9

 

 

The trial of Mr. Clifford Simpson for the willful murder of Mrs. Sarah Bosler might well have passed with minimum notice had it not been that Sir Percival Pugh was the defending counsel. To the public the case had already been judged in the newspapers: the man must have been mad to kill an utter stranger for no reason whatsoever. And while madness is a malady that the British public can condone, it is not a malady that serves to arouse inordinate interest.

As long as the porter, Mr. Arthur Corby, was the suspect, the public could at least anticipate fascinating stories of bitter fights and taut emotions, and even—possibly—salubrious details. The trial of an aged and obviously educated gentleman for a perfectly pointless murder, however, was a far different thing. Only the presence of Sir Percival Pugh in the case removed it from this state of indifference, for he had never lost a client, even to confinement. And certainly, the public could not help but think, if the chap was mad, and if the mad chap had thrown the lady down the lift shaft, it was difficult to see how he could escape at least being confined.

Sir Osbert Willoughby, prosecutor for the Crown, was quite pleased both with his case and with the jury that had been painstakingly selected. Thirteen times in the four years since his appointment Sir Osbert had faced Sir Percival, and thirteen times in the same period he had gone down to humiliating defeat. It was pleasant, therefore, to have an open-and-shut case, a case where no amount of pyrotechnics on the part of his adversary could possibly save the accused. Sir Osbert Willoughby rustled his mountain of papers contentedly, already forming in his mind the words of his final summing up. As far as he was concerned, the case was already over and won. And, he thought, even if old Pugh manages to save his client from the gallows only to lose him to a prison for mental criminals, it’s still a win.

Mr. Carruthers and Mr. Briggs, seated near the front, gazed about with interest. Mr. Carruthers had not been in a courtroom since his police-reporting days, while Briggs—whose mystery stories had always seemed to deal with remarkable escapes from foreign dungeons, or similar episodes—had never been in one before. In front of them, and a bit to one side, was the table of defense counsel, and here they saw Sir Percival in company of his assistant. Before him was a pitifully thin folder, and Carruthers, noting the difference between Sir Percival and Sir Osbert, in weapons of foolscap at least, felt his old doubts return reinforced.

Sir Percival, leaning back comfortably, saw their eyes upon him and nodded in a friendly manner.

“Look at him!” Briggs whispered fiercely. “Fat and happy with our hard-earned ten thousand quid!”

“Don’t blame him,” Carruthers whispered back. “The whole thing was our fault, after all. The important thing now is to save Cliff.”

“That’s all very well,” Briggs came back, his irritation almost causing him to raise his voice to audible level. “But all that money! All we worked so hard for!”

“Life!” Carruthers said sadly. “At least we’re no worse off than we were three months ago—other than Cliff, that is. And we’re a lot of good food and drink ahead.”

“You be philosophical,” Briggs said sourly, “I’ll still be bitter. When I think—”

“Shhhh!” Carruthers whispered, for the jury was finally seated and Lord Justice Pomeroy had entered the courtroom and was standing patiently behind the bench.

Simpson was led in, looking tired and gaunt, and seated in the accused’s box. Silence fell; the audience arose dutifully; the necessary ritual was attended to and the audience sank back into their seats gratefully. When the clerk of the court had rambled through the details in a voice scarcely heard beyond the first row, and when Lord Justice Pomeroy had adjusted his wig to his satisfaction, there was a sharp bang of a gavel.

The trial was on.

The jury having been formally instructed, Sir Osbert Willoughby rose to state first for the Crown. He could not help but cast a triumphant glance at his opponent as he made his way before the bench. Poor old Pugh! he thought gleefully. I’ve finally got him by the ears!

“My Lord, gentlemen of the jury,” he began, his rich voice filling the chamber in varying tones as he sought and quickly found the proper pitch for the room’s acoustics, “the Crown shall prove to the satisfaction of the jury of peers that on September 22, at eight o’clock in the evening, Mr. Clifford Simpson did with malice aforethought bring an abrupt end to the life of Mrs. Sarah Bosler, by throwing her down the lift shaft on the premises of the Grafton Building in Clayton Street.

“The Crown shall prove that Mr. Simpson appeared on the scene for just this purpose; that in order to simulate an unfortunate accident he made changes in the position of the pointer which indicates the floor at which the lift stands; and that he also caused a short circuit in the lift-door controls so that the fifth-floor door, from which Mrs. Bosler was flung, could be opened while the lift cab was on a different level. We shall prove that the porter was drugged in order not to be in a position to either witness the culpability of the accused or to offer succor to the victim.”

