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Contact: Phineas_Redux@yahoo.com
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Summary:— Fiona ‘Fay' Cartwright & Alice ‘Al' Drever are private detectives in an East Coast American city, in the 1930's. They are cross-examined as witnesses in a big criminal trial.
Disclaimer:— All characters are copyright ©2015 to the author. All characters in this story are fictional, and any resemblance to real persons living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Caution:— There is a certain amount of light swearing in this story.
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Story 10 of
the 'Drever & Cartwright' series
1. The Packer Building Incident.
2. The Fowler St. Incident.
3. The Pier 7 Incident.
4. The Elevated Rail Incident.
5. The Charioteer Insurance Co. Incident
6. The Grand Banks Hotel Incident
7. The Vanishing Girl Incident
8. The R-103 Incident.
9. The Stolen Sappho Incident
10. The Compton Trial Incident
—O—
The Courthouse stood high and majestic, facing imperiously onto a great swathe of Gloucester Road, Delacote City, NH. In style it was a remarkable example of late Art Nouveau, built exclusively in locally-quarried pale-pink granite; its windows and doors being adorned with all those curlicues and writhing vegetation-like tendrils which seem so to personify that style. The frontage was massive, with a portal two storeys high, running back forty feet into the building before the actual two-door entrance was reached; these doors being eighteen feet in height and made of thick solid bronze so heavy it took two strong men to open and close them each day.
Inside, the corridors on each of the four floors were enormously high, thirty feet or so; thereby contributing to a hollow ringing echo which was the bane of everyone trying to hold a conversation anywhere within their confines. The courtrooms themselves were of the period at the turn of the century, when heavy dull mahogany and teak were revered as the requisite style for such apartments. The judges' dias's themselves, more of a separate mezzanine than a high desk, ran across the whole width of the short side of the rectangular rooms; with its central chair virtually a throne, its high wooden back rising over the judge's august presence. If an offender hadn't yet accepted they had been charged with an offence and held as possible criminals, they certainly did so on entering any one of the atmospheric courtrooms available in the huge building.
At the moment, on this morning of Monday, 20 th November, 1933, Alice Drever, her partner Fiona Cartwright, and Inspector Fletcher of the city's 5 th Precinct, were all sitting on one of the long corridor benches, outside Courtroom 4 on the third floor; trying to conceal their private conversation from the prying echo lurking in the spaces above their heads.
“ Jeez , I just need'ta whisper, an' someone at the other end o'the corridor can hear every dam' word.” Fletcher made a grunting noise in his throat; glancing with disdain at those members of the public, intent on their own purposes, walking by the seated trio.
“Keep your voice low an' soft, that's all it needs.” Fiona had the answer at her fingertips, not that she'd used it so far. “Don't shout, an' you'll be OK. So, what's up with this dam' case? Little Jonathon goin' t'get off, or what?”
“Little Jonathon's gon'na get his ass fried, or I'm no expert on the subject.” Fletcher shrugged his wide shoulders, within the all-encompassing brown jacket he habitually wore. “Part of the gang who hit the ‘ Eastern Amalgamated Bank ' over on Maklet Street, exchanging fire with the security guards an' killin' one; attempted t'rob a big firm on Pataloc Avenue, leavin' a wounded guard; finally driver of the car that knocked down an' killed a young lady crossing 12 th Street. He's reached the end o'the road, no doubts.”
“Certainly looks that way.” Alice agreed, from her seat beside Fiona; Fletcher being on Fiona's right-hand. “Though the judge may let him off with a life sentence, or whatever; because of his age, y'know.”
“ Hrrph , not much chance o'that.” The Inspector shook his head. “Judge Dreschler; he ain't got a reputation for soft sentences. You break the rules; he kicks your ass bigtime, no exceptions.”
Apart from their handbags, today lacking their usual cargo of firearms, both women had large cardboard folders filled with documents lying on their laps; the evidence of their connection to the case in hand. They had first been called-on five months previously, in connection with the case of the young lady knocked down by a speeding car on 12 th Street; the driver of the vehicle perhaps being involved in an abortive raid on a large firm on Pataloc Avenue an hour or so earlier.
The women's investigations had finally connected the two cases; joining up the hit and run with the attempted investment robbery. Alice's and Fiona's work then making the connection to the earlier bank robbery. It had finally fallen to the women to amass evidence—at Jonathon's home, the family residence on Cantelet Road, Todmorton, Delacote City,—where they and Inspector Fletcher had faced him with such. The Inspector's presence, in fact, saving them from being summarily evicted from the house by an irate father armed with a shotgun. Subsequent investigation by Inspector Fletcher establishing a number of other connections tying Jonathon Compton to both crimes. And so he had been charged and taken into custody, with the trial now opening today.
What was continuing to muddy the waters was the strong, not to say vindictive, opposition by the family to all suggestion that their darling son had anything to do with the crimes. Jonathon's father, Mr Charles Compton, head of a successful investments company, had pulled out all the stops in the battle to clear his son's name; against all clear and direct evidence to the contrary. If money and power in high places could do anything, Charles was determined he would exert all his energy in so doing. Obviously, he was motivated more by the need to clear his family's name of gross crimes and a tainted reputation rather than see real justice done; this stance causing the women detectives and Inspector Fletcher various problems in the course of their continued work on the case. But now, against all the odds, the trial date had been reached; the outcome of which would be determined in the course of the following days in Courtroom No.4.
—O—
“Call Mr Parkins.”
A thin slightly built man in a dark three-piece suit stepped up to the stand, to undergo the necessary preliminaries with an air of gracious condescension. Acting for the D.A.'s office was Bruce Grant, a middle-aged tall grey-haired athletic man, whose set expression clearly stated his intentions towards this case. On the opposite side, for the defence, sat Mr Eric Dallington; still in his early thirties, and seemingly as yet untainted by the more insalubrious aspects of his calling. Fiona, Alice, and Inspector Fletcher sat in the front row, immediately behind the low banister separating the lawyers' desks from the crowded public benches.
“You are the manager of the Maklet Street branch of the ‘ Eastern Amalgamated Bank '?”
“Yessir, I am.”
“Will you now explain to the court what exactly took place on the morning of Wednesday, 7 th June, 1933; at your premises of work?” Grant stood by the edge of his desk with furrowed brow, aiming a look of faint disbelief towards the first witness. “In your own words, please.”
“Well sir, it was nearly 10.45 a.m.—”
“How do you know that, so accurately?”
“Ah, we work to a strict timetable at the bank.” Mr Parkins raised his eyebrows, favouring his interrogator with a sour glance. “Everything to time; at its correct time. I know because Mr Gilchrist, the Head Accountant, had just finished discussing the previous day's figures with me. That would have been at 10.40 a.m. precisely. The next item on my agenda was to have been my stepping down to the vault to see that morning procedures were being undertaken properly.”
“Hmm.” Grant made a dubious noise in his throat, then allowed the witness to continue his testimony. “And what then happened?”
“There was a sudden commotion—I was walking across the main Hall towards the flight of stairs leading to the underground level.” Mr Parkins shifted uneasily as he recalled the events of that day. “The two front doors were thrown open, and four men burst in. They all had wide cloth masks covering their faces, and all were armed with shotguns and one sub-machine gun. There were, thankfully, not many customers at that point.”
“How many, anyway, Mr Parkins. Just for the record.”
“Oh, let me see, I should say not more than six. Two women and four men.” Parkins glanced sideways at the judge. “I've already identified them and given a statement to the police.”
“Yes, quite so.” Grant broke in, to regain the momentum of his questions. “So, what occurred?”
“One of the robbers, the leader I suppose—“
“Objection.” Dallington jumped to his feet, breaking in for the first time.
“That's alright. Don't suppose, Mr Parkins.” Grant seemed happy enough to allow this slight difficulty. “Just tell us what you alone were witness to. Go on.”
“ Er , well, er , what happened was this man, the one who was, er , in the lead, he raised his shotgun to point at the ceiling and fired a shot. The noise was indescribable.” Parkins frowned in remembrance of the shocking episode. “One of the women screamed; there were various shouts of horror or protest from a number of staff and customers; then the man started shouting himself.”
“And what was the outcome of this scenario?”
