A Sentence of Life

by Julian Gloag

  “I do not.”

  “We can very easily find out.” Bartlett moved swiftly forward, picked up the red alarm clock from the table in front of the clerk, carried it to the witness box and handed it to George.

  “Now. Using the handle at the back of the clock, try moving the hands forward to ten o’clock.”

  “Yes, that’s easy enough.”

  “Now forward again, to eleven o’clock.”

  “Yes. I have done that.”

  “Now move the hands back to nine thirty-nine.”

  “Nine thirty-nine it is.”

  “Now, gently, Superintendent—very gently, move the hands back to nine o’clock.”

  There was a pause. “I’m afraid I can’t, without forcing it. There appears to be an obstruction. A piece of glass—must be very small—in the face.”

  “Obstructing the hour hand?”

  “That must be it. The hour hand’s set lower.”

  “The minute hand clears the obstruction?”

  “That’s right. The minute hand moves clear. The hour hand can be moved clear forward, but moved backward it hits this obstruction.”

  “And what time is shown on the clock when the hour hand is turned back to hit the obstruction?”

  “Nine thirty-nine.”

  Almost mincingly, Bartlett stepped across the well of the court and took the clock and replaced it on the table.

  “Now, just supposing that when that clock had struck the floor and stopped, the hands had shown ten-fifteen. And further supposing that it had been in someone’s interest to indicate that the clock had fallen—and that whatever had caused it to fall had occurred—at an earlier time. Short of turning the hands almost a full twelve-hour circle, that person could not have altered the hands to show an earlier time than nine thirty-nine—the very time that was in fact shown by the clock. Could he?”

  “No, sir, he could not.”

  “And did not this thought at any time occur to you, that in fact the hands might have been deliberately set back?”

  “No, it did not.”

  “Then presumably it would also not have occurred to you that anyone so doing might very well be anxious and careful to wipe the clock clean of prints?”

  “No, it did not.”

  “And although, if the hands were set back, we do not know in whose interest it might have been to move them, we can say, confidently, that the one person in whose interests it would not have been was Maddox. Can’t we?”

  “If the hands were set back—”

  “If the hands were set back?”

  “If the hands were set back, it would not have been in the interests of Maddox. That’s quite correct.”

  “If. That if marks a possibility that you didn’t even for a moment consider in the course of your ‘thorough’ investigation?”

  “The possibility did not occur to me, no. And if it had, I am afraid I would have considered it rather farfetched.”

  “Yes, I bet you would!” Savage for a second. “Because you had made up your mind very quickly that Maddox was your murderer, hadn’t you, Superintendent?”

  “No.”

  “And you were not interested in possibilities or lines of investigation that might complicate your personal certainty that Maddox had committed the crime—were you?”

  “That’s quite untrue. And if I may say so, you know it.”

  “Your confidence would be laudable, Superintendent, if it were equalled by your intelligence.”

  This was all wrong. Jordan forced his hands on his knees to stop the trembling anger in his legs. This wasn’t any judiciously framed enquiry into the thoroughness of George’s investigations. Nothing to be gained by an attack upon the police! Jordan’s ears were so full of the pounding of blood that for a few moments he heard nothing.

  “… statement of March the sixteenth, of course, you immediately went round to Panton Place and checked the state of the stair carpet?”

  “Inspector Symington did, yes.”

  “You did not see fit to go yourself?”

  “Mr. Symington is a competent and experienced officer.”

  “And this was done on the sixteenth?”

  “No. On the following day—March the seventeenth.”

  “After you had already arrested Maddox?”

  “That is quite correct.”

  “Another unimportant matter—hardly worth checking?”

  “That’s quite untrue. Immediately Maddox left Sarah Street police station on March the sixteenth, I telephoned Mrs. Ardley, the landlady at Number Twenty-seven Panton Place, and enquired into the matter.”

  “You telephoned Mrs. Ardley?”

