A Gross Carriage of Justice

Chapter 7

The matter of A.C. Winterblast and James J. Griggsby out of the way — for Clarence had been an interested observer of Briggs and Simpson being marched into custody — and having waited until he saw William Carruthers safely sandwiched into the car with Harold Nishbagel, Clarence W. Alexander now moved to the subsequent part of his program. Thorough in this as in every detail of one of his schemes, he picked a deserted telephone booth and called the Daily Express. Here he used the voice of a Disgruntled Subscriber, copying the accents he had heard on a television program dealing with the difficulties of life in the Midlands.

“’ere!” he said into the mouthpiece, once he had been connected to the Question-and-Answer editor. “What in the ’er bloody ’ell is them three old men what won ’er bloody Jarvis award goin’ to do with all ’er bloody money, eh?”

The calming voice at the other end refrained with an effort from asking in return what in ’er bloody ’ell business was it of ’is — the Q.-and-A. editor having originally come from Ormskirk himself — but instead remembered all the many lessons in proper language, as well as the demands of his position, and stated that the three elderly gentlemen referred to had only won a matter of twenty thousand pounds, which was not exactly the riches of Croesus in these inflationary days, especially when divided three ways, and that as far as the newspaper could discern, other than a small amount of this largesse that had gone for a few sundries, a trifle more for a cruise on the S.S. Sunderland and a very brief stay in Gibraltar, the balance had been wisely invested.

“Hummmph!” said the Disgruntled Subscriber — Clarence was getting quite expert on Hummmph! — and hung up. (Hummmph yourself, you bloody sod, said the Q.-and-A. editor, and slammed down the receiver.)

So the three old men had won twenty thousand pounds, and if he were to demand half, Clarence pondered, it would only amount to ten thousand pounds. Not a very great sum considering, as the calming voice of the Q.-and-A. man had said, the current inflation, and also considering that Clarence had at that moment — without Harold’s knowledge, he hoped — almost three times that amount in dollars in a small safe he had installed at the farm, for Clarence never liked to be very far from his funds. He had often thought of what he might have gained had he had the foresight to sell the Bay Bridge instead, which was twice as long as the Golden Gate and therefore should have been worth twice as much, but he put the thought away as being both greedy and also, unfortunately, after the fact. Besides, he had been a stranger to San Francisco at the time, so he should be forgiven. Still, ten thousand pounds — roughly twenty thousand clams in real money — was, as Ring Lardner was wont to say, better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick. And considering the small expenses involved, it could be considered practically pure profit.

He therefore stopped his speculation and put Step Three of his plan into operation by appearing at the nearest stationery store with proper gloves for the fall day, but inexplicably purchasing the cheapest paper and envelopes, both of which, the clerk was not averse to snidely pointing out, could be had equally at any ten-and-twenty-pence shop, particularly considering the modest quantity he bought. Not at all perturbed by the clerk’s observations, and with a stamp obtained from an accommodating machine, Clarence next betook himself to a public convenience, where he locked himself into one of the narrow stalls, and using his briefcase for a writing desk, proceeded to draft the ransom note. He used printed characters, working laboriously but carefully with his left hand, and when he was finished he had to compliment himself on a job well done. He could not imagine anyone, facing the exigencies of that note, refusing to obey it. He folded the note neatly, tucked it into its envelope, and addressed it. He then sealed it and applied the stamp. With the ransom note tucked into an inner pocket, he then proceeded to tear up the rest of the writing paper and envelopes and flush them down the box. They disappeared with appropriate happy gurgling sounds, as if auguring well for the venture.

He emerged from the Gents feeling quite pleased with himself, and deposited the ransom note in the nearest pillar box, assuming an air as he did so of a person — gloved — dropping a note — undoubtedly perfumed — to his loved one; he felt after all his planning and the success of the operation to that point, that he could permit himself this slight conceit. It was, in a way, a love note; but to himself, his greatest admirer.

This aspect of the job done, he took himself by foot to the proper railway station and had a gin-and-lime while waiting for the train that serviced, among other blighted areas, the village of Crumley-under-Chum. He was prepared to spend the evening reading, for Clarence never had ceased to try and improve himself, realizing the value of erudition — or at least pseudo-erudition, in the snagging of suckers. The old man, their paying guest, he was sure, after the adventure of his day would undoubtedly fall asleep as soon as he got some warm food in him; and it made little difference if Harold stayed awake or not after doing the dishes. It also made no difference if Harold spoke or not — as he had a tendency to do to excess — recounting tales of glory involving Chicago. Clarence had long since ceased to pay attention to the prattlings of his large confederate.

His train arrived at Crumley-under-Chum on time, and his taxi dropped him at the head of the lane leading to the farmhouse just as the sun dipped below the horizon, reflecting its great golden rays from the soft low-lying fleecy clouds, throwing lovely gossamer rose-tinted shadows. Unfortunately, the delicate shadows were wasted on the dank sedge, dismal rocks, rusty lawn-mower, and fetid ditch that comprised a good part of the visible landscape. But even this prospect could not reduce in the slightest Clarence’s pleasure in his day. He unlocked the door and pushed into the house, locking the door behind him again. Through the intervening doorway he could see the two men seated at the kitchen table playing cards. So Harold was, in fact, entertaining their guest as per instructions, and while it was true their guest was not tied either hand nor foot nor even bound to the table leg with a sheet, at the same time there was no sign that he was making a fuss. With a smile at the ease with which things work out if properly planned, Clarence put aside his briefcase and walked into the kitchen.

Harold looked up with a slightly dazed expression on his face, as if he had not been expecting visitors and did not relish their appearance at the moment. Clarence smiled genially at both men, and then turned his attention to the fatter one.

“So you’re the famous William Carruthers.”