“He called for silence; said he was the Barton Gang, an' he was here to rob the joint.” Parkins was now sweating freely; shuffling around to pull a silk handkerchief from his trouser pocket to wipe his forehead. “Then two of the men jumped the barrier of the desks. Remarkably athletically, I must admit. They darted onto the public counter at the tellers' spaces; grabbed the wooden top of the glass screen which was then at their head height, and vaulted over into the private portion of the tellers', er , domain.”
“And?”
“Well, the robbery took place.” Parkins shook his head; still obviously unwilling to believe what had happened. “The men took bundles of notes from the tellers, then went to the wall-safe where a modicum of paper money is stored for the purposes of the day. They emptied the money so obtained into canvas bags they had brought with them. Then they retreated back to the public hall; the, er , man who appeared to be organising matters turned to me, congratulated me on a well-disciplined staff, then they ran for the street. Just before the, er , apparent leader exited the main door our security guard, officer Tomkins, fired a shot to which one of the masked men standing beside the man who had done all the talking returned fire, fatally wounding Tomkins. I heard the roar of several cars, then quietness. That's all.”
“Admirable testimony, Mr Parkins.” Grant seemed well-pleased with this succinct description of the robbery. “Thank you; that is all.”
The judge, John Dreschler, was a veteran of the local judicial scene; having been in office for nearly twenty years. He was of middle height; slightly overweight; with thin brown hair; and an expression as of a wary bloodhound. It was generally observed he ran a tight ship, in his courtroom; never allowing the lawyers to grandstand towards the jury for long.
“Cross-examine, Mr Dallington?”
“No thank you, sir.”
“Call officer Harold Medvers.” Grant studied his notes intently, as if dragging this name from murky depths.
“Call officer Harold Medvers.” The clerk's voice rang loud and clear in the high-ceilinged room.
The same proceedings as before having been satisfactorily concluded the police-officer took his place on the witness stand; making himself comfortable in the chair, as if having long experience in this position.
“Now then, officer Medvers, you were the first police-officer on the scene, I understand?”
“Yessir.” Medvers spoke in a deep well-modulated confident voice. “I was out on patrol in my car, going along Pataloc Avenue, when the call came over the radio. I and my partner, officer Redmayne, arrived at the scene at 11.04 a.m.”
“How long after the bandits had made their escape?”
“I figure no more'n four minutes, sir.”
“Right—continue.”
“So, Mr Parkins explained what had occurred, and I had officer Redmayne go out to the patrol-car and radio the details back to Headquarters.”
“You did not yourself attempt to pursue the bandits?”
“No sir. Without the perpetrators being on the scene of the crime, it was my duty to report in, and make the scene secure for later examination.”
“I see.” Grant looked at the officer with an open smile. “Without overdue detail what did you then undertake to do?”
“Well, I had Mr Parkins go over the bare facts of the robbery; and tried to calm the handful of customers who had been involved.” Medvers eyed the court with a confident gaze, sure of his testimony. “That took several minutes; at which point Inspector Fletcher of the 5 th Precinct arrived to take command.”
“Just so. Thank you, officer. Cross-examine?”
Dallington merely shaking his head, the police-officer then stood down.
“I think we'll have Inspector Jacob Fletcher now.”
“Call Inspector Jacob Fletcher.”
As there was no real need for any calling; he being seated in plain view not more than four yards from the clerk, the usual preliminaries took very little time until he too was enthroned on the witness chair.
“So, Inspector Fletcher.” Grant shuffled a handful of documents; glanced at the judge; then back at the witness; shrugging his shoulders as if not particularly interested in the subject. “Let's hear what you found on arrival at the scene of the crime.”
“Everything was calm when I entered the premises.” Fletcher had modified his usual rasping tone to a deep growl for the occasion; out of respect for the court surroundings. “The dust, y'might say, had settled. There was no real sign of any physical damage, except for some plaster fragments on the marble floor of the main hall, as a result of the one shotgun blast into the ceiling. The few customers were seated on chairs and benches around and about. The tellers were tidying things up behind their counter—which I soon put a stop to; needing to preserve any evidence, y'know.”
“Quite so.”
“And then I got a general statement from Mr Parkins, about the way things had panned out.” Fletcher pursed his lips with a slight frown. “After which it was just a case of lettin' my men search the place for clues—fingerprints, shell-cases, and suchlike. I took the names and addresses of the witnesses; tellin' ‘em they'd be interviewed down at the 5 th Precinct; and probably later, too, at their homes, as necessity dictated.”
“And the outcome of your preliminary investigation was—what?”
“It pretty quickly became clear the group of four men was, indeed, the Barton Gang.” Fletcher sniffed contemptuously. “The usual bunch of thugs; led by Carl Barton, known habitual criminal, consisting of five men in total—though we're sure that on the occasion under discussion there were six in attendance.”
“Ah-ha, a mystery addition to the gang.” Grant for the first time gave the jury a knowing glance. “We'll come to that aspect later. Continue.”
“Four men in the bank, doin' the business, an' two more as getaway drivers in the two cars waitin' outside. That's the way things went.”
“Would you say this was their usual method of, er , conducting their affairs?”
“Yep, from start to finish; even if he hadn't yelled out his name to the customers, we'd a'known it was Barton sure enough.” Fletcher shook his head knowledgeably. “These punks, even bank-robbers, they get into a routine; they do things the same way, barring small details, every time. Habit, y'see; even in committing a bank robbery. Their style just sort'a shouted itself out, to those who could interpret the signs.”
“Perhaps, for the benefit of the court, you might favour us with a short biography of the leader of this gang, Carl Barton.”
“Objection.” Dallington waved a cursory hand, though without any true conviction.
“Over-ruled.” Judge Dreschler wanted the jury to hear as much information as quickly as was consistent with the rules.
“Carl Barton is thirty-three.” Fletcher leaned an elbow on the arm of his chair and scratched his chin. “First arrested at 17, for robbing a general store. Next arrest at twenty-one, for assault and battery. After that he was arrested at the age of twenty-four for car-stealing. Then he organised his personal gang and went into the bank-robbing business.”
Grant perked up at this and swept the court with a magisterial gaze. He loved nothing more than bringing the dirty underbelly of society into the bright light of public scrutiny, especially when it would bolster his case with prime atmosphere.
“How successful was he at his, er , activities over the years, Inspector?”
“His first bank was down in Massachusetts, a couple of years ago.” Fletcher considered the bandit's history musingly. “Then two over in Vermont; after which he emigrated, for his health no doubt, to New Hampshire where he's been domiciled since. During which, over a period of fourteen months he's knocked over four banks, including the ‘ Eastern Amalgamated '.”
“An energetic individual, it seems.” Grant stood by his desk, pondering his next move. “Now what I would like you to describe to the court, Inspector, is how you came to connect the defendant, Jonathon Compton, to the incidents under discussion.”
“It was mainly by a process of reverse-logic.” Fletcher sat up straighter, coming to the kernel of the affair. “To start with there was no evidence that Mr Compton had any connection to the robbery at the ‘ Eastern Amalgamated '. But what he did do was branch out on his own. This is about three weeks after the robbery. Over on Pataloc Avenue, 261 to be precise, there's a financial firm of some repute dealing in investments and shares—‘ Redwing, Halston, Inc '.
“Yes, go on.”
“On Thursday, 29 th June, 1933, three men burst into the main reception of the firm, on the ground floor.” Fletcher glanced down at a cardboard file of notes he had sitting in his lap. “The intention was to force their way into the manager's office; steal a considerable amount of money they somehow knew was present that day; then escape.”
“And what happened?”
Fletcher looked up, first at Grant, then at the judge. The courtroom was now quiet as a church on Sunday.
“They were met by two security men, who opened fire on them.” Fletcher bared his teeth, without humour. “The bandits were armed with small revolvers, .32's, and were pretty much useless shots all round. The guards had .45 automatics, and were well-trained. They took down two of the perpetrators within fifteen seconds, causing wounds which finally proved fatal; but a stray shot, from the gang, hit and wounded one of the guards; the other robber escaping back out into the street where he made his getaway in a waiting car; which, apparently he was forced to drive himself.”
“A dramatic incident.” Grant paused for thought. “And then?”
“The bandit disappeared in the traffic, and the remaining guard still on his feet called the authorities.”
“We now come to a complex point in the matter.” Grant looked round the court once again. “Something apparently unconnected now occurred. Can you describe this incident, Inspector?”