  “I did. She reported that the stair carpet was in good order and that no complaints as to its condition had been received by her.”

  “So you felt quite safe in postponing investigation until the next day?”

  “There were a good many other matters of greater urgency that needed attending to at the time.”

  “Such as arresting Maddox before verifying the accuracy of his statement? Very well, Superintendent. Now, when you telephoned Mrs. Ardley on the afternoon of the sixteenth, did you tell her why you were enquiring about the stair carpet?”

  “No, I did not.”

  “So she might well have thought of it as a matter of not much importance?”

  “I can’t answer for Mrs. Ardley.”

  “Did you tell her that Inspector Symington would be round the next morning to take a look at the stair?”

  A pause. Outside it was growing dark, so that the lights in the court began to throw sharper shadows and alter the relationship of shapes. George seemed bigger now and the lines on his expressionless face more deeply scored. Jordan could see the gleam of silver in the hairs of his clipped moustache. “I fancy I may have informed her of Mr. Symington’s impending visit, yes.”

  “Superintendent, has it ever occurred to you that there are a number of rather houseproud women in the world who are not invariably overeager to admit to trivial domestic shortcomings?”

  “I had not the slightest grounds for doubting Mrs. Ardley’s veracity.”

  “I put it to you once again, has it ever occurred to you that there may be women, houseproud women, who may have some hesitation—a perfectly natural hesitation—in freely admitting small domestic shortcomings?”

  “It may have occurred to me, although I’m afraid I don’t have much time to spend in thinking about the mysterious ways of a woman’s mind.”

  A slight stir, very faint—the noise of smiles, thought Jordan. He relaxed a little—Mr. George could hold his own. And yet, Jordan felt a pang of bitterness at the viciousness of it all: this subtle, or unsubtle, tearing down—it recalled years, centuries, it seemed, of commonplace observations concealing the cold desire to destroy. Surely there was a place where words could be gently said and gently meant. But that place, those people, were dead. And he had buried them.

  “So no shadow of a doubt sullied your acceptance of Mrs. Ardley’s words?”

  “There was no cause of any kind to doubt Mrs. Ardley’s truthfulness.”

  “How long would it take to repair a loose runner on a stair carpet, do you think, Superintendent? An hour? Two hours? Half an hour?”

  “I am not a carpenter.”

  “Indeed, no. Every man to his trade. Well, I cannot conceive a comparatively simple repair taking much longer than an hour. An hour. And you telephoned Mrs. Ardley on the afternoon of the sixteenth and Mr. Symington went round to Panton Place—on the morning of the seventeenth?”

  “Late morning.”

  “Late morning of the seventeenth—well, let’s see, that would be round about eighteen hours. Eighteen hours. Am I correct?”

  “Approximately eighteen hours sounds right.”

  “Eighteen hours until Inspector Symington arrived on the spot. Inspector Symington did, I imagine, give you a written report of his investigation of the matter of the stair carpet?”

  “He did.”r />
  “Give us the gist of that report, Mr. George. The gist of it.”

  “As I recall, Mr. Symington reported that he had examined the whole stairway from the ground floor to the first floor. He found no marks of any kind indicating a fall having taken place. He tested each runner holding the carpet against the stairs, and he found all of them to be firmly in place, requiring some physical exertion to move them or slip them from their sockets. This applied to the runners on the three top stairs, as to all the others. Mr. Symington made further enquiries of Mrs. Ardley, who confirmed her previous statement that the stair carpet had never been loose and no complaints had been received by tenants in regard to it. Mr. Symington then interviewed several of the tenants, and they had no knowledge of a loose stair carpet, nor had they heard of anyone complaining of such.”

  “Several of the tenants. How many?”

  “Two, I believe.”

  “Do you recall the names of these several tenants?”

  “If I remember correctly, there was a Mr. Furling and a Mrs. Masterman. I have the report here, I can easily verify.”

  “No, no. Don’t bother. It was not Masterman, but Masterson, in fact. Mrs. Masterson. But I take it that Inspector Symington’s report fully satisfied you as to the point at issue?”

