Dead Against the Lawyers

by Roderic Jeffries

  Brock leaned against the desk as he studied the room, trying to saturate his mind with the picture of what he saw. This was probably a murder case and that made it the biggest kind of case any police officer could be landed with. There would be a mass of publicity, especially since people like Holter were mixed up in it. Success would boost his, Brock’s, chances of promotion, failure might for ever damn them. He was a very ambitious man who, so far, had done nothing which might deny his ambitions and this case must not be allowed to change that. His thoughts were interrupted by the detective constable.

  ‘There aren’t any prints on the gun. Only a few smudges and smears which don’t add up to a thing.’

  ‘OK.’ Brock crossed to the small table and picked up the revolver. He broke it. The central ejector spindle rose and ejected six cartridges: three were empty cases, three were unfired. He held all six cartridges in the palm of his hand, turned and stared round the room. One cartridge was known to have been fired: the bullet had gone through the dead man’s head, creating a far more extensive exit than entry wound, and had then become lodged in the top of one of the bookcases, out of which it would have to be dug. No other bullet holes had been found. He smelled each of the three empty cases in turn and thought that only one of them had recently been fired. A laboratory test would confirm or deny this assumption, but Holter’s evidence might equally well do so sooner.

  Detective Sergeant Peach, carrying a portable searchlight, came into the room. ‘Had a hell of a job finding this, sir,’ he said, as he put it down on the carpet.

  Brock ignored the moan. Peach was a man who enjoyed a miserable delight in finding the world always full of difficulties. ‘Get it working as quickly as you like.’

  Peach switched on the searchlight and trained the beam along the carpet, which stretched to within two feet of each wall. The beam crossed the dead man’s body and the doctor looked round angrily and asked them to leave him to do his job without interference.

  Brock made a conciliatory apology and then ordered Peach to begin a visual search of the carpet. Hardly had the beam moved away from the bookcase to the right of the door when Peach spoke.

  ‘There’s something there, sir, between the books and the desk.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘It’s in the carpet and showing pinkish.’

  Brock moved until he could look along the line of the beam and he saw a patch of colour that to him was more white than pink. He went up to this patch and knelt down by it. There were traces of a finely grained powder in the pile of the carpet. He smelled the powder and there was a definite impression of a pleasing scent, although he could not identify it. The odds were, then, that this was a face powder. ‘We’ll have to use a vacuum pick-up for this,’ he said, as he took a pencil from his pocket and laid it down on the carpet as a marker.

  Peach swung the beam of light along the carpet, away from Brock, who stayed where he was for several seconds before standing up.

  Peach spoke again, this time excitedly. ‘There’s a trail from that point, there, to the body.’ In his enthusiasm, he swung the light round too far and the lower half of the doctor was once more bathed in the harsh light. Hastily, Peach altered the set of the beam.

  Brock crossed the room to stand by Peach’s side and seconds later the doctor left the body and, walking right round the desk, joined them.

  They could see, quite clearly, the irregular, wavy line which led from near the cabinet on the wall to the body, crumpled up in death. It looked as if it had been made by a glossy varnish and although it would need a laboratory test to be certain, none of them doubted it was a trail of blood.

  ‘Well, Doc.,’ asked Brock, ‘could he have crawled towards the door after being shot?’

  The doctor fingered the side of his chin. ‘That’s another answer only the PM will be able to give you, Inspector, when it’s certain what the damage to the head is, but speaking off the cuff I’d say he didn’t move an inch of his own accord after being shot.’

  ‘Then we’ve got the problem of why he was moved that far after death?’

  ‘You have. Inspector, I’ve no wish to teach you your job, but are you thinking of calling in the pathologist before the body’s moved?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Very wise.’ He turned and looked at the small patch of shattered woodwork in the bookcase to the left of the door. ‘You know, allowing the man was standing at the beginning of the trail that bullet hole now makes sense, but where the body is, it doesn’t. Odd to drag the body so far and no farther.’

