A Gross Carriage of Justice

Chapter 12

When Clarence Wellington Alexander was quite young and taking loot from his fellow classmates that would have been impossible to explain to his parents, he kept his booty in a shoe box as high up on a shelf in his room as he could reach, behind a bottle in which he kept a live frog. He hoped this would prove a deterrent to his mother if she came looking for a shoe box in which to store something for herself, or to lend to a neighbor for a family picnic. It was not the best of hiding places, as Clarence would have been the first to admit, but in their small house with its tiny garden there was no place he could think of that was any better. And, of course, it would have been difficult for a twelve-year-old to rent a safety-deposit box without embarrassing questions being asked. But the situation led to Clarence’s being — as Briggs suspected all snide people of being — an extremely light sleeper, coming awake at the first sound of anyone trying the doorknob of his room. The truth was, Clarence Alexander did not get a really good night’s rest until his first night in prison.

He did not, however, have to be a particularly light sleeper to be brought abruptly from the arms of Morpheus by the racket that woke him at two o’clock that morning. It seemed to him at first that someone was simultaneously attempting to destroy the front door with an ax or something similar, while someone else was trying to break through either a wall or the floor itself, using a chair as a battering ram. There were also assorted sounds of other breakage of one sort or another.

He was out of his bed in a flash, not pausing for a robe, and was down the steps in an instant, pressing the light switch that controlled the illumination for both the lower hallway and the library. A moment later Harold, not a light sleeper himself, but by the same token also not deaf, joined him, yawning. The scene that greeted the two might have been humorous at another time, resembling as it did one of those comedy vaudeville acts involving inept carpenters that end with the stage set a shambles, but at the moment it looked to Clarence anything but funny. It appeared to him to be highly suspicious.

William Carruthers, fully dressed at that hour, as were his confederates, had apparently fallen over an arm chair in the Stygian darkness, while Timothy Briggs, trying to open the outer door in the dark, had been stumbled over by Clifford Simpson. In stumbling, Simpson had apparently struck his head on the portal and then collapsed over a table, sending it flying; while Briggs’s small but hard head, after bouncing off the floor, had apparently been driven into a cane chair, upending it. In the commotion their bags had escaped them, flying through the air, and had contributed their share to the holocaust in the form of untabled lamps and upended footstools.

Clarence glared. “All right!” he said darkly. “What’s this all about?”

Billy-Boy managed to struggle to his feet. He tugged his clothing straight and tried to face Clarence with an air of dignity, marred somewhat by his necktie’s being halfway around his neck, and with having lost a shoe in his fall, which gave him the attitude of a captain standing on the sloping deck of a sinking ship, addressing the crew.

“Sir,” Carruthers said formally, “you informed us last evening in no uncertain manner, that we were no longer welcome in your household. We, sir, have been raised with proper respect for decent standards; we, sir, do not remain where we are not wanted. We were in the process of removing ourselves from the premises, when we had the misfortune to awaken you. If you will return to your sleep with our apologies, we will take our departure again, trying to do it a bit more quietly this time.”

“Aw, gee, pops,” Harold said in a disappointed tone. He had interpreted enough of Carruthers’ statement to understand that when the three old men had inadvertently awakened him, they had been in the process of doing a bunk without saying good-by. “You gave me your word you wouldn’t try to escape—”

“My dear Harold,” Carruthers said in a kindly tone, “one can hardly call being instructed to leave and never darken a napkin again quite the same thing as escaping.” He picked up his bag; both Briggs and Simpson also retrieved theirs. Carruthers bowed slightly at the waist. “And now, gentlemen, if you’ll excuse us—”

“Wait a second! Wait a second!” Clarence’s eyes narrowed; he studied the three of them with growing suspicion. “Hold it right there! Last night you three characters were begging to stay at any price, as if this was a boardinghouse, or a free-lunch counter. You did everything but tie yourselves to the kitchen table, or lock yourselves in the john! And now you want to bust out of here at two in the morning just like that? Who do you think you clowns are kidding?”

Carruthers drew himself up. “Kidding, sir?”

“Kidding!” Clarence said flatly. “Hal, search them!”