He paused gravely. “My honorable opponent, the counsel for the defense, will undoubtedly claim that the Crown is unable to prove motive for the crime. That is true. But, as the Lord Justice will undoubtedly inform the jury in his instructions, while motive is considered a laudable adjunct to proof of guilt, it is not an essential. The Crown will admit, if it please our honorable opposition, that we have searched the past of both the criminal and his victim without being able to discover any previous connection in their lives. But, before the counsel for the defense makes too much of this point, may we state that we have something which is considered, in a court of law, much better!” His voice rose dramatically. “My Lord, gentlemen of the jury—we have a confession!”

Whatever effect Sir Osbert wished to achieve with this statement was possibly diluted by the fact that the journals had revealed exactly to what extent the confession went. The jury, therefore, studied the prosecutor for the Crown with no perceptible change in their fishlike eyes, and he, having failed to cause the sensation he had wished for, cleared his throat and continued in a more subdued voice.

“My Lord; gentlemen of the jury. Here is a man, driven by no unrequited passion, no hope of immediate or long-term gain, nor even by desire for revenge for a real or imagined hurt—a man driven, in fine, by no known or recognizable motive—who in cold blood planned and executed the murder of innocent Mrs. Sarah Bosler on that fatal night of September 22, such a short time ago!” His voice fell craftily as he scotched, he was sure, one of the defense arguments.

“Nor was the man insane. The Crown will produce alienists who will prove this point very definitely. No; at the moment that Clifford Simpson flung Mrs. Sarah Bosler into that yawning abyss from the fifth floor of the Grafton Building, he was in complete charge of his mental facilities!”

He sighed, a great sigh calculated to carry to the very last row of the spectators. “No; we cannot even find the motive of madness. We have here not a murderer who murders on whim—for this murder was exceptionally well planned—but a murderer who murders for the simple love of killing, and without motive.” He shrugged elaborately. “Counsel for the defense may choose to call this, in his opinion, madness. The alienists who have studied the man in prison disagree.”

He raised his head dramatically, building to his climax. “It is the Crown’s contention that there can be no more dangerous type of person walking the streets of our fair country than a murderer who can bring himself to snuff out innocent lives in this fashion—brutally, intelligently, and without motive! The Crown must ask both his Lordship and the jury to consider these facts when determining whether or not the ultimate penalty is deserved. The Crown believes it is!”

He turned, facing first, as if by accident, the spectators, then the jury, and finally the bench. “My Lord. Gentlemen.” A brief bow of his head and he sat down.

There was the sound of bodies shifting restlessly on the hard oaken seats of the courtroom. Everyone had known, more or less, what the Crown’s charge would be. What they really wanted to hear was the statement of the defense, and utter silence fell as Sir Percival Pugh lifted himself from his nearly supine position and turned to face the court.

“My Lord; gentlemen,” he began, and then shrugged. “You know,” he said conversationally, taking both the jury and the spectators into his confidence, “the defense really has nothing much to say at this point.” He waited patiently as his Lordship’s gavel beat against the loud buzz that burst from the crowded bank of spectators.

“Other,” he added, and then waited as the tattoo of the gavel still fought the rising volume of startled whispers. Out of the corner of his gleaming eye he could see the looks of utter disbelief and suspicion which paraded across the face of Sir Osbert Willoughby in rapid succession. Within himself Sir Percival Pugh grinned, but the visage he presented to the court was exceedingly solemn.

“Other,” he continued, once a semblance of order had been attained, “than to state that the Crown can save the expense of its alienists, because the defense will stipulate unconditionally that Mr. Simpson is sane, was sane, and, we hope, will continue to remain sane. And to further state that it is the fond hope of the defense to give my worthy opponent of the Crown sufficient rope with which to hang himself.”

The banging of the gavel this time far outlasted the sharp intake of breath which broke the silence. Lord Justice Pomeroy, leaning down from the bench and attempting to speak into the clamor, suddenly realized that it was he himself who was responsible for the racket, and he flung the gavel down.

“The bench will advise counsel for the defense,” his Lordship thundered, red-faced and shocked, “that it will tolerate no comments of this nature during this trial! There will be no talk of giving rope to hang anyone!”

Sir Percival Pugh bowed meekly before this onslaught. “I should certainly hope not, your Lordship,” he said piously, and, having made his point, sat down.

Sir Osbert, a bit flustered by this exchange, jumped to his feet.

