A Gross Carriage of Justice

Chapter 15

There was a time, in the memory of ancients, when a hospital worried more about the curing of patients and less about the physical conditions under which these cures were effected. One wonders how Florence Nightingale, going her nightly rounds, made do with a mere candle, rather than the multitudinous collection of rheostat-modulated, varying-wattage, multiple-voltage, floor, desk, wall, ceiling, or handheld lamps. One ponders her remarkable ability to dispense needed nostrums under conditions of sweltering heat, rather than find indispensable properly installed, direction-oriented, humidity-controlled, temperature-regulated air-conditioning units. One is dumbfounded by her ability to entertain a patient with a smile and a small squeeze of the hand, rather than requiring the presence of a battery of good-will ladies, a traveling library, AM-FM stereo radios, or one of those full-color, remote-controlled, gooseneck-mounted television receivers that make up in drugging the patient what the pharmacist has failed to provide.

Clarence Wellington Alexander, however, would have been the last to cavil at the modern improvements in hospital equipment; because of them, there also were required huge powerhouses, and it was within the protective shade of one that he and Harold now stood. The building was windowless, and of a size that would have given pause to the pyramid builders, forced the erectors of Machu Picchu to second thoughts, and even led the Easter Islanders to seriously consider miniatures. It loomed over the two men like the Great Wall of China, and gave them complete protection from the stares of possible passers-by. It was pleasant to think that London was still a city where one could peacefully excavate a treasure in the middle of the night without every householder in the neighborhood poking his nose in your business. New York, Clarence knew, would never meet these high standards.

He checked the sketch by the light of a street lamp, and then proceeded to march to the proper corner of the huge building. Here he took a deep breath and marched off the proper number of paces north and then the proper number east that the sketch called for, pleased that he was walking on grass, which should be simple to dig through. At the proper point he started to dig in his heel to mark the spot where Harold could begin to wield the pick and shovel, but to his surprise, at that particular point it seemed the grass had been replaced by a heavy steel plate of some sort. With a frown Clarence lit the lantern and stared down. Facing him in the ground was this steel plate, apparently firmly fixed and obviously marking something. He bent closer; written across its face was the word: danger.

Clarence’s frown deepened. In the light of the lantern he checked the sketch again, but there was no doubt he was at the correct spot, give or take a few inches. He looked at the steel plate again, noting small letters above and below the larger word danger. He got to his knees, holding the lantern at a favorable angle to read the message. It was all too clear. Above the danger it read: Do Not Excavate in This Area, while below it simply said: High Tension Electricals Below. As if to emphasize the importance of the warning, some electrician at some time had added in white paint the numbers, 50,000 volts.

Clarence knew exactly what fifty thousand volts could do to a person; he had seen too many James Cagney prison movies not to know. A horrible suspicion began to form in his brain. He came to his feet, brushing the knees of his trousers automatically, and then walked back to the car, turning the lantern off as he walked. Harold, puzzled by this inexplicable change in plans, followed along obediently, carrying the pick and shovel. At the car Clarence set down the lantern and turned to his large companion. His face was white, his eyes glazed. He seemed to speak with an effort.

“Shove everything in the trunk and wait for me,” he said with a deadly quiet to his voice. This was a Clarence that Harold had never known, a Clarence that Harold suspected could be dangerous. “I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.”

He turned and walked off without waiting for an answer. A strange buzzing sound began to form in his head, a buzzing he had not heard for years, and he knew it heralded a complete and violent loss of temper. But he also knew he had to control it, at least for the moment. He mounted the steps of the hospital as in a dream, and found himself facing an information desk with an uniformed nurse behind it. His questions and her answers seemed to him to come from two different people standing off to one side, hidden in the gloom of the vaulted entrance, speaking through echo-chambers. He saw her shake her head and had to concentrate on what she was saying, for it seemed to him that her head was still and that it was the building that had moved. It was very disconcerting. He concentrated harder.

No, the hospital had no library for records or for anything else. The university across the way had a library, of course, except it obviously would not be open at this hour. Latin? A bit, she said in a puzzled tone; why? To interpret something? If she could. Oh, this — yes, as the gentleman suspected, it was a diploma, a Cambridge diploma for something in the animal-husbandry field, or the agricultural field, she thought; she wasn’t quite certain of all the words, but in general there seemed to be little doubt that—

But she was speaking to empty space. Clarence had left and was walking a bit unsteadily down the steps of the hospital. The man, the nurse thought professionally, looked as if he could use some of the care the hospital dispensed, but soliciting custom was against the hospital rules...

Sir Percival, Carruthers, Simpson, and Briggs had, indeed, taken Clarence’s advice, and were sitting in one corner of a smoke-filled pub, enjoying — yes, actually enjoying — mugs of ale, now that Sir Percival had offered to pay for brandy and champagne. Sir Percival, while a lover of money, was none the less a most generous host; still, they did not feel it right to take advantage of him. Besides, in their unspoken thoughts, was the idea that they had better get used to ale or beer again; in fact, they knew they would be lucky to have this simple fare to fall back upon in the future.