Fletcher eased his legs; glanced over at the two women on the public benches also intent on his description; then spoke up once more.
“About an hour an' a quarter after the bandit was last seen heading down Pataloc Avenue a road accident was reported over on 12 th Street.” He raised his eyes from his notes. “A dark saloon raced through the traffic; knocking down and killing a young woman crossing the road. It then sped off and was lost to view. Later that evening a vehicle which was identified as the ‘ Redwing, Halston ' robbery getaway vehicle was discovered abandoned in Wharf Street, down by the docks.”
“This was not, however, the car reported to have been used in the 12 th Street accident?”
“No sir, that was an entirely different vehicle.” Fletcher nodded his acknowledgement. “The Wharf Street car was a Ford; the accident vehicle was a Pontiac.”
“Just so. Please continue.”
“The car recovered from Wharf Street turned out to have been the one used in the attempted robbery.” Fletcher carried on, sure of his facts. “Several pieces of corroborative evidence found inside the vehicle pinned it to the scene of the crime.”
“Can you be more specific about these clues, Inspector?”
Fletcher hardly needed to consult his notes, simply replying firmly and categorically.
“A revolver, which was later identified as having been used at the scene of the crime. A wallet, with several papers inside, firmly identified as belonging to one of the known mortally wounded robbers. And several fingerprints identifying the two criminals.”
“And now we reach the crux of the matter.” Grant here let his gaze, as of a ship's captain in full command of his vessel, wash over the courtroom. “If you will please identify the connection between this attempted robbery and the defendant, Inspector Fletcher.”
There was a rustle of movement as the audience leant forward as one, in their determination to hear the forthcoming evidence.
“This came about from information later given to the authorities, by a reputable firm of private investigators; by which we were able to identify the defendant, Jonathon Compton, as being associated with the ‘ Redwing, Halston ' affair.”
“Who were these investigators? And what were the details they provided?”
“The firm is ‘ Drever and Cartwright, Private Investigators '.” Fletcher gestured with a raised hand as he pursued the topic. “They're well-known and respected in Delacote City. They were consulted by the parents of the dead woman on 12 th Street, to find her killer.”
“And the outcome of their investigation was?”
“The car which knocked the woman down was identified by passers-by as a Pontiac saloon, dark red in colour. No number remembered by anyone.” Fletcher glanced at the two women, behind the wooden rail, who were now the subject of public discussion. “By some excellent deduction and footwork, Miss Drever and Miss Cartwright were able to connect the defendant with the car; it being his own personal vehicle. After that, it was quite straightforward to hang the earlier Pataloc Avenue attempted robbery on him, too.”
“How was that?”
“A small dry-goods store owner, on Wharf Street, recognised the defendant as having come into his shop to purchase a packet of cigarettes close to the time we believe the Ford was dumped there.” Fletcher shrugged at the stupidity of common criminals. “The owner recognised photos of the defendant, and later picked him out in an identity parade. Said the man's superior social status made him stand out from the crowd.”
“Question.”
“Yes, Mr Dallington?” Judge Dreschler turned to the defence lawyer with cocked brow.
“Did anyone else identify, or purport to identify, the defendant as having been seen anywhere at all in suspicious circumstances?” Dallington was determined to undermine this possibly serious evidence at the earliest opportunity.
“No, sir, only the store owner.” Fletcher moved his clamped jaws from side to side, as if chewing an imaginary cigar.
“And,” Dallington ruthlessly pursued his demolition of this witness, like a Destroying Angel. “has it since transpired that this, er , dry-goods purveyor, has a quite extensive past criminal record?”
“ Er , the man did, er , have some, um , minor previous convictions; but they—”
“Thank you, that's all.”
“And how did this lead back to the ‘ Eastern Amalgamated ' robbery, Inspector Fletcher?” Mr Grant took up the burden of his questions again; not best pleased at this stomping of his witness's verisimilitude.
The Inspector consulted his notes, with some concentration, before looking up to continue his narrative.
“One of the lady investigators, Miss Drever, had the chance to examine the defendant's garage, while he was elsewhere.” Fletcher allowed a faint smile to curl his lips. “She found, rolled up in a wooden crate at the rear of the garage, a dirty canvas bag which was later identified as having been used in the ‘ Eastern Amalgamated ' robbery. This initial connection led us to grill,—er, interrogate, the defendant pretty thoroughly; during the course of which he broke down an' came clean with the facts.”
“He admitted collusion in the ‘ Eastern Amalgamated ' robbery?” Grant obviously wanted the jury to understand this point clearly. “He admitted to being one of the four persons present in the bank, with intent to rob?”
“Yessir. He said he was there.” Fletcher made a wry face, as the circumstances came back to him. “Didn't seem much put out by his statement, though. Said he didn't think he'd be charged with the crime. Asked me if I knew who his father was.”
“To what purpose?”
“His father is Charles Compton, head of ‘ Compton-Wainyard Electrics Inc .'. That is a firm which deals in electrical equipment for aircraft and ships. It has several Government contracts.”
“And why do you suppose he referred you to his father?”
“Objection.” Dallington was on his feet, looking imploringly at the judge.
“Sustained.” Judge Dreschler was having no shoddy goings-on in his court. “Ask specific questions. The court does not wish to hear the witness's suppositions.”
“Beg pardon, sir.” Grant was no whit put out. “I shall rephrase the question. Inspector Fletcher, what did the defendant say to you regarding his father's involvement? Stick to the plain facts, if you will.”
“He, the defendant, said his father was Charles Compton, and that if I knew who he was I'd know pretty well he, the defendant, was never going to appear in court charged with anything—and that I'd better watch my step, too.”
“Hmm. Was that merely childish show-boating, or did he really imagine his father could cause influence to be brought to bear on the authorities?”
“Objection—Objection. I cannot allo—”
“Yes, yes, Mr Dallington, control your fervour. I have the matter well in hand.” Judge Dreschler aimed a sarcastic grimace in the defence counsel's direction, before turning back to the source of the problem. “Mr Grant, kindly refrain from idle speculation, or attempting to put words in the witness's mouth. Facts are what we require, Mr Grant, not flights of hyperbolic fancy. Continue.”
In no way discomfited by this sermon Grant returned to the fray unbowed.
“What did you do then, Inspector? After taking the defendant's evidence and statement?”
“I charged him with complicity in an armed robbery, with intent to steal property; using threatening behaviour liable to result in physical assault; being involved as an accessory to murder; and leaving the scene of a fatal accident which he caused.” Fletcher nodded to himself, well satisfied with his conduct. “He was then taken to the cells, and I then gave instructions that his parents, in this case his father, should be informed.”
There was a general releasing of tension throughout the court, as this climax was reached. It seeming to most seated there that everything was now downhill from here.
“And what was the immediate outcome of, er , events up to that point, Inspector?”
“Things moved pretty fast.” Fletcher scowled as he thought back. “About two hours later, this'd be around seven o'clock in the evening, I had a visit from Mr Dallington here; who told me in no uncertain terms I was on a hiding to nothing, and that the only thing that'd save my job was an immediate release of the defendant, followed by a fulsome apology to his father, on my part.”
“To which you replied?”
“No dice, is what I replied. Though perhaps not using quite those exact words.” Fletcher gave the representative of the defendant a less than loving grimace. “There followed some pretty detailed legal arguing back an' forth; but the outcome was Mr Compton, the defendant that is, stayed where he was; and the usual legal actions were brought to bear, by his defence, on the situation.”
“Resulting in—?”
“Resulting in today's trial, sir.”
“Just so, Inspector.” Grant swivelled round to give the court the benefit of his broad smile. “That is excellent. I believe that puts the jury in command of the relevant facts in the case most adroitly. Thank you.”
“Cross-examine?” Judge Dreschler already knew what the reply would be.
“Damn strai—er, I mean, yessir, I shall cross-examine the witness.” Dallington's lips and face were working excitedly, like a man possessed. “So, Inspector. Would you like to inform the court of the usual manner of interrogation used by your Precinct on likely defendants?”
“How do you mean, sir?”
“I mean, Inspector, just how much heavy-handed pushing and shoving went on; mixed with threats and cajolery?”
“All the interrogations at my Precinct are carried out according to Hoyle, sir.” Fletcher sniffed coldly, refusing to be drawn by this childish stab. “We have strict regulations which we adhere to in all situations. Such was the case in the defendant's interrogation. There was no third degree, if that is what you are insinuating, sir.”