“If it please the court,” he said, “and if, in fact, the defense has finished its statement, the Crown would like to call its first witness.”

Lord Justice Pomeroy had been about to offer further chastisement to Sir Percival for his last uncalled for comment, but in the interests of peace and a smooth-running trial he checked his gavel and nodded abruptly. The spectators settled back for what promised to be a good show.

 

(Note: The following represents only the most important excerpts from the testimony of witnesses. Those who wish to find the entire text are referred to Official Legal Proceedings, Crown v. Simpson, Vol. MXVI, 1003/1245.)

 

Witness: Mr. Arthur Corby.

Examined by: Sir Osbert Willoughby for the Crown.

 

Q. Now, Mr. Corby, you stated you found a package on your mail desk and that this package contained both a note and a bottle of whiskey.

A. That’s right.

Q. You further stated that you destroyed both the note and the wrapping. Can you tell us why?

A. Well, I figured it might have been one of the chaps in the building, trying to smuggle a bottle out, and I figured I’d help him.

Q. And how, exactly, did you feel destroying the note and wrapping would help this unknown?

A. Well, until it actually went into the post, he wasn’t a crook, was he?

Q. That is open to considerable question.

A. Anyway, I couldn’t read the address to know where to send it.

Q. You realize, I hope, that you destroyed valuable evidence. With these papers we would have been able to further prove Mr. Simpson’s complicity—Interruption by Defense Counsel. Objection, your Lordship, to this editorializing on the part of the Crown’s prosecutor.

Lord Justice Pomeroy. Objection sustained. The prosecutor for the Crown is reminded that at this stage he is merely collecting evidence. At the proper time he shall have an opportunity to interpret it.

Q. Your pardon, your Lordship. Now, Mr. Corby, you state that you then took a sip of this whiskey. Exactly how large a sip did you take?

A. Well, now, that’s a funny thing. I would have sworn, when I took it, it was only a little sip, but when I woke up it was all gone. So I guess it was a bigger sip than I figured.

Q. But even with a larger sip you would not ordinarily have dropped off to sleep, would you? If it had been normal whiskey, that is.

A. Who, me? I can drink any man in this room under the table. A pint make me sleepy? Don’t make me laugh.

Q. But if the whiskey were drugged, could one sip have made you sleepy?

A. Well, sure.

Q. Now, Mr. Corby, on the day of your arrest, after you were freed, were you recalled to Bow Street Infirmary and asked to submit to a stomach pump?

A. I certainly was! And a nastier—

Q. Please! There is no need to elaborate. Just answer the question.

A. Yes.

Q. And were the results—No, I’ll handle that with the doctors. That’s all, Mr. Corby. Your witness, Sir Percival.

 

Cross-Examination by Sir Percival Pugh for the Defense:

 

Q. Your Lordship, my worthy opponent seems to be working inordinately hard to prove that Mr. Corby was drugged in his whiskey. It will save considerable time if the defense not only concedes this point, but, in fact, insists upon it. We should also like to point out at this time that it was only through the efforts of the defense that this fact became known.

INTERRUPTION BY THE CROWN. Objection, your Lordship.

LORD JUSTICE POMEROY. On what grounds? Isn’t it true? According to my notes, it’s true. Overruled. You may proceed, Sir Percival.

Q. Thank you, your Lordship. Mr. Corby, you were drugged, as the defense (and not the Crown) so ably proved. It is for this reason—had you been worried—that your capacity was so drastically reduced. Now, Mr. Corby; in the process of falling under the influence of this nefarious narcotic, did you hear any disturbance which might have indicated to you the presence of a second—or really, in this case, a fourth person—on the premises?

A. Pardon? Could you put that into plainer language?

Q. Certainly. When you were falling asleep, did you hear anyone around? Before you answer, consider this: The so-called confession on which the Crown is basing its case has already placed Mr. Simpson on the fifth floor in company with Mrs. Bosler. According to the timetable, also prepared by the Crown, this must have been just about the time you were succumbing—passing out—from your drugged drink. Now, Mr. Corby, my question is simply this: At what time did you hear any strange sounds?

A. Strange sounds?

Q. Think hard. A man’s freedom, if not his life, may depend upon your answer. Did you hear nothing? No shuffling sound, no ringing of bells, no distant buzzing, for example?

