Dead Against the Lawyers

by Roderic Jeffries

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I might be speaking out of turn.’

  ‘I can’t tell you whether you are until you’ve said what you’re going to say.’

  The telephone rang and Marriott answered the call. After a minute, he put the receiver on the desk and stood up. ‘Papers are missing. Papers are always missing. Goddamn’ world couldn’t turn round without ’em.’ He walked over to the mantelpiece and searched amongst the briefs that were there and found what he wanted. He returned to the telephone and told the caller that the Request for Further and Better Particulars would be delivered that day.

  Brock spoke once the call was over. ‘You were going to say something?’

  ‘Was I?’

  ‘You were.’

  ‘Well. Like I said, I don’t want to cause trouble, but ... Well, Corry was with Mr Resse before he went in to see Mr Holter. I went past the room and there wasn’t half a row going on.’

  ‘Thanks for telling me. These things often mean nothing, but they do help us to sort out the facts.’ Brock flicked the ash from his cigarette into the ash-tray.

  Marriott brought a penknife out of his coat pocket, opened out the small blade, and began to pare his nails. Brock hastily looked away before he spoke again. ‘I don’t think I’ve checked with you about last night?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Now’s as good a time as any to get it over and done with. What time did you leave here?’

  ‘Some time after five-thirty. It should be five-thirty sharp, but Old Misery belly-aches if I don’t hang on a bit.’

  ‘D’you go straight home?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Not married, are you?’

  ‘Too smart for that. Love ’em, I says, and then leave ’em bloody quickly.’

  ‘Live with your parents?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Well, that’s fine.’ Brock judged from the cessation of sound that Marriott had finished with his nails.

  The door opened and Traynton entered. He stared with patent dislike at the detective, turned and hung his bowler hat on one of the hooks of the mahogany stand.

  ‘Just one more question,’ said Brock, as he stood up. ‘Looking at them in a lump, would you call the people in these chambers successful?’

  Traynton forestalled what Marriott had been going to say. ‘We should not presume to pass an opinion on such a matter.’

  As Brock left the room, he was smiling.

  Traynton went over to his desk. He stared at Marriott. ‘I trust you told that man nothing of any importance?’

  ‘You know me. I keep my mouth shut tighter than a bleeding clam.’

  ‘I have asked you before not to use that kind of language. It is neither seemly nor fitting to chambers.’

  ‘Yeah? Then what d’you call a bloke who’s head’s been half shot off?’

  For once, Traynton was without an answer.

  *

  Resse walked slowly back along the High Street after eating lunch at the corner café. As he came abreast of an electrical store, he stopped. A sale was on and a twin-tub washing machine was offered for ten pounds less than usual. He sighed as he scratched his rather beaky nose. For years he had promised himself he would buy a washing machine for his wife and for years he had been unable to.

  As he stood there, the sunlight warming the back of his neck, he wondered what Georgina thought about their marriage in the secret part of her mind. She came from a county family who, until the Second World War, had had a large estate. Her father, brothers, uncles, and cousins, had been Lord Lieutenants and MFHs, they had shot partridges by the hundreds and pheasants by the thousands, they had known beyond doubt they were the chosen. After the war, they were, by their standards, relatively poor and without power, but they were still the county. As such, they only warmly recognised county or success.

  He was a failure. Failure was one of those words which only found meaning by comparisons. Compared with a clerk stifled in some ugly London skyscraper office block, he was successful: compared with Holter, he was a failure. Georgina made light of his failure to reach the position he should have done, but he sometimes saw her look at him with a wondering, perplexed expression.

  He turned away from the shop. Bitterly, he remembered how Holter had recently mentioned that Charlotte had bought the latest Bendix which did everything but fold up the clothes and hand them over. Charlotte would always have the latest, biggest, and most expensive. Without any natural taste, she correlated price with quality. Suddenly, Resse smiled sarcastically. Here he was, criticizing her for judging the world by the money it cost when a second ago he had judged his own life by the money he made.