“Far be it from me to insinuate such a thing, Inspector.” Dallington curled a derisive lip. “As far as evidence indicates, at the time of Mr Compton's so-called admission, there was very little hard fact to connect him either with the accident on 12 th Street, the ‘ Redwing, Halston , Inc .' debacle, or the ‘ Eastern Amalgamated ' robbery, was there. Mere supposition, and flim-flammery, in fact.”
Having been intimately involved in the whole case from start to finish; and having the details before him in his notes, Fletcher felt justified in scotching this puerile remark at birth.
“Evidence in the matter was hard and certain, sir.” Fletcher glanced, more for show than necessity, at his notes; then pinned the Defence counsel with a beady eye. “At the interior rear wall of his garage, which is a long extension to the left-hand side of the family home, sat an old wooden chest. Inside was found a rolled-up canvas bag, exactly fitting the description of those used in the bank robbery. Inside the bag were found, by our scientists, several large grains and pieces of marble and plaster precisely matching the type of both found in the main hall of the bank; which had been damaged by Barton's shotgun blast to the ceiling. Also, the red Pontiac saloon which is the defendant's vehicle, showed unmistakable damage caused by contact with the victim in 12 th Street. Fragments of clothing and blood were found on the car's front which matched said victim.”
“ Harumph! ” Dallington chose to ignore this seemingly incontrovertible evidence, aiming instead for Fletcher's jugular. “Inspector, how many times have you been investigated for unprofessional conduct towards parties whom you have had occasion to interview in the past?”
“Objection. This is intolerable.” Grant knew his business. “If my witnesses' are to be derided and accused of irrelevant activities having no bearing on the matter in hand, where is justice?”
“Relax, Mr Grant.” Judge Dreschler was beginning to enjoy this case; it had a spice of the exotic, and a whiff of cordite about it that appealed to the romantic in him. “Mr Dallington, let us stick to the case in point. We wish to finish this week, if that is alright with you. Bringing historical accusations to bear, which have no evidential bottom to them, will only hold matters up. Continue.”
At first Dallington appeared willing to argue the point; but, on catching the Judge's eye on him with less than the milk of human kindness reflected in it, he chose the safer path.
“Is it not likely, Inspector, that anyone could have planted that canvas bag in the chest at the back of the garage?” Dallington was determined to pursue this at all costs. “The garage was an, er , jointly-used entity. Others of the family placed their vehicles there each day, did they not? The doors were never actually shut and locked till late evening, so we gather. So, the fact of the canvas bag being where it was found has no real bearing on the defendant's possession of it at all. Is that not the case?”
“No.” Fletcher was having nothing to do with this explanation of the facts. “It's firm circumstantial evidence. Applied, along with the fragments of cloth and blood on the Pontiac, it points conclusively to the defendant's involvement.”
“I hardly believe it possible to go quite that far, Inspector.” Dallington sneered unpleasantly, coming to the heart of the matter. “As to the Pontiac, the same holds true, does it not? That the vehicle, even, is the one involved in the unfortunate accident, is a statement I might well feel impelled to oppose. But that the defendant was the driver at the time, I do most strongly deny. Again we come to the nature of the garage. It was, not to mince words, a communal space; where almost anyone in the household, or from outside come to that, might roll up unannounced, and unseen, at almost any time of the day. For such a person to steal the vehicle, commit the crime or accident,—if indeed it was this particular vehicle,—then return the vehicle from where they had taken it would be simple indeed, under the circumstances. This always supposing the Pontiac had been the perpetrator of the accident at all. That the defendant was the driver at the time, if such an unlikely scenario did indeed take place, we deny absolutely. You have no proof.”
“The evidence is laid out in this court, sir.” Fletcher sniffed again; eyeing the defence counsel gloomily, like the God Ares mulling over his next victim. “Our case has been prepared by the D.A.'s office, and is sound.”
“ Hmmph! I'm glad you think so, Inspector.” Dallington waved a hand in dismissal. “That is all.”
“Next witness, Mr Grant?” Judge Dreschler looked across at the prosecuting counsel with a raised eyebrow.
“Call Miss Fiona Cartwright, please.” Mr Grant, after this hiatus, buckled down to business once more
“Call Miss Fiona Cartwright.”
Again the clerk of the court pursued his entirely irrelevant purposes; the lady in question already brushing past his right shoulder on her way to the witness chair.
“So, Miss Cartwright, please give the court an idea of your position, and involvement in the troubled case, the circumstances of which we are discussing today.” Mr Grant favoured the black-haired woman with a pleasant smile; then, catching the look in her eye, hurriedly brought himself back to a professional detachment. “Please, go on.”
“I'm half-partner in the firm of ‘ Drever and Cartwright, Private Investigators '.” She glanced uncomfortably round the packed courtroom. “Miss Drever is my business partner. We investigate pretty much anything, except divorce. We were called on by the parents of the victim in the 12 th Street car accident to find the perpetrator and bring him, or her, to justice. We did so. In the course of which we made certain connections which placed the defendant both at the scene of the car accident, and also at the Pataloc Avenue attempted heist; as well, eventually, with the ‘ Eastern Amalgamated ' bank robbery.”
Grant shuffled his papers, spread widely across his desk, industriously. He took one sheet in hand and read carefully whatever facts were ensconced therein. Then he looked over at his witness with a sharp eye.
“A wide spectrum of material to assimilate.” Grant smiled thinly, flicking his eye sideways at the jury stand. “We shall go into the details, to some extent. Miss Cartwright, what were your investigative results into the 12 th Street accident?”
“We started out with the make and colour of the car involved; a Pontiac, dark red.” Fiona glanced around the room, with its packed audience listening to her every word. “The police had, of course, started investigations into its ownership; but had not yet completed their investigation. There are, in fact, many hundreds of dark red Pontiacs, of the particular model, on the roads today. To have gone round to every address, even here in Delacote City alone, would have been prohibitive.”
“With such a cold trail, how did you manage to make progress?”
“We started by trying to find out if any car of the type had been into any local garage for repairs, any time after the accident. No go.” Fiona shook her head. “Then we decided to look at what it was doing, an' where it might have been headed; traversing 12 th Street, as it was. Was it coming from somewhere; or going to somewhere? We decided to take the latter, to begin with. Well, the likeliest destination was Todmorton; so we went back to the Drivers Licensing Bureau and found out the addresses of all dark red Pontiacs, of the correct model, in Todmorton.”
“And this was how many?”
“Eleven, believe it or not.” Fiona shrugged her shoulders. “A fair number; but not excessive. Al an' I—Miss Drever, that is,—halved the list between us, an' in just over two hours Miss Drever came up with the goods.”
“I shall question Miss Drever herself on this issue, thank you.” Grant was exceptionally satisfied with progress so far. “Can you tell the court anything further about the case, pertaining to your own involvement?”
“Miss Drever contacted me by phone, and in about thirty minutes I joined her at the Compton family home.” Fiona now sat back warily, this being the point where details might become somewhat delicate. “I entered the garage—”
“Objection.” Dallington was on his feet, quivering in every atom of his being.
“Objection to what, Mr Dallington?” Judge Dreschler assumed an air of mystification.
“To this outrageous and flagrant breaking of all legal rules.” Dallington thought he was riding a winner here. “They enter a private property, for the purposes of investigation, without a warrant of any description? That cannot stand, surely? Whatever evidence they so discovered must be ruled out of court.”
“Remember, it was Inspector Fletcher, arriving an hour or so later, who had the correct warrant.” Judge Dreschler allowed himself a short smile. “And as to the garage being private property—well, that is open to discussion. Its door was permanently ajar during the course of each day; no attempt to erect a barrier or locks against the entrance of the public had been put in place; and it is known, as you yourself earlier indicated, that various people walked in and out of the garage at their convenience throughout the day. No, I cannot say the garage could be regarded as private property, within the meaning of the term. Carry on, Mr Grant.”
Dallington, defeated, subsided like a burst balloon; allowing the representative of the D.A.'s Office to carry on his trampling of the basic principles of justice, like a horde of Goths rampaging through Ancient Rome.
“Please continue, Miss Cartwright.” Grant smiled widely; at no-one in general, but at Dallington in particular. “You were just about to enter the, er , public space of the garage.”