A. Say, that’s odd. Now that you mention it, I do seem to recall a sort of buzzing just before that drink really hit me.

Q. Was it loud buzzing or soft buzzing?

A. It was soft at first, but it got louder and louder. I don’t remember after that.

Q. Don’t feel ashamed. You have a fine memory, Mr. Corby, and I congratulate you on it. Now, to return to this buzzing you heard. Tell me, have you ever noticed the strange fact that when a shoe is passed stealthily across a marble floor—like the lobby of the Grafton Building, for example—it gives off a sound that is almost indistinguishable from a buzz?

A. You’re right on that. Many’s the time I’ve sat in my little office and heard the buzz of feet on that lobby floor.

Q. I believe you. Now let’s see where we are. At the moment when you fell asleep, which is a moment when the Crown places Mr. Simpson on the fifth floor and well beyond your range of hearing, you still heard someone slip across the lobby. But wait! How is it you didn’t see him sufficiently to identify him?

A. Well, heavens, I’d just been fed some drug in my whiskey!

Q. Of course! You heard this person, but because of the drug he had administered to you, you were unable to identify him—

INTERRUPTION BY THE CROWN. Your Lordship! Really—

LORD JUSTICE POMEROY. Quiet! This is most interesting. Continue, Sir Percival.

Q. Thank you, your Lordship. So, Mr. Corby, even though struggling against the stupor induced by the drug this person had placed in your whiskey, you were still alert enough to note his presence, even though, unfortunately, you were unable to identify him personally. Is that a fair statement?

A. Exactly! If he hadn’t doped my drink, I’d have seen him!

Q. Which is probably exactly why he doped your drink. However, let us pass on to another aspect of this problem. Tell me, Mr. Corby, to what extent did you dislike Mrs. Bosler?

A. That …! Well, we weren’t bosom friends, that’s sure!

Q. We realize that, Mr. Corby. My question was posed for the purpose of determining the extent of your dislike.

A. Well, I wouldn’t have thrown the old hag down the shaft, maybe, but I wouldn’t have bought her no bouquets, neither.

INTERRUPTION BY SIR OSBERT WILLOUGHBY. Your Lordship! I really must object! Mr. Corby is not on trial here; his innocence has been established by none other than the accused himself!

SIR PERCIVAL PUGH FOR THE DEFENSE. Your Lordship, permit me to answer my learned opponent. The defense is not attempting to prove a case against Mr. Corby. If you will bear with me once again, may I say that it is only through the combined efforts of the accused and the defense that Mr. Corby sits in this courtroom a free man. However, it is within the rights of the defense to show animosity on the part of third persons toward the victim of a criminal death—

SIR OSBERT. But the accused admitted pushing her into the lift shaft!

SIR PERCIVAL. The accused admitted nothing of the sort. The accused simply admitted being on the scene at the moment that Mrs. Bosler went into the shaft. However, if it will make the prosecutor for the Crown feel any better, the defense will stipulate that Mr. Simpson did indeed push Mrs. Bosler into the lift shaft.

(Sensation.)

LORD JUSTICE POMEROY. There will be quiet in the court, or the courtroom will be cleared! Sir Percival, did I hear you correctly? Are you, at this stage of the trial, wishing to change your plea?

SIR PERCIVAL PUGH. Far from it, your Lordship. The explanation for that stipulation, as well as the connection between my line of questioning and the true facts concerning the death of Mrs. Bosler, will be brought out in due time. But in order to lay a basis for the case the defense intends to present, I must ask your Lordship to please restrain the natural enthusiasm of the Crown’s prosecutor so that I can proceed.

LORD JUSTICE POMEROY. I am allowing you every latitude, Sir Percival, but I must warn you again to watch your language. You may proceed.

Q. Thank you, your Lordship. Now, Mr. Corby, if you can still recall our conversation before we were so rudely interrupted, please answer my question.

A. I’m afraid I got lost there…

Q. I shall repeat the question in different form. Were you the only one in the Grafton Building who might have wished Mrs. Bosler dead?

A. I didn’t wish her dead. I only wished she’d keep her fat lip to herself.

Q. I shall make a third attempt. Bear with me while I bear with you. Can you visualize anyone in the Grafton Building—or out of it, if it comes to that—who might have wished Mrs. Bosler dead?

A. The reason I didn’t want her dead was it seemed a pretty easy out for the old witch. What I—

Q. Mr. Corby! Will you please!

A. Oh! Have to answer them on the button, is that it? All right, then, if you want to know, I’d say there were precious few in the building who wouldn’t have paid to dance on her grave!

Q. Thank you, Mr. Corby. It was a struggle, but thank you. No more questions, your Lordship. I may wish to call Mr. Corby as a witness for the defense, but at the moment no more questions.

