Dead Against the Lawyers

by Roderic Jeffries

  Chapter Three

  TRAYNTON PUT the letters down on the desk. He moved them fractionally to the left so that they were perfectly in line with the blotter. He stood upright and for a while did not look to his right. If the body was still there when he looked again, it meant that his world was for ever wrecked and lost — things like murders happened, but not in chambers. He looked through the large window at the traffic-clogged High Street, more clogged than ever because electricity workmen were digging up part of it only two months after the waterboard workmen had done the same.

  Very slowly, he looked to his right, but keeping his gaze above the floor. He saw the cabinet in which Mr Holter kept his gruesome mementoes. He did not hold with anything so extrovert as this collection: a gentleman would not have so boldly displayed the symbols of his success. But, of course, Mr Holter although highly successful was not a gentleman. Traynton had stared at the cabinet for quite some time before he realized that the doors were wide open. He shivered and then, like a man suddenly plucking up all his courage before he was left with none, looked down at the floor. The body was still there. He was used to seeing police photographs of the savaged corpses of men and women, but lacking the comforting impersonality of a photograph, he began to feel sick at the sight before him.

  He turned away and walked very slowly to the door. He looked back, but it was still all there and he went out into the corridor and shut the door behind him as silently as possible.

  Fifty-six years spent in the service of the law had not prepared him for this and he was far too bewildered to think clearly. In such a crisis, he could conceive of only one thing to do and that was to ring Mr Holter.

  Once in the clerks’ room, he picked up the telephone and — after a wild moment in which his memory seemed completely to have deserted him — dialled Mr Holter’s number. As the dialling tone began, he nervously tapped on the desk with his fingers. Why, he wondered bitterly, couldn’t this have waited until after he had retired? Surely the life he had led had been exemplary enough to ensure better treatment to him that this?’

  The connection was made. ‘Yes?’ said a woman’s voice.

  On Traynton’s heavy, bulbous face there appeared an expression of dislike. Mrs Holter was not the kind of wife a leading Silk should have: a leading Silk’s wife should be mature, poised, and beyond doubt a lady. In any case, there was something lubriciously embarrassing about a man of fifty-eight being married to a woman of twenty-six. ‘Mrs Holter, this is Traynton speaking. Might I please speak to Mr Holter?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I should very much like a word with him, Madam.’

  ‘Yes, but what about?’

  ‘Work, Madam.’

  After a short pause, she said she would go and find him. As he waited, Traynton wondered whether he could allow himself a cigarette before luncheon, contrary to all custom, in view of the quite shattering nature of the events of the morning. He had taken hold of the packet in his coat pocket when Holter spoke over the phone.

  ‘What is it, Josephus? Damn it, man, it’s far too early to listen to your moaning.’

  Traynton’s voice became more pompous than ever. ‘A very grave matter has arisen, sir, which I considered you must be acquainted with immediately.’

  ‘I’ll be in chambers in half an hour. Why can’t it wait that long?’

  ‘It cannot wait at all, sir.’

  ‘All right, all right, what is it? I’ll swear you get a positively perverse pleasure from covering me with your gloom first thing in the morning.’

  ‘Someone is dead, sir.’

  “Well? It comes to all of us.’

  ‘Not in chambers, sir.’

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘There is a dead man in your room, sir, just by your desk and on the right hand side of it if one faces the road. His head has been severely damaged and there is a great deal of blood. It is all extremely unpleasant.’

  There was a pause. ‘Josephus, have you been drinking?’

  ‘Sir, I do not drink before lunch-time, nor ever when I am working. I deeply resent the suggestion.’

  ‘Then you’re seeing things. How in the name of hell could a dead man get into chambers?’

  ‘I have no idea, sir. However, he has.’

  ‘Have you told the police?’

  ‘No, sir, not yet.’

  ‘Then get on to them immediately.’

  ‘Very well, sir.’

  ‘Who’s dead?’

  ‘I did not make a close investigation, sir, and the head was turned away from me. His head, sir, is in a mess.’