  He walked down the High Street to chambers and passed a small knot of onlookers who were blocking half the pavement. As he went up the short path to the doorway, he heard the murmur of several people all talking at once. Whom had they identified him as? Detective, pathologist, reporter, undertaker ... ?

  There were five reporters waiting at the head of the stairs. They crowded round him and asked him what was going on. He said that the dead man had sat up and asked for a couple of aspirins. He knocked on the door and the uniformed policeman inside opened it for him. His last view of the reporters was of their worried expressions, as if they were wondering whether they were missing a resurrection.

  He went along to his room. Aiden was sitting at the smaller desk, reading an American edition of Fanny Hill.

  ‘I see you’re very busy,’ observed Resse, as he sat down.

  ‘Why aren’t there women like her around these days?’

  ‘There are, but they’re called whores and never, never allowed to live happily ever after. That’s the new morality.’

  ‘You make it all sound so depressing.’

  ‘I’ve defended any number of prostitutes on any number of charges. With one notable exception, they were extremely depressing.’

  ‘Let’s talk about the exception.’

  ‘Her name was Helen. She could easily have been the daughter of Leda.’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘Can you really be that ignorant, Gregory?’

  ‘Only if I try hard.’

  Resse lit a cigarette, careless that he was exceeding his normal consumption, a figure dictated by finances. ‘Have you finished that Reply?’

  Aiden reluctantly put the book down. ‘I’ve tried twice, without success. I’ve decided my forte is not going to be pleading, but sheer downright brilliant advocacy.’

  ‘What makes you think you’ll have a forte?’

  ‘Well, I can’t be hopeless at everything.’

  There was a quick knock on the door and Brock looked into the room. ‘May I come in, gentlemen?’

  ‘Surely the question is, can we refuse you?’ retorted Resse.

  Brock stepped inside. ‘Since coming to these chambers, sir, I’m not quite certain what I can do and what I can’t. On the one hand there’s Mr Holter, ever ready to correct me, and on the other there’s Mr Traynton, aching to see me charged with something horrid.’

  ‘Scylla and Charybdis.’

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir?’

  ‘I’m not the only one,’ said Aiden.

  Brock looked questioningly at him, but when nothing more was said he turned and asked Resse: ‘I wondered if I might have a word or two with you, sir?’

  ‘I thought I was declared honest after that jelly you put on my hands failed to change colour?’

  ‘It’s just a matter of routine, sir.’

  ‘The most alarming answer of all. Last year I had a case, Inspector, in which I defended a man charged with indecently assaulting a girl of seven. During his arrest by two six foot tall policemen he suffered very extensive bruising and lost three teeth. The policemen insisted on calling it a routine arrest.’

  ‘Maybe they had daughters, sir.’

  ‘Sometime, Inspector, I’d like to discuss with you the proposition that as the benefits of civilisation increase, so does the need for reversion t
o the lex talionis.’

  ‘Some time, sir, but right now I want to talk about something else.’

  ‘Are you tactfully suggesting my pupil should absent himself?’

  ‘I think it would be better.’

  ‘Gregory,’ said Resse, ‘can you find yourself gainful occupation in some other room? For want of anything else, you might attempt, once more, to formulate that Reply.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ promised Aiden, as he stood up. He took the book with him.

  ‘Take a seat. Inspector,’ said Resse.

  ‘Thanks,’ replied Brock, as he sat down. ‘I was wondering if you could tell me a little about what kind of man the dead man was?’

  ‘I can certainly tell you little if you want me to be complimentary, but I can become quite loquacious if you’re willing to listen to the truth.’

  Brock leaned aback in his chair, which creaked, and crossed his legs. ‘No one seemed to have liked him very much.’

  ‘That shows inherent good taste.’

  ‘You sound as if you almost hated him?’

  Resse stared at the detective, who was watching him with what appeared to be a sleepy expression. ‘Hated him enough to shoot him?’