 

Witness: Sergeant R. Willets, Fingerprinting Department, Scotland Yard.

Examined by: Sir Osbert Willoughby for the Crown.

 

Q. Now, Sergeant, you have been qualified and accepted as an expert. Tell us, Sergeant: in the course of examining the Grafton Building, did you find any fingerprints later identified as belonging to the accused in any shall we say remarkable or unusual locations?

A. Well, I found some on the indicator pointer over the lift door on the fifth floor.

(Sensation.)

Q. Anywhere else?

A. Quite a few other places, but, of course, he admitted to being in the building.

Q. But you definitely identify the ones you found on the indicator pointer on the fifth floor as belonging to the prisoner?

A. Definitely.

Q. Thank you. That’s all. Your witness, Sir Percival. 

SIR PERCIVAL PUGH FOR THE DEFENSE. No questions.

 

Recess for lunch was called by Lord Justice Pomeroy at 12:45, at the end of Sergeant Willets’ testimony. Both Briggs and Carruthers, interested witnesses to the morning’s proceedings, emerged into the bright autumn sunlight with the intention of lunching, but their plans were temporarily delayed by the sudden appearance of Sir Percival Pugh at their side. He drew them from the crowd and into the privacy of a corner alcove, and glared at Briggs.

“Those fingerprints on that pointer!” he said almost viciously. “Why do you think I made such a point of fingerprints? Or of Simpson’s wearing gloves? Did you think I was afraid that he, like Mimi, might get his little fingers cold? My Lord, man, what were you about? Why did you leave those prints there?”

“Well,” Briggs said, defensively. “I told you the chair was a bit short. I couldn’t reach any higher. So what was I to do?”

“God save me from midget helpers!” said Sir Percival Pugh. He glanced at his watch. “Well, there goes a good lunch hour! I shall have to dig up an explanation for those prints and then catch Simpson and have a heart-to-heart conference with him. Not that he’s going anywhere,” he added, and strode away before either of them could make comment.

“You might think,” said Briggs resentfully, “that for ten thousand quid he could at least clean off his own fingerprints! Is it my fault I’m short?”

But Carruthers had nothing to say. As far as he could see, the unexpected discovery of the fingerprints could well prove the straw that broke the back of any possible defense. It did not seem to him that they were in very good shape.

 

The afternoon session began at 3:05 P.M. The questioning of witnesses continued.

 

Witness: Mr. Chester Isbrandt, Chief Engineer of Arvo Self-Operated Lifts, Ltd.

Examined by: Sir Osbert Willoughby for the Crown.

 

Q. Mr. Isbrandt, have you examined the lift in the Grafton Building since the unfortunate death of Mrs. Bosler?

A. Yes, sir, I have.

Q. May I ask when you made that examination?

A. The evening after the death of Mrs. Bosler. Scotland Yard called me in to make the examination, because it seemed that a Mr. Simpson had appeared and confessed, and—

Q. Yes, yes! There is no need to go into that. And what did you find in your examination?

A. Well, it was a proper shame. Somebody had fiddled with the control panel and had managed to short it out. It—

Q. Pardon me for interrupting, but I wish a bit of clarification. By the words “shorting it out” you mean they induced a short circuit?

A. Yes. It was hard to see exactly what had been done, because the victim’s blood had seeped into the box, and the whole thing was a bloody—I mean a terrible mess.

Q. I see. But the lift itself was operative? Other, of course, than the fact that the doors did not respond to normal control?

A. Well, more or less. The cab would run, because that’s controlled from the motor in the housing on the roof. But it might not stop at any selected floor. The door controls are separate from the floor-selection controls, but they’re in the same box. If there were a loose connection in one set of controls or the other, only that one would be affected. With a short circuit, of course, almost anything could happen.

Q. I see. Tell me, Mr. Isbrandt, you’ve had years of experience with lifts of the Arvo Company’s manufacture. Have you ever seen a short circuit of the type suffered in the Grafton Building occur by accident?

A. Never. The system as it leaves our factory is foolproof.

Q. So that if the Arvo lift in the Grafton Building suffered a short circuit, it would necessarily be man-made, and not accidental?

A. It would have to be.

Q. Thank you, Mr. Isbrandt. One further question, if you don’t mind. At the time of your examination, you also saw the indicator pointer on the fifth floor.

A. I did.

Q. And was it in order?

A. No. It had shifted about, to point to the fifth floor while the cab was actually on the first floor below.

Q. Is it at all possible that the pointer might have shifted by itself? That either a jarring or a vibration might have caused it to move by itself from its preset position?

