The Judas Window

by Carter Dickson

  “Yes, something like that. Or else the victim must have been bent forward almost double, as though he were giving a low bow to the murderer.”

  “Did you find any signs of a struggle?”

  “Yes. The deceased man’s collar and tie were rumpled; his jacket was humped up a little about his neck; his hands were dirty and there was a small scratch on the palm of the right hand.”

  “What might have caused this scratch?”

  “I cannot say. The point of the arrow might have caused it.”

  “As though he had put out a hand to defend himself, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was there any blood from this scratch on the dead man’s hand?”

  “It bled a little, yes.”

  “Did you, in the course of your examination, find a stain of blood on any other object in the room?”

  “No.”

  “Therefore it is likely that the scratch was, in fact, caused by the arrow?”

  “I should deduce so.”

  “Will you tell us, doctor, what took place immediately after your first examination of the body in the study?”

  Again the bushy-haired witness glanced at the prisoner; his mouth had an expression of distaste. “Dr. Spencer Hume, with whom I have some acquaintance, asked me whether I would look at the prisoner.”

  “Look at him?”

  “Examine him. Dr. Hume said: ‘He tells us some absurd story about having swallowed a drug; I have just examined him and I can find nothing to support it.’”

  “What was the prisoner’s demeanor during this time?”

  “It was collected, much too calm and collected; except that he would occasionally run his hand through his hair, like this. He was not nearly so much affected as I was myself.”

  “Did you examine him?”

  “In a cursory way. His pulse was rapid and irregular; not depressed as it would have been had he taken a narcotic. The pupils of the eyes were normal.”

  “In your opinion, had he taken a drug?”

  “In my opinion, he had not.”

  “Thank you; that is all.”

  (“That’s torn it,” said Evelyn. The prisoner’s white face now wore an expression of puzzlement; once he half rose in his chair as though to make an audible protest, and the two warders with him jerked to watchfulness. I saw his lips move soundlessly. The hounds were baying loudly now; and, if he were really innocent, what he must have been feeling was horror.)

  H.M. lumbered to his feet and for a full half a minute stood staring at the witness.

  “So you examined him ‘in a cursory way,’ did you?”

  H.M.’s voice made even the judge look up.

  “Do you examine all your patients ‘in a cursory way’?”

  “That is neither here nor there.”

  “It is if they die, ain’t it? Do you think a man’s life should depend on an examination ‘in a cursory way’?”

  “No.”

  “Or that sworn testimony in a court of law should depend on it?”

  Dr. Stocking’s mouth grew tighter. “It was my duty to examine the body; not to take a blood test of the prisoner. Dr. Spencer Hume, I consider, is an authority sufficiently well-known for me to accept his considered opinion.”

  “I see. So you can’t give firsthand evidence yourself? It’s all based on what Dr. Hume thought—Dr. Hume, by the way, not bein’ here now?”

  “My lord, I must protest against that implication,” cried Sir Walter Storm.

  “You will please confine yourself to what the witness says, Sir Henry.” “Begludship’spardon,” growled H.M. “I understood that the witness was confinin’ himself pretty closely to what Dr. Hume said....Will you swear from your own knowledge that he had not taken a drug?”

  “No,” snapped the witness, “I am not going to swear; I am going to give an opinion; and I swear that the opinion I give shall be an honest one.”

  The judge’s soft, even voice intervened. “I still do not understand. You think it impossible that the prisoner should have taken a drug? That is the matter before us.”

  “No, my lord, I do not say it is impossible; that would be going too far.”

  “Why would it be going too far?”

  “My lord, the prisoner told me that he took this drug, whatever it was, at about fifteen minutes past six. I did not examine him until nearly eight o'clock. If by any chance he had taken one, the effect would be largely worn off. However, Dr. Hume examined him before seven o'clock—”

  “Dr. Hume’s opinion has not been presented to us,” said Mr. Justice Bodkin. “I should like to be quite clear about this, since the matter is vital. If the effect of this mysterious drug would have worn off in any case, I take it that you are hardly in a position to say a great deal about it?”

  “My lord, I have said that I can only give an opinion.”

  “Very well. Proceed, Sir Henry.”

  H.M., clearly well pleased, went on to other matters.

  “Dr. Stocking, there’s another side of this business that you’ve called unlikely to the edge of impossible: I mean any suggestion that the arrow might ‘a’ been projected. Let’s take this question of the position of the body. Do you accept the accused’s statement that, at the beginnin’, the body was lyin’ on its left side facing the side of the desk?”

  The doctor smiled grimly. “I believe it is the accused’s statements that we are here to examine; not to accept.”

  “Not under any circumstances, it’d seem. Sure. But could you bring yourself to agree with that particular one?”

  “I might.”

  “Is there anything you know of to contradict it?”

  “No, I cannot say that there is.”

  “For the sake of argument, then. Suppose the deceased had been standing on that side of the desk—which would be (look at your plan, there) facin’ the sideboard across the room. Suppose he had been bendin’ over to look at something on the desk. If, while he had been bent forward, the arrow had been discharged at him from the direction of the sideboard: might it have gone into the body just the way it did?”

  “It is remotely possible.”

  “Thanks; nothing else.”

  H.M. plumped down. The Attorney-General was curt in his reexamination.

  “Had matters taken place in any such fashion as my learned friend suggests,” observed Sir Walter Storm, “would there have been any signs of a struggle?”

  “I should not have expected to find any.”

  “You would not have expected to find the rumpled collar and tie, the disarranged coat, the grimy hands, the cut on the palm of the right hand?”

  “No.”

  “Can we believe that the cut on the palm of the hand was caused by any attempt to seize in the air at an arrow fired at the deceased?”

  “Personally, I should call it ridiculous.”

  “Do you consider it likely that a murderer, equipped with a large crossbow, was lurking in the sideboard itself?”

  “No.”

  “Finally, doctor, with regard to your qualifications to pronounce on whether or not a drug had been swallowed by the prisoner: you were for twenty years on the staff of St. Praed’s Hospital, Praed Street?”

  “I was.”

  The doctor was allowed to stand down, and the Crown then called its most damning witness—Harry Ernest Mottram.

  Inspector Mottram had been sitting at the solicitors’ table. I had noticed him a number of times without knowing who he was. Inspector Mottram was slow-footed, surefooted, careful of both manner and speech. He was comparatively young, not more than forty; but his smooth style of replying to questions, never in a hurry to get out an answer too quickly, indicated some experience of court. His manner, as he stood at attention, seemed to say, “I don’t particularly like putting a rope around anyone’s neck; but let’s not have any nonsense; murder is always murder, and the quicker we dispatch a criminal the better it will be for society.” He had a square face and a short nose, a face running
to jaw, and the expression of his eyes indicated either that they were very sharply penetrating or that he needed glasses. The air of a well-brushed family man, defending society, invaded the court. He took the oath in a strong voice, and fixed his penetrating or nearsighted eyes on counsel.

  “I am a Divisional Detective-Inspector of the Metropolitan Police. In consequence of what I was told, I proceeded to 12 Grosvenor Street and arrived there at 6:55 P.M. on January 4.”

  “What happened?”

  “I was conducted to the room called the study, where I found the accused in company with Mr. Fleming, the butler, and Police-Constable Hardcastle. I questioned the last three, who told me what they have already testified to here. I then asked the accused if he had anything to say. He replied, if you will get these harpies out of the room, I will try to tell you what happened.’ I asked the others to leave the room. Then I shut the door and sat down opposite the accused.”

  The statement made by the prisoner, as the inspector quoted it, was much the same as that which had been read by the Attorney-General in his opening speech. As Mottram repeated it in dispassionate tones, it sounded even balder and thinner. When it came to the part about the drugging of the whisky, Sir Walter intervened.

  “The prisoner told you that the deceased had given him a glass of whisky and soda; that he had drunk over half of it, and then put the glass down on the floor?”

  “Yes, by his chair.”

  “I think, Inspector Mottram, that you are a teetotaler?”

  “Yes.”

  “And,” said counsel very gently, “was there any smell of whisky on the prisoner’s breath?”

  “None whatever.”

  The thing was so simple, so obvious, that I believe the Crown had been reserving it for a bombshell. It certainly had that effect, for it was a practical and everyday point which came home to the jury.

  “Go on, Inspector.”

  “When he had finished making this statement, I said to him, ‘You realize that what you tell me cannot possibly be true?’ He replied, it is a frame-up, Inspector; I swear to God it is a frame-up; but I cannot see how they can all be crooked, or why they should have it in for me anyway.’”

  “What did you understand him to mean by this?”

  “I understood that he referred to the other people in the house. He made no difficulty in talking to me; I should describe him as friendly and almost eager. But he appeared to have strong suspicions of every member of the household, or friend of the family, who came near him. I then said to him, if you acknowledge that the door was bolted on the inside, and the windows were also locked, how can anyone else have done what you say?’”

  “What did he say to this?”

  The witness looked mildly bothered. “He began speaking about detective stories, and ways of bolting doors or locking windows from the outside—with bits of string or wire, and things like that.”

  “Are you a reader of detective fiction, Inspector?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you know of any such methods as he referred to?”

  “Well, sir, I have heard of one or two; and, with a whole lot of luck, they might be practical.” Inspector Mottram looked hesitant and a little apologetic. “But none of them could possibly apply in this case.”

  At counsel’s signal, the exhibit of the dummy shutters was again brought forward, and this time the door as well: a solid piece of oak attached to a practical frame.

  “I understand that the same evening you removed the shutters and the door, assisted by Detective-Sergeant Raye, and took them to the police station for purposes of experiment?”

  “I did.”

  “Will you tell us why no such method could apply here?”

  It was an old story; but it stood up solid and unbreakable as the Old Bailey itself when Mottram explained.

  “After you had questioned him about the door and the windows, Inspector, what did you do?”

  “I asked him if he would object to being searched. I observed, when he stood up—he had been sitting down most of the time—a kind of bulge on his right hip under the overcoat.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said, ‘It won’t be necessary; I know what you want.’And he opened his overcoat, and reached into his hip pocket, and gave it to me.”

  “Gave what to you?”

  “A .38 caliber automatic pistol, fully loaded,” said the witness.

  VIII—“The Old Bear Was Not Blind”

  A .38 CALIBER Webley-Scott automatic was handed up for inspection and identification. Someone behind us began softly to hum, “O Who Will O’er the Downs with Me?” to words which sounded like, “O Who Said He was Innocent?” The atmosphere of skepticism was now so heavy that you could feel it in people’s very gravity. At the moment I happened to be looking at Reginald Answell, and for the first time an exhibit seemed to interest the prisoner’s cousin. He looked up briefly; but his saturnine good-looks betrayed nothing except a certain superciliousness. He fell again to playing with the water carafe on the solicitors’ table.

  “Is this the pistol he had in his pocket?” pursued Sir Walter Storm.

  “Yes.”

  “Did the prisoner explain how he happened to come for a peaceful discussion of his prospective marriage with a weapon like that in his pocket?”

  “He denied that he had brought it. He said that someone must have put it there while he was unconscious.”

  “Someone must have put it there while he was unconscious. I see. Could he identify the weapon?”

  “The accused said to me, ‘I know it very well. It belongs to my cousin Reginald. When he is not in the East he sometimes stays at my flat, and I believe that the last time I saw the pistol was a month ago, in the drawer of the sitting room table. I have not seen it since.’”

  After lengthy and convincing testimony had been made as to an examination of the room, the witness was taken to a summing-up.

  “What conclusions did you form, from this, as to the way in which the crime had been committed?”

  “From the way in which the arrow had been pulled down from the wall, I concluded that it had been dragged from right to left, by a hand holding the arrow in the position where the fingerprints are. This would have put the person who pulled it down on the side of the room a little towards the sideboard. Under these circumstances, I concluded that the deceased had run round the desk, on the left-hand side towards the front of it, in order to get away from his assailant—”

  “In other words, to put the desk between himself and his assailant.”

  “Yes, like that,” agreed Inspector Mottram, making a boxed motion with his hands, and moving them to illustrate. “I concluded that the assailant had then run round the front of the desk. There was then a struggle, with the deceased standing in a position very close to the desk and facing the sideboard. In this struggle the missing piece of feather was broken off, and the deceased also acquired the cut on his hand. The victim was then struck. He fell down beside the desk, getting the dust on his hands when he—he pawed at the carpet just before he died. That is how I believed it to happen.”

  “Or might he have seized at the arrow, and caught at the shaft to get dust on his hands? What I mean is that there was a part of the arrow you could not test for fingerprints, since it was buried in the deceased’s body?”

  “Yes.”

  “The dust on the hands may have come from there?”

  “Quite possibly.”

  “Finally, Inspector. I believe you are a qualified fingerprint expert, and were trained for this branch of the service?”

  “Yes, that is so.”

  “Did you take a record of the prisoner’s fingerprints: first in Grosvenor Street, using the pad of violet ink provided there, and later at the district police station?”

  “I did.”

  “Did you compare these with the fingerprints on the shaft of the arrow?”

  “I did.”

  “Please identify these photographs, showing
the various sets of prints, and explain the points of agreement to the jury....Thank you. Were the prints on the arrow made by the prisoner?”

  “They were.”

  “Were any fingerprints found in the room other than those of the deceased and the prisoner?”

  “No.”

  “Were any fingerprints found on the decanter of whisky, the siphon, or the four glasses?”

  “No.”

  “Where else were fingerprints of the prisoner found?”

  “On the chair in which he was sitting, on the desk—and on the bolt of the door.”

  After a few more questions relating to the final arrest of Answell, the examination was finished. It had been, in its way, a tightening and summing-up of the whole case. If H.M. had any attack to launch, now was the time to launch it. The clock on the wall up over our heads must be crawling on; for it was growing dark outside, and a few whips of rain struck the glass roof. The white-and-oak of the courtroom acquired a harder brilliance from its lights. H.M. got up, spread out his hands on the desk, and asked the following abrupt question:

  “Who bolted the door?”

  “Excuse me, I did not quite catch that?”

  “I said, who bolted the door on the inside?”

  Inspector Mottram did not blink. “The prisoner’s fingerprints were on the bolt, sir.” “We’re not denyin’ that he unbolted it. But who bolted it? Were there any other prints on the bolt besides the prisoner’s?”

  “Yes, the deceased man’s.”

  “So the deceased might ‘a’ bolted it just as well as the prisoner?”

  “Yes, he might: quite easily.”

  “Now, let’s get this story of the crime quite clear. The witness Dyer has testified that at about 6:15 he heard the deceased say, ‘Man, what’s wrong with you? Have you gone mad?’ and then sounds like a scuffle: hey?...In your opinion, was this the scuffle where Hume got killed?”

  Inspector Mottram was not to be caught in any such trap as that. He shook his head, narrowed his eyes, and gave the matter grave attention. “You want my opinion, sir?”