“I wouldn’t exactly say famous,” Billy-Boy said modestly. “Noted, possibly. Distinguished, if you must. Celebrated, if you insist. And you must be Clarence.”

“Exactly.” Clarence noted the bottles and the glasses, as well as the cold cup of tea at Harold’s elbow. He nodded his approval. “I’m pleased to see that Hal has been taking good care of you,” he said, and glanced at his confederate. “What about something to eat for our guest, Hal? And for us, as well?”

“In a second,” Harold said briefly. “Soon’s the game’s over.”

“Fine!” Clarence said expansively. Nothing could possibly spoil this lovely evening for him. He came to stand behind Harold, looking at his cards. “How are you doing?”

“Terrible!” Harold said tightly. “Awful! Pops, here, is luckier than a guy with two bicycles! I teach him the game maybe a couple hours ago, at the most, and already he schneids me six-across-Hollywood twice in a row!” He forced a smile. “Not that I’m complainin’; I ain’t no sore loser. He plays good.”

Clarence smiled indulgently and leaned over to consider the score pad before Carruthers.

“I can see,” he said, amused by Harold’s discomfort. “Eighty-four hundred points. Quite a few.” His smile broadened. “What are you playing for? Matches?”

“Matches, nothin’! Ten somethin’s,” Harold said, and concentrated mightily on his hand for several moments before finally selecting a card and placing it on the discard pile.

“Shillings. Ten shillings a point,” Carruthers said, explaining, and picked up Harold’s discard. “Gin,” he said brightly, and reached for the pencil.

Clarence gulped. “Ten shillings a point?” He reached. “Let me see that score pad!”

“Certainly,” Carruthers said agreeably, “as soon as I score it,” He counted the points in Harold’s hand, totted up the additional points, and handed the paper across to Clarence. “That makes it ninety-four hundred and sixty points, I believe.”

“At ten shillings a point!” Clarence still could not believe it. “That’s almost five thousand pounds!”

“Is it?” Carruthers took back the paper and went into some complicated calculations along the border, licking the pencil point for accuracy. He looked up, beaming at Clarence in a congratulatory manner. “You’re quite right, you know. I make it four thousand seven hundred and thirty quid, to be exact.”

Clarence turned to Harold, his eyes narrowing, his jaw clenched. “And just how are you going to pay all this, dummy?”

“Pay it? How much is it?” Harold asked, wondering why Clarence was suddenly so unfriendly.

“Roughly ten grand! Ten thousand bucks, you idiot!”

“Ten thous—” Harold swallowed, looking dazed.

“That’s what I said! Open your ears! Ten thousand dollars, lunkhead! And how do you expect to pay it?”

Harold was looking at Carruthers with wounded eyes.

“You should have explained how much we was playin’ for, pops. I wasn’t tryin’ to take you. That wasn’t very nice of you.”

Billy-Boy Carruthers was quite willing to get into a discussion on the relative niceness of kidnaping as opposed to winning at cards, but before he could reply, his attention was drawn to Clarence, who had suddenly smitten himself on the brow. It had occurred to Clarence W. Alexander that he was almost as big an idiot as Harold, to be making such a fuss over nothing. The fat man was, after all, their prisoner, and while as a general rule Clarence normally honored gambling debts — although to be truthful he seldom faced them since he usually played with his own dice — in this case honoring a gambling debt was not even a part of the question, let alone the answer. If Harold, with his odd sense of fairness, got stuffy about it, he could simply add Harold’s loss to their ransom demands and write them off. Or he could get the old man in a game of Parcheesi and win the money back. Not to mention the distinct possibility that, Harold or no Harold, they might well have to scrag the old man to keep him quiet after the ransom was paid, and it was a statistical fact that scragged old men never collected debts, gambling or otherwise.

All of this having flashed through Clarence’s active and conniving brain in a matter of moments, he took a deep breath and smiled at Harold apologetically.

“I’m sorry, Hal,” he said. “I shouldn’t have lost my temper over a little thing like that.”

“Sure,” Harold said, instantly forgiving his friend. “Anyways, I can pay him out of my share of the ransom dough, Clare. It won’t cost you a cent, my losin’ like that.”

“Of course. Of course,” Clarence said in a conciliatory manner. “And now, how about a nice meal to finish off a nice day?”

“Sure,” Harold said generously. “I got some beans and leftover veal I can make into a real casserole Leavenworth. Some guy shown me in Joliet. You guys wait in the other room. I’ll carry in your drinks,” he said to Carruthers, and shook his head in admiration for the old man, all previous irritation at having lost now dissipated.

Almost ten grand the old guy beat him out of, and him not even knowin’ the game a couple hours ago, not to mention bein’ six years older than God. Harold picked up the bucket and the brandy bottle in one huge hand, gathered in the half-filled glasses in the other, and carried them into the next room, setting them down beside Carruthers, who had settled himself in a comfortable arm chair. And that was another thing: the old man had put away enough hooch to knock even Maisie — and Maisie had been known to bend an elbow with the best — right on her full keister, and yet the old guy hadn’t even got the slightest bit woozy. It just showed that gettin’ old didn’t mean the end of the world; and on that comforting thought Harold went back into the kitchen and began digging exploratorily into the fridge.

Leaving behind him in the other room an extremely thoughtful William Carruthers, no longer feeling quite as homey as before, and feeling far less of a kindred spirit with this Clarence just because the man had good taste in brandy and appreciated the artistic advantages of a turned-off television. Taking money from Harold with marked cards had simply been an entertainment; but the look in this Clarence’s eyes when he apologized to Harold for losing his temper, was quite another matter. The thoughts that had engendered that apology, that had realized the total lack of need to pay that debt, had most certainly been of a lethal nature. And that was quite another matter, indeed...