A. Quite impossible. The locking screw was quite firm, and the pointer was not loose. It had been locked in a false position. Besides, I was there when Sergeant Willets found Mr. Simpson’s fingerprint on—

Q. Thank you, Mr. Isbrandt. No more questions. Your witness, Sir Percival.

 

Cross-Examination by Sir Percival Pugh for the Defense:

 

Q. There has been much said in this courtroom about this famous indicator pointer on the fifth floor. I wonder if you could furnish me with a bit more information about it, Mr. Isbrandt. The pointer is arranged, normally, in what manner?

A. The pointer is arranged to indicate the floor at which the cab finds itself. When the cab is on the first floor, the indicators on all floors point straight up. Comparing its position to a compass, you might say that it would be pointing due north. The dial is divided into the number of floors the lift serves; in the case of the Grafton Building, in six sections. At the second floor it would point, therefore, approximately northeast. At the third, approximately southeast. At the fourth, due south. And so forth.

Q. Thank you, Mr. Isbrandt. However, to eliminate any confusion, I have here a pencil and paper. I wonder if you could sketch me the pointer position for all floors?

A. Gladly…. Here you are.

Q. Thank you. Now, Mr. Isbrandt, may I ask, how long have you worked for the Arvo Lift Company?

A. Thirty years.

Q. And I imagine Arvo is one of the leaders in their field?

A. Well, I’m not here to brag, but—well, yes.

Q. In that case, your designs probably lead the field. So that it would be rather hard for an utter tyro to open the control panel of one of your lifts and be familiar with the control connections?

A. That’s true, except he didn’t change any circuits. He simply shorted it out.

Q. I note that you say “he.” Who is this “he"?

A. Whoever shorted out the circuits.

Q. I see. But you have previously testified that when “shorted out,” as you put it, the cab might not respond with any assured degree of accuracy. So how could this mysterious “he” to whom you refer be sure the cab would not be at the fifth floor when he had changed the pointer?

A. Well, it would be five to one against it being at that floor.

Q. True. But, of course, if it came to rest on the fourth floor, the roof of the cab would have been even with her feet. And if it had come to rest on the third floor, the distance would scarcely have been sufficient to guarantee, or even suggest, her death. What would the odds be against it coming to rest at either the third, fourth, or fifth floor?

A. Why, one to one, of course. Even.

Q. Scarcely good odds for one plotting a murder so carefully. However. Let us continue. You state that the Arvo Lift Company has never suffered a short circuit in its history. Are you familiar with the edifice at the corner of Everett Lane and Wycherly Circle? It carries the number 18 Everett Lane.

A. Not offhand.

Q. I’m rather surprised. My notes have it that less than six months ago the lift in that building suffered a short circuit in its connections, and—

A. I remember now. That was the place that was struck by lightning. The bolt hit the lift housing on the roof and traveled down the cables to the control panel. But you can hardly call that—

Q. Hardly call it what? A short circuit? What would you call it? And while we are on the subject, possibly you recall a building in Rampart Street?

A. All right, I know which one you mean. That was the place where the porter was crackers. Wanted to paint the place up so pretty he even took the cover off the control box and painted inside. Nearly knocked himself into the middle of next week, and he deserved it.

Q. Why? What happened? Not another short circuit in those lifts that never have short circuits?

A. You’re picking pretty rare examples.

Q. I’m not picking anything. I’m not the one who claimed that Arvo Lifts never have short circuits, Mr. Isbrandt. You are. However, let us pass on to another most interesting point. You say the porter was responsible for the short circuit in the control box in Rampart Street. Why?

A. Because he put paint all over the contacts. Naturally it shorted out.

Q. Had he filled the control box with water instead of paint, would the result have been the same?

A. Naturally. Any liquid.

Q. Even blood? I see you are thinking, Mr. Isbrandt. I shall leave you to your thoughts. No more questions, your Lordship.

 

Reexamination by Sir Osbert Willoughby for the Crown:

 

Q. In your expert opinion, Mr. Isbrandt, was the short circuit in the lift-control box in the Grafton Building the result of human agency or not?

