A Gross Carriage of Justice

Chapter 4

Flight No. 129 from Gibraltar’s North Front airport to Heathrow in London made the passage quite routinely, with no skyjacking, no illegal sale to passengers of duty-free brandy and champagne purchased in Gibraltar, no filching of soap, or towels, or electric razors from the aircraft’s washrooms — or, for that matter, any last-minute flight insurance forms being hawked in the aisles. The reason for the absence of these transgressions, at least to the mind of Billy-Boy Carruthers, was that he had placed Briggs in the window seat on the right-hand side of the 707 jet, had located Simpson in the middle despite the crowded condition suffered by his legs and knees, and had plugged the outlet by seating his almost eighteen stone on the aisle.

But he really need not have worried. Briggs, on his first flight ever, was completely enthralled by the view and kept his bright little eyes glued to the window, while Simpson, also on his first flight, with his greater height was easily able to crane over Briggs and also enjoy the view. And, in time — as these things happen — they had come in over the mouth of the Thames and were flying lower and lower over the heart of the great city, with the broad river snaking its way beneath them, directing them generally to the west and the airport somewhere in that direction. Suddenly Briggs pointed.

“Hoy! Right there! The club!”

He could not, of course, actually see the small building where the Mystery Authors Club was located, since it was hidden behind a huge insurance company building which had been erected after the founding of the club and which now interjected itself between their tiny edifice and Swan’s Park. But the park itself was easily distinguishable, as well as the large electric sign atop the insurance company, offering wondrous benefits to any policyholder sufficiently avaricious as to die; double if he did so painfully in an accident.

Carruthers, denied the view but preferring his role as the stopper in the bottle, smiled as he saw the club in his mind’s eye. The three of them had founded the mystery writers’ organization more years before than he cared to remember, and he could picture the northeast corner of the club’s lounge where the three worn but comfortable arm chairs were located, flanked by small tables capable of holding — now that they could afford it — their brandy and champagne glasses, and their beer mugs in those past days when they could not. It was a protective alcove safe from the inane chatter of the younger members, and the intrusive presence of Potter, the secretary. In a short while Carruthers supposed the three of them would be there, leaving their luggage temporarily in the custody of the hall porter, and settling down for the remainder of the day before going their respective ways in the evening, each taking his bags with him, to face another lonely night, each in his own small rooms.

His smile faded. Seen in that light, the prospect was not exactly enchanting. In a way Tim Briggs was right. It was rather sad, after all the adventures they had enjoyed over the past months, to return to the dullness and purposelessness that had characterized their previous existence. While he could not condone Briggs’s attempted ploy with the insurance forms, he could understand it. Still, what could be done? They were not getting any younger, and that was an even sadder fact. And there were undoubtedly younger and more ambitious miscreants around London in greater need of illegal funds, for at least the three of them were fortunate enough not to be suffering the penury that had been their unfortunate lot before the Murder League and the unexpected Jarvis award had freed them from poverty’s clutches.

With this slender fact to give him what little cheer he could garner from it, Carruthers picked up the journal that had been handed him when his luncheon tray had been removed, and prepared to while away the final moments of the flight in the educational pursuit of reading and catching up on the news. He noted the headlines, bit back a yawn, and turned the page.

And received the greatest shock of his life.

Their stocks had crashed! Their investments were worthless!

Carruthers gripped the newspaper tightly while he read the story. The Namibian Chartered Mines, Ltd., according to the article, while basically as honest as most gold-mining companies, had had the misfortune of running out of the product which they had been formed to exploit. That vein of the precious yellow stuff which the entrepreneurs had hired others to excavate had inexplicably disappeared, and had there been value in barren rock they might have survived, but since this was not the case, the company had only sympathetic noises to make to their unfortunate shareholders. A penny on a pound, it was estimated by the director being quoted, might eventually be realized in liquidation, but it could not be promised.

Carruthers read the article a second and then a third time, wetting his lips, his hand unconsciously stroking the bulge that represented the money belt and the now worthless stock certificates. But no amount of repetition could alter the tragic facts. He glanced quickly over at his two friends. They were still intent upon the rapidly foreshortening view, this one gleefully pointing out that, that one merrily pointing out this, and generally acting as Columbus had probably acted upon sighting the New World. Should he reveal the disastrous news to them now, and ruin the small pleasures they were relishing at the moment? No, he thought sadly; they’ll know in time enough!

