The Judas Window

this case from comin' up for trial now. In the first place it was a month under way. In the second and more important place, d'you know what I'd have had to say to the authorities? The old man (never very popular with the Home Secretary or the D.P.P.) would have had to go swaggerin' in and say: 'Well, boys, I got some instructions for you. I want this indictment quashed for the followin' reasons: Amelia Jordan is lyin'. Spencer Hume is lyin'. Reginald Answell is lyin'. Mary Hume has been lyin'. In short, nearly every person in the whole ruddy case has been lyin' except my client.' Would they have believed me? Question yourselves closely, my fat- heads. I had to put that whole crowd under oath: I had to have a fair field and swords on the green: I had to have, in short, justice. There's my reason; and also the reason for my mysteriousness about it.

'You know where I went to get my witnesses, and why, But one thing still bothered me, and it bothered me up to the second day of the trial. Was Spencer Hume concerned in the dirtier deal of the murder, or wasn't he?

'Here's what I mean. I snaffled the suitcase. But it'd been at Paddington since the night of the murder. Now, if Amelia and Spencer were workin' together, surely she'd have told him to go and reclaim it quickly before some inquisitive feller nosed inside? She hadn't been delirious with fever for over a month. It wasn't until a week after my own visit that a man - not Spencer - came and made fumblin' enquiries about it.

'Sometimes I thought one thing, sometimes another: until the evenin' of the first day of the trial I began to get a glimmer. Spencer ran away; but he wrote to Mary, swearin' he actually saw the crime committed by Jim Answell. That letter had a ring of truth that Spencer never got into any of his quotations. Yet I knew it must have been a lie, until (bang) I saw what it was. Through this case, a vision of simple innocence has been presented by Amelia Jordan. A vision of moustache-twistin' craft has been presented by Spencer. Uncle Spencer's trouble is that he is too innocent. He honestly shouldn't be allowed loose. For fourteen years he's believed every word that's been spoken by that simple and practical woman: perhaps he'd had a right to. She told him she had actually seen Answell commit the crime, and he believed it. That's all. Don't you realize that that man really believes in all the soundin' platitudes he spouts? Her course had been simple. She told him she joined with Avory in the little plot, and had taken his (Spencer's) suitcase to stow away the decanter, the glasses and the rest of the trappings. She told him she'd had to dispose of that suitcase - into the river, she says here in her statement - and he'd have to get used to the loss. For, if the properties had been found in his bag, he would certainly get into serious trouble. Not a word about the cross-bow, of course. So Spencer shut up. He wouldn't even betray her to the extent of sayin', in his letter to Mary, that his information wasn't first-hand. I think we've misjudged Uncle Spencer. His chivalry was too much.'

'But look here!' I protested. 'Who was the man who did go to Paddington Station - apparently a week after you did - and asked about the suitcase? You asked the manager about that in the witness-box. I remember, because it threw me off. I was certain a man had committed the murder. Who went to Paddington?'

'Reginald Answell,' said H.M. in a satisfied tone.

'What?'

'Our Reginald,' continued H.M. with ferocious tenderness, 'is goin' to serve a couple of years for perjury; you knew that? - Well, he went into the witness-box and swore he had practically seen the murder committed. I wanted him to testify. If he tried any funny business (as I rather hoped he would), I could nail him to the wall quicker than flick a tiddley-wink; and there wasn't enough evidence to indict him for blackmail. Oh, yes. I told him, d'ye see, that the subpoena he'd received was only a matter of form, and he probably wouldn't be called at all. Naturally I didn't want him to run away like Spencer - as he smackin' well would have if I'd let him know I intended to bring up the subject of blackmailin' Mary Hume. So he went smoothly, and tried to repay the compliment by doin' me down. As a result, he'll serve two years for perjury. But the beautiful and glorious and cussed part of it is that, except for the triflin’ detail of the person in question, what he said was true: to all intents and purposes, he really did see the murder done.'

'What?'

'Sure. He didn't know I knew everything about the interview he had with Grabell - I mean about his knowledge of the pistol Hume pinched - right up until the second day of the trial. He was pretty sick with me already for bringin' up the blackmail question while he sat right at the solicitors' table; so he rounded on me. But the first part of what he said was quite true. He did go down the passage between the houses; he was in Grosvenor Street after all. He did go up the steps to the side door. If you'll remember Mottram's notes written on the plan of the rear of the house, you'll remember that door was found unlocked -'

'But, damn it all, you yourself proved that he couldn't have seen anything through a wooden door -'

'And you're still forgettin' something,' urged H.Nt. gently. 'You're forgettin' two glasses of whisky.'

'Two glasses of whisky?'

'Yes. Avory Hume poured out two drinks, one for himself that he didn't touch (not wantin' to drink brudine), and the other for his guest, who drank only half of it You've also heard how Amelia Jordan later packed up those glasses in a suitcase. Well, I can tell you one thing she didn't do: she didn't put two drinks of whisky in a suitcase. She had to empty 'em. But there wasn't a sink at hand, and she didn't want to open the windows in case the locked room should be disturbed. So she simply unlocked the side door, opened it, and tossed out the contents of the glasses, thereby -'

'Thereby?'

'Givin' a way in to Reginald, who was prowlin'. You remember what he said when I fired the point about the glass door at him? He turned a little green, and said: 'The door may have been open', which was quite true. The door was open. He didn't even notice what kind of door it was; he simply remembered the old glass door, and mentioned that because he didn't want to admit he'd stuck his nose into the house. How much he saw, I don't know. I doubt very much that he saw the murder committed. But he must have seen enough to give him a handle for blackmail on the person of Amelia Jordan, and he knew very well there was somethin' fishy about that suitcase. The trouble was, the suitcase had disappeared and he didn't know where. Until he did know - until he could find out - he was stuck between Mephistopheles and deep water. It's pretty hard to determine what went on in Reginald's mind, or bow far he approached Amelia. She was so bedevilled that I began to be sorry for her; but they weren't goin' to hang my client because of that. 1 thought it'd be very salutary, however, for her to see the evidence in court. I knew it would be very salutary to put Reginald into the witness-box and make that swine squirm on a hotter griddle than he'd ever dreamed of. Finally, it pleases and soothes me to know that he'll serve a long stretch in clink for tellin' what was, in essentials, the perfect truth.'

We stared at H.M. as he gobbled whisky-punch. He had wanted to be the old maestro; and, by all the gods, you had to admit he was.

'I am inclined to suspect,' said Evelyn, 'that you are a disgrace to all the splendid traditions of the fairness of English law. But, since we're all among friends -'

'Yes, I s'pose so,' admitted H.M. reflectively. I technically broke the law when I got my burglar pal, Shrimp Calloway, to break into Inspector Mottram's police-station one fine night and make sure my deductions were right about the piece of feather bein' in the Judas window. It'd never have done to go to court and get my great big beautiful dramatic effect spoiled by the lack of a feather. ... But still, there it is. The old man likes to see the young folks have a good time; and I rather think Jim Answell and Mary Answell are goin' to be just as happily married as you and your wench there. So why the blazes, burn it all, have you got to pick on me?'

He gobbled whisky-punch again, and lit his dead cigar.

'So our Reginald was laid by the heels,' I said, 'all by perverting the pure rules of justice; and I begin to suspect that Jim Answell was acquitted by a trick; and the whole thing moves by ... by what the devil is it?'

'I can tell you,' said H.M. quite seriously. 'The blinkin' awful cussedness of things in general.'