A Gross Carriage of Justice

Chapter 9

At the time, admittedly many years past, when William Carruthers was busily engaged in putting to paper the adventures of Penelope Glottis and her ill-starred friend, Wilbur Tarbrush, in his opus The Mickle Monster Murders, and Clifford Simpson was similarly occupied tracing the careers of Cuthbert Sumatra, Bornean Garlic Raiser, and Hanna Hotspur, Registered Nurse, for his brainchild Up to the Eraser, Timothy Briggs was also working on a novel. This one concerned itself with the taking and holding for ransom of one Ming Toy Snodgrass by a certain Granville Graustark, Czar of Crime, and was titled Bound and Gagged. In the course of describing exactly how Ming Toy had been bound and gagged before being rescued from a dark, dank, filthy, rat-infested cellar by her fiancé, Herbert Marshgas, Tim Briggs had come to consider himself somewhat of an expert on the subject of kidnaping in general, and binding and gagging in particular.

He was, therefore, fully prepared to find Billy-Boy Carruthers bound and gagged in a dark, dank, filthy, rat-infested cellar, and one can therefore possibly forgive him his frown of disappointment upon being given back his glasses and ushered into the kitchen of the farmhouse, to find Billy-Boy not only ungagged and unfettered, but settled comfortably before the kitchen table, playing cards, with an almost empty brandy bottle beside his almost empty glass, and an almost empty bottle of champagne floating in a bucket more water than ice. It was as if Herbert Marshgas, coming to rescue Ming Toy Snodgrass, were to discover the young lady having cocktails with Granville Graustark, and enjoying them, too.

A Clifford Simpson would have taken that with equanimity; a William Carruthers with philosophic acceptance. But Timothy Briggs came from a different mold. He marched determinedly across the kitchen, lifted the almost empty brandy bottle, judging its contents, and then glared at Carruthers.

“You might have saved a little!”

Carruthers looked up in surprise.

“Oh, hello, Tim. What are you doing here? Have they kidnaped you, too? Well, well!” The other’s complaint finally registered with him. He shrugged apologetically. “Regarding the brandy and the champagne — well, the early bird, you know...” He suddenly remembered his manners. “I’m sorry. Tim, this is my good friend, Harold Nishbagel. Harold, this is an old acquaintance, Timothy Briggs.”

“Pleased to meetcha,” Harold said. “I seen your picture in the papers. But call me Hal, huh? I like it better.” He grinned sheepishly. “Though I can’t get pops, here, to call me anything but Harold.”

Carruthers set down his cards.

“Harold,” he said sternly, “one should never be ashamed of one’s name, and particularly not with a fine name like Harold. Think of all the famous Harolds down through history: King Harold the First of England, who ruled from 1037 — if memory serves me — to 1040 — if I’m not mistaken. Then there was King Harold the Second — well, he only lasted a few months, so maybe we ought to forget him...”

“Think of the Childe Harold,” Briggs contributed. “Did Lord Byron consider for a minute calling him the Childe Claude, or the Childe Ralph? Of course not!”

“Exactly,” Carruthers said. “Think of Harold Lloyd—”

“Think of Hark the Harold Angels Sing,” Briggs said.

“Yeah,” Harold said, conceding. “Well, all right, pops, you can call me Harold. But you!” He looked at Briggs severely. “You call me Hal, understand?” That dictum out of the way, he mellowed. “As for the hooch,” he said generously, “there’s plenty more where that come from.”

“Excellent!” Briggs said, delighted. “Now, if you’ll just point me in the general direction of the cupboard where you store your glasses, I’ll—”

Clarence had been listening to this exchange in total disbelief. Now he had had enough.

“All right!” he said. “We’re all through playing games, see? Hand over that bag, shorty!”

“Oh! Of course,” Briggs said agreeably. He placed it on the table and turned, taking in its stead the glass Harold was offering. “That was very kind of you. I could have gotten it. And another one for what’s left of the champagne before Billy-Boy hogs it all? In fact, you might even bring another bottle of the bubbly, with more ice, too, I think. And a reprise on the brandy would do nicely, as well, if you will?”