“Yes, umm , so I moseyed across to Alice, who was already there, and she pointed out what she'd found—the rolled up canvas bag.” Fiona relaxed again, as she went over the afternoon's activities. “We thought that was a clincher. We'd read in the newspapers about how the ‘ Eastern Amalgamated ' robbery had been carried out; and the presence and use of the canvas bags. So Alice was pretty sure this was something that Inspector Fletcher out'ta know about pronto. So I stayed on, to guard the evidence, while Alice hotfooted it, in her Plymouth, to the 5 th Precinct HQ to put Inspector Fletcher in the picture. He arrived about an hour later, bringing a squad along with him. That's all.”
“Splendid.” Grant could see this had all gone down satisfactorily on the public benches, and more so with the jury. “I believe that will be all. You may stand down.”
“I think we will now break for lunch, Mr Grant, Mr Dallington.” Judge Dreschler glanced across the courtroom. “Return at 1.45 p.m.”
—O—
“Is the case goin' well, d'ya suppose?”
“Don't suppose, lady; stick to facts. We don't wan'na hear your suppositions.”
“Oh, very funny, Al.” Fiona sneered with every fibre of her being. “That's childish. Ya falling for that judge, or what?”
“ Har! ”
“I thought it was funny.” Inspector Fletcher, sharing their table at the quiet restaurant close to the courthouse, smiled thinly. “That's Dreschler all over. Never lets the lawyers get away with any funny business.”
“Anyway's, what's your opinion?” Fiona was picking desultorily with her fork at a plate of apple pie on the table in front of her. “I can tell ya, even though Grant was, sort'a, on my side, I still felt kind'a jittery.”
“You always feel jittery in court, Fay.” Alice was digging into her pie as if it were the last portion in the world. “Don't know if it comes from a guilty conscience, from all those bits of evidence you regularly plant on suspects; or just an ordinary inferiority complex. Maybe we should see a shrink, about it.”
“I'd just love t'take you to a shrink, dearest.” Fiona showed her splendid white teeth in a cold smile. “Bet he'd never have met the like before. Probably have'ta consult both Jung an' Freud personally—an' even they wouldn't have the answer t'your state o'mind, girlie.”
“ Mmrrph! This pie's good. You gon'na carry on playin' with yours? How's about shovin' it in my direction; I kind'a think I got space for it, yet.”
“If you were allowed you'd find space for a bucket-load, Al.” Fiona shook her head disparagingly. “But I ain't gon'na allow ya t'bulk up, like one o'those Blimps. No, ya can't have it. Here, waitress, take this pie away; I'm done with it, thanks.”
“ Ohh , that ain't fair.” Alice gazed after the departing sweet despairingly. “Such a waste; I could'a enjoyed that. So, yeah.”
“Yeah? Yeah, what?”
“Yeah, the trial's goin' well. As far as it has gone, which ain't all that far yet.” Alice felt like dousing her loved one's fire with a dash of well-aimed cold water. “A ways t'go yet, y'know. What do you think, Fletcher?”
“It's only just begun, sure enough.” The wily policeman nodded knowingly. “I've seen worse cases come off right in the end. But then, I've seen much better cases thrown out'ta court summarily, with contumely an' disdain.”
“Contumely? What's that?”
“Give over, Al.” Fiona groaned quietly. “I really must drag ya away from those John Dickson Carr an' Gladys Mitchell who-dun-its you only exist for; an' make ya peruse, oh, I don't know, Edith Wharton an' Henry James.”
“Listen, lady, the genius ain't been born yet who can read, an' understand, Henry James.” Alice sat back sure of her facts. “Have you ever tried t'get t'grips with ‘ The Golden Bowl ' or ‘ The Sacred Fount '? No, of course you haven't. Nobody has, so there.”
“Dallington's gon'na focus on the lack of relationship between the evidence, an' Jon-boy's ownership of said material.” Fletcher tried to bring the conversation back on track. “This garage business; an' the question of who was drivin' the Pontiac in 12 th Street. That's what he's determined to t'show couldn't have been down to his golden boy.”
“Think there's any chance he'll pull it off?” Fiona gazed at the experienced officer with real concern. “Al an' I've put some heavy work into it, all round. We're sure he did it. Hell, you're sure he did it.”
The Inspector shrugged his shoulders without replying, looking around the restaurant instead. It was rather busy, this being lunchtime in an area where there were lots of firms' premises. The trio, though, had a table to themselves in a corner by one of the street windows, so could talk in privacy.
“Knowing a thing took place, or was done by some individual, is one thing.” Fletcher offered the women the benefit of his years of experience in such matters. “But proving it was the case in a court of law mighty often turns out t'be less than easy, an' more than hard. Sometimes, just dam' impossible, for all its true. We just got'ta hope.”
“I figure it's down to common-sense.” Alice had finished with her dessert, and now felt capable of joining in the discussion rationally. “We've proved the connection, between us three, of all the clues an' evidence to Jonathon Compton. Now all we need is a plain sensible jury, who'll see the strength o'this, an' not be sidetracked by Dallington's smearing of the facts of the matter. Should be open an' shut, s'far's I see.”
“Well, let's hope so.” Fiona growled low, like a lynx with a chip on its shoulder. “You'll be in the hot seat next, this afternoon, ducky.”
“Huh, thanks for reminding me.” Alice grimaced in her turn. “Y'gon'na wish me luck, or what?”
—O—
“Call Miss Alice Drever.”
The Clerk of the Court, having completed his formal duties, pretended not to notice the person he had shouted for rising from her seat five feet from his right shoulder and passing him with an air of disdain.
“Right, Miss Drever, what I'm looking for are some facts about, and description of, the layout and contents of the garage at the Compton family home in Cantelet Road, Todmorton, Delacote City.” Grant's voice rang loudly in the somewhat warm courtroom, bands of sunlight from the high windows slanting across the public benches and floor. “Just proceed from the point when Miss Cartwright joined you there.”
“Yes, OK, right.” Alice wriggled on the hard wooden seat, trying to find a comfortable position. “Well, Fay, I mean Miss Cartwright, appeared around three-thirty in the afternoon. We stood in the garage together—it being empty at the time. I mean, there were no vehicles, except for the red Pontiac, or members of the family there. It's built onto the left side of the main house, but is hidden by a band of thick bushes that run along the front of the house and garage; effectively masking it from view from the front. Even people coming and going from the house front door can't see the garage or hear anything from there.”
“A mighty secluded place, by the sound of it.” Grant smiled easily at his witness.
“ Er , yes.” Alice gained confidence as she continued. “So, I told Fa—Miss Cartwright what I'd found—”
“Which was exactly what, Miss Drever?”
“ Er , that I'd discovered a rolled-up canvas bag in the wooden chest that sat on the floor at the back of the garage.” Alice made a gesture with her left hand. “I was just givin' the place the usual once-over, y'see. An' when I found the bag it immediately brought to mind the newspaper stories of what took place at the ‘ Eastern Amalgamated '. I figured this was news, so I went back to my car an' drove to a store where I telephoned Fa—Miss Cartwright. We'd made a plan to phone into our office, on the corner of 12 th and Rosemartin Road, to leave information with our secretary there. Fa—Miss Cartwright, by a stroke of luck, received my message within five minutes; and joined me at the Compton home about ten minutes later.”
“Admirably put.” Grant nodded happily. “Now, can you give some detail of the garage's layout, and this bag you found?”
“Yeah, sure.” Alice rolled her head, to ease a crick in her neck. “Fa—Miss Cartwright, thought it was somethin' big, too. We both recognised the bag, from newspaper descriptions, as probably being part of the bank robbery; an' this, naturally, set us t'thinkin' about the defendant's role in that caper.”
“Objection.” Dallington was sharp and on top of his material. “What these ladies thought, about anything, is irrelevant.”
“Sustained.” Judge Dreschler shook his head mournfully. “Please keep to the facts, madam. What you may have surmised, or had opinions about, is not material to the subject.”
“ Er , yessir.” Alice looked warily from the judge, to Grant. “Where was I?”
“If you describe the bag, and then go on to describe the garage—its purely physical set-up, that is,—that will be fine, Miss Drever.”