  “I was quite satisfied that the stair carpet had at no time been in a loosened or dangerous condition.”

  “The report satisfied you of that—the report of a—ah—competent and experienced officer?”

  “It did.”

  “And did the report of Inspector Symington’s tell you on what floor Mrs. Masterson lived?”

  “I don’t believe it did. No, I’m sure not.”

  “So of course you could not know that Mrs. Masterson lives, and has lived for the last twenty years, in the basement flat, could you?”

  George remained as motionless as ever. “Is that true?”

  “Yes, it’s true, Superintendent. It is true, too, that Mrs. Masterson’s flat has a direct entrance to the street, via some area steps, so that Mrs. Masterson has no cause whatsoever to visit the ground floor, let alone the first floor. And in view of this, Mrs. Masterson’s opinion as to the state of the carpet at the top of the stairs to the first floor is likely to be of little weight, is it not?”

  “In the normal course of events, she may—”

  “Come come, Superintendent, Mrs. Masterson’s opinion has about as much value as a native of Timbuctoo’s, hasn’t it?”

  “Excuse me.” The policeman took the large notebook that had been resting on the edge of the witness box. “Here we are. From Mr. Symington’s report: ‘Mrs. Masterson stated that she had no knowledge of a loose stair carpet, and further, that she had heard no complaints from other tenants to that effect.’ I think that’s quite clear. Mrs. Masterson is stating her ignorance. I don’t think that carries any implication that she would have been bound to know of a loose stair carpet—if there had been one.”

  “Superintendent, surely you can do better than that. Patently Mrs. Masterson was ignorant—she was in no position to have any knowledge of the state of the stairs. So why did a competent and experienced officer bother to ask? Or, conversely, why didn’t he ask any man on the street? He would have been just as ignorant. Or the man on the moon? No, Superintendent, it is not what Inspector Symington wrote down in his report, it is what he did not write down in his report—that is what is misleading. Your competent and experienced officer deliberately misled you, but, what is far more important, he might easily seriously have misled this court and, withal, the very course of justice itself. This is a very serious matter, Mr. George, very serious.”

  The judge’s teeth clacked. “Mr. Bartlett—you are absolutely sure of your ground? You are quite certain that this Mrs., ha, Masterson lives in the basement flat?”

  “I’m quite prepared to call proof, my Lord.”

  “Very well. Very well. Um, Superintendent, I am inclined to take a rather grave view of this. Mr. Pollen?” The old head turned slowly. “Mr. Pollen, we are going to have the opportunity of hearing Inspector Symington, are we?”

  “He is the Crown’s next witness, my Lord.”

  “Well. Well.” Back again the old face moved. “Superintendent, this is an experienced officer, you say?”

  “He is, my Lord.” The chief superintendent gravely faced the judge. “Might I be permitted to say a word, my Lord?”

  “By all means.”

  “I’m extremely sorry that the slightest aspersion has been cast upon Detective-Inspector Symington’s reputation, because he happens to be one of the most capable and efficient officers I have ever had the good fortune to come across. He has one of the finest records in the Metropolitan Police, in which he has served for thirteen years. He holds the Queen’s Police Medal for Gallantry. He is a very thorough and conscientious officer, my Lord, and as an example of that, on this very case, I can tell you that he came on duty at nine o’clock on the morning of the Monday in question, and did not come off duty until three A.M. the following day, Tuesday, on which he again reported for duty at nine o’clock.”

  “The Queen’s Medal for Gallantry, eh?” The judge was avidly attentive.

  “Yes, my Lord. It was awarded to him for his action in singlehandedly tackling four men engaged in armed robbery in the West End. He received three gunshot wounds, but, despite that, he rendered one of the men unconscious and disarmed and arrested two of the others.”

  “Ah, yes. Penny, Farmer, Wensley and Todd. The case came up before me. Very vicious men.”