During all this conversation, Clarence had pushed aside the cards and opened the bag, upending it to dump its contents onto the table. The first thing to emerge was a pair of puce-colored underdrawers, seemingly suitable for a small elephant, followed by a few violently striped shirts, a couple of pairs of green-spotted socks, looking as if they were sprouting mold, and finally a pair of magenta-colored pajamas with moons and planets scattered generously about in various sickening colors.

(“I dropped by your rooms,” Briggs was saying to Carruthers. “I thought you might be able to use a change.” “Thank you,” Carruthers replied gratefully. “I was getting a bit dusty. All I had in my bag were soiled things from the trip, you know.”)

Clarence was staring at the clothing on the table in shock. Now he finally brought his gaze from the cornucopia of color to the faces of the two. His jaw hardened; his eyes narrowed.

“All right,” he said quietly in a cold voice. “I’m all through fooling around. Where’s the money?”

“I told you before,” Briggs said, trying to sound patient, “that until I had positive proof that Billy-Boy was all right, obviously there would be no payment.” He shrugged, spreading his tiny hands. “Now that I can see he is quite well and in the best of hands, of course, as soon as I get back to town—”

Clarence sneered elaborately.

“A comic, eh?” he said. “All right, comic, make yourself at home while I go into the other room to write me another letter, this one a little stronger, or maybe in plainer English. And maybe I’ll put one of your toes in it for luck, to show your pal Simpson that I’m all through playing games!”

“Why not one of my socks, instead?” Briggs asked hastily. Clarence had sounded all too deadly serious. “Or, better yet, one of Billy-Boy’s socks? No surer means of identification has yet been devised than an article of Billy-Boy’s clothing. Far better than toes, I assure you. After all, one toe looks pretty much like another—”

“Yeah,” Harold said placatingly. “Anyways, we don’t want no blood, Clare. I been havin’ fun for the first time since we got here. Why don’t you go write the letter? The skinny, tall guy’ll come through with the dough, you’ll see. I’m sure he wouldn’t want nothin’ to happen to pops, here.”

Clarence looked at him. The omission of the name Briggs was significant, Clarence thought. He was sure Harold would not mind Briggs’s being dismembered, but at the same time the chances were that this Simpson probably wouldn’t mind, either. In fact, Clarence couldn’t picture anyone who would give a package of used toothpicks for the big-mouthed runt. And for the time being, at least, it appeared that the fat man was under the personal protection of Harold. Well, Clarence thought angrily, that tall, skinny guy had better come through with the dough, because personal protection or not, someone was going to pay!

“Grrraaagh!” he said, unconsciously adding to his repertory of sounds one of the favorites of Timothy Briggs, and marched into the other room to compose his letter.

Harold looked up at Tim Briggs. “Hey! Do you play cards?”

“Why, no,” Briggs said, and studied the familiar decks on the table. They were decks of cards which — together with many other decks — had given him and the others a hard night’s work on the S.S. Sunderland. He looked up to see Carruthers’ blue eyes considering him benignly. “No,” Briggs said brightly, pulling up a chair, “but I’m always willing to learn...”

In the interests of saving time, Clarence had the second ransom demand delivered by a messenger service. Clarence felt the risk was minimal and he did not wish to wait the extra day required by the post; he was wearying of his guests, and besides, the supplies at the farmhouse were being depleted at an alarming rate. Clarence had always thought that old people got along on a crust or two, but Carruthers ate enough for two — which might be understood, considering his size. What was difficult to conceive of was where Briggs put the food, for he ate enough for three. And both of the old men were amazing when it came to their capacity for brandy and champagne.

Simpson, sitting alone and disconsolate in the northeast niche of the club lounge, looked up hopefully as Potter made his way through the empty room with a letter. Potter, noting that now two of the three were missing, wondered just how he might work this into a book. Perhaps if he started with ten, and then had them disappear, or be killed, one by one until there were none — no, the critics would never accept it and it would be too complicated. With a sigh at the difficulties authors faced in concocting plots, he handed over the letter and started back to his office. Maybe if he started with five...