  ‘Anything to make the case bloody difficult,’ muttered Peach.

  *

  As Joan Fleming crossed from the stairs to the door of chambers, two men moved forward from where they had been waiting. ‘Going in there, love?’ asked the elder.

  She lifted her head slightly. ‘That’s my business.’

  ‘Sure. But we’d like to make it ours as well. You see, we can’t get anywhere with that old fool inside.’

  Her curiosity battled with her over-developed sense of propriety, and lost. ‘D’you mean Mr Traynton, the chief clerk?’

  ‘Acts as if he was pregnant with the eleventh commandment. When we said we were just honest reporters ...’

  ‘Reporters?’

  ‘That’s right, love. We present one half of the world to the other half and stand back and listen to the howls. How about telling us what’s going on inside?’

  ‘But why should anything? I mean, I don’t know of anything.’

  ‘You don’t? Thought you must work here?’

  ‘Well, I do. But not full time, like. My husband ...’ She paused, to underline this word. ‘You see, my husband doesn’t like me to have to leave home early in the morning.’

  ‘If I was lucky enough to be married to you, love, I wouldn’t want you to leave home, ever.’

  She tried to appear contemptuous of so rank a compliment, but could not quite hide her pleased satisfaction.

  ‘You didn’t know they’d found a dead body inside, love?’

  ‘They’ve what?’

  ‘Found a dead man. But we can’t make out who, why, when, what, or how. You could help us.’

  She reached up and patted her hair.

  ‘Suppose you were to go in and find out what’s what and come back out here and let us know? We’d be very grateful, if you understand?’ Over many years, the reporter had found how useful a phrase that was since it promised all things to all people.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ she answered, wondering if she had remembered to make-up properly.

  ‘There’s my favourite brunette.’ He rang the doorbell. ‘They’ve locked the door and are only admitting honest callers.’

  The door was opened by a uniformed constable. ‘I’ve already told you ...’ He began.

  ‘It’s not for us,’ replied the reporter, ‘but for this lovely young lady.’

  The constable looked at her. ‘Can I help you, Miss?’

  ‘It’s not Miss, it’s Mrs. And since I work here, you can’t do nothing but let me in,’ she answered pertly, as she walked past him. She went into the clerks’ room and spoke excitedly to Marriott who was making out one of the fees books. ‘Here, George, what’s up? There are a couple of blokes outside who say they’re reporters and that there’s someone dead in here.’

  Traynton, sitting at his desk, looked up. ‘There has been a most unfortunate occurrence, Mrs Fleming. Mr Corry has met an untimely demise.’

  ‘D’you mean he’s dead?’

  ‘Won’t get no deader,’ said Marriott.

  ‘Go on! What ever happened?’ She put her handbag down on the small typing table at which she sat. At that moment, there was a buzz from the switchboard which was at the back of the table. ‘What was to do? Heart? My uncle dropped down dead just as quick as you like. He was eating a meringue and his false teeth got stuck and he was trying to pull ’em out ...’

  ‘The telephone has sounded,’ said Traynton.

  ‘
They can wait,’ she answered, but even as she spoke she plugged in one of the cables. ‘In the end, they had to take ’em right out before they could get ’em out of the meringue.’

  Holter hurried into the room. ‘Josephus, where the hell are those papers? If I’m in court tomorrow, I must have them now. Go and get them.’

  ‘Very well, sir.’

  ‘And telephone Alfred and tell him that the statement of claim is so much poppycock. If I couldn’t have drawn up something better than that when I was a junior, I’d have applied for a post with one of the oil companies.’

  ‘To which case are you referring, sir?’

  ‘The Hawkesley case, of course. And while we’re on the subject, what made you accept a mere hundred for it? The plaintiff has more money than he knows what to do with.’

  ‘I considered, sir, that one hundred guineas was the right and proper fee.’