Carruthers tried to draw himself even further up and merely came to his tiptoes. He lowered himself in the interests of stability.

“Sir, I consider that an insult! To suggest that we would transgress your hospitality and remove any of your personal possessions after the kindness we have been fortunate enough to receive in this menage! Although in the interests of honesty I must say that those kindnesses came at the hands of Harold, and not yourself. Still, the principle remains, I am afraid. I consider your charge, sir, as calumny!”

“Yes. Well,” Clarence said evenly, not greatly impressed by Carruthers’ theatrics, “I’m suggesting that possibly you aren’t taking any of my personal possessions, since I’ve got the key to the liquor cupboard, and I sleep with my wallet under the pillow; but I happen to be responsible for this house and everything in it. It’s in the lease, and they have an inventory, and I have enough grief without getting in a hassle with some English lawyer when the time comes for me and Harold to split from here. So, Hal, shake them down.”

Harold sighed but moved over to Carruthers. “Gee, I’m sorry, pops,” he said apologetically.

“That’s perfectly all right,” Carruthers said. “It’s the only way to still the suspicions of your friend.” He put his feet apart and leaned with the palms of his hands against the wall, looking back over his shoulder. “Is this the proper drill? The correct stance?”

“That’s fine.”

“Good. Just be a bit careful in the stomach area, if you don’t mind,” Carruthers suggested. “Ticklish, you know.”

“I know. Me, too,” Harold said. He patted the pockets, ran a hand down the legs, and stepped back. “Pops is clean. And if shorty or skinny had so much as a matchbox on them, it would show, Clare.”

“True. Then it must be in their bags,” Clarence said shortly, and began by kneeling down and opening Carruthers’ old-fashioned valise. His search did not take long; a moment’s fumbling within and he looked up triumphantly. “What’s this?” he asked sardonically, and withdrew an oddly shaped package wrapped in a soiled shirt. “Celluloid collars? Button shoes?”

“Hey! Take your hands off that! Be careful how you handle it!” Briggs said suddenly, as if unaware of the contradiction in his statement, and quite as if the words had been forced from him without his will.

“Careful? Believe me I’ll be careful!” Clarence said, and slowly unwrapped the package, squatting on his heels. The scroll came into view; Clarence looked up with a smile, but it was not the sort of smile to bring cheer to those viewing it. “This must have grown here like a mushroom, maybe from the dark and the dirty socks,” he said with an attempt at humor, “because it sure God wasn’t there when I went through this suitcase the night you got here, fatso!” He frowned. “And I’ll admit no rolled-up piece of parchment is on the inventory, just dishes, glasses, books, furniture, and garbage like that.”

He came to his feet and began circling the library, prepared to move on to the next room and then on to the one after that until the mystery of the scroll was resolved; but he felt it unnecessary when he spotted the gap in the uniformity of the bookshelves. He considered it and nodded his head. The three old men stood like criminals about to be exposed, as Clarence turned to give them a big wink before returning his attention to the gap facing him.

“Well, well!” he said and moved closer to stand on tiptoe to peer into the niche. The marks in the dust were all too apparent, indicating where the parchment had rested, hidden from all eyes for so many generations, behind Briggs’s apparently unappreciated — or at least unread — book. Clarence nodded again in complete satisfaction as the puzzle was solved. “So that’s where it came from, eh? Back of some piece of junk one of you clowns was lucky enough to pull out, eh?”

“What do you mean, piece of junk?” Briggs said hotly. “I wrote that book!” He was stung to the quick. “What did you ever write?”

“Some of the best oil-stock prospectuses anyone ever read, shorty,” Clarence said, and carried the scroll to a lamp. “Let’s see what we have here, huh?”

He unrolled the parchment and studied the words with a frown. Quite obviously the thing made little sense to him. He looked up. “All right, what is this thing?” The three faced him in stubborn silence. Clarence’s tone hardened. “Look, chums, I asked a question and I expect an answer. Don’t make me ask twice; it makes me nervous. For the last time — what is this thing?”

Simpson cleared his throat nervously, preparatory to speaking. Briggs glared at his tall friend.