A. It was the result of human agency.

Q. Thank you, Mr. Isbrandt.

 

Re-Cross-Examination by Sir Percival Pugh for the Defense:

 

Q. Have you previously experienced a control box in one of your lifts filled with human blood?

A. No.

Q. Thank you, Mr. Isbrandt.

 

The file of the witnesses for the Crown continued. The doctors from the Bow Street Infirmary duly testified that the contents of Mr. Corby’s stomach had been analyzed and found to contain the remnants of a powerful barbiturate. Sir Percival Pugh nodded profoundly in lieu of cross-examination. Three woebegone typists from the J. G. L. H. N. M. Foundation testified that Mrs. Bosler had been a much misunderstood woman, and actually anyone who worked with her had loved her. However, their air of fright clearly indicated that even in death Mrs. Bosler had the power to terrorize. Rather than cross-examine, Sir Percival merely shrugged his shoulders elaborately.

At last the final witness left the stand. Sir Osbert Willoughby returned to his table, dropped his papers upon it with satisfaction, and returned to the fray. He stood before the bench, sucking in his stomach in case any photographers wished to risk the wrath of the bench and take a picture of him successfully concluding a case.

“My Lord—the prosecution for the Crown rests.”

Sir Percival Pugh also arose, waited patiently until Sir Osbert had reseated himself, and then, making quite a show of consulting his timepiece, turned to the bench.

“My Lord,” he said quietly, “I note that it is only a bit after the hour of five. While it is still early enough to use a good portion of the day advantageously, the defense must admit it would like as much time as possible before presenting its case. For this reason the defense requests permission to delay the opening of its case until tomorrow morning.” He paused and studied the jury and the spectators with calculated calm.

“However,” he continued in the dead silence that prevailed, “I should like to make a suggestion. I realize, even as I propound it, that it may well appear revolutionary, but actually, my Lord, I do not believe there is anything in the law contrary to it. It is my suggestion that, in order to save the time of the court, the jury, and our estimable and patient witnesses, the prosecutor for the Crown be allowed to fill in our remaining moments with his final summing up.”

There was the beginning of a sensation, but the firm gavel of Lord Justice Pomeroy soon had it under control.

“Sir Percival,” said his Lordship, “I have been on the bench for twenty-eight years, and in all that time I have never heard of such a suggestion. As the defense counsel is well aware, the procedure for jury trial has been established for centuries, and it is customary to have the final summations by both parties only after all witnesses, for both the prosecution and the defense, have testified. It is the only fair method, both for the accused and for the Crown. I will be frank and admit I have no notion whether or not the law has established this formula in written form, but I can easily plead precedence for insisting upon maintaining it. It would take longer than the court can afford to verify the validity of your statement, and therefore—”

“Your Lordship!” It was Sir Osbert Willoughby, springing to his feet. “If I may have a word?”

Lord Justice Pomeroy caused his shaggy brows to twitch in the direction of this interruption. “Yes?”

“My Lord,” said Sir Osbert, his eyes gleaming. “I believe that it is quite possible that my honorable opponent is, in fact, correct. At least I am not aware of any restriction placed upon the order of precedence in a jury trial other than common custom. And if the counsel for the defense has made this proposal with any idea of throwing the prosecution off balance, the Crown is most ready to accept the challenge!”

“Do you mean to say,” asked his Lordship slowly, “that the Crown is prepared to sacrifice the advantages of hearing the defense witnesses before making its summation?”

“My Lord, we are!” Trumpets pealed their glorious fanfare in his mind; from one corner of his eye he could note the journalists scribbling furiously. “My Lord, so firm are we in our conviction that there can be no hope of justice miscarrying in this case, that we are willing to show our honorable opponent the full extent of our armory of weapons! Although,” he added with a faint smile, “there should really be small secret in this regard, since they are weapons which the defense itself has forged and offered us to hand. So, with the permission of the court, we state that the Crown is prepared to make its final summation.”

“If you insist,” said his Lordship. Then he put it another way, “As you desire,” and again rapped his gavel for no reason other than punctuation. Sir Osbert Willoughby gathered his papers together dramatically and then, considering them a moment, flung them once again upon the table as being unnecessary.

“My Lord, gentlemen of the jury,” he announced, turning to face that body. “’You have heard the counsel for the defense attempt to twit us, to twist our nose, so to speak, with a witless challenge to present our summation at this point. It can only be assumed that either the counsel for the defense has not paid too close attention to the witnesses or he has forgotten that he himself, but a few hours ago, stipulated that not only was his client, the accused, on the scene, but the accused did, in fact, shove Mrs. Bosler into the gaping hole of the lift well.