He sighed mightily. Back to poverty! No more brandy and champagne; back to beer, and probably some slop brewed within the past few hours, tasting as it did just after the war! No more fine lunches; back to cucumber sandwiches with the cucumbers sliced wafer thin by sniffling girls in shops with soiled napery, watercress salads produced by herb-pinching misers; and back to the malevolent and accusatory looks from tipless waiters and waitresses! No more vacation trips — although he was forced to admit that Briggs, for one, would probably cut his legs off at the knees before he took another cruise. But that wasn’t the point. The point was — no more almost anything!

He tried to look at it philosophically. The stock certificates were certainly colorful, and there was that stain on the wall of his room he had been meaning to cover with a picture for some years now. A few of the shares, properly framed, would do the job nicely, and he would be surprised if Briggs and Simpson, using their imaginations, could not also find an equally useful outlet for their certificates. Besides, of what benefit was crying over spilt milk? After all, they were no worse off than they had been a few months back. Still, that had been no bed of roses, so there was little consolation in that thought. Possibly he should not have objected when Briggs wanted to sell that airplane insurance; it simply proved that one never knew in this world. And as for that idiot American author, what did they owe him? It might, in fact, even teach the moron to be a little more sure of his facts before he put his inanities to paper.

He sighed again moodily and tightened his seat belt as the sign went on above his head. Poor Tim and poor Cliff, he thought, and lurched forward gently as the plane touched down.

If Assistant Commissioner of Police Horace Winterblast was not particularly famous for his contribution to the law and order of the area supposedly under his jurisdiction, he was, none the less, quite well known through the British Isles. Scarcely a week went by without the florid face of A.C. Horace Winterblast being seen on one or more television programs. On news programs he was usually explaining why perpetrators had not been apprehended; on talk shows those deep, well-recognized nasal tones easily balanced any humor that might have been attempted by an invited comic. On public service programs Winterblast could be guaranteed to come up with some homily about the hard-working police — although many suspected he would need a map to find his own office, so seldom was he there — while on game shows he usually sat as one of the panel of judges, eyeing each contestant malevolently, as if he were a criminal, or — far worse — a candidate for the A.C.’s job.

So pervasively intrusive was Assistant Commissioner Winterblast in the everyday life of most Englishmen, that it never occurred to customs officer James J. Griggsby to be surprised to hear the familiar voice on the telephone, or to be curious as to why Winterblast was calling him, or even to wonder at the omniscience of the A.C.’s intelligence service.

“Winterblast here! You will act immediately!” the familiar voice was saying with its normal callous authority. “Immediately, do you hear? Most blatant case of smuggling I ever heard of! Diamonds, drugs, animal skins!”

It was with an effort that Clarence restrained himself. He had a tendency to get carried away with his impersonations. He got back on the track and carried on.

“Two scoundrels, a short miscreant named Timothy Briggs and a tall thin one called Clifford Simpson! Traveling with a man named Carruthers, but he’s quite all right, yes, quite all right. Wouldn’t touch him, you know, under any circumstances, related to Lord Hummmmohhh, I once heard. But the others, this Briggs and this Simpson, shouldn’t be surprised if they weren’t aliases. Yes. Hummmmph! Arriving on Flight 129 from Gib, that’s Gib, you hear? Should be coming in any minute now, I should imagine.” The voice suddenly paused and then came back on, highly accusative. “Are you listening to me, sir?”

“Yes, sir. Oh, yes, sir, I am!”

“I was beginning to wonder. All right, get on with it then, son. But you understand, no fuss! No fuss, you understand!” The voice became querulous. “You do understand, don’t you?”

Customs officer Griggsby did not understand.

“I beg your pardon, sir? No fuss?”

“Exactly!” The booming nasal voice sounded pleased at the other’s instant grasp of the situation. “Glad you see it my way, son. No sense inviting a lot of publicity about these things, eh? What? Give people ideas, eh? What? No, just take those two someplace, into a private office or something, and give them the business, eh? Take them apart, what? Top to bottom, turn them upside down and shake them, pockets inside out and things like that, eh? What? But it’s not for me to tell a man how to do his job. Not even my department, customs, eh? But we’re all Englishmen and loyal to the Queen, what? Just see that it’s done, eh? What?”

“Yes, sir! Right away, sir!”

“Good-o! Hummmph! By the way, what’s your name, son?”

“James... er... Griggsby, sir.”

“James R. Grizzly. I shall not forget this. Grizzly! Now, do your duty!”