  ‘I wish you’d realize money isn’t worth as much now as it was fifty years ago.’

  Traynton majestically forbore to answer.

  ‘When you’ve got my papers off the desk, Josephus, ask the police how much longer they think they’re going to be around?’ Holter left the room in as much of a rush as he had entered it.

  Traynton stood up. ‘There is some typing for you, Mrs Fleming. One petition for a divorce and a defence.’

  She sat down and took the cover off the typewriter. ‘What’s the divorce — nice and juicy?’

  ‘Were it of such a nature, you would not be asked to deal with it,’ he replied with crushing finality as he left the room.

  She spoke to Marriott. ‘He’s a proper spoil-sport. As I always say, a nice bit of spice makes life interesting.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Here — what’s the matter with you? You’re the first to have a good giggle in a nullity case with a husband what can’t nohow.’

  He brushed his hand across his brow. ‘They say half his head’s missing.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Mr Corry.’

  ‘Him? Go on! I thought it was a heart attack? Well, it don’t do to get all mournful. Here today and gone tomorrow, that’s what I always say. Did he fall over, or something?’

  ‘He was shot.’

  ‘Shot!’ She stared in complete amazement at Marriott. In the corridor outside the clerks’ room, Brock was kneeling by the inner front door and assembling a lock probe. A uniformed constable stood by him, a small dry battery in his hand.

  Traynton, standing three feet from the others, spoke. ‘Mr Holter must have those papers.’

  Brock answered without looking up. ‘He’ll have them in good time.’

  ‘If they are not forthcoming within the next fifteen minutes, I shall go and collect them.’

  Brock screwed together the two halves of the probe. ‘You won’t, you know,’ he said equably.

  ‘I would remind you. Inspector, you are not dealing with the hoi polloi. We in chambers know our legal rights.’

  ‘It would be a fat lot of use coming to you for advice if you didn’t.’

  ‘You have no right to hold on to those papers. If you continue unlawfully to do so, we shall be forced to bring an action for conversion, replevin, trespass, detinue, or specific restitution. I might perhaps remind you ...’

  Brock looked up. ‘You wouldn’t want to be charged with obstructing a police officer in the course of his duty, contrary to section thirty-eight of the Offences against the Person Act, would you?’

  Traynton began to object indignantly, but became silent when his objections were ignored. Much against his will, he became engrossed in what the detective was doing and remained to watch.

  Brock was handed the battery and he connected it to the two wires from the probe, a tiny tube a foot long with a minute bulb and mirror one end of it and a magnifying lens the other.

  Using the handle, Brock slowly inserted the end of the probe into the keyhole of the mortice action lock. He switched on the battery and peered into the tiny magnifying lens, systematically moving the probe up and down and from side to side.

  After a couple of minutes, he withdrew the probe and passed it to the constable.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked Traynton, whose curiosity became too great for the dignified silence he had wanted to maintain.

  ‘Searching the inside of the lock for scratches.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because if they’re conspicuous by their absence, it means the lock wasn’t forced last night and if the lock wasn’t forced then it’s pretty certain, isn’t it, that if Corry left chambers he came back with someone who had a key?’

  ‘Are there any scratches?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But ... but that means ...’

  ‘Quite,’ answered Brock.

  Chapter Five

  SPENDER’S ROOM was the smallest in chambers and such space as there was was reduced by two large freestanding bookcases which contained a miscellany of text books, many of which dated back to the beginning of the century. Spender was in Ashford, defending a man who had drunk too many whiskies and then had had the misfortune to crash into a stationary police car. Holter had temporarily moved into Spender’s room. After examining the markings of the briefs on the desk, Holter swept them to one side and put his own papers in the cleared space.

  He liked to have a rough list of questions he would put to witnesses and he was preparing this for the next day when there was a knock on the door and Brock walked in, followed by someone Holter had not previously seen.

  ‘This is Detective Constable Squire,’ said Brock.