“Ale,” Carruthers said, and considered his mug. “It’s all a matter of mental conditioning, I suppose. Liking it, I mean,” he added, and downed the contents of his mug with gusto. He tapped on the table to indicate to the serving wench his need for a refill, waited for it, and dipped his nose into it with fervor.

“I agree,” Simpson said, puffing on a tarlike bit of rope that passed for a cigar, and trying his best to savor it. “It’s all in looking at it in the proper manner. I recall a situation one of my characters got himself into — Limehouse Louie, I believe it was. Anyway, it seems he drew this ten-year sentence, and he knew that since he suffered from claustrophobia, if he didn’t condition himself to liking it, he was going to suffer. And when the ten years were up—”

“He asked to stay!” Briggs said sarcastically.

Simpson beamed at him. “You read the book!”

“What I am curious about,” Carruthers said idly, “is how far Harold and Clarence will dig before they come to the proper conclusion that they have been had.”

“Not very far,” Pugh predicted, and smiled. “Or at least I hope so for Harold’s sake, since I imagine he’ll be doing any work that is done. You see, I am a trustee of the hospital, and I was present at the inauguration of that powerhouse. Many cables and things...”

He did not explain nor did they ask him to. They were all relaxed, feeling the effects of several ales with little food in their stomachs. Briggs burped gently and frowned.

“What I am curious about,” he said, “is what Clarence’s reaction is going to be when he discovers it was all a put-on.” He looked at Pugh. “When you go back to the farm, he’s apt to be — well, irritated, to say the least.”

Pugh looked at him with faint amusement.

“And why on earth would you think I might go back to that squalid place?”

Briggs stared, confused.

“Well,” he said, “what about your twenty thousand quid? Our stock certificates are worthless, but I saw that money of yours with my own eyes. That was real lolly. That wasn’t counterfeit!”

“Heavens, no!” Pugh said, and raised his eyes ceiling-ward. “From Barclay’s? And at any rate, how could I possibly have foisted counterfeit on Clarence with him standing at my elbow when I collected it? Counting it over my shoulder as the teller shoved the stuff at me?”

“Well, then—?” Simpson asked, a puzzled expression on his horselike face.

Pugh looked from one frowning face to another and then sighed.

“If you will finish your drinks and come to my home-where I sincerely hope you will accept brandy and champagne, since we have neither beer nor ale — I shall be pleased to explain.” He raised his hand for the bill, paid it after close examination, and came to his feet. “Gentlemen—?”

Pugh paused in the foyer to glance through the evening Journal, and then followed his guests into the living room, carrying his briefcase, which he had brought from his car. He rang for the butler, gave the appropriate orders, and waited until they were carried out. Then, comfortably seated with the others, he raised his glass in a toast.

“Cheers.”

“Cheers.” It was a chorused echo.

They all sipped, after which Sir Percival patted his lips, put away his handkerchief, and looked from one to the other of the three men facing him. He shook his head as if with disappointment.

“To be frank,” he said, “my feelings are hurt to have persons who I should have imagined would have respect for me, think for one moment that I would give a twister such as Clarence the correct hour, let alone twenty thousand of the best, even temporarily.” He reached over, bringing his bag to him and opening it, bringing out a package wrapped in brown paper. He opened it and inspected the contents before looking up. “Now, these stock certificates, I believe, are yours.” He handed them over to a stunned Carruthers. “This twenty thousand pounds in new notes, of course, is mine.” He placed the bundle to one side. “And the remaining forty thousand dollars that Clarence was kind enough to donate to the common cause, I suggest we divide equally, since we contributed equally to its acquisition.”

The three were staring at the money speechlessly. Pugh sighed.

“My dear chaps — you had the audacity to murder ten people, nine of them with impunity. On the S.S. Sunderland you managed to cheat at shipboard horse racing, the first time it has ever been attempted, let alone successfully, to my knowledge. You invented the game of Burmese Solitaire and used it not only to take several thousand pounds from some card cheats, but also to get me to defend you without a fee — an even rarer situation, believe me! In your day you wrote some of the most imaginative mystery novels around. Now, Carruthers conceives of this pirate-treasure ploy. Yet you do not recognize a simple switch of brown paper packages when you see it.” Pugh frowned. “Carruthers, as I said, you conceived of that pirate-treasure business. Tell me, why did you do it if not for some gain?”

Carruthers looked abashed.

“I had hoped,” he said rather shamefacedly, “that when Clarence and Harold went off to dig for pirate treasure someplace, we might — well, break into the cupboard and make off with a few bottles of...” He allowed the words to trail into silence, and then added apologetically, “We’re getting old, you know...”