“Oh yes, sir, I shall, I shall,” Griggsby began to say, but he was protesting his intended efficiency to a dial tone. He hung up and turned to the small computerized television screen on his desk; at the moment he would not have been surprised to see the familiar florid features of Assistant Commissioner Horace Winterblast glaring at him from the flickering screen for wasting time. But what he actually saw was the schedule of arriving and departing planes, and he was pleased to see that Flight 129 from Gibraltar had just landed and was even now trundling its way to the unloading area.

Plenty of time, he thought, and smiled to himself as he reached for the telephone again. All it took was one break, he thought. With luck A.C. Winterblast might even get him a spot on one of the more lucrative game shows. If he did the job right, of course, and James J. Griggsby had no intention of not doing the job to perfection.

The three elderly friends filed from the plane with the other passengers. They climbed aboard the waiting bus, each with his own thoughts, and climbed down at the Immigration building, the newspaper with the tragic news tucked under Carruthers’ arm. They formed up in the obligatory queues at the obligatory windows, had the obligatory stamps pressed onto their passports by the obligatorily sour-faced personnel after the obligatory delays, and made their way into the luggage-claim area, paying small attention to the loud-speaker that was blaring above their heads. Suddenly Simpson paused. Either because his mind was less occupied, or because his extreme height brought him closer to the noisy diaphragms suspended from the ceiling, he seemed to recognize at least a portion of the words, which was rather remarkable, considering airport acoustics.

“I say,” he said wonderingly. He had been in the process of lighting the remains of his Corona-Corona which he had obediently stubbed out at the exhortation of the sign above their seats upon landing. He shook out the match and tucked the cigar into his breast pocket. “I do believe they are referring to us—?”

“Us?” Briggs said truculently, and tilted his head back to stare distrustfully at the cloth-covered boxes spouting sounds from above. “That’s right,” he said, frowning darkly. “They’re paging you and me, Cliff. Why just the two of us? Why not Billy-Boy, too?”

“It’s probably nothing to worry about,” Carruthers said, but in a worried tone. Could it be, he wondered, that some ill-wisher — Potter, the club secretary, possibly — could not wait for the newspaper story to reach them regarding the failure of Namibian Chartered Mines, Ltd., but wished to get in first with the dire news? But that was impossible. Other than the three of them, nobody knew what they had invested in. And Potter would certainly have aimed his poisoned dart at all three of them, not just two. “It’s probably just the Journals again,” he suggested, “or the S.S. Sunderland offices wishing an endorsement. You go along.” It seemed as good a time as any to share the bad news; they could not be kept in the dark forever. “And take this along,” he said sadly, handing the newspaper to Simpson. “Page two.”

“Right-o,” Simpson said agreeably, and tucked the paper into his pocket. He reached out a long arm to tap the shoulder of an uniformed figure hurrying through the area. Customs officer Griggsby turned around, saw the short man beside the tall, thin man, made a rapid calculation in his brain, linking the two to the noises from the loudspeaker he himself had initiated, and beamed.

“You are Clifford Simpson?”

“That’s right,” Simpson said, somewhat baffled by the instant recognition, but somewhat pleased by it as well.

“And this, I gather, is Timothy Briggs?”

“That’s bloody well too-damn right!” Briggs said belligerently. “Now; what’s this all about?”

“A private word with you two gentlemen, if you please,” Griggsby said with a tone of politeness he was sure A.C. Winterblast would have admired. It was the tone he would use, he decided, it he ever got on “Noughts-and-Squares”; then the panel worked with you and not against you. “In my office?”

“And what about our luggage?” Briggs demanded.

“You’ll find it waiting for you there,” Griggsby said significantly.

He waited with anticipation for the shocked and/or frightened look of criminals-unmasked to cross the two faces, but all he got was a look of complete bewilderment from the tall, horse-faced one, and an angry glare of impatience from the short, peppery one. In all his years of experience, James J. Griggsby had come across some hard cases, but these two were undoubtedly the most calloused smugglers he had ever encountered. Not the slightest sign of guilt crossed their visages. For the briefest of moments James J. Griggsby wondered if possibly the assistant commissioner could have made a mistake, but this, he knew, was impossible. No, these two were simply rascals more clever than most. They probably figured their advanced age would permit them to pass Her Majesty’s Customs without suspicion. Well, little did they reck! He cleared his throat authoritatively.

“All right,” he said firmly, and remembered Winterblast’s admonition. “And no fuss, either! Come along, now.”