“Ah, right.” Alice sat back and took a deep breath; realising for the first time exactly what Fiona had been talking about, earlier. “ Soo , the bag was canvas, long an' round, with a tie-top cord. Somethin' like those bags sailors use. Inside was just a few particles of dust and grit. There was a wide smooth leather rim, which both Miss Cartwright an' I made sure we didn't touch, in case of fingerprints. It had been rolled tightly an' stuffed into the wooden chest at the rear of the garage; amongst a mixture of cloths, tools, electrical bits an' pieces, an' what looked like an' old oil-stained rug.”
“And the general lay-out of the garage? The plan, as such?”
“It was deep and rectangular.” Alice reviewed the room in her mind. “The short side attached to the main building, and then running out parallel away from the house. There were three car-ports, with separate doors; though the interior was one single space. The doors being in turn separated by brick columns painted white. The doors swung up overhead. There were no vehicles present when Fion—Miss Cartwright an' I were there. Except, of course, for the defendant's Pontiac.”
“What were the dimensions of this garage, generally speaking?” Grant frowned, as if asking an important question the jury would be sensible to take note of.
“It ran about fifteen feet back, from the entrance doors.” Alice pursed her lips in thought. “And around sixty long, or broad; lengthways, I mean.”
“Just so.” Grant passed on to a really important point. “The Pontiac; can you describe that, please?”
Alice had discovered, like many before her, that being comfortable on a witness-stand chair was simply an impossibility. She had glanced at the judge; but this august figure filling her with foreboding, had quickly turned her attention to the public benches. This massed assemblage of the Public, with all their intense focussed expectation, was again almost too much for her; and she, rather in despair than hope, swivelled her eyes to stare at Fiona; something too like a rabbit caught in a car's headlights at night for comfort. Fiona, however, throwing her a wide confident grin of encouragement, Alice settled her shoulders and bucked up a trifle.
“Yeah, certainly.” She had no need of notes, having the vehicle's particulars scorched in her memory. “It's a dark red 1932 Pontiac 402 coupe.”
“A hefty machine?”
“Yes, pretty solid.” Alice nodded. “Wide black running-boards an' tyre guards, with a big engine. Seating two, of course; with a deep trunk. A powerful motor.”
“Large enough to do serious damage, if someone was hit at speed by it?”
“Objection.” Dallington waved the red flag at this blatant endeavor to influence the witness. “Putting words into the witness's mouth, and asking for suppositions.”
“Sustained.” Judge Dreschler nodded amiably. “Mr Grant, please control your more extreme attempts to flaunt the Rules of Trial.”
“Yessir.” Grant carried on, with hardly a pause. “Well, shall we say, Miss Drever, this Pontiac offered significant aspects of interest? And did you therefore go on to examine it? And, if so, what was your final assessment?”
“Well, Fi—Miss Cartwright an' I, took our time, there not seeming t'be much activity goin' on around the garage at that time.” Alice mused back on events, a finger stealing to her chin. “We checked the details that were already known about the suspect vehicle—that it was dark red; a Pontiac; and a coupe. All these, obviously, fitted the present car; so we set-to examining it pretty thoroughly.”
“Did this take long?” Grant raised an eyebrow, as if moderately interested. “A few minutes; half an hour; or longer? Where was everybody, by the way? Seems peculiar you had the place to yourselves all this time.”
“Maybe twenty minutes. We found out later all the family had abscon—I mean taken a run out to some friends in Portsmouth; taking the other two cars and the chauffeur along.” Alice smiled slightly at the D.A.'s assistant. “So, apart from some few house-servants, we had the joint to ourselves. The defendant had taken a taxi to visit a friend of his own at that time, also.”
“I see, please continue.”
“Miss Cartwright examined the front of the car, while I took the interior.” Alice was on firm ground here. “I didn't find anything of significance, but Miss Cartwright called my attention to the front fender. There were signs of damage there, and on the front of the engine-casing to the right side of the radiator. We found some small pieces of cloth, and specks of what later turned out to be blood. It was at this time we decided to call in Inspector Fletcher of the 5 th Precinct.”
“Admirable testimony.” Grant grinned indulgently and waved a cursory hand. “Thank you, you may step down. I believe that con—”
“Hold it, hold it—cross-examine, Judge, if ya please.” Dallington stood tall, sputtering with excitement at this snub. “If, that is, the prosecution can check their eagerness long enough to allow of such.”
“I think Mr Grant will allow time for your input, Mr Dallington.” Judge Dreschler was by now thoroughly enjoying the situation. “Carry on, Mr Dallington. Mr Grant, sit down; your day will come, have no doubt over that.”
“So, Miss Drever, what are we to make of your testimony, so far?” Dallington liked to wrong-foot his opponents; especially if they showed signs, as the brunette young woman sitting on the hard chair at the moment certainly did, of nervous tension. “We can, I hardly think, take it as in any way throwing the cloud of suspicion over my client, now can we?”
“Obje—”
“Mr Dallington, I believe it is the lawyers' duty to elicit information and fact, not supposition?” Judge Dreschler favoured the defence counsel with a weary grimace which easily failed to be a smile in any sense of the term. “Confine your questions to those ends, if you will.”
“Yessir.” Dallington, in his turn showed as little reaction to the judge's stern warning as Grant had earlier. “Well, Miss Drever, let us see. But, in fact, what can we determine, from your testimony? Not much, I'm afraid. It does not, in any sense, implicate my client in any of the activities or crimes ascribed to him. Let us start with the fact of the car itself. By your own testimony just given the car may as well have been parked by the sidewalk on the corner of Pataloc Avenue and Gloucester Road, is that not so? By which I mean it seems quite clear that anyone interested could gain access to the vehicle whenever they so wished. Security at the Compton household being, I'm sorry to admit, lax to the point of near invisibility. Yes?”
“Objec—”
“Supposition, yet again.” Judge Dreschler shook his head sadly. “Mr Dallington, there is a time in everyone's life when they should read Carrol's ‘ Alice in Wonderland '; and there is a time when they should concentrate on Priestley's ‘ First Principles of Government '; the latter is the example you should presently be taking note of. Continue.”
Suitably chastened, though not showing very much sign of such, Dallington raised an eyebrow, paused, then turned to his victim once more.
“Miss Drever, is it your assum—standpoint, that, because the canvas bag was in the chest in the garage, this incontrovertibly means Mr Jonathon Compton must have put it there?” Dallington inclined his head thoughtfully. “Where is your evidence for this?”
“Well, I admit I never saw him actually put the thing in the chest.” Alice frowned miserably. “But it was certainly there. An', well, the coincidence is just too much, ain't it? I mean—”
“Madam, coincidence is not fact.” The lawyer was in top form now. “Coincidence is not substantive evidence; it is merely a possibility, if that. The fact that the bag was in the chest does not mean that Jonathon Compton put it there. Were there clear fingerprints on the bag?”
“No, he must'a been wearing gloves.”
“Oh dear, the old standby—gloves.” Dallington turned to the jury-stand with a knowing smile, then turned his cold gaze on Alice. “The likelihood he never handled the bag at all, has apparently never troubled your conscience?”
“Objection!”
“Mr Dallington,” Judge Dreschler could see when a lawyer needed firm handling. “breathless as the court is to be allowed access to your imagination, perhaps if you stuck to facts and attempting to clarify such in the context of the subject at hand we might all benefit more? Continue.”
“Miss Drever, did you see Mr Compton driving the red Pontiac on 12 th Street, when it knocked down the victim, Miss Sally Barnard, who was crossing the road?”
“No, I wasn't there. I—”
“Miss Drever, did anyone—let me re-phrase that— no-one who witnessed the accident identified Mr Compton as the driver of the red Pontiac involved in the said accident.” Dallington favoured Alice with a dramatic lowering frown, as if he had caught her red-handed stealing apples from an orchard. “Now, what evidence do you have, which connects the defendant with the accident?”
“ Hel —I mean, I found the canvas ba—”
“Miss Drever, the canvas bag has nothing to do with my question.” Dallington drew on the iron glove, and buckled it tightly. “If you would please confine your evidence to answering my question, that will be sufficient.”
During the foregoing interrogation Alice had become more and more nervous, as a result of which she now sat tensely on the edge of her chair. Unable to engage the lawyer in a regular to-and-fro argument, she was frustrated with her inability to avoid his determined attempts to pour cold water on the facts as she saw them.