  ‘I didn’t say so.’

  ‘Inspector, someone who didn’t know I was in earshot once described me as a man of feverish cerebral activity but almost complete physical immobility. However much I hated and despised Corry, and however often I murdered him in my mind, I would never have actually shot him.’

  ‘You’re surprisingly harsh on yourself, sir.’

  ‘Let me thank you for the implied compliment. You have cause to praise Resse, but not to bury him.’

  Brock produced a packet of cigarettes and offered it. Resse accepted one. Brock asked if it would be all right if he took off his coat.

  ‘By all means, just so long as you’re not wearing braces. I’m afraid I have a thing about braces which show.’

  ‘Too much like ’Appy ’Ampstead? Now, sir, I believe you had a row with the dead man yesterday afternoon?’

  Resse started heavily. He went to smoke, noticed his hand was trembling and dropped it on to his lap.

  ‘Is that true?’ asked Brock, in the same friendly voice.

  ‘News travels fast, but bad news travels a damn’ sight faster.’

  ‘What was the row about?’

  Very carefully, trying to keep his hand steady, Resse raised the cigarette and smoked. ‘How much have you learned about Corry’s character?’ he asked, at length.

  ‘Suppose you save time and tell me your estimate of it?’

  Resse stared down at the top of his desk. ‘He was born on the Marsh. His people were small tradesmen and he never stopped feeling he ought to be ashamed because of it. He envied anyone he considered better than himself and despised anyone he knew to be worse, and in this context education and background were the determining factors. He was the kind of anarchistic and anachronistic snob I hope my few words have led you to expect: he’d rush to be seen chatting to a “name” and then afterwards think up a hundred and one reasons for being scornful of the man. He detested the Establishment and yet would have given almost anything to have belonged to it. He knew money could never buy him acceptance into the kind of society he wanted to join, yet he perversely tried to use money to get there. One thing, Inspector, you must realize that I use the term “society” very loosely. This part of Kent is noted not for its apples, cherries, hops, and women, but for the forty thieves of Hertonhurst, the venality of certain of the town officials, and the two genuine aristocrats who have the sense to live most of the time somewhere else.’

  ‘You seem to have studied him closely, sir?’

  ‘Know thine enemy.’

  ‘Then you considered him your enemy?’

  ‘I ... I should have remembered to guard my tongue.’ Resse was silent for several seconds, but then he suffered the compulsion to speak. ‘What is it now? The solemn declaration and warning that I needn’t say anything, but anything I may say will be taken down and may be used in evidence?’

  ‘I didn’t think we’d reached that point. Having told me a bit about Corry, sir, perhaps you’ll go back to the row you had with him?’

  ‘How do you define “row”?’

  ‘By using a measure of common-sense.’

  Resse stubbed out his cigarette. ‘I had an argument with him. It wasn’t the first, but it’s clearly the last.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Money. What else do people argue about?’

  ‘Was it the money he owed you, but wouldn’t pay?’

  Resse stood up, pushed his chair back, and paced the floor. ‘So it’s every man for himself?’

  ‘I don’t follow you.’

  ‘Obviously, someone in chambers has supplied news both about the row and its cause. Why not? As French seamen shout at the first opportunity, sauve qui peut. Corry owed me something between two hundred and three hundred quid, money clients had paid him for my work and which he was holding on to. I couldn’t sue him for it. In the first place, I’m not allowed to, in the second, who kills the goose which lays the golden egg — even if the gold is somewhat tarnished? He amused himself by releasing the money in dribs and drabs, knowing how much I needed the whole lot. He used to give me a great deal of work, but marked it low, knowing I couldn’t afford to refuse it. Yesterday afternoon he came to see Holter about a case and I found him waiting in the clerks’ room. I asked him into here and said I must have some of the money. He asked me why I was so impatient. I lost my temper. It happens even to the most psychologically adjusted amongst us.’