“Don’t tell him a bloody thing, Cliff! We found the scroll; it’s ours. Let him find his own bloody scroll. The library may be full of them for all we know.”

“Besides, Cliff” — Carruthers’ tone suggested that Simpson’s normal tendency toward logic be extended to the present circumstances — “Clarence freely admits that the scroll is not a part of his inventory, so he isn’t responsible for it. And there’s always that old dictum in law: Qui aliquid repent, tenet; qui amittit, illacrimat.”

Clarence looked at him uncertainly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Losers weepers, finders keepers. Probably not the best translation, but adequate, I believe.” Carruthers shrugged and held out his hand. “So, if you don’t mind, we’d like our scroll back and then we’ll leave you in peace.”

Clarence took a deep breath. His voice became dangerous.

“I don’t think you really realize your position. It may be true that Hal might have some compunction about harming old baggy-pants, here, but I don’t think he’d mind much if I asked him to pound shorty into the ground like a tent-stake. And I’m going to do just that in about two seconds flat, if I don’t get a straight answer from one of you. Now, what is this thing?”

Carruthers sighed, the sigh of one who has done his best but must still face defeat.

“I suppose you’d best tell him, Clifford; if, that is, we do not wish to spend the balance of the night in idle conversation before we are free to leave this place.”

“I’m against telling him a bloody thing!” Briggs said belligerently.

“You shut up!” Clarence turned to glare at Simpson. “Well?”

Simpson looked unhappy. “If you insist, sir, but — I’m afraid you won’t believe me—”

“Try me!”

“Sir — it seems so ridiculous—”

“I’ve got a great feeling for the ridiculous,” Clarence said coldly, “but not very much patience. What is this thing?”

“Yes, sir. It’s—” Clifford Simpson wet his lips. He seemed a bit perturbed to be giving such insignificant trivia to a man of Clarence’s perspicacity, but then realized there was nothing else for it. “Well, sir, the fact is it’s simply a diploma for a man who graduated from Cambridge University after successfully fulfilling the requirements to receive a degree in” — he swallowed — “pig-farming...”

“What!”

“Yes, sir. Pig-farming. Or pig-raising, if you wish. The wording of the diploma isn’t exactly clear on that point. The word for ‘farming’—”

“Oh, so we’ve got a funny man in the crowd, eh?” Clarence smiled coldly, a smile confined to his thin lips. He studied the heiroglyphics on the parchment again for a moment and then raised his eyes. “Hal—”

Harold’s head came up with a jerk; he had been dozing on his feet. “Yeah, Clare?”

“Take skinny, here, outside and see if you can fit him into the rain barrel. If you have to tear off an arm or a leg to tuck him in, don’t worry about it!”

“Wait a moment,” Carruthers said hastily. He looked at his two friends apologetically. “Sorry, Tim. Sorry, Cliff. There’s nothing for it, I’m afraid, except to tell him what he wants to hear. Otherwise—” He shrugged. “Still,” he added, “there should be plenty in it for everyone, as far as that goes...”

“Plenty of what in what for who?” Clarence asked suspiciously.

“I believe that should be ‘for whom,’” Carruthers said critically, and frowned. “Or possibly not. I was never sure about that one. But no matter. Plenty of money, sir, money! For all of us.” His tone became stern, he looked Clarence in the eye. “And I’m afraid I must be adamant about that provision. A fair distribution, that is.”

“Money?” Clarence stared at the parchment.

“Yes. You see,” Carruthers said, putting as much conviction in his voice as he could, “the fact is that that parchment is simply a map. The map is on the reverse side, with instructions for its use on the face of the document. The map itself is very faint — you can barely make it out, but it’s still visible enough, fortunately. It was foolish of this man Avery to place the map on the outside, but I expect he felt the instructions were equally as important as the map itself. Certainly one would have been useless without the other. But, you see, some of these old-time pirates—”

“Chee!” Harold said, coming awake, his eyes gleaming. “A pirate map!”