“Well, there's the scraps of cloth, an' specks of blood, on the front fender and side of the engine compartment.” She tightened her lips, knowing these for the incontrovertible facts which they were. “Same material as the victim's clothes were made from; an' same blood group as the victim's. If that ain't concrete evidence, I don't know what is.”
“Madam, the victim, Miss Barnard, was not a wealthy woman.” Dallington allowed a faint sneer to colour his voice's inflexion. “She bought her clothes ready-made from a reputable, but large, organisation. Detailed investigation, on my part, has shown that over the three months previous more than two score of the particular dress under discussion, of the same colour and design, were purchased by customers from this one outlet. The blood as well, though the same type as the victim's, is simply a grouping. It could have been anybody's; attached to the damaged vehicle for any number of innocent reasons. Neither pieces of evidence point to this vehicle, Mr Compton's red Pontiac, being the car involved in the 12 th Street accident.”
Alice, defeated again, took the only recourse left to her; she fixed the prosecuting lawyer with a diamond-hard gaze that could normally shrivel hardened criminals. But Mr Dallington, through long experience, proved impervious even to this attack, merely smiling pleasantly as he turned back to his desk while his deflated victim left the witness stand.
“I believe you were about to conclude your case, Mr Grant?”
“Yes, Judge.” Grant nodded affably from his chair behind his desk.
“Well, in that case I feel we can profitably recess for the day.” Judge Dreschler shuffled his various notes together into a bundle. “Court will recommence at ten-thirty am, tomorrow morning.”
—O—
“He's a right b-----d.”
“Now, now, Al, let's not get snarly at a member of the Unites States judiciary.”
“ Ha! Why not? Big ape.”
The women were ensconced in their private office, in the Packer Building on the corner of 12 th and Rosemartin, later that evening. Before them, on the wide desk, sat two glasses and a bottle of fine 12 year old single malt Scotch whisky. They were tending their wounds, and trying to figure out what the results of their earlier cross-examinations would come to in the long run.
“I'm beginnin' t'worry a little about the strength of all the evidence.” Fiona scratched her chin. “I thought it was water-tight—”
“So did I.”
“—but now I'm havin' second thoughts.” The black-haired woman shook her head becomingly, letting her long waves glitter in the overhead light; a picture not lost on her companion. “I was certain; you were certain; Hell , Inspector Fletcher was certain. But where's all that certainty gotten us? Dallington's made us all out t'be imbeciles; pretty much accusing us of manufacturing the evidence.”
Alice twiddled her half-empty glass thoughtfully.
“I don't think the jury'll fall for his bamboozling, in the end.” She shrugged discontentedly. “I mean, the bag from the ‘ Amalgamated ' robbery was there; the car showed evidence of involvement in some sort'a accident, which must'a been the 12 th Street one; it's just too much of a coincidence to mistake.”
“Ah, that's the problem.” Fiona looked at the brunette by her side. “In American law, as we both found out today, coincidences ain't facts. And it seems our facts are turnin' out not t'be strong or viable enough t'accept as concrete evidence of a true connection to the culprit.”
“We can't go out, at this late date, an' search for somethin' more conclusive.” Alice heaved a sigh. “Judge Dreschler, even if we found anything, wouldn't accept it into court, you bet. We just got'ta go with what we have.”
There was a pause, while both women sipped their drinks and contemplated the future. There was nothing they could do about new evidence or information; but what about that they already had.
“When Dallington steps up to the mark tomorrow, he's bound to try'n blacken both our characters. Wouldn't be at all surprised if he went for Fletcher, too.” Fiona considered the most likely line of attack. “Just the sort'a thing he'd likely do.”
“We ain't bent, or corrupt.” Alice growled angrily into her glass. “We can look anyone in the eyes, any day; includin' Mr High ‘n Mighty Dallington.”
“Of course we can; but what'll he try, t'turn the jury against our evidence?”
“He's already done a dam' sight too much, in that direction.” Alice looked at her partner less than happily. “Thrown the canvas bag out'ta consideration; an' cast aspersions on the Pontiac's veracity. What more does he need t'do. I can see this case goin' down the Swannee.”
“It's a pity Grant wasn't able to bring the canvas bag front and centre.” Fiona shook her head sadly, at this lost opportunity. “I mean, that would really have cooked Jonathon's goose. Would've been no way back for him from that position.”
“Trouble is that dam' garage was so public it might as well have been one of the main entrances t'the Football Stadium.” Alice too could only bemoan the loss of such vital evidence. “But surely even Dallington can't sweep the Pontiac in'ta the ocean? We got'ta find some way o' definitively stickin' Jon t'the car, at the 12 th Street accident. Any ideas?”
Another long pause ensued, as both women searched their memories, and past experience, for some way out of the morass; there hardly, however, seeming to be anything of substance to cling onto.
“What about Jonathon's admittance he was at the ‘ Amalgamated ' robbery.” Fiona turned her head to Alice. “Y'know? He said out loud, an' signed a confession, to bein' involved in the bank robbery.”
“But Fletcher can't make it stick, without concrete evidence.” Alice scratched her arm, over its sleeve, in irritation. “Anybody can confess t'anythin', y'know, if they feel the urge. It's pinning them to the act with evidence that matters. You could confess t'bein' Santa Claus; an' I could confess t'bein' the Grand Duchess Anastasia—but nobody could do anythin' about it without evidence to back up what we say.”
“Yeah, I know. Dam' it.”
As they sat at the table, morosely drinking whisky and bewailing the state of the nation, Alice was also occupying herself with shuffling through a wad of notes; mainly of the various pieces of evidence taken into consideration, and of what had been found at the scenes where several of the culprits involved in the string of crimes lived. Now she paused to read over, then re-read more carefully, a particular sheet. After which she turned to Fiona with a gleam in her eye.
“Fay, sittin' by Dallington's side today, what was darlin' Jonathon wearing?”
“What was—what's interestin' about that?”
“Just cast your mind back, dear; what was he wearing?”
Fiona, after giving her brunette partner a searching glance, raised her eyebrows but went on to frown as she did indeed consider the question.
“ Weell , lem'me think—what kind'a rags was he wearin'?” She gave the point some thought, before continuing. “A dark three piece suit—not blue or black—dark grey. His shoes were black. Hair slicked back with enough whale oil to start a forest fire, an' gleamin' like a mirror. His waistcoat was grey, too, an' I think his shirt was pale blue. That's about it. Why?”
“How were his cuffs fixed?”
“His cuffs? His shirt-sleeve cuffs? How the hell should I know?”
“ I noticed; cufflinks; they caught my attention.” Alice actually smirked in delight. “They were large square flat light-blue stones with initials, probably his own, carved on the faces; they stood out against his grey cuffs.”
“So what?”
“I got the lists o'personal effects here of all the main contributors to the various dramas under discussion—principally all those involved in the ‘ Amalgamated ' robbery, as well as darlin' Jonathon.”
Fiona could see her beloved companion was labouring under a tense excitement, clearly having struck some sort of mother-lode. The black-haired woman raised her brows again and fixed the lady by her side with a sharp eye.
“You got somethin', babe? You're onto somethin'? OK, let it rip, I'm all ears. Give it t'me.”
“What we want, above all else, is something to pin Jonathon to the ‘ Amalgamated ' robbery, or those involved in it, right?”
“Goes without sayin'.”
“Jonathon fancies himself as some sort'a fancy-dan—a ladies man—a Dandy, in fact.”
“More like a popinjay.”
“Yeah, sure; but he dresses fine an' fancy, y'agree?”
“Sure, sure, get on with it.”
“Well, his cufflinks today; they were made to be seen; t'be taken notice of.” Alice had reached the crux of her revelation. “They were a matching set of big blue stones, in gold settings. I also got here the details of the contents of his,—Jonathon's, that is,—personal dressing-table in his bedroom back at the palace on Cantelet Road.”
“Oh yeah? Somethin' interestin' there?”
“Another set of cufflinks.” Alice grinned the evil smile she reserved for only the best moments in life. “These are the same design as those he wore today, but were flat green emeralds; with his initials again. Today's were, I think sapphires.”
“ God , lives high, don't he.”
“An' another cufflink, single, without its partner—by itself, in fact.” Alice nudged her loving partner's arm in glee. “Same design, same initials,—obviously he only has a one-track mind—but this is red, a ruby stone.”