  After that call was over, Traynton dialled O, there being no 999 call on the Hertonhurst exchange. As the dialling tone began, Marriott walked into the room. Traynton used his free arm to produce his gold hunter from his waistcoat pocket and open the cover. ‘You are nearly fifteen minutes late,’ he said.

  *

  Holter always drove without any regard whatsoever to other road users. Secure within the Bentley, the supreme status symbol, he was convinced that everyone should, and would, give way to him. Somehow, he had never had any but a minor accident. His drive to chambers that morning was more recklessly careless than usual.

  He parked in a small side road and walked from that to the High Street and Awcott House, a three story early Victorian building, once a private house, set back from the pavement and separated from it by a small lawn and two very small flower beds.

  He went in and up to the first floor, entered chambers. ‘Josephus,’ he called out.

  Traynton came out of the clerks’ room. ‘Good morning, sir,’ he said, in sepulchral tones of voice. ‘A policeman is present, sir.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In your room, sir.’

  ‘Does anyone know who it is yet?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘What a hell of a mess. How the devil did he get into chambers?’

  ‘The outer doors of chambers were unlocked this morning, sir. I regret to have to inform you that you must have forgotten to lock them last night when you and Mr Corry left.’

  ‘Don’t be so damn’ silly. Of course I locked them.’ Holter lit a cigarette. ‘What smashed in the man’s head?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, sir.’

  ‘Who’s in chambers now?’

  ‘Apart from us, sir, Marriott and the policeman in your room. I understand he has rung the police station for assistance.’

  ‘I’d better go and see what’s what.’ As Holter crossed to the door of his room, he wondered what he was going to find. Traynton was normally a good chief clerk, but he could be reduced to a fool by the unexpected. Still, however much of a fool he was being today, it was impossible to believe he could mistake anything for a bloody corpse.

  He opened the door and stepped inside.

  A uniformed constable turned to see the smartly dressed, slightly portly figure. ‘You can’t come in here,’ he said hurriedly.

  Holter ignored the constable and walked to his desk. When he reached his chair, he was able to see the crumpled figure, the head in a pool of blood, lying on the floor. Something about the figure was familiar. He felt repulsed by the bloody shapelessness of the man.

  ‘Are you Mr Holter?’ asked the constable.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, but you’ll have to get out of here.’

  ‘D’you know who that is?’

  ‘No, sir. Never seen him before.’

  The door opened and two men, in civilian clothes, entered. One was large, but not fat, and the other was shorter and thinner, with a narrow face set in bitter lines. This second man carried a suitcase.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Holter,’ said the larger man.

  ‘‘Morning.’ Holter stared at him, frowning slightly.

  ‘Detective Inspector Brock, sir. We’ve met once or twice in court. This is Detective Sergeant Peach.’

  ‘What the hell’s he doing here in my room?’ Holter pointed at the dead man.

  ‘That’s o
ne of the things we shall be finding out, sir. Any idea who the dead man is?’

  ‘I haven’t seen his face yet, but the clothes seem familiar. Goddamn it, what the hell’s he doing here?’

  ‘Lying dead,’ said the detective sergeant surlily.

  ‘Just before you go, sir,’ said Brock, with undiminished politeness, ‘would you have a look at his face in case you can name him? Walk round over there if you will and don’t come any nearer to him than you are now.’

  Holter went round the far side of the desk until he could see the face: he recognized it and immediately felt as if he had lost touch with reality. There was an entry wound between the right eye and ear and the opposite side of the head was a mess.

  ‘You know him, sir,’ said the detective inspector, more as a statement of fact than a question.

  ‘It’s Corry.’

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘Lawrence Corry, the solicitor. He ... he was here last night.’

  ‘About what time?’

  ‘Until we left in the evening. We were discussing a case in which he wanted an opinion. My junior couldn’t get here — case in Sevenoaks — so we carried on without him.’

  ‘When did you leave here?’

  ‘Some time after six.’

  ‘D’you know whether you two were the last to go out, sir?’ ‘

  ‘Yes, we were.’