“Wait a second! Hold the phone!” Clarence looked at the parchment again, studying both sides with care, and then looked up, a sardonic smile on his lips. “What are you trying to do? Sell me a pirate map? A pirate map? To me?” He shook his head. “Man, I’m the expert on con games. A pirate map, yet, in this day and age! You should be ashamed!”

“Sir,” Simpson said, reaching out a long arm and pointing, “do you see the name Avery there? Do you deny this is the Avery farm? And surely anyone can see the lines on the back appear to be a map of some sort, at least if the words mean anything. And that tiny letter x, which obviously marks some sort of spot?”

Clarence’s smile widened.

“Well, I have to give you credit for being a trifle better than rank amateurs,” he said, a slight tone of congratulation in his voice, “but take my word for it, you’re still amateurs. So you discovered the coincidence of the names and thought you could con me with it, eh? Selling pirate maps! Gentlemen, pirate maps went out with the Spanish prisoner gag, or with gold bricks. Today it’s oil wells, or even bridges. But pirate maps?” He sneered. “A good try, gents, but no cigar.”

Carruthers sighed mightily, looking crestfallen.

“Yes. Well,” he said regretfully, “it was all I could think up on the spur of the moment, since you would not accept the truth of its being just a diploma for pig-farming. And I could scarcely stand by and see Clifford come to harm without some effort on my part. I was afraid you would not be taken in, but one doesn’t win them all. Unfortunately.” He shook his head at his poor luck in convincing Clarence, and held out his hand. “And now, sir, if we could please have our diploma back, we’ll be on our way.”

“Now, hold it!” Clarence said with irritation. “You aren’t going anywhere!”

For a moment he wondered if possibly that was the idea; to get him to allow them to stay a few extra days, but he doubted it. If they stayed they would stay without any brandy and champagne, and with the bare minimum of food, and they must have known that would be the case. No; apparently they truly wished to leave with the parchment, and until he knew for sure exactly what the thing was, they were going to stay right here if he had to nail their shoes to the floor! He could, of course, let them leave without the parchment, but they already knew what the thing said, so that was out. He glanced at Harold, about to ask if by any chance the large man could read the thing, but he knew this was ridiculous.

“Hal — first thing in the morning I want you to get over to the nearest school and bring me back a professor who can read this thing. Understand?”

“It’s Latin,” Simpson said helpfully. “That should limit your search.”

“Don’t tell him a thing!” Briggs said angrily.

“Shut up. A Latin professor,” Clarence said. “Understand? Bring him back.”

“You mean, snatch him?” Harold asked. He looked disturbed. “Gee, Clare, we ain’t got no more beds, and we’re runnin’ low on sheets. And I don’t know no five-handed card games—”

“No, stupid! Not snatch him! Or maybe I’d better go myself if I want to get somebody who knows what I’m talking about, and you guys can play four-handed potsie!” He turned to the three old men. “I’m going to find out what this is all about, believe me! I figure this thing must have some value, since the three of you characters are so anxious to get out of here with it—”

“Hey, Clare!” Harold had come up with another thought, his second in a week, and he was proud of it.

“Now, what is it?” Clarence asked, irritated.

“Hey, supposin’ it’s like pops says, a real pirate map,” Harold said, his brain now as awake as it ever got, and bumping along on the rails. “Or supposin’ even if it ain’t a pirate map, but it still says somethin’ on it that maybe means dough, which even you think maybe it does. Now, supposin’ one of us gets ahold of this professor to come here and read the thing. How do we know he’s goin’ to tell us the truth? How do we know he ain’t goin’ to come up with some story like it’s just an old shoppin’ list, or a laundry bill, or somethin’ like that? And then he goes out and collects on what it really says in the thing. What about that?”

It was a long speech, even for Harold, who enjoyed talking. Clarence had been listening to the exposition with growing concern for his own sagacity, of which he had always been so proud. Harold had raised a perfectly legitimate point, and one he should have thought of himself. Possibly it was the lateness of the hour that was fogging his mind, or at least he hoped so. He would hate to think he was losing his touch to the extent that he had to take suggestions from a meat-head like Harold.

