Below Suspicion Read Online Free Page B
Author: John Dickson Carr
his eyebrows. He chuckled, "Where's
the credit—or the fun—in defending somebody who's innocent?"
"Then you regard the whole thing as a game to beat the other fellow? Is that your conception of the law?"
"Well, what's your conception of the law?"
"Justice, for one thing! Honour. Ethics—"
Patrick Butler laughed outright.
"Listen, Charlie," he urged gently. "Do you know what you sound like? You sound like a nineteen-year-old who gets up at the Oxford Union and solemnly asks, 'Would you defend a man whom you knew to be guilty?' Answer: of course you would. In fact, it's your duty to do so. Every person, under the law, is entitled to a defence."
"To an honest defence, yes! Not to a faked one."
"Has it ever been suggested that J faked a defence?"
"No, thank God! Because even rumours might ruin you." Denham's voice was almost pleading. "You can't get away with that sort of thing in England, Pat. One of these days you're going to come a hell of a cropper."
"Let's wait until I do, shall we?"
"And there's more to it than ethics," pleaded Denham. "Suppose you win the acquittal of a cold-blooded murderer who's killed for greed or hate or no reason at all, and might do it again?"
"Were you referring to our client?" Butler asked politely.
Silence. Denham passed a hand across his forehead. His face looked white and dazed in the moonlight glow.
"Let me ask you just one question, Pat," he urged. "Do you think Joyce Ellis is a complete nitwit?"
"On the contrary. She's a very clever woman."
"Very well! Then if she had poisoned Mrs. Taylor, do you think she'd have been such a fool as to leave all that damning evidence against herself?"
"In a detective story, no. She wouldn't have."
"Meaning what?"
"It's a good card," Butler conceded, "and of course I'll play it. But jurymen," he shook his head, "jurymen keep their detective-story minds and their courtroom minds locked in separate compartments. Now murderers, bless 'em—"
"Stop joking!"
"I'm not joking. Murderers, I repeat, are in a foolish state of mind and they do incrediblv idiotic things. Every newspaper reader knows
that. And any counsel who rehes on that nobody-would-have-done game is a goner before they've even sworn the jury. Not for me, Charlie!"
Denham's throat seemed dry. Before he spoke next, he reached out and switched off the roof-light.
"What about Joyce?" he asked out of the darkness. "Are you going to fake her defence?"
"My dear Charlie!" The other sounded shocked. "Have I ever faked a defence?"
"Oh, stop it!"
"Two of my chief witnesses," Butler said dryly, "will be witnesses for the prosecution. One of them, Dr. Bierce, will be telling the truth. The other, Mrs. Alice Griffiths, will be telling what she now believes to be the truth."
"I hope I can trust you. You sail so close to the wind that— My God, Pat, suppose something goes wrong?"
"Nothing will go wrong."
"No?"
"I will bet you the price of this car against the price of a dinner," Butler told him coolly, "that the jury bring in a verdict of 'not guilty' within twenty minutes." Then he leaned forward to tap the glass panel behind the driver. "Garrick Club, Johnson!"
THE jury had been out for thirty-five minutes. Courtroom Number One at the Central Criminal Court, otherwise the Old Bailey, wore an air of somnolence and looked more deserted than it actually was. The clock—up under the ledge of the small public gallery—indicated five minutes to four on the afternoon of Tuesday, March 20th.
One way or the other, it was all over now.
A running sting of sleet rapped across the flat glass roof over the white-painted dome of the courtroom. Below its whiteness the walls were panelled to some height in light-brown oak. Concealed lighting, under the edges of this panelling, threw a somewhat theatrical glow up over this sleepy, deadly room.
Sleet lashed again. Somebody coughed. Distantly there was the whish of a revolving door. Even sounds, in this room, seemed to come in slow motion. In
the credit—or the fun—in defending somebody who's innocent?"
"Then you regard the whole thing as a game to beat the other fellow? Is that your conception of the law?"
"Well, what's your conception of the law?"
"Justice, for one thing! Honour. Ethics—"
Patrick Butler laughed outright.
"Listen, Charlie," he urged gently. "Do you know what you sound like? You sound like a nineteen-year-old who gets up at the Oxford Union and solemnly asks, 'Would you defend a man whom you knew to be guilty?' Answer: of course you would. In fact, it's your duty to do so. Every person, under the law, is entitled to a defence."
"To an honest defence, yes! Not to a faked one."
"Has it ever been suggested that J faked a defence?"
"No, thank God! Because even rumours might ruin you." Denham's voice was almost pleading. "You can't get away with that sort of thing in England, Pat. One of these days you're going to come a hell of a cropper."
"Let's wait until I do, shall we?"
"And there's more to it than ethics," pleaded Denham. "Suppose you win the acquittal of a cold-blooded murderer who's killed for greed or hate or no reason at all, and might do it again?"
"Were you referring to our client?" Butler asked politely.
Silence. Denham passed a hand across his forehead. His face looked white and dazed in the moonlight glow.
"Let me ask you just one question, Pat," he urged. "Do you think Joyce Ellis is a complete nitwit?"
"On the contrary. She's a very clever woman."
"Very well! Then if she had poisoned Mrs. Taylor, do you think she'd have been such a fool as to leave all that damning evidence against herself?"
"In a detective story, no. She wouldn't have."
"Meaning what?"
"It's a good card," Butler conceded, "and of course I'll play it. But jurymen," he shook his head, "jurymen keep their detective-story minds and their courtroom minds locked in separate compartments. Now murderers, bless 'em—"
"Stop joking!"
"I'm not joking. Murderers, I repeat, are in a foolish state of mind and they do incrediblv idiotic things. Every newspaper reader knows
that. And any counsel who rehes on that nobody-would-have-done game is a goner before they've even sworn the jury. Not for me, Charlie!"
Denham's throat seemed dry. Before he spoke next, he reached out and switched off the roof-light.
"What about Joyce?" he asked out of the darkness. "Are you going to fake her defence?"
"My dear Charlie!" The other sounded shocked. "Have I ever faked a defence?"
"Oh, stop it!"
"Two of my chief witnesses," Butler said dryly, "will be witnesses for the prosecution. One of them, Dr. Bierce, will be telling the truth. The other, Mrs. Alice Griffiths, will be telling what she now believes to be the truth."
"I hope I can trust you. You sail so close to the wind that— My God, Pat, suppose something goes wrong?"
"Nothing will go wrong."
"No?"
"I will bet you the price of this car against the price of a dinner," Butler told him coolly, "that the jury bring in a verdict of 'not guilty' within twenty minutes." Then he leaned forward to tap the glass panel behind the driver. "Garrick Club, Johnson!"
THE jury had been out for thirty-five minutes. Courtroom Number One at the Central Criminal Court, otherwise the Old Bailey, wore an air of somnolence and looked more deserted than it actually was. The clock—up under the ledge of the small public gallery—indicated five minutes to four on the afternoon of Tuesday, March 20th.
One way or the other, it was all over now.
A running sting of sleet rapped across the flat glass roof over the white-painted dome of the courtroom. Below its whiteness the walls were panelled to some height in light-brown oak. Concealed lighting, under the edges of this panelling, threw a somewhat theatrical glow up over this sleepy, deadly room.
Sleet lashed again. Somebody coughed. Distantly there was the whish of a revolving door. Even sounds, in this room, seemed to come in slow motion. In
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