  Holter briefly studied the newcomer and saw a man of thirty who was dressed in a badly cut suit.

  ‘I wondered if you had a minute or two to spare, sir?’ said Brock.

  ‘I’m very busy.’ Holter looked at his watch. ‘In any case, it’s almost lunch-time.’

  ‘I won’t keep you long.’ Holter muttered something which Brock chose to take as an invitation to sit down in one of the two uncomfortable wooden chairs before the desk. ‘Was there a four fifty-five Webley revolver in that collection of yours in the cupboard on the wall?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I suppose it was from one of your previous cases?’

  ‘It was. That double murder at Bonnington four or five years ago.’

  ‘Were there any cartridges in the gun or somewhere in the cabinet?’

  ‘Why are you asking?’

  ‘That was the gun which shot Corry.’

  ‘Was it?’ Holter frowned slightly.

  ‘Was the gun loaded, sir?’

  ‘It was just as it was found at the murder. Two rounds had been fired and the other four hadn’t. The man was an exceptional marksman.’

  ‘Wasn’t it very dangerous to keep a loaded gun in that cabinet?’

  ‘I never considered it so.’

  ‘Who knew it was loaded?’

  Holter picked up a pencil and underlined a sentence in the typed proof of one of the witnesses in the next day’s trial. ‘I couldn’t answer that.’

  ‘But you could try.’

  ‘Could I?’

  ‘Did you make a secret of the fact it was loaded?’

  ‘I neither broadcast it, nor hid it.’

  ‘I suppose, though, we can say that the casual caller would hardly expect it to be loaded?’

  ‘We don’t have casual callers in chambers.’

  Brock nodded his head, as if in agreement. ‘I hope, sir, you won’t mind if we test your hands?’

  ‘Test them?’ queried Holter sharply.

  ‘You’ll know how it’s sometimes possible to check if a person’s recently fired a gun? The boffins have just brought out a jelly which is supposed to be much simpler and more efficient than the old paraffin test. The jelly changes colour if the hand has on it any appreciable quantity of burned particles.’

  Holter put down the pencil. ‘I have not recently fired a gun.’

  ‘No, sir,’ agreed Brock politely. Then he added, as if he reall
y meant it: ‘You won’t have the fun of seeing-the jelly change colour.’

  ‘Why do you suspect a member of chambers, as you so obviously do?’

  ‘I’m having the locks of the front doors taken off, sir, so that we can open them up and give them a complete examination, but I’m willing to go on record now to say they weren’t forced last night.’

  ‘Either you’re wrong, or someone outside chambers has somehow obtained the necessary keys.’ Holter carefully folded up the proof he had been working on, bundled it up with all the other papers and re-tied the red tape. He stood up. ‘Inspector, do you know anything about the Bar?’

  ‘I’m tempted to answer, enough,’ replied Brock, with quiet sarcasm.

  ‘Members of the Bar are professional brothers, both by inclination and tradition. In this day and age, a lot of people are misguided enough to jeer at the mention of a dedicated profession, but that is what I unashamedly call it. We are dedicated to seeing that justice is done.’

  ‘Possibly, sir. The one trouble might be to decide what justice means.’

  ‘There’s absolutely no ambiguity. Justice is what is dispensed in our courts of law.’

  ‘Yes, sir, but that changes according to which part of the court you sit or stand in.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  Wisely, Brock argued no further, but tried to change the conversation. ‘What you’re really saying is that you don’t think anyone in chambers could have killed Corry?’

  ‘I am saying that people who are dedicated to seeing that justice is done are not going to go out of their way to commit a terrible crime.’

  ‘Passions do sometimes alter people.’

  ‘Not barristers.’

  ‘How did you like Corry, sir?’

  ‘I will be utterly frank. He was not a man to like.’

  ‘D’you think anyone around here disliked him enough to kill him?’

  ‘I thought I’d already given my opinion on that. In any case, my answer could not possibly be in the nature of evidence.’