Still, what was the answer? Surely there had to be someone in the entire British Isles who was knowledgeable enough in Latin to translate the gibberish for him, and who could still be trusted. But who? He became aware that Carruthers was mumbling something that was disturbing his concentration, and looked up, irritated.

“What?”

“Solicitors — lawyers to you, of course,” Carruthers was saying.

“What about them?”

“I merely said that I shall see my solicitors regarding this situation,” Carruthers said coldly. “My solicitors look most unfavorably upon people having their rightful possessions taken from them without due process. Solicitors — lawyers, that is, as I believe I’ve already mentioned — frown upon such things. Lawyers — solicitors, that is—”

“Ah, shut up!” Clarence said impolitely, and went back to his pondering. That old buzzard and his prattling about lawyers, lawyers, lawyers! He ought to — wait a second! Hold the phone! A lawyer — that really wasn’t a bad idea, now that he thought about it. Lawyers and judges, they had to know Latin, didn’t they? And they were sworn to uphold the law, so they had to be honest — or relatively honest, anyway. And if they made the dough here in England that lawyers raked in back home, they wouldn’t be as hungry as some professor who was probably starving to death. He ought to thank old baggy-pants for having given him the idea.

But where to find a lawyer, and one who was guaranteed to have enough scratch to be — relatively — honest. Where?

“Phew!” Simpson said suddenly. “It’s hot in here!”

“Phew, indeed,” Briggs said, agreeing. “P.U., in fact. It also smells.”

“Keep quiet—” Clarence began, and then paused. What other lawyer than the one mentioned in that newspaper article about the three old men? What was his name? Pugh! That was it, Sir Percival Pugh! The article said he demanded and received the highest fees, so that should mean he ought to have enough money not to cheat a couple of visitors to British shores like Clarence and Harold. Oh, sure, he’d give the guy a decent fee for translating the thing, but it would be worth it. Pugh! He turned and smiled at Carruthers, a chilling smile.

“Okay, fatso,” he said, his tone precluding the slightest argument, “now, here’s the way we’re going to play it. Tomorrow morning first thing you’re going to write a note to an old friend of yours — this Sir Percival Pugh. I don’t care what you say, but it better be good, because I don’t want any argument from him. I want him to come back here with Harold and translate that thing. And don’t get cute in what you write,” he added direly, “because I’m going to be reading every word over your shoulder while you write it.” He suddenly grinned, a savage grin. “You wanted a lawyer; well, you’re going to get one.”

“We don’t want Pugh!” Briggs said forcefully. “We—”

“You’ll take what you get and like it,” Clarence said, and his smile went as quickly as it had come. He looked over at Harold. “Hal, put our guests back to bed. And you sleep in a chair in front of their door in case any of them gets to walking in his sleep and picks up some more of the Avery estate. This—” he held up the scroll — “goes to bed with me.” His smile came back briefly. “Good night, then, gentlemen. Pleasant dreams...”

“Well,” Briggs said, “it was lucky that Harold raised the point about the possibility of an outside professor’s being venal, rather than our raising it, as planned.” They were back in the privacy of their bed chamber. Carruthers had changed again into his horrendous pajamas and was lying quite contentedly on his bed. From beyond the door they could hear the reassuring snores of Harold, propped in a chair across the sill.

“Yes,” Carruthers said, “it just goes to prove that even the blindest sow finds an acorn now and then.”

“Agreed,” Simpson said with a faint smile. He looked over at Briggs. “You don’t really mind old Pugh being involved, do you?”

Briggs laughed. “Lord, no! My objection in the library was purely cosmetic. To lock in Clarence’s decision. Actually,” he said, “this is one time I think old Pugh’s abilities might come in handy for us. And about time, too!” he added darkly under his breath, and rolled over to go to sleep.

“It reminds me of a plot I used in one of my earliest endeavors,” Simpson said nostalgically. “It was called Strychnine in the Solicitor, I believe, or did we finally end up calling it Arsenic in the Advocate? I know it was one or the other; they were the only two we considered. At any rate, it dealt with—”

He became aware that the snores of his two companions had joined those of Harold in an almost hypnotic chorus, and with a sigh he rolled over to seek slumber himself.