Читать книгу The Ends Of Justice - Fred M. White - Страница 10

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For some time Morton Smyth held the letter in his hand, examining it carefully. There was just the suspicion of a smile over his boyish features. Then he turned to the bank official, smart, crisp, and alert, waiting to give his evidence and get the ordeal over as soon as possible. Here was a witness who had not the faintest interest in the case, and who could be trusted to speak with the greatest impartiality—a witness distinctly to be on good terms with.

"Now, sir," Smyth began in his blandest manner. "Will you be so good as to produce the prisoner's pass-book."

The small parchment-covered book was handed in, and the entries scanned by Smyth.

"Please to take that in your hand," he said. "I am assuming, as a matter of course, that all the entries are correct. On the 26th of July there is a credit of one thousand pounds to the prisoner. How was that paid?"

"It was paid in notes by Mr. Cathcart himself."

"Was the money paid to you?"

"Not to me personally. I am not at the counter. But Mr. Butler, the assistant cashier, is here, and he will tell you that he received the money."

"Quite so, quite so. My lord, we are quite prepared to admit that the prisoner visited the bank on the day in question, and made the one thousand pounds payment personally. The pass-book was left at the same time."

"That is so," the witness replied. "The pass-books are my responsibility. Mr. Cathcart's was handed to me to make up, with instructions that it was to be kept till called for, as Mr. Cathcart was leaving England immediately."

"And from that day to this the passbook has not been out of your possession?"

"Well, it has not been out of the possession of the bank. It was locked up in one of the safes with scores of others."

"That is the usual thing, I presume?"

"Very frequently with private customers who only check their pass-books at intervals. It greatly helps us to have the pass-books frequently."

"I can quite understand that," counsel muttered. "Did you examine the pocket in the book after or before you had it made up?"

"No, I had no idea any document was there. After the prosecution was established, the authorities asked for a copy of the prisoner's account."

"Which you declined to give, of course?"

"Certainly. It was not till the end of December that the account was disclosed to the prosecution on a judge's order. An inspector from Scotland Yard called to see the account, and at his request the pass-book was handed to him."

"The pass-book having then been in uninterrupted possession of the bank for upwards of four months?"

"Yes, sir. Seventeen weeks, to be particular."

"Um. Now, is it possible that, during those seventeen weeks, the book might have been tampered with? Let me put you a case. The theory of the defence in this case is one of conspiracy. Supposing I had desired to convey this letter to the pocket of the pass-book where it was found. Supposing I had corrupted some junior clerk in the bank with a view of surreptitiously smuggling this letter to its destination. Could it be managed without difficulty?"

"It is not very probable," the witness said stiffly. "But, if we grant your dishonest person, it could easily have been done."

"Done with the greatest ease, in fact?"

"Quite so, sir. Pass-books are constantly required, and a mere junior in the daytime would have access to the safe."

"In fact, under the circumstances, a junior might have walked off with the prisoner's book and kept it a day or two?"

"Under the circumstances, he could."

"And nobody have been any the wiser?"

Smyth bowed and smiled. The counsel for the Crown nodded as if indicating that his learned friend had scored a point. Very rapidly Smyth went on with his case. The audience was deeply interested. They were vividly following the story of the suicide Powell, the man who could have thrown so much light on the mystery. There was a strong human interest here.

The witness had known Seth Powell quite well by sight. He was an employee in the house of Lockwood Mostyn and Co., and had an account with the bank. The big firm in question had an account there also. Smyth elicited this fact with a careless flung query and a little smile that puzzled his opponent.

"What has become of Seth Powell's balance?" he asked.

The witness replied that it stood for the present pending another claimant.

"But you have no proof of the man's death," Smyth protested.

"Well, yes. He committed suicide. He was afterwards identified."

"Stop!" Smyth cried. "I am greatly interested in this point. It is absolutely necessary to my case to know by whom the dead man was identified."

"I will make my friend's mind easy on that score," the Crown counsel drawled. "The identification was made by Mr. Lockwood Mostyn himself. You will find his evidence given before the coroner."

Smyth clicked his lips together. He intimated that the witness might stand down for the present, and that he should like Mr. Lockwood Mostyn to be sworn.

Lockwood Mostyn came pompously into the box. He had very little to tell, but that very little was to the point. It was about the time that the insurance company made demur over payment of the Lone Star insurances that his suspicions were aroused. He had made secret investigations which pointed to Seth Powell as being implicated. Many searching questions were asked him, and he became alarmed. All the same, he promised to clear up the matter the next morning. From that moment he was not seen in the office again. At the end of a few days he (witness) happened to read the description of a body that had been found in the Thames. It tallied very much with a description of the missing man. A visit to the mortuary established the fact.

"Seth Powell, beyond a doubt?" Smyth asked carelessly.

"Absolutely," Mostyn replied. "Powell had no friends, and I paid for the funeral."

"He was not identified by anyone but yourself?"

"There was no need. He lived at Forest Gate in rooms that were all the cheaper because the landlady was nearly blind and Powell had to do most things for himself. He was a man of an exceedingly saving disposition."

Smyth waved the witness aside. He had no further questions to ask. The case for the prosecution had closed, and it was felt by the great majority of the spectators that the prisoner's counsel had an exceedingly uphill task. Still, the more observant of the audience did not fail to notice his cheerfulness.

"I am going to make no lengthy speech, my lord," he said: "and I am only going to call one witness. Acting on instructions from Mr. Douglas Renton, the owner of the ill-fated Lone Star, a solicitor, whom I need not name, examined the prisoner's passbook, and also had an opportunity of seeing the letter which has told so fatally against my client.

"Now, if that letter is genuine, my client's case is hopeless. But suppose that I can prove that letter to be something in the nature of a forgery? Suppose that I can prove beyond a demonstration that that letter, purported to be deposited in the bank by my client himself before his fatal voyage, was placed in the pocket of the passbook quite recently? My lord, my witness, Mr. Wallace Chattock, is a well-known heraldic stationer. When you have heard what he has to say, you will be forced to the conclusion that there is a deep conspiracy somewhere. Call Mr. Wallace Chattock."

The audience thrilled. Something dramatic was coming. A slight dark man now came into the box with cheerful assurance.