“I see. Well, in that case, possibly we should divide that forty thousand dollars in a different manner,” Pugh said thoughtfully, but there was a twinkle in his eye. “One portion sufficient for your needs as far as brandy and champagne are concerned — let us say an amount equivalent to what the cupboard may have held — I leave it to your honesty to make the estimate — and the balance to me.”

“Hey! Here! None of that!” Briggs said, outraged, and turned to the others. “Look at him, would you! What did I tell you about him? Twenty thousand dollars he gets for a few hours’ work, work on a scheme Billy-Boy thought up, and he’s still not satisfied! He!”

“Tim!” Carruthers said sternly. “Be quiet!”

“I will not be quiet! I—”

He paused, as he seemed to have lost his audience. They had all turned at a discreet cough from the butler, heard above Briggs’s diatribe through long practice on the butler’s part. Pugh nodded.

“Yes, Symes?”

“That — that — that gentleman who was here just this morning, Sir Percival,” Symes began, but before he could go further, Harold pushed into the room. He was alone and seemed in some sort of a daze.

“Yes?” Pugh asked politely.

Harold looked around the room slowly. His eyes seemed to focus only when they came to Carruthers.

“Pops—”

“Yes, Harold?” Carruthers said in a kindly tone.

“Pops, I didn’t know where else to look for you. I—” He stopped.

“What’s the trouble, Harold?” Carruthers’ tone was soothing.

Harold swallowed and took a deep breath, as if to furnish power for a speech he hated to make but knew he had to.

“Pops — when we got back to the farmhouse, Clare, he run right into the house, so I come in after him and he’s at the safe. And when he got it open and saw the package only had newspaper inside, he said—” Harold paused.

“What did Clarence say, Harold?”

“He was like a maniac, pops. A real maniac. I seen a guy like that went off his nut in Joliet, once, tried to bite right through the cell bars. Bust all his teeth before they drag him loose...”

“What did Clarence say, Harold?”

“He — he said he was goin’ to kill all you guys. He meant it. I know, I seen guys like that before. They don’t care what happens to them, they’re so mad. And he said if I didn’t go along and help, he’d start the killing with me. He meant it, pops. He had a gun in the safe along with the rest of the dough, had it in a little box I never knew what was in it before —”

For the first time Pugh interrupted.

“How much money was there, Harold?”

“Nine grand, six hundred. I counted it afterward—”

Carruthers cast a reproachful look at Pugh and then went back to Harold.

“After what, Harold?”

“After I hit him with the shovel,” Harold said simply, and suddenly sat down in a chair, staring at his hands.

The police, called at Pugh’s insistence as an officer of the court, had taken away a still dazed, unresisting Harold. The others in the room, feeling somewhat in shock, stared at each other silently. At last Simpson spoke, a look of sadness on his long, thin face; he spoke for them all.

“Poor Harold...”

“But, certainly,” Carruthers said, looking at Pugh, “it’s a simple case of self-defense?”

Pugh shook his head.

“It would be a most difficult defense, and one I should never think any advocate worth his salt would even faintly consider. Look at the evidence: an open safe, nine thousand six hundred dollars in American money to be quarreled over; a record — which I am sure their housekeeper will testify to when she is located — that Clarence’s treatment of Harold was always of contempt; Harold’s record of violence in the United States, while Clarence’s record is one of nonviolence. Add to that the fact that the police would have only Harold’s unsupported word that Clarence had gone mad with anger and was capable of, and planning, our murders. Then, when you add to all that the size of Harold, as opposed to the size of Clarence, and I’m afraid that self-defense would be a most difficult case to support.”

It was all too true, and they all knew it.

“It looks hopeless,” Briggs said glumly.

Pugh looked at him in total surprise.

“Do you think so? I shouldn’t think so at all. Quite the contrary, as a matter of fact.”

They all looked at him. “But you said—” Simpson began.

“I said self-defense was a poor defense. That’s all I said.” Pugh glanced at the wall clock. “And now I’m afraid it’s getting a bit late, and I shall have to be up in the morning to have a word with Harold in prison and get him to recall a bit more accurately the events of the evening.”

“Can we possibly contribute a bit of money toward Harold’s defense?” Carruthers asked anxiously. “Out of our share of that forty thousand dollars?”

“Wait a second!” Briggs began hotly.

“It will not be necessary,” Pugh said before Briggs could continue. “I shall be content to take this case just for the nine thousand six hundred dollars that Harold possesses.” He walked them to the door and paused in the foyer. “If you wish, though,” he added, “you might consider paying Harold’s air fare back to the United States. He will be quite destitute after paying my fee.”

Briggs opened his mouth to scream, but again Pugh spoke before the little man could get a sound out.

“You really can well afford it,” Sir Percival said gently. “I see in tonight’s papers that the Namibian Chartered Mines did not go dry, after all; it seems it was merely a false rumor begun by one of the company directors in a vain attempt to corner all the shares at a vastly reduced price. He is being held by the authorities at the moment, and the stock, since his arrest, has gone up almost double in price to what it was a week ago...”