Читать книгу The Ends Of Justice - Fred M. White - Страница 9

Table of Contents

A gentle scratching on the outer door of Samuel Gem's official residence caused that stern familiar to awake from fitful slumbers with a start. A slow, solemn joy glowed on his face as he saw Cathcart.

"Not that I expected you for a moment," he said with great candor. "There were fine enough promises, but to one in my position who has so fine a chance to study human nature. Well, on the whole, I shouldn't have come back—myself."

"In my case you certainly would," Cathcart said. "I'm too dead tired to argue the ethics of the case. Brush me down and lend me your blacking brushes. We don't want to excite suspicion."

Cathcart's pallet was a hard one, and none too clean; but he slept with a soundness and sweetness that fine linen often woos in vain. It was late before he woke, and Gem was standing over him. All signs of a friendly understanding had gone. Gem was in his uniform, the man merged into the official.

"Your breakfast," he said, "sent in from outside. Ham and eggs cut up small, because the regulations don't admit of knives being allowed to prisoners. Sir Cyril Bath has met with an accident, and another judge is coming by the 11.17 to take over the criminal cases. You won't be called before mid-day."

Cathcart nodded carelessly, but his heart was beating faster.

"Mr. Justice Pardon is coming here," Gem resumed: "also a Mr. Jasper Svrett is here. Says he is your lawyer from London. Like to see him, I expect?"

George Cathcart nodded again. Evidently this was the solicitor spoken of by Mr. Douglas Renton the previous evening. He came in presently, small, bland, dapper, but with the hard-looking muscles and the clear brown skin of a sportsman.

"Sorry we could not arrange the matter for you, Mr. Cathcart," as he shook hands. "If I were not more or less independent of my profession and a bachelor to boot, I may begin by saying that I know everything, even down to the events of last night."

"Then perhaps you can enlighten me, a bit," Cathcart suggested. "Why is my mysterious friend, Mr. Douglas Renton, so interested in the case?"

"Because his fortune is more or less bound up in it. Renton is a man of some considerable means: also he has a weakness for writing fiction of the adventurous type. Being a man with a conscience, he lives to study his local color on the spot. He has one or two smart steamers with a view to pearl-poaching, gun-running, and the like. He was your employer when you commanded the Gannet on that Venezuela gun-running expedition."

"I begin to see," Cathcart said thoughtfully.

"You will see more when I tell you he was owner of the Lone Star," Syrett went on. "The Lone Star was hired to a company directed by Lockwood Mostyn, and carried the valuable, highly-insured cargo that perished when, as alleged, you cast her away. Unfortunately, the Lone Star herself wasn't insured—overlooked in the press of business. All this looked very honest and straightforward. The underwriters would naturally assume that as the ship was lost, the insurance on the cargo would leave an actual loss to Mostyn and Company. But for the ugly rumor the money would have been paid long ago. Those rumors spread, and an investigation took place. Then it became necessary to find a scapegoat, and the other fellow committed suicide. Your small banking account has a mysterious credit of one thousand pounds, and amongst your papers is found a letter, from Seth Powell, the suicide, that condemns you."

"And where was that found?" Cathcart asked.

"Why, in the pocket of your bankers pass-book. The very day you sailed for Colombo you paid one thousand pounds into your bank."

"Most assuredly I did," Cathcart admitted. "But I came by it honestly."

"My dear friend, I have not the slightest doubt about it," said Syrett. "At the same time you left your passbook at the Bank. That you admit? Well, the bank people will be prepared to swear that that book was never out of their possession. And in the pocket of that bank-book is that fatal letter. As a matter of fact, I saw that letter a fortnight ago, acting on instructions from my other client, Douglas Renton."

"An ingenious conspiracy," Cathcart said bitterly.

"Ingenious, indeed!" the lawyer said, not without admiration. "Here is the case for the prosecution, as foreshadowed before the magistrate, in a nutshell, Lockwood Mostyn and Company are an honorable firm, who hire the Lone Star, and send you out in her with a mixed cargo for Colombo. From thence or thereabouts, you bring back a valuable cargo that has been heavily insured. On your way back you cast away the Lone Star. Why? Because you and Seth Powell have conspired to steal and sell that very valuable cargo—represented in the hold of the Lone Star by so many dummies—and put the proceeds in your pocket. Everything points to this conclusion. And the real culprits jeer out at your expense."

Cathcart nodded. He was perfectly alive to his peril.

"All the same," he said, thoughtfully, "I don't quite see why Mr. Renton should go out of his way to help me to this extent."

"My dear sir, in the first place he knows you to be innocent. No need to mention recent happenings, but the events of last night prove him to be correct. Also Mr. Renton has an idea that may or may not prove correct later on. He might have managed to set at the truth last night, but, unfortunately, the trend of events prevented him from priming you as he had intended. Still, in the short time at our disposal, we have done fairly well indeed. The barrister I have instructed to appear for you, has a pretty surprise in store for the prosecution."

"Do you mean to say that they can prove my innocence?" Cathcart asked eagerly.

"On the whole, I should rather say not," Syrett said coolly. "But it will be a staggerer for the Crown, and in all human possibility the jury will disagree as to their verdict. That will mean a new trial; also it will mean that we can get bail. And long before you stand at the bar again your innocence will be established. And now I am going to ask you some pretty pertinent questions."

For an hour or more Cathcart was a patient witness in the hands of his own lawyer. After that there came a plump little man with a shrewd eye and wide mouth, who appeared to be one Morton Smyth of the Junior Bar, who had been retained for the defence by Syrett. The second hurried conference was barely finished before Cathcart was once more called to take his trial.

The little court-house was again crowded to suffocation. Public interest had not decreased owing to the news that Sir Cyril Bath had met with a nasty accident and, therefore, would be debarred from his duties for some little time to come. Lockwood Mostyn scowled as he heard the news, his ragged nails bit into his horny palm, a spirit of restless anticipation possessed him. Was his ally going to throw him over after all? If Bath hesitated now it would be fatal.

But the prisoner was in a different mood altogether. For the first time he had hope on his side. He looked steadfastly round the crowded court house, he bowed to the judge, who was fussing with his predecessors notes. Then the trial began over again. One witness after another was called, and gave his evidence anew, and one after another stepped down from the box without a sign from Mr. Morton Smyth, who appeared to be deeply engrossed in drawing caricatures on his blotting-pad.

Up to a certain point the trial was getting along smoothly. As on the previous day, the trial was telling against the prisoner. Yet from time to time the counsel for the Crown glanced uneasily at his opponent. Presently there stepped into the box an official from Cathcart's bank, who deposed to the lodging of some one thousand pounds in money, and the finding of the letter from the suicide Seth Powell in the pocket of the passbook. All this was new evidence, and the spectators followed it breathlessly. The prisoner listened with a smile, but it was the smile of bravado—or so those close to him imagined. The chain seemed to be complete. The letter was read aloud by the prosecuting counsel, and then handed to the judge. For the first time Morton Smyth appeared to be interested.

"Does my friend wish to cross-examine?" the Crown counsel asked.

Morton Smyth jumped to his feet and pushed his gown aside. There was just one of those dramatic little pauses that always tell the spectators in a magnetic way that great events are going to happen.

"Has my learned friend any further witnesses to call?" Smyth asked.

"No," was the reply; "this is my last. The rest would be superfluous."

"They would indeed," Morton Smyth said dryly. "Kindly hand me that letter." Over the hush of expectation the crackling of the paper could be distinctly heard.