  “Yes, my Lord.”

  “An admirable effort on Symington’s part. Yes, yes, I commended him. What did he do in the war?”

  “In the latter part of the war he served in the Commandos, my Lord.”

  “Did he see active service?” Mouth slightly open, the judge leaned forward.

  “Yes, my Lord. He was mentioned in dispatches on two separate occasions, I believe I’m right in saying.”

  “Mentioned in dispatches? Hmmm.” The judge slowly savoured the good news.

  “My Lord—” Bartlett, calmly impatient—”if we are done with the eulogies, perhaps I may—”

  “Just a moment, Mr. Bartlett. Just a moment.” An impatient snap of the teeth. “Superintendent, this business about the stair carpet. How many people were in the house at the time Inspector Symington conducted his investigation? Refer to your notes if you wish.”

  “Yes, my Lord. There were three people in the house.”

  “And they would be this Mrs. Masterson, Mr. Furling and, of course, Mrs. Ardley?”

  “That’s quite correct, my Lord.”

  “Then Inspector Symington interviewed everyone he could get hold of?”

  “Yes, my Lord.”

  “Umm, yes. Well, I see nothing irregular about that. It was perhaps unfortunate that there were not more tenants available for questioning, but one cannot blame Inspector Symington for that. Yes. Thank you, Superintendent. Well, Mr. Bartlett, let’s get on, let’s get on.”

  Bartlett stood poised for a second, and then he said, “Very well, Superintendent, we will take this matter up again with Inspector Symington. I shall merely ask you now whether it was you who directed Inspector Symington to investigate this matter on the morning of the seventeenth of March?”

  “I instructed Inspector Symington to proceed to Panton Place at the earliest possible moment to make his enquiries.”

  “And the earliest possible moment was the late morning?”

  “It was.”

  “And were you aware, Superintendent, that in the normal course of events all the tenants at Twenty-seven Panton Place, with the exception of Mrs. Masterson, go out to work and would therefore not be available for questioning?”

  “All the tenants had been interviewed and statements taken from several of them.”

  “But not on this matter?”

  “All persons on the premises were questioned.”

  “Superintendent, were you or were you
not aware that there were likely to be, at that time in the morning, very few persons on the premises?”

  “I knew several of the tenants went out to work.”

  “Then, knowing it, why did you choose a time when most of your potential sources of information would be absent?”

  “I would not have felt justified in postponing the investigation any longer.”

  “You were quite happy about postponing your investigation by eighteen hours, but you drew the line at twenty-four, is that it?”

  “I was satisfied that Inspector Symington’s investigations had shown that there was nothing further to be gained in pursuing this particular line of enquiry.”

  “Indeed, all through this case you have been very easily satisfied by somewhat less than indefatigable enquiries into matters which might tend to support the truth of Maddox’s statements, have you not?”

  “There is not the slightest truth in that allegation.”

  “We shall see. I now want to ask you about the photograph of June Singer that you found in Maddox’s office. Where, precisely, did you find it?”

  “In Maddox’s desk.”

  “Where in Maddox’s desk?”

  “It was in the bottom left-hand drawer of the desk, secreted behind a batch of papers and books.”

  “It was what?” Ringing.

  “It was behind several books and papers in the bottom left-hand drawer.”

  “That is not what you said. You used another word. What was that word?”

  “I said it was found—”

  “You did not say it was found. What was the word you used?”

  “Secreted—is that what you mean?”

  “Secreted! Do you know the meaning of the word, Superintendent?”

  “It means hidden.”

  “Hidden. Deliberately concealed. Why should you assume that Maddox had deliberately concealed the snapshot?”

  “I did not use the term in that sense. It was certainly not openly displayed.”

  “I find the word ‘secrete’ very significant. You assumed that Maddox placed the photograph in the drawer to conceal it, and you are trying to get the court to accept that as a fact. Why?”

  “The photograph was concealed, that’s the plain fact of the matter.”