervals.