“But I was sittin’ and thinkin’, and one thing bothered me badly. She had nipped out of the house with that suitcase, and she couldn’t very well bring it back again—on that night, at least—in case anybody got suspicious or still happened to be whistlin’ for inkpads. She had to dispose of it somehow, and do it in a snappin’-of-your-fingers time: for she had to go direct to the hospital and bring back Uncle Spencer. If she and Spencer had been concerned together in the murder, you might ‘a’ thought she’d have left it at the hospital: where he would have a room or at least a locker of his own. But that didn’t happen. As you see from my comment on the time schedule, the hall porter saw her arrive, and saw her drive away with Spencer, and no suitcase was handed out. Then where the blazes did it go? She couldn’t chuck it in the gutter or hand it to a blind beggar, and gettin’ rid of a suitcase full of dangerous souvenirs (even temporarily) is a devilish difficult trick. There’s only one thing that could have been done, in the very limited time the schedule shows she took. When you’re at St. Praed’s Hospital in Praed Street, as you know and as has been pointed out even if you didn’t, you’re smack up against Paddington Station. It could have been put into the Left-Luggage Department. It was inevitable, children. It had to be.
“Now there was (possibly) a bit of luck. I thought of it ‘way back in February. Since the night of the murder, Amelia had been flat on her back with a bad case o' fever, and hadn’t been out of the house. At that time she hadn’t come out yet. She couldn’t ‘a’ gone to reclaim it. As I say, logically the cursed suitcase had to be there—
“Well, like the idiot boy, I went there; and it had. You know what I did. I took along my old pal Professor Parker and Shanks the odd-jobs man; I wanted them to be witnesses to the find as well as examiners of it. For I couldn’t stop this case from coinin’ up for trial now. In the first place it was a month under way. In the second and more important place, d’you know what I’d have had to say to the authorities? The old man (never very popular with the Home Secretary or the Director of Public Prosecutions) would have had to swagger in and say, ‘Well, boys, I got some instructions for you. I want this indictment quashed for the followin’ reasons. Amelia Jordan is lyin’. Spencer Hume is lyin’. Reginald Answell is lyin’. Mary Hume has been lyin’. In short, nearly every person in the whole ruddy case has been lyin’ except my client.’ Would they have believed me? Question yourselves closely, my fatheads. I had to put that whole crowd under oath: I had to have a fair field and swords on the green: I had to have, in short, justice. There’s my reason; and also the reason for my mysteriousness about it.
“You know where I went to get my witnesses; and why. But one thing still bothered me, and it bothered me up until the second day of the trial. Was Spencer Hume concerned in the dirtier deal of the murder, or wasn’t he?
“Here’s what I mean. I got the suitcase. But it’d been there at Paddington since the night of the murder. Now, if Amelia and Spencer were workin’ together, surely she’d have told him to go and snaffle it quickly before some inquisitive person looked inside? She hadn’t been delirious with fever for over a month. It wasn’t until a week after my own visit that a man—not Spencer—came and made fumblin’ inquiries about it.
“Sometimes I thought one thing, sometimes another: until the evenin’ of the first day of the trial. Spencer Hume did a bunk; and he wrote to Mary, swearin’ he actually saw the crime committed by James Answell. That letter had a ring of truth that Uncle Spencer never got into any of his quotations. Yet I knew it must have been a lie, until the sun came out and I saw what it was. Through this case a vision of simple innocence has been presented by Amelia Jordan. A vision of mustache-twistin’ craft has been presented by Uncle Spencer. Uncle Spencer’s trouble is that he’s much too innocent. He shouldn’t be allowed loose. For fourteen years he’s believed every word that’s been spoken by that simple and practical woman: perhaps he’s had a right to She told him she had actually seen Answell commit the crime; and he believed it. That’s all. Don’t you realize that all the high soundin’ platitudes he mouths he really believes in? Her course had been simple. She told him she had joined with Avory in the little plot, and had taken his (Spencer’s) suitcase to stow away the decanter, glasses, and the rest of the trappings. She told him she’d had to dispose of that suitcase—into the river, she says here in her statement—and he’d have to get used to the loss. For, if the properties had been found in his bag, he might be landed in serious trouble. Not a word about the crossbow, of course. And Spencer shut up. He wouldn’t even betray her to the extent of sayin’, in his letter to Mary, that his information wasn’t firsthand. I think we’ve misjudged Uncle Spencer.”
“But, look here!” I protested. “Who was the man who did go to Paddington Station—apparently a week after you did—and asked about the suitcase? You asked the manager about that in the witness-box. I remember, because it threw me off. I was certain a man had committed the murder. Who went to Paddington?”
“Reginald Answell,” said H.M. in a satisfied tone.
“What?”
“Our Reginald,” continued H.M., with ferocious tenderness, “is goin’ to serve a couple of years for perjury; you knew that? Uh-huh. He went into the witness-box and he swore he had practically seen the murder committed. I wanted him to testify. If he tried any funny business (as I rather hoped he would) I could nail him to the wall quicker than flick a tiddley-wink; and there wasn’t enough evidence to indict him for blackmail. Oh, yes. I told him, d’ye see, that the subpoena he’d received was only a matter of form, and he probably wouldn’t be called at all. Naturally I didn’t want him to run away like Uncle Spencer—as he smackin’ well would have if I’d let him know I intended to bring up the subject of blackmailin’ Mary Hume. So he went smoothly, and he tried to repay the compliment by doin’ me down. As a result, he’ll serve two years for perjury. But the beautiful and glorious and cussed part of it is that, except for the triflin’ detail of the person in question, what he said was basically true: he really did see the murder done, to all intents and purposes.”
“What?”
“Sure. He didn’t know I knew anything about the interview he had with Grabell—I mean about his knowledge of the pistol Hume stole—right up until the second day of the trial. He was pretty sick with me already for bringin’ up the blackmail question while he sat right at the solicitors’ table; so he rounded on me. But the first part of what he said was quite true. He did go to Grosvenor Street. He did go down the passage between the houses. He did go up the steps to the side door—”
“But damn it all, you yourself showed in court that he couldn’t have seen anything through a wooden door—”
“And you’re still forgettin’ something,” urged H.M. gently. “You’re forgettin’ two glasses of whisky.”
“Two glasses of whisky?”
“Yes. Avory Hume poured out two drinks, one for himself that he didn’t touch (not wantin’ to drink brudine) and the other for his guest, who only drank half of it. You’ve also heard how Amelia Jordan packed up those glasses later in a suitcase. Well, I can tell you one thing she didn’t do: she didn’t put two drinks of whisky in a suitcase. She had to empty ‘em. But there wasn’t a sink at hand, and she didn’t want to open the windows in case the locked room should be disturbed. So she simply opened the side door and tossed the contents out, thereby—”
“Thereby?”
“Given’ a way in to Reginald, who was prowlin’ there. You remember what he said when I slammed the point about the glass door at him? He turned a little green and said, ‘The door may have been open—’ which was quite true. The door was open. He didn’t even notice what kind of door it was; he simply remembered the old glass door, and mentioned that because he didn’t want to admit he’d stuck his nose in the house. How much he saw I don’t know. I doubt very much that he saw the murder committed. But he must have seen enough to give him a handle for blackmail on the person of Amelia Jordan, and he knew very well there w
as somethin’ fishy about the suitcase. The trouble was, the suitcase had disappeared and he didn’t know where. Until he did know—until he could find out—he was stuck between the devil and deep water. It’s pretty hard to determine what went on in Reginald’s mind, or how far he approached Amelia. She was so deviled that I began to be sorry for her; but they weren’t goin’ to hang my client because of that. I thought it’d be salutary, however, for her to see the evidence in court. I thought it’d be very salutary to put Reginald into the witness-box and make that bastard squirm on a hotter plate than he’d ever dreamed of. Finally, it pleases and soothes me to know that he’ll serve a long stretch in clink for tellin’ what was, in essentials, the perfect truth.”
We stared at H.M. as he gobbled whisky punch. He had wanted to be the old maestro; and, by all the gods, you had to admit he was.
“I am inclined to suspect,” said Evelyn, “that you are a disgrace to all the splendid traditions of the fairness of English law. Since we’re all among friends—”
“Yes, I s’pose so,” admitted H.M. reflectively. “I technically broke the law when I got my burglar pal, Shrimp Calloway, to break into Inspector Mottram’s police station one fine night and make sure my deductions were correct about the piece o' feather bein’ in the Judas window. It’d never have done to go to court and get my great big beautiful dramatic effect spoiled by the lack of a feather....But, still, there it is. The old man likes to see the young folks have a good time; and I rather think Jim Answell and Mary Answell are goin’ to be just as happily married as you and your wench there. So why have you got to pick on me?”
He gobbled whisky-punch again, and lit his dead cigar.
“So Our Reginald was laid by the heels,” I said, “all by perverting the pure rules of justice; and I begin to suspect that Jim Answell was acquitted by a trick; and all these things have been brought about by—by what?”
“I can tell you,” said H.M. quite seriously. “The blinkin’ awful cussedness of things in general.”
THE END
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{*} As a rule, counsel for the defense may appear at the Old Bailey only on instructions from a solicitor. But there are two exceptions to this: “legal aid” cases, and “dock briefs.” In legal aid cases, counsel is appointed by the judge for a prisoner having no money to employ it. When no legal aid is granted, it becomes a “dock brief,” or “docker”; the accused has the right to be defended by any counsel, sitting in robes in court, whom he may select. In Answell’s case there was, of course, no question of a lack of money. But since Answell—as will appear—refused to have anything to do with anyone except H.M., it became technically a dock brief. I am told that this procedure, though unconventional, is strictly legal. The ordinary dock brief is one of the best features of the impartial Central Criminal Court. Any counsel, however eminent, must serve if selected; it is a point of honor that he must put his best efforts into the defense; and his fee must be—neither more nor less—£1. 3s. 6d.—C.D.
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