Simpson could hardly wait for Potter to get beyond range before tearing open the letter. It read:

Again, understandably, there was no signature, but this time, contrary to the last time, there had been no attempt to disguise the handwriting, and as a result Simpson was able to get the gist of the letter with less difficulty.

He pursed his lips and frowned. The tone of the letter, it seemed to him, was distinctly unfriendly, far more so than the first missive, and Simpson could only surmise that Tim Briggs had probably said or done something to irritate the writer. It would not be the first time Briggs had acted that way. And not only was the note, in his opinion, rather brusque — if not outright rude — but it also raised the ransom demand from ten to twenty thousand pounds. But certainly, if they had been unable to pay the ten thousand pounds, what on earth made the dear man think they could now come up with twenty thousand?

He read the note a second time, and frowned again. He could easily picture Briggs’s small body being dumped from a speeding car — although he hoped the kidnapers realized that speeding was illegal on many highways, not to mention dumping — but he doubted the kidnaper’s ability to make good his threat in the case of the more corpulent Carruthers. Still, even one friendly body dumped from a car, even within the legal speed limit, and even where dumping was permitted, was obviously one too many. Besides, it was possible the man was merely using the dumping of bodies from speeding cars as hyperbole, when he actually had a much less dramatic plan for their disposal in his mind. Hyperbole, to demonstrate a point, and if not used to excess, was quite acceptable in writing, as Simpson well knew; he had used it frequently in those days when he was writing novels. He remembered well, in his book Death by Dying, where he had his villain, one Orville Smurch, in the process of tying the heiress to the railroad tracks, tell her that in minutes she would look like a plate of sautéed — Simpson brought himself back to earth with a start, ashamed of his mental lapse in view of the direness of his friends’ predicament. This was certainly no time for daydreaming! Get on with it! Tackle the problem! Concentrate! Resolve!

But, how...?

For one brief moment he considered seeking the help of the most intelligent person he knew, Sir Percival Pugh, but he put that thought out of mind almost instantly. If they couldn’t pay the kidnaper, where on earth would they ever get the funds with which to pay Sir Percival, who was probably ten times more exigent than any kidnaper when it came to collecting fees? No, Simpson said sadly to himself, he supposed there was nothing for it except to go up to East Westerly himself, and try to explain the situation.

He fished in his pockets and came up with a few shillings and fewer pence. Scarcely enough for one-way fare, let alone a return. He thought a moment and then nodded. In his rooms he had the cardboard insert from a shirt that had recently come back from the laundry (and, he reminded himself, that was another bill that required payment! And people asking for twenty thousand quid just like that, as if money grew on trees! Although it would be pleasant if it did. Imagine a tree bearing one-pound notes! With his height he could easily beat any other four pickers, fill a basket while they were still trying to find a ladder...). With a start he brought himself back to the present. That cardboard insert was the same consistency, as he recalled, as the stuff from which they made train tickets. Now, if he could remember the size of a normal ticket, he could cut a duplicate out of that cardboard. A little crayon for the numbers and those inexplicable lines they put on railway tickets for no reason at all, and certainly at night, when most guards were sleepy, or preoccupied with wondering why their mates got all the good working hours, he should be able to pass it off as legitimate. He had used that ploy in a book once, as he recalled. Was it The Mayfair Molester? Or Love on the Guillotine?

He realized he was daydreaming again, and rose hurriedly to his feet. Then he sat down again. He had most of the day and half the night before he had to appear on the East Westerly platform, and he might as well spend most of those hours here. His rooms were on the way to Euston Station, and he was sure he knew exactly where he had that bit of crayon — in a shoe, he believed, or back of the clock — so what was the rush? It was in just such a rush, as he recalled, that his hero, Maxwell Valiant, nearly came to grief in his book Tunnel of Hate. Or was it Three Fathoms High...?