“Wait a moment,” Carruthers said, suddenly getting into the act. This certainly had nothing to do either with interviews from journals, nor with their losing their money. He looked at Briggs sternly. “Tim, tell the truth. What mischief did you get into in Gibraltar before we left that I know nothing about?”

“Who, me?” Briggs said in a semi-shriek, highly incensed. “Nothing, I swear!”

“Cliff?”

“Yes, Billy-Boy?” Simpson smiled at his friend in comradely fashion, and then suddenly understood the question. “Oh! You mean, what mischief did I get into?” He pondered a moment and then nodded. “None, I’m quite positive. Clean as a church mouse.”

“That’s poor,” Carruthers said, and almost added, like us. He put the bitter thought aside and turned to the customs officer. “Then I’m afraid, sir, that I must ask you for an explanation.”

“And I’m afraid I must refuse to give you one,” Griggsby said flatly. “You’re Mr. Carruthers, aren’t you? Well, sir, you are not involved, and if you want my suggestion, you will not get yourself involved!”

Carruthers was about to challenge that statement when, to his utter astonishment, little Tim Briggs began to giggle. The others also considered him with surprise.

“It’s all right, Billy-Boy,” Briggs said, and winked. “I get it, now. You go ahead. We’ll see you later at the club.” As Carruthers continued to stare, Briggs leaned toward him, covering his mouth, whispering. “It’s that Candid Camera thing, don’t you see? What else could it be? And they give out prizes, you know...” He straightened up with another wink.

As Briggs marched off confidently beside Simpson, with customs officer Griggsby hurrying to catch up, Billy-Boy watched his taller friend take the newspaper from his pocket and start to turn the page to the financial news on page two. Carruthers turned away before any anguished cries could reach his ears. If only it were Candid Camera, he thought disconsolately, with the prize a lifetime supply of good food as well as brandy and champagne. For three, of course...

But he knew it wasn’t.

Sir Percival Pugh, also approaching the luggage-claim area, but unseen or at least unnoted by the three, frowned slightly to see Timothy Briggs and Clifford Simpson being cut away from the herd by a man who was obviously a customs official. Sir Percival’s massive brain instantly went into action. It was extremely doubtful that the two had managed to get into trouble on the airplane, even though Sir Percival would have been the last to deny their ability to get into trouble in a reasonably short period of time. Someone had therefore either made a mistake, or the customs official had been diddled for the purpose of separating Carruthers from his two friends. While mistakes by customs officials were certainly not uncommon, they were not overwhelming, and Sir Percival was a great believer in the percentages. In this case, therefore, he felt fairly confident that the customs official had been used as a pawn to allow Billy-Boy Carruthers to emerge from the building unaccompanied by his two friends.

His mammoth intelligence having gone this far, Sir Percival went on to consider the long face he had noted on Carruthers as opposed to the rather cheerful expression on the faces of the other two at the moment of parting. Since Carruthers had been the blithest of spirits just that morning, and had even been seen smiling brightly at the moment of embarkation onto Flight 129, Pugh could only assume he had received bad news since then. But what bad news could possibly have been transmitted to just one of the triumvirate without the other two having been informed as well? Undoubtedly something Carruthers had read on the airplane and had not cared to disturb the other two with, while they were enjoying the flight. And the only bad news in the paper handed out on the plane had been the failure of the Namibian Chartered Mines, Ltd.

It was now all clear. The three had put their money from the Jarvis award into the shares of Namibian, and were now broke, but Simpson and Briggs were as yet unaware of the fact.

Sir Percival Pugh, in addition to being a giant intellect, was also the finest criminal lawyer in all England. He was also the most successful; he had never lost a case. When “Killer” Kiley, the well-known bank robber and psychopathic murderer, was accused by reliable eyewitnesses of slaying six hostages in the course of stealing eleven thousand four hundred and eight pounds from the Millrace Bank in Upper Lowerly, Sir Percival was able to prove to the satisfaction of both jury and judge that the witnesses were suffering from mirage, caused by the light reflection from all the new notes, and that what appeared to be murder was actually the greatest mass suicide since Masada. Not only was Kiley acquitted, but Pugh was even able to have Kiley reimbursed for the ammunition expended, by the bereaved relatives of the deceased. His fee, by an odd coincidence, was exactly eleven thousand four hundred and eight pounds.

For Sir Percival loved money. But since at the moment he could see no probable gain from three old men without funds, no matter how enjoyable the mental exercise of considering their predicament might be, he put the matter out of mind and went on to practice his basic philosophy of patience and faith by moving to the luggage-arrival conveyor and waiting.