A Gross Carriage of Justice

Chapter 10

Clarence W. Alexander, once again standing on the deserted platform of the East Westerly railroad station as the clock approached midnight — and beginning to feel like a native of the place — was a bit sorry, now that he had time to consider it, that he had demanded the full twenty thousand pounds from Clifford Simpson. Twenty thousand pounds, in his estimation, was a lot of money to pay for two old men whose main pursuits in life, apparently, were to eat and drink. Clarence knew, for example, that had he himself been the surviving member of the trio, he would no more pay twenty thousand pounds for the release of the other two than he would have gambled with someone else’s dice. In fact, were he the surviving member, he would accept the kidnaping of the other two as an act of God, cash in as quickly as he could, and be on the next plane for distant parts, just in case either of the others survived.

On that basis he had a chilling feeling that Clifford Simpson would not appear, and that this trip of his to East Westerly had been unnecessary. That “one-for-all-and-all-for-one” malarkey was probably just so much newspaper talk; Simpson was undoubtably congratulating himself on his good fortune at the moment, and probably thanking his unknown benefactor — if he was anything like his two friends — with a glass in his hand.

In fact, Clarence had come so close to convincing himself he was wasting his time, that only the mournful hoot of the eleven fifty-eight, warning of its impending arrival, kept him from leaving the platform at once. But seeing the wavering lights of the train approaching, he decided to stick around for a few more moments, and he was therefore quite pleasantly surprised to see the tall cadaverous figure of Clifford Simpson actually emerge from the last door of the train with an overnight case in his hand. A moment later the case had been put down, but there the desired scenario ended; rather than retreat to the train, Simpson, like Briggs, remained standing beside the case, until once again the train, not yet thoroughly rested but aware of the demands of schedule, put its weary bones in motion and limped from the station.

Oh no! Clarence thought. Not again! With a sigh of resignation he came from the shadows.

“Mr. Simpson, I suppose?”

“That’s ‘Mr. Simpson, I presume,’ I presume,” Simpson said, and beamed down at the smaller man. “And speaking of presumptions, I gather you are the kidnaper?”

Clarence glared and looked around in the darkness. It was not the type of greeting he would have preferred, but fortunately the platform remained deserted, nor did it appear there were any persons within earshot, or even beyond earshot, if it came to that. He turned back to see that Simpson had picked up the overnight bag in the meanwhile and was waiting, a pleasant anticipatory smile on his somewhat horselike face.

“Now, you look here, skinny!” Clarence said grimly, with a feeling he had done the scene on stage many times before and would probably be condemned to repeat it endlessly until ticket sales weakened, or the theater burned down. “Why don’t you just hand me that overnight bag and get on the next train to London? And go beddy-bye? And save us all a lot of trouble?”

“Oh, I really couldn’t,” Simpson said, sorry to have to disappoint this nice man. It seemed strange that such a pleasant-looking person should be a kidnaper, although Clifford Simpson would have been the first to admit he knew very little about the appearance of kidnapers. Villains who tied heiresses to railway tracks, now, they were a crew he had worked with extensively, but... He came down to earth, trying to remember what it was he had been saying. It finally came back. “I couldn’t, you see,” he said, anxious to explain his position, “not until I’ve seen Billy-Boy and Tim—”

“That again! Well, they’re fine! But believe me they won’t be fine for very long, if—”

“Oh, I’m sure they’re fine, quite sure,” Simpson said hurriedly, not wishing the man to think he would doubt his word. “It’s just that I really don’t know how to handle the situation, and I need to ask their advice. Surely you can understand that, can’t you?”

“No,” Clarence said flatly.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Simpson shook his head in commiseration. “You have trouble understanding things, too, eh? I know how you must feel.” He looked around rather vaguely. “Well, shall we go? The sooner I can discuss this with Billy-Boy and Tim — well, more Billy-Boy than Tim, because Tim seems to explode at times without too much advance notice. Or reason, either, you may have noticed — where was I?” He paused to think a moment and then beamed. “Oh yes. I was saying that the sooner I can discuss this with Billy-Boy, the sooner I’m sure we can resolve the entire matter. And that’s what we all really want, isn’t it? To resolve the entire matter?”

Clarence shook his head, a bit dazed by all the words.

“Now, look, you!” he said. “Just hand over that bag, see, and get yourself lost!”

He reached for the overnight bag, but Simpson resolutely held it above his head, coming close to some electrical wires there.