“Beyond handing us this statement—and a statement which, alone, and without further substantiation, is all that the Crown needs to prove its case—our honorable opponent has been most generous in the feeble manner in which he picked at the witnesses for the Crown. If his intent was simply to confuse, I am sure he has vastly underestimated the intelligence of the jury. For let us see exactly what we have:

“On the question of the lift, he has been able to produce two cases of short circuits in the entire history of the Arvo Company; yet there are over twelve thousand of these lifts in faithful service. And one of these cases resulted from lightning, which even my imaginative opponent cannot claim occurred in Clayton Street. And the other? A short circuit induced by paint on the control-box contacts. Then, says the defense, is it not possible that blood in this particular case may have had the same effect on the contacts? But if it did, then it must have had this effect after the murder! Because before the murder, there was no blood. And therefore this speciousness can in no way explain the odd workings of the lift before the murder!

“In the handling of the witness Mr. Corby, the counsel for the defense went to great lengths to show the possibility of a fourth person being on the premises that evening. Leaving aside the flimsiness of the method by which my learned opponent attempted to prove this point, with buzzings, et cetera, the Crown might well ask, Well? So? What if there were twenty people on the premises that evening? In fact, if it please the counsel for the defense, we will stipulate the possibility of twenty people having been there. Because the fact is that none of them flung Mrs. Bosler to her death, because the accused did! The same applies to the involved questioning which resulted in Mr. Corby’s statement that there were people who might have liked, in his words, to dance on her grave. Leaving aside the fact that almost everyone in this courtroom would probably enjoy dancing on someone’s grave, and that if this desire alone were sufficient motive for murder there would be precious few of us alive—leaving aside these facts, we again come to our old argument: if every person working in the Grafton Building not only wished Mrs. Bosler dead but even signed depositions to this effect, we are again forced to face the fact that they didn’t push Mrs. Bosler down the lift shaft; the accused did!

“Before leaving the testimony of Mr. Corby, let us study for a moment this business of the drugged whiskey. The counsel for the defense has insisted—his word—that Mr. Corby was drugged in his whiskey. I do not pretend to explain why the defense insists upon this point, for, since the accused has admitted pushing Mrs. Bosler to her death, it can only have been to his advantage to drug Mr. Corby’s whiskey. Certainly it is requesting much of our credulity to ask us to believe that A drugged the whiskey—for no reason whatsoever—while B, knowing nothing of either A or his act, was fortunate enough to take advantage of this act in executing his plan.

“But enough of the testimony of Mr. Corby. Let us turn to the handling of the witness Sergeant Willets. Here the defense showed the true colors of his case; for here he was unable to even think of arguments to present. For the testimony of Sergeant Willets not only showed that the pointer was tampered with, but definitely proved it was the accused who tampered with it. And why would the accused have done this? Only because Mrs. Bosler needed to be led to her death without suspecting a trap—for, gentlemen, remember, Mrs. Bosler outweighed the accused by at least four stone despite his height. In a struggle at the lift-shaft opening it is more than possible that it would have been the accused who would have fallen! No; the pointer had to give Mrs. Bosler the impression she was stepping into the actual lift, and not stepping to her death. And who but the man who aided her to take this step—by his own admission, mind you!—and whose fingerprints we find on the pointer, could stand to gain by moving the pointer?

“My Lord, gentlemen of the jury, the Crown will not waste your time further by repeating things which must be evident to us all. Mr. Clifford Simpson, with malice aforethought, went to the Grafton Building, drugged the porter, arranged the indicator pointer of the lift to point to the fifth floor when he knew, and had arranged for, the lift cab to be at a much lower position, and then brutally thrust Mrs. Bosler down the opening. In truth, I do not know why the defense keeps up the pretense of its case, for all of the statements made by the Crown have either been made first by the defense or been confirmed by it.”

He smiled in a friendly fashion, indicating to the jury that neither he nor they would be taken in by any weak attempt at obfuscation.

“Should the defense feel,” he continued, certain that he had the jury in the palm of his hand, “that by this method of broad admission they therefore have the right to ask clemency of the jury, I would remind you gentlemen that the argument is false. A jury may have emotions, but legally it is not entitled to them. The case must be judged on the facts alone—and the facts prove conclusively that on the night of September 22, at eight o’clock in the evening, Mr. Clifford Simpson did murder Mrs. Sarah Bosler in a manner particularly revolting. There can be but one possible decision: guilty, with recommendation to hang!”

He sat. In the utter silence that followed, Lord Justice Pomeroy rose to his full height. He raised his gavel, allowed it to sway impressively in midair for a second, and then rapped it once.

“The court is adjourned until ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”