  ‘Thanks for your help, sir. I’m afraid you’ll have to leave us now.’

  Holter looked away from the dead man. ‘I need all my papers ...’ he began.

  ‘We’ll free them just as soon as we can, sir, but I’m afraid that just for the moment you’ll have to leave them with us unless there’s anything of very great urgency?’

  ‘There’s nothing immediate.’ Without thinking, he stubbed out the cigarette he had previously been smoking and now he lit another. ‘It’s ... odd, seeing him lie there, dead. Last time I saw him he was walking down the High Street and now he’s there, dead.’

  ‘It’s always a strange metamorphosis, sir.’

  Holter walked back round the desk to the door. When he next spoke, his voice had regained all its old authority. ‘I shall want the set of papers on my blotter by lunchtime at the latest, Inspector. I’m in court tomorrow morning and I’ll have to work on them. You’ll please see my clerk has them in good time.’ He turned and left the room.

  The detective sergeant crossed to the desk and put the case down on it. ‘He’s a right proper bastard.’

  ‘Old Holter? Last time we faced each other in court he tore me up for confetti and threw the bits out of the window. I spoke the truth and the jury didn’t believe a word of it.’

  ‘He’s good at destroying the truth.’

  Brock looked at his detective sergeant and, not for the first time, thought that if the other had had even the suspicion of a sense of humour he would have risen higher in the police force than he had.

  Brock very slowly went round the room, visually searching every inch of the floor. When he came to the cabinet on the wall, he stared at the various objects which hung inside: a cosh made from an Underground train strap, a commando dagger with rust coloured stains on its blued blade, a home-made pistol built out of a length of gas pipe, a half-shattered mouse-trap that had been rigged up as a mechanical fuse, a broad-bladed sheath-knife the top of which had been broken off, and a small glass phial containing a rough powder. It needed little imagination on his part to guess what those objects were: indeed, he seemed to remember being told that Holter invariably pinched the murder weapon and then blandly denied all or any knowledge of its whereabouts.

  Corry had been shot. There were several empty hooks in the cabinet and a revolver or automatic could have hung on any one of them.

  Brock knelt down on the carpet, near one of the leather chairs in front of the desk. The only place where a gun could be, if still in the room, was under the desk or one of the chairs. As he pressed his cheek on to the carpet and looked under the chair farthest to his left, he saw a revolver.

  He stood up and dusted the knees of his trousers. He stared at the body and at the chair under which was the revolver, memorizing the relative positions even though they would be both sketched and photographed. After a while, he spoke. ‘There’s a revolver under there. Peach. At a rough guess, it’s a four five five Webley. We’ll leave it until the photographer’s done his chore.’

  ‘D’you know what?’

  ‘No doubt you’ll tell me.’

  ‘I’d give a fiver to land this job round that snooty bastard’s neck.’

  ‘Don’t get too generous, too soon,’ replied Brock. ‘Or maybe you didn’t notice that bruise on Holter’s neck?’

  Chapter Four

  HOLTER WALKED to the window of the clerks’ room and looked down at the High Street. After a moment, he turned. ‘Who in the hell would want to kill Corry?’

  ‘Everyone who knew him,’ replied Resse.

  ‘Nobody, barrister or solicitor, even began to like him,’ said Marriott. With a gesture frequently repeated, he ran the palm of his hand over his swept-back black hair.

  ‘You should not speak like that,’ said Traynton severely.

  ‘De mortuis nil nisi bonum, Josephus?’ queried Resse ironically.

  ‘I just do not hold with criticizing members of the profession, sir, even if they are solicitors.’ Traynton, sitting at his desk, glared at Marriott as he tried to indicate to the other that a clerk’s duty at such a moment as the present one was to remain silent.

  ‘But you must admit that in his case it’s a pleasure to do so,’ said Resse.

  ‘I admit, with very great respect, sir, no such thing.’

  ‘Oh, well, every man to his tastes, as the bishop said to the hermaphrodite. Josephus, how much has he died owing me?’