“Yes,” Simpson said sadly, looking down at the other, “you do have the same trouble, don’t you? Understanding, I mean. I’d repeat myself, but my experience is that it really doesn’t serve much purpose. Much better to get on with seeing Billy-Boy and discussing it, believe me. So shall we go?”

Clarence came close to gnashing his teeth. Still, unless he tried to climb the old man like a telephone pole, there seemed little to do about it at the moment. Why, he asked himself desperately, had he made the basic blunder of arranging to meet these people on a railroad station platform, where a fuss could be heard by the guard? He should have set the meetings up in a dark alley, and come prepared with a lead pipe, except he would also have needed a ladder in order to strike this Simpson unconscious. He let his breath out slowly. Someone was going to pay for all the irritation he had suffered, he promised himself, one way or another! Probably Harold Nishbagel; the snatch had been his idea in the first place, after all.

“But you’re going to be blindfolded,” he said, adamant about this point. “Once we’re in the car—”

“Oh no!” Simpson said pleadingly. “Take my word, I’d get the most dreadful headache. Besides, I assure you, I’m most inattentive. I have trouble getting from my rooms to the club. If it weren’t for this kind old lady who owns the journal stand at the corner—”

Clarence sighed.

“Ah, the hell with it,” he said hopelessly. “Let’s go!”

Since gin rummy is basically a game best played by two, or by four if playing partners, Harold had decided that hearts was the proper game to accommodate the three of them, and at the moment he was pleased with the rapidity with which his two charges had caught onto the game. Here only fifteen or twenty hands had been played, and already each of them was into him for over a thousand pounds, and they were now only playing for five-somethings, rather than ten-somethings. However, with his share of the ransom money, he could not only pay off, he was sure, but even come out a few bucks profit ahead, and who could ask for anything more than that? Especially when he was having as much fun as Harold was having at the moment?

He looked at the trick on the table, disappointed but not surprised to find the queen of spades had been laid upon his ace of diamonds, since it seemed to happen with remarkable frequency. Maybe he could shoot the moon and get some of his dough back, except he seemed to remember that one or the other of his opponents had picked up a heart somewhere along the way. He was pondering his next play when he heard Clarence’s key in the outer lock and looked up. Through the doorway from the kitchen to the living room, all three card players could see Clarence come in, ushering Clifford Simpson before him.

“Well, well!” Carruthers said softly, and turned to Harold. “Possibly some glasses for our friend?”

“Sure, pops,” Harold said helpfully, and came to his feet at once, as Clifford Simpson came into the kitchen, ducking his head under the doorframe. Harold paused in his task and smiled delightedly at Carruthers. “Hey, pops! Maybe we can play bridge now!”

“Possibly,” Carruthers conceded, and smiled up at his tall friend. “Clifford! Have a chair. Glasses will be here in a moment. To what do we owe this pleasure?”

“He got kidnaped like we did,” Briggs said sardonically.

“Oh no!” Simpson said hurriedly. He did not wish his host, already apparently guilty of several kidnapings, to be accused of a crime of which he was innocent; that would have been eminently unfair. “Oh no! As a matter of fact” — he looked at his captor in embarrassment — “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I missed your name.”

“He’s called Clarence,” Harold said, opening the cupboard and reaching for glasses. “I’m Hal.”

“Thank you,” Simpson said gratefully, and turned back to the others. “Well, as a matter of fact, Mr. Clarence didn’t even want me to come along. He wanted to take my overnight case and wanted me to take the next train back to London. And go beddy-bye, I believe he said. No, it’s my own fault I’m here, not his. I felt it vital that I discuss something of importance with Billy-Boy.”

“And now that you are here,” Clarence said wearily, “do you mind greatly telling us just what was so important that you wanted to talk to your fat friend about?”

Harold had come over with the extra glasses. Clifford Simpson smiled at him gratefully, sank into a chair, and poured himself a bit of brandy. He sipped it, raised his eyebrows in appreciation of its quality, took some champagne to follow it, wiped his lips and leaned back comfortably, at ease.

“I say!” he observed, looking about. “You don’t have it half-bad here, do you?”

“Not half-bad at all,” Briggs said, a rare admission for him. “Even the beds are fairly decent.”

“And you will find Harold, in addition to being the most accommodating of card players, also to be an excellent chef,” Carruthers added. “His ragout-au-Dannemora...” He kissed his fingers to indicate the merit of Harold’s cuisine.

“And I don’t think they ever heard of cucumber sandwiches in the States,” Briggs added, “or at least not in the places where Harold learned to cook. I’ve only been here a day, it’s true, but if they even have watercress in the house, I haven’t seen it—”

Clarence slammed his hand on the table, bringing silence.