“So, he probably lost the other cufflink somewhere. Oh-oh! ”
“I refer to this second list.” Alice waved the sheet in Fiona's face, with gay abandon. “It details the personal effects of one, Earl Haslemere, a small-time crook, with known proclivities to bustin' small banks; an' rumoured to have thrown his lot in with Barton just under a year ago.”
“Haslemere was one of those shot down at ‘ Redwing, Halston'.”
“ You got it, baby.” Alice actually sniggered in triumph . “ And one of his effects, taken from the shabby hotel room he was infestin', an' detailed here in this list of his paltry belongings, is a large square, flat red stone cufflink in a gold setting; with the initials JC on the flat face of the stone. I haven't seen either o'them; but I'd lay a year's wages they're a match; the same style of letter-cutting; a pair—Jonathon's pair. I figure even at this late date, if examined by the boys in blue, there might still be examples of dear Jonathon's fingerprints t'be found there-on. That, lady, is what's called a connection.”
“ Jesus , Al, I think y'just may have somethin' here.”
Fiona grabbed her partner and kissed her passionately and at length; nothing else seeming to suit the situation.
“What we got'ta do now, doll, is ring Fletcher up straightaway.” Alice grinned from ear to ear. “Drag him out'ta his fleapit bed, an' break the good news. God , I feel like that guy—in Tennyson's poem, y'know—who went from somewhere, t'somewhere else.”
“Ghent to Aix; an' it was Browning.”
“Yeah, exactly, just like I said.” Alice brushed this minor point aside, having bigger fish to fry. “So, who gets t'drag Inspector Fletcher from the arms o'Morpheus? You, or me?”
“Well, you came up with the goods, beautiful one.” Fiona was open-handed in her shared pleasure. “There's the phone; ya know the number, go to it, baby.”
“ Har. I'm gon'na enjoy this. Bet he grumbles somethin' awful, at his men havin' missed the connection. So, this is what bein' given a Roman Triumph feels like?”
“ God, get on with it, girl.”
—O—
There were as many thronging the public benches of Courtroom No.4 this bright and sunny morning as there had been the previous day. Today they all showed more eagerness than ever, scenting blood from the defence's side. Fiona and Alice sat on the front row, again just behind the waist-high banister separating the hoi-polloi from the lawyers' desks. Inspector Fletcher, looking remarkably chipper considering, smiled by their side; or at least he creased his craggy features into an expression he fondly thought of as such. To their left, across the main aisle, sat Mr Dallington alongside the cause of all the trouble, Jonathon Compton.
This session was meant to encompass Dallington's all-conquering rampage through the weak remains of the prosecution's case, during which he obviously expected to destroy all opposition to the jury's reaching a decision of not guilty with contemptible ease. He had however, over the last few minutes as they prepared for the entrance of Judge Dreschler, been casting ever more puzzled glances at the prosecution desk, and those seated immediately to its rear; obviously trying to work out wherein lay their contentment.
Judge Dreschler appeared, like the Queen of Sheba descending on a tributary kingdom; the court was brought to order by the Clerk of the Court; and everyone settled on their chairs or benches to view the coming battle; or massacre, depending on one's viewpoint.
“Mr Dallington, if you're ready.”
“Call Miss Alice Drever, please.”
“Call Miss Alice Drever.”
Alice, casting a scowl at the loud-voiced clerk in passing, made her way to the uncomfortable witness-chair and settled herself as best she could.
“Now, Miss Drever, today we may well come to the crux, if indeed not the whole end, of this sorry affair.” Dallington, flushed with approaching success, was letting a usually subdued trait of his personality come to the fore—a tendency to grandstand and braggadocio. “I start with your evidence, as I wish to brush the lesser aspects pertaining to this case out of the way of the jury's considerations with the least possible trouble. Over the last day or so we have heard a great deal of supposition; hypothesis; and downright flummery—”
“Objection.”
“Mr Dallington,” Judge Dreschler was bright, sharp, and on top of his form. “let us stick to the main points of the case, if you please. Personal remarks about aspects of the opposition's stance are not pertinent to the subject.”
“Miss Drever, it is your case; or at least the case you stand allied with, that the defendant, Jonathon Compton, is involved in two, if not three, acts of an illegal nature, is that not so?”
“Bank robbery, with fatal wounding; failed attempt t'rob a big company, with woundings; an' a fatal road accident?” Alice ticked these points off on her fingers, held high so the jury could see with ease. “Dam' right—I mean, beggin' the court's pardon, you sure ain't wrong, there. We got him bang t'rights.”
“ Ha , I beg to differ, Miss Drever.” Dallington turned to the jury with a broad grin. “I think we pretty comfortably discovered, yesterday, the sandy foundations on which you have based most of your prosecution case. And a less likely or strong prosecution I have not met with in many years at the bar. No connection to any of the said crimes; no evidence to suggest for a single moment any link between the defendant and the robber Barton. Evidence of such a weak nature tying Mr Compton to the accident on 12 th Street that it is laughable. No, Miss Drever, I have no fears the jury will have any trouble at all in reaching the proper verdict in this case.”
“That ain't fair.” Alice was incensed, springing to the defence of her fellow partner, and of their involvement in the said cases. “We've spent a whole—”
“Yes, yes, Miss Drever, no doubt.” Dallington was a past master at interruption. “Anyway, to come to the point. What evidence, at all, have you that connects the defendant with any of the crimes herein being considered by this court? Particularly this subject of the red Pontiac? I defy you to come up with the least positive fact that can impinge on my client's position of absolute innocence in the whole affair.”
“There's the case of the ruby cufflinks.” Alice sprang her mine with all the deft elegance of a master.
“Cufflinks?” Dallington paused to gaze at his witness, paling slightly as he noticed for the first time the complete ease with which she, in her turn, regarded him. “Well, I have some little spare time before settling this unjust case to the court's; the jury's; and not to mention the defendant's, satisfaction. Please, kindly regale the court with the tale of these, er, mystic cufflinks. Are they, by the way, already listed in evidence? Merely a technicality, you understand.”
“Oh yes, they've been listed in evidence from day one. They're kosher, alright.” Alice grinned widely, making Dallington turn paler still. “Well, it's like this—”
—O—
“Members of the jury, you have reached a verdict?”
“Yessir.”
“What is that verdict?”
“We find the defendant, Jonathon Compton, guilty on all counts.”
“Thank you, you may stand down.”
There were gasps of shock and amazement throughout the court as the verdict was heard. Only a bare three and a half hours had gone by since Alice's revelation of the adamantine-solid connection between Jonathon and the robber involved in both the armed robberies. The realisation that this allied Jonathon himself irrevocably to the robberies too, cast a whole new light on the evidence surrounding the garage, the canvas bag therein, and the evidence of the Pontiac's accident. In short it quickly became obvious Jonathon was dished—and the jury, finally going out for their deliberations, had made short work of showing they thought so as well.
“Jonathon Compton, you have been found guilty of several heinous crimes.” Judge Dreschler, in this sort of situation, well knew how to throw the book at a guilty felon. “Driver of a motor vehicle involved in a fatal road accident; perpetrator of an attempted robbery at a reputable firm's premises, during which security guards were shot and wounded; and finally, accessory in a bank robbery, wherein a guard was shot and fatally wounded. Jonathon Compton, you will be taken to the State Penitentiary, where you will await sentence in six weeks time. Case closed.”
—O—
“Well, baby, that's what I call an outcome. Your brilliance saved the day, an' all our hides, that's for sure.”
Alice, on her part, snuggled closer to her partner as they lay in bed in their condo, together.
“Just identifying relevant evidence, darlin', that's all.” She turned her head to kiss her lover's lips. “ Mmm . You'd a'found it yourself, if you'd gone into those borin' lists instead o'me.”
“Still, can't figure how Fletcher's mob missed the cufflinks.”
“Just one o'those things.” Alice smiled coyly. “Even a genius like Fletcher can't be awake every hour o'the day. Say, lady, are you gon'na hug the rest o'this sheet t'yourself all night? I'm getting' cold here.”
“ Ooh , then maybe I need t'warm ya up, then. You wan'na I warm ya up a little, baby? F'instance, how's this?”
“ Aaah! Yeees! ”
The End
—O—
To be continued in the next instalment of the ‘ Drever & Cartwright ' series.
—OOO—