JUSTICE--AND JUSTIFICATION
The court room was crowded on every side. There was barely space for
another person to enter in comfort, and when the news went round in the
street that Sir Nigel Merriton, late of the army, was being tried for his
life, and that things were going pretty black against him, all London
seemed to turn out with a morbid curiosity to hear the sentence of death
passed.
Petrie, stationed at the door, spent most of his time waving a
white-gloved hand, and shaking his head until he felt that it would
shortly tumble off his neck and roll away upon the pavement. Mr. Narkom
had given him instructions that if any one of "any importance in the
affair in question" should turn up, he was to admit him, but to be
adamant in every other case. And so the queue of morbid-minded women and
idle men grew long and longer, and the clamour louder and louder, until
the tempers of the police on guard grew very short, and the crowd was
handled more and more firmly.
The effect of this began to tell. Slowly it thinned out and the people
turned once more into the Strand, sauntering along with their heads half
the time over their shoulders, while Petrie stood and mopped his face and
wondered what had become of Mr. Cleek, or if he had turned up in one of
his many _aliases_, and he hadn't recognized him.
"Like as not that's what's happened," he told himself, stuffing his
thumbs into his policeman's belt and setting his feet apart. "But what
gets over me is, not a sight 'ave I seen of young Dollops. And where Mr.
Cleek is.... Well, that there young feller is bound to be, too. Case is
drawin' to a close, I reckon, by this time. I wouldn't be in _that_ young
lord's shoes!"
He shook his head at the thought, and fell to considering the matter and
in a most sympathetic frame of mind if the truth be told.
Half-an-hour passed, another sped by. The crowd now worried him very
little, and judging from one or two folk that drifted out of the court
room, with rather pale faces and set mouths, as though they had heard
something that sickened them, and were going to be out of it before the
end came, Petrie began to think that that end was approaching very near.
And he hadn't seen Mr. Cleek go into the place, or Dollops either! Funny
thing that. In his phone message that morning, Mr. Cleek had said he
would be at the court sharp at one, and it was half-past two now. Well,
he was sorry the guv'nor hadn't turned up in time. He'd be disappointed,
no doubt, and after all the telephoning and hunting up of directories
that he himself had done personally that very morning, Mr. Cleek would be
feeling rather "off it" if he turned up too late.
Petrie took a few steps up and down, and his eyes roamed the Strand
leisurely. He came to a sudden halt, as a red limousine--_the_ red
limousine he knew so well--whirled up to the pavement's edge, stopped
in front of him with a grinding of brakes, a door flashed open, and he
heard the sound of a sharp order given in that one unmistakable voice.
Mr. Cleek was there, followed by Dollops, close at his heels, and looking
as though they had torn through hell itself to get there in time.
Petrie took a hurried step forward and swung back the big iron gate still
farther.
"In time, Petrie?" Cleek asked breathlessly.
"Just about, sir. Near shave, though, from what I see of the people
a-comin' out. 'Eard the case 'ad gone against Sir Nigel, sir--poor chap.
'Ere, you, Dollops--"
But Dollops was gone in his master's wake, in his arms a huge, ungainly
bundle that looked like a stove-pipe wrapped up in brown paper, gone
through the court room door, without so much as passing the time of day
with an old pal. Petrie felt distinctly hurt about it, and sauntered back
to his place with his smile gone, while Cleek, hurrying through the
crowded court room and passing, by the sheer power of his name, the
various court officials who would have stopped him, stopped only as he
reached the space before the judge's bench. Already the jury were filing
in, one by one, and taking their seats. The black cap lay beside Mr.
Justice Grainger's spectacles, a sinister emblem, having its response in
the white-faced man who stood in the dock, awaiting the verdict upon his
life.
Cleek saw it all in one glance, and then spoke.
"Your Lordship," he said, addressing the judge, who looked at him with
raised eyebrows, "may I address the court?" The barristers arose,
scandalized at the interruption, knowing not whether advantage for
prosecution or defence lay in what this man had to say. The clerk of the
court stood aghast ready to order the court officers to eject the
interloper who dared interrupt the course of the majestic law. All stood
poised for a breathless moment, held in check by the power of the man
Cleek, or by uncertainty as to the action of the judge.
A tense pause, and then the court broke the silence, "You may speak."
"Your Lordship, may it please the court," said Cleek, "I have evidence
here which will save this man's life. I demand to show it to the court."
The barristers, held in check by the stern practice of the English law,
which, unlike American practice does not allow counsel to becloud the
issue with objection and technical argument, remained motionless. They
knew Cleek, and knew that here was the crisis of the case they had
presented so learnedly.
"This is an unusual occurrence, sir," at last spoke the judge, "and you
are distinctly late. The jury has returned and the foreman is about to
pronounce the verdict. What is it you have to say, sir?"