“All right, you clowns,” he said, his voice tight. “Let’s get on with it!” He turned to Simpson. “Talk! Just what was it you wanted to discuss with old baggy-pants, here?”

“Why,” Simpson said, as if surprised he hadn’t mentioned it before, “the fact that we have no money, of course—”

There was sudden silence.

Clarence stared in shock. Harold watched breathlessly, as close to high drama as he could ever remember. Carruthers leaned back in his chair, idly inspecting the ceiling. Briggs frowned and made a face.

“Cliff,” he said querulously, “was it absolutely necessary to offer that completely unsolicited information? Especially at this particular time? Couldn’t you have waited awhile? A few days, or even better, a few weeks? Now we’ll probably get kicked out of here.” He sighed and reached for the brandy, as if to be sure to have at least one more drink before being evicted into the unfriendly night.

“Well, I really didn’t know what to do or what to say,” Simpson said unhappily. “That’s what I wanted to talk to Billy-Boy about, to ask him precisely what to do or what to say under the circumstances. I’m awfully sorry if I—”

“It’s probably as much my fault as yours, Cliff,” Carruthers said in a conciliatory tone, bringing his eyes down from the ceiling. “I suppose I should have insisted upon waiting until we could discuss the matter among ourselves in private—”

Clarence came out of his daze. His hand bounced off the table once again, scattering cards.

“Wait a second! Wait a second!” he said harshly. “What do you mean, you have no dough?” He reached over and grabbed the bag Simpson had brought, opening it roughly, upending it, shaking it furiously. Two pair of worn socks fell out, and a frayed handkerchief followed by a dog-eared cheap edition that Simpson had been reading on the train. Clarence stared at this detritus.

“I’m afraid it’s the truth,” Carruthers said regretfully. “Believe me, we feel as badly about it as you.” He looked at the bottles of brandy and champagne as a French prisoner might look back at his sweetheart on the docks of Marseilles as he was being carted off to Devil’s Island, never to return. “It is a sad fact but true. As you Americans are wont to say — if one can believe the cinema — the three of us are cracked.”

“That’s broken,” Briggs said critically.

“You mean, broke,” Harold said, pleased to be able to help.

“Shut up! Shut up! All of you!” Clarence glared from one to the other, ending with Carruthers. “What do you mean, broke? What about that award you guys won? That Jarvis whatever? Was it phony?”

“No, it was quite legitimate. Twenty thousand pounds,” Carruthers said, and sighed deeply at the memory. “Twenty thousand of the best. We spent a quid or two for new suits, we admit, and a trifle here plus a trifle there. And we took that cruise on the Sunderland, you know, plus those few days in Gibraltar—”

“Peanuts!” Clarence snarled. “What about the rest? The paper said you’d invested it!”

Carruthers nodded. “And so we did. Poorly, I might add. So that now it is gone.” He intoned the words tragically and spread his hands. “Gone, like chaff before the winds—”

“Like free ices at an orphans’ picnic,” Simpson contributed dolefully.

“Like Safe-Cracker Sam before the uniformed minions of the law, once they had him in their ken,” Briggs came up with, and defended his selection. “That was from my book—”

“Shut up! Shut up!” Clarence glared murderously. “Forget how it went. Where did it go?”

“To that big bottomless safe in the sky to which all poor investors donate,” Carruthers said sadly.

“To ‘the undiscover’d country, from whose bourn no traveller returns,’” Simpson said, and despite the tragedy of the loss he could not help beaming, albeit a trifle lugubriously. “I remembered! I remembered! Hamlet, Act three, Scene one!”

“To that—” Briggs hesitated and then gave up.

“Shut up! Shut up!” Clarence sounded distraught.

Carruthers sighed deeply.

“My dear sir,” he said commiseratingly, “believe me when I repeat that we feel as badly about the situation as you. Harold informed me you only wished half of our capital; we have lost it all. But it is truly gone. Gone, as Clifford just mentioned, to that undiscovered something from whose something else no somebody else ever returns. Take my word for it, sir. We are, indeed, impecunious, impoverished, destitute, moneyless, or pauperized, whichever you prefer.”

Clarence fell into a chair, stunned.

“But people don’t kidnap people who don’t have money,” he found himself saying.

“As a general rule, I believe that is probably correct,” Carruthers said, agreeing. “There are, however, exceptions, and I’m afraid this is one of them.”