  ‘I supposed something caused the ill feeling between you right at the beginning?’

  ‘Our respective wives. Men are so much better at hiding their dislikes than women are. Corry’s wife — she left him several years ago — was as objectionable in her way as he is ... was ... in his. She mistook my wife’s attitude for snobbishness when in fact it was no more than ordinary dislike.’

  Brock smiled momentarily. ‘I suppose you can say there was one good result of your wives’ quarrel. In order to lord it over you, he gave you briefs.’

  ‘You’re suggesting that but for his hatred of my wife and me, he would have briefed a more competent barrister?’

  ‘I said nothing of the sort, sir.’

  ‘Didn’t you? Then you thought it.’

  Brock scratched the top of his head at a point where his hair was very thin. ‘Was the row a long one?’

  ‘I still maintain “row” is the wrong word since that takes two and he held both aces and trumps.’

  ‘How long did it last, sir?’

  ‘Corry left this room when word arrived that Holter was ready to see him. Holter could afford the pleasure of deciding when he was ready.’

  ‘And was that the end?’

  Resse stopped pacing the floor, hesitated, and sat down. ‘I did not see him again in the evening, I did not lose my temper for a second time, and I did not finish off his worthless life with one well aimed bullet.’

  ‘Then I wonder if you’d fill in what you were doing last night between leaving here and arriving at home?’

  ‘Suppose you tell me the time of death?’

  ‘We don’t know it yet.’

  ‘Don’t know, or won’t tell so that I have to try and cover myself for the whole evening? I left here before six and I must have arrived home a little after quarter past seven.’

  ‘Did you drive home?’

  ‘No, Inspector. Walking is not so quick, but it’s far cheaper.’

  ‘The walk can’t have taken you over an hour and a quarter?’

  ‘On the way, I called in at a public house and treated myself to two half-pints of bitter which I couldn’t afford. Whilst I drank them, I dwelt on the pleasures of subjecting Corry to peine forte et dure.’

  ‘Or of shooting him?’

  ‘Far too quick.’

  ‘Which pub was this?’

  ‘The Horsemen of Harle
ch.’

  ‘They’re sure to remember you?’

  ‘I doubt it. The place was full of tired businessmen on their way home to their ten thousand pound houses.’

  Brock stood up. He picked up his coat from the back of the chair and folded it over his left arm. ‘Thanks very much.’

  ‘No handcuffs for me?’

  ‘I never carry them around. They wear out the pockets too quickly.’

  Resse fiddled with a pencil. He did not speak until Brock’s right hand was on the handle of the door. ‘Is it certain it wasn’t suicide?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘But you wouldn’t rate the chances very high?’

  ‘Lower than a snake’s belly.’ Brock left the room.

  Resse dropped the pencil on to the desk.

  Chapter Seven

  ON HIS return to the main police station, in Whitaker Road, Brock made a quick report to the divisional superintendent and then went along to his own room. As he stepped inside, he vaguely noticed that it was untidy.

  He sat down at his desk and stared at the papers on it. He hated paperwork and tried to leave it on one side and forget it, but HQ were always shouting for this form or that one. He thought about his chances of promotion to detective chief inspector. The Corry case could make or break that chance. Murders were always difficult for the police because the public believed them to be a crime apart and as such they received maximum publicity. Success meant publicized success, failure meant publicized failure. A less ambitious man than himself might have suggested to the chief constable that as an insurance and because of the standing of the people concerned, Scotland Yard’s murder squad be called in.

  He thought about Resse. An embittered man, yet not wholly bitter, who had the strongest of motives for killing Corry, hatred.

  The telephone rang. The call was from the detective superintendent at HQ to say he was coming down from Maidstone to check how the case was going. Brock managed to sound as if he would welcome the visit.

  Almost as he replaced the receiver, there was a knock on the door and Detective Constable Yawley entered. Yawley, a man in middle age, had been a DC for 15 years and would retire a DC. ‘ ’Evening sir,’ he said.