"Your Lordship, it is simply this." Cleek threw back his head. "The
prisoner at bar--" He pointed to Merriton, who at the first sound of
Cleek's voice had spun round, a sudden hope finding birth in his dull
eyes, "is _innocent_! I have absolute proof. Also--" He switched round
upon his heel and surveyed the court room, "I beg of your Lordship that
you will immediately give orders for no person to leave this court. The
instigator of the crime is before my eyes. Perhaps you do not know me,
but I have been at work upon this case for some time, and am a colleague
of Mr. Narkom of Scotland Yard. My name is--Cleek--Hamilton Cleek. I
have your permission to continue?"
A murmur went up round the crowded court room. The judge nodded. He
needed no introduction to Cleek.
"The gentlemen of the jury will be seated," declared the court, "the
clerk will call Hamilton Cleek as a witness."
This formality accomplished, the judge indicated that he, himself, would
question this crucial eleventh-hour witness.
"Mr. Cleek," he began, "you say this man is innocent. We will hear your
story."
Cleek motioned to Dollops, who stood at the back of the court, and
instantly the lad pushed his way through the crowd to his master's side,
carrying the long, ungainly burden in his arms. Meanwhile, at the back of
the room a commotion had occurred. The magic name of that most magical of
men--Hamilton Cleek, detective--had wrought what Cleek had known it
would. Someone was pushing for the door with all the strength that was in
him, but already the key had turned, and Hammond, as guardian, held up
his hand.
Cleek knew--but for the time said nothing--and the crowd had hidden
whoever it was from the common view. He simply motioned Dollops to lay
his burden upon the table, and then spoke once more.
"M' Lud," he said clearly, "may I ask a favour of the court? I
should be obliged if you would call every witness in this matter
here--simultaneously. Set them out in a row, if you will, but call
them _now_.... Thanks."
The judge motioned to the clerk, and through the hushed silence of
the court the dull voice droned out: "Anthony West, William Borkins,
Lester Stark, Gustave Brellier, Miss Antoinette Brellier, Doctor
Bartholomew...." And so on through the whole list. As each name was
called the owner of it came forward and stood in front of the judge's
high desk.
"A most unusual proceeding, sir," said that worthy, again settling the
spectacles upon his nose and frowning down at Cleek; "but, knowing who
you are--"
"I appreciate your Lordship's kindness. Now then, all there?" Cleek
whirled suddenly, and surveyed the strange line. "That's good. And at
least every one of them is _here_. No chance of slipping away now. Now
for it."
He turned back to the table with something of suppressed eagerness in his
movements, and a low murmur of excitement went up round the crowded
court room. Rapidly he tore off the wrappings from the long, snake-like
bundle, and held one of the objects up to view.
"Allow me to draw your attention to this," he said, in a loud, clear
voice, every note of which carried to the back of the long room. "This,
as you possibly know, sir, is a piece of electric tubing made for the
express purpose of conveying safely delicate electric wirings that are
used for installations, so that they may not be damaged in transit from
the factory to--the agent who sells them. You would like to see the
wirings, I know--" For answer he whipped open the joints of one of the
tubes, set it upon end, and--from inside the narrow casing came a perfect
shower of golden sovereigns clattering to the floor and across the table
in front of the astonished clerk's eyes.
The judge sat up suddenly and rubbed his eyes.
"God bless my soul!" he began, and then subsided into silence. The
eyes of young Sir Nigel Merriton nearly leapt from their sockets with
astonishment; and every man in the crowd was gaping.
Cleek laughed.
"Rather of a surprise, I must admit; isn't it?" he said, with a slight
shrug of the shoulders. "And no doubt you're wondering what all this has
to do with the case in hand. Well, that'll come along all in good time.
Golden sovereigns, you see, carefully stacked up to fill the little
tubing to its capacity--and thousands of 'em done the same, too! There's
a perfect fortune down there in that factory at Saltfleet! Mr. Narkom,"
he turned round and surveyed the Superintendent with mirthful eyes, "what
about these bank robberies now, eh? I told you something would crop up.
You see it has. We've discovered the hiding-place of the gold--and the
prime leader in the whole distressing affair. The rest ought to be easy."
He whipped round suddenly toward the line of witnesses, letting his eyes
travel over each face in turn; past Tony West's reddened countenance,
past Dr. Bartholomew's pale intensity, past Borkins, standing very
straight and white and frightened-looking. Then, of a sudden he leapt
forward, his hand clamped down upon someone's shoulder, and his voice
exclaimed triumphantly:
"And here the beauty is!"
Then, before the astonished eyes of the crowd of spectators stood Mr.
Gustave Brellier, writhing and twisting in the clutch of the firm fingers
and spitting forth fury in a Flemish patois that would have struck Cleek
dead on the spot--if words could kill.
A sudden din arose. People pressed forward, the better to see and hear,
exclaiming loudly, condemning, criticising. The judge's frail old hand
brought silence at last, and Antoinette Brellier came forward from her
place and clutched Cleek by the arm.
"It cannot be, Mr.--Cleek!" she said piteously. "I tell you my uncle is
the best of men, truly! He could never have done this thing that you
accuse him of--and--"
"And the worst of devils! That I can thoroughly endorse, my dear young
lady," returned Cleek with a grim laugh. "I am sorry for you--very. But
at least you will have consolation in your future husband's release. That
should compensate you. Here, officer, take hold of this man. We'll get
down to brass tacks now. Take hold of him, and hold him fast, for a more
slippery snake never was created. All right, Sir Nigel; it is all right,
lad. Sit down. This is going to be a long story, but it's got to be told.