“You honestly mean you can’t pay a ransom? Of any size? Not even a little one?” Clarence was trying to comprehend the dismal fact, to clutch at straws. “What about your friends?”

“My dear man,” Carruthers said, truly saddened by the other’s lack of understanding, “if we didn’t have many friends when we were in possession of these funds — and the slightest research on your part will indicate that we didn’t — how many friends do you think we have now that we are penniless?” He paused a moment, thinking, and then frowned. “Did I leave that one out before? No matter. The fact is, without money people are usually without friends.”

It was all too true and nobody knew it better than Clarence. Nor did he doubt for a moment that the old men were telling the truth. In the first place, he was sure that with money they would have paid the first ransom demand without hesitation and he would have been rid of the entire bunch days before. In the second place, he was sure the innocence in those china-blue eyes would never permit their owner to bandy the truth. And lastly, of course, with idiots like these three, it must have been duck soup for some sharpie to sell them worthless stocks. He just wished he had gotten to them first.

Harold had been listening in silence, his brain struggling with the attempt to translate all the words flowing in to him from all directions into meaningful pictures his mind could study. It seemed to him that if he understood the conversation correctly, the old men were saying they had lost all their moola and were flat busted. But something occurred to Harold, burrowing itself through his subconscious to titillate the proper nerve ends and generate itself into verbal expression.

“Hey!” he said suddenly. “You guys ain’t broke!”

“We’re not?” Carruthers asked, surprised.

“We’re not?” Briggs asked, sarcastically.

“We’re not?” Simpson asked, doubtful but wishing to be convinced.

“Not you, skinny,” Harold said disdainfully, dismissing the thin man. “I ain’t even played with you, not yet, anyways. I mean them two. I owe them dough. I owe pops a bundle, and I even owe shorty, here, a little bit.”

“Roughly a thousand quid,” Briggs said, “if you call that a little bit.”

“Whatever.” Harold frowned as a second thought wriggled its way past the bone, interposing itself on the first. His face fell. “The only thing is, I was goin’ to pay you guys out of my share of the ransom dough. Now I guess I’ll just have to owe it to you.”

“As someone once remarked,” Carruthers said, “that is supposedly better than cheating us out of it. Although,” he added, “that never quite rang true, to me.”

Clarence had been listening to this exchange without paying too much attention to it. He was trying to console himself that not all capers worked out one hundred per cent, and also that he hadn’t really needed the money; but the fact was that Clarence was unhappy. He hated failure. Not only was he to gain nothing from his efforts — and his detailed planning and execution on such short notice deserved better than that — but he was also out a goodly sum from the amounts of food and liquor that had been consumed by his guests, for at heart Clarence was a miser. His non-paying guests, he reminded himself bitterly. He could still, of course, take out his feelings of frustration by dropping the three of them down the well, although he was fairly sure the tall one’s head would remain well above the water line when he was through. And burying them under the barn would entail too much excavation to dispose of the fat one, plus the fact that the tall one’s feet would probably stick out. They really didn’t build barns in England like they did in Wapakeneta, he thought bitterly.

But there was really no purpose in getting rid of the three old men, now. Not from life, that was, though certainly from the farm. And particularly from his larder.

“Tomorrow!” he said coldly, and jerked his thumb authoritatively in the direction of the door and, symbolically, all of the wide world beyond. “Out! Tomorrow, all of you freeloaders — out!” He did not appreciate it, of course, but had he been ejecting Eliza into the snow, baby and all, he could not have done the voice better.

“Aw, gee,” Harold said plaintively. “Can’t they stay another week or so? We still got lots of grub and it’ll be lonely after they’re gone. And I oughtta get a chance to win back some of my dough. We was goin’ to play bridge, see, now we got four hands, and when I was in the big Q, me and this guy in the next cell — a killer from Spokane — we was the cellblock champions—”

“Keep quiet, Hal.” Clarence looked at the three. “Tomorrow!”

“Wait a moment,” Briggs said in an unusually placating tone for him. “If you can’t see your way clear to our remaining another week, how about five days?”

“Or even three?” Simpson suggested.

“I know!” Carruthers said, snapping his fingers as he solved the dilemma. “Why don’t we simply compromise on four? It’s a nice round — or, rather, square — number.”

“So is six,” Briggs pointed out.

“Or eight. Or ten—” That was Simpson in the interests of accuracy.

“Tomorrow!” Clarence said direly, and came to his feet. His tone indicated all too clearly he was through playing potsie. “The three of you deadbeats — tomorrow! Out!”