  ‘A considerable sum, sir.’

  ‘What are the odds of getting any of it paid?’

  ‘I should not wish to prognosticate, sir.’

  ‘Maybe his personal representatives will have a kinder heart than he did.’ Resse tried to speak lightly, but his voice was harsh.

  Holter spoke to Resse. ‘Has he been giving you a lot of work?’

  ‘A considerable amount, Radwick. Although I hasten to add that the word “considerable” has pertinence only for me. For you, the correct description would be chicken-feed.’

  Holter shrugged his shoulders. Resse’s income was only a tithe of his own and Resse had the kind of character which publicly made light of the fact but secretly was embittered by it. Resse was the more clever lawyer of the two, but to be a clever lawyer was the least of the prerequisites to becoming a successful barrister.

  There was a pause, broken by Marriott. ‘D’you think he committed suicide?’

  ‘I very much doubt he had sufficient consideration for the rest of the world,’ said Resse.

  ‘But unless it was an accident, then it must be ...’

  ‘Murder? Why not? Corry was born to be murdered. He was thoroughly dislikeable and he was a solicitor. Who could resist such a combination?’

  Holter walked from the window to Traynton’s desk. ‘I can’t blasted well get into my own room because of him.’

  Traynton looked up. ‘It’s the Fastney case tomorrow morning, sir.’

  ‘I know, I know. Don’t go on and on underlining the obvious.’

  The bell of the outside door rang. Breathing deeply, Traynton stood up and, with measured strides, left the room. He returned seconds later and spoke to Holter. ‘A reporter, sir, who had the impudence to ask to come into chambers and speak to people. I assured him of the impossibility of his proposal.’

  Holter made some muttered reply and then stepped over to the mantelpiece and examined his reflection in the mirror which hung just above it. Satisfied by what he saw, he transferred his attention to the briefs on the mantelpiece and picked one up. ‘Fifty guineas for Alan — he’s moving up in the world, isn’t he?’

  ‘That brief, sir,’ replied Traynton, ‘is from the
firm in which his brother is a partner.’

  ‘The advantages of nepotism,’ said Resse, ‘or how to become a successful barrister without really trying.’

  Holter had already lost interest in the markings of Spender’s brief. He tried to recall to mind his departure from chambers the previous night. He and Corry had left the room and gone into the corridor. He had looked quickly into the clerk’s room, it had been empty, and then they had both gone out. For the moment, he couldn’t remember locking the doors, but it was inconceivable that he hadn’t done so.

  *

  The detective constable who was finger-print expert and photographer took the last photograph and then packed the large camera in its case. He folded up the tripod. ‘All right to pull out the gun from under the chair, sir, and test?’

  ‘Yep.’ Brock fingered the money in his trouser pocket as he turned and spoke to the middle-aged, grey-haired man waiting with obvious impatience by the doorway. ‘OK now, sir, and thanks for waiting.’

  The police surgeon picked up his bag, crossed the floor to the body, and knelt down to begin his examination. After a while, he looked up. There’s no evidence of powder blackening or tattooing and the entrance wound hasn’t been washed either by the blood or with water. I’ll give you five to one, here and now, it wasn’t suicide. The body will have to be taken down to the morgue for a full PM before anyone can be certain, but until then you can say that the muzzle of the gun was more than a foot from his head when it was fired. In thirty years, I’ve never yet heard of a suicide holding the gun away from himself.’

  ‘But I suppose there could always be a first time?’

  ‘Only if the man’s too mental not to worry about missing.’

  ‘Any idea, sir, of the maximum distance at which a person can hold a gun and aim it at himself?’

  ‘Twenty inches.’ The doctor returned to his examination of the body.

  The detective constable had brought the revolver out from under the chair and was now holding it by the corrugated side plates of the butt. He laid it carefully on a large sheet of grey paper. Finger-prints were so very seldom found on guns, because of the lack of smooth recording surfaces, that the task of searching for them was almost certainly a hopeless one, yet it had to be carried out. The detective dusted the revolver with a light coloured powder.