Fetch chairs for the witnesses, constable. And don't let any of 'em
go--yet. I want 'em to hear this thing through."
In his quick, easy manner he seemed suddenly to have taken command of the
court. And, knowing that he was Hamilton Cleek, and that Cleek would use
his own methods, or none, Mr. Justice Grainger took the wisest course,
and--let him alone.
When all was in readiness, Cleek settled down to the story. He was the
only man left standing, a straight slim figure, full of that controlled
power and energy that is so often possessed by a small but perfect
machine. He bowed to the judge with something of the theatrical in his
manner, and then rested one hand upon the clerk's table.
"Now, naturally, you are wanting to hear the story," he said briskly,
"and I'll make it as brief as possible. But I warn you there's a good
deal to be told, and afterward there'll be work for Scotland Yard, more
work than perhaps they'll care about; but that is another story. To begin
with, the jury, my lord, was undoubtedly, from all signs, about to
convict the prisoner upon a charge of murder--a murder of which he was
entirely innocent. You have heard Merriton's story. Believe me, every
word of it is true--circumstantial evidence to the contrary
notwithstanding.
"In the first place, Dacre Wynne was shot through the temple at the
instigation of that man there," he pointed to Brellier, standing pale and
still between two constables, "foully shot, as many others had been
similarly done to death, because they had ventured forth across the Fens
at night, and were likely to investigate this man's charming little
midnight movements, further than he cared about. To creatures of his like
human life is nothing compared to what it can produce. Men and women are
a means to an end, and that end, the furtherance of his own wealth, his
own future. The epitome of prehistoric selfishness, is it not? Club the
next man that comes along, and steal from his dead body all that he has
worked for. Oh, a pretty sort of a tale this is, I promise you!
"What's that, my lord? What has the Frozen Flame to do with all this?
Why, the answer to that is as simple as A.B.C. The Frozen Flames, or that
most natural of phenomena, marsh-gas--of which I won't weary you with an
explanation--arose from that part of the Fens where the rotting
vegetation was at its worst. What more natural, then, than that this
human fiend should endeavour to shape even this thing to his own ends?
The villagers had always been superstitious of these lights, but their
notice had never been particularly called to them before the story of the
Frozen Flames had been carefully spread from mouth to mouth by Brellier's
tools.
"Then one man, braver than the rest, ventured forth--and never came back.
The story gained credence, even with the more educated few. Another,
unwilling to conform to public opinion, did likewise. And he, too, went
into the great unknown. The list of Brellier's victims--supposed, of
course, to be burnt up by the Frozen Flames--grew fairly lengthy in the
four years that he has been using them as a screen for his underhanded
work. A guard--and I've seen one of the men myself during a little
midnight encounter that I had with him--went wandering over that part of
the district armed with a revolver. The first sight of a stranger caused
him to use his weapon. Meanwhile, behind the screen of the lights the
bank robbers were bringing in their gold by motor and hiding the sacks
down in a network of underground passageways that I also discovered--and
traversed. They ran, by devious ways, both to a field in Saltfleet
conveniently near the factory, and by another route up to the back
kitchen of Merriton Towers.
"You'll admit that, when I discovered this to be the case, I felt pretty
uneasy about Sir Nigel's innocence. But a still further search brought to
light another passage, which ran straight into the study of Withersby
Hall, occupied by the Brelliers, and was hidden under the square rug in
front of the fireplace. A nice convenient little spot for our friend here
to carry on his good work. Just a few words to say that he didn't want to
be disturbed in his study, a locked door, a rug moved, and--there you
are! He was free from all prying eyes to investigate the way things were
going, and to personally supervise the hiding of the gold. While outside
upon the Fens men were being killed like rats, because one or two of them
chose to use their intelligence, and wanted to find out what the flames
really were. They found out all right, poor devils, and their widows
waited for them in vain.
"And what does he do with all this gold, you ask? Why, ship it, by using
an electrical factory where he makes tubings and fittings--and a good
deal of mischief, to boot. The sovereigns are hidden as you have seen,
and are shipped out at night in fishing boats, loaded below the water
mark--I've helped with the loading myself, so I know--_en route_ for
Belgium, where his equally creditable brother, Adolph, receives the
tubes and invariably ships them back as being of the wrong gauge. Look
here--" He stopped speaking for a moment and, stepping forward, lifted up
another tubing from the table, and unfastened it at one of the joints.
Then he held it up for all to see.
"See that stuff in there? That's tungsten. Perhaps you don't all know
what tungsten is. Well, it's a valuable commodity that is mined from the
earth, and which is used expressly in the making of electric lamps. Our
good friend Adolph, like his brother, has the same twist of brain.
Instead of keeping the tubes, he returns them with the rather thin excuse
that they are of the wrong gauge, and fills them with this tungsten, from
the famous tungsten mines for which Belgium holds first place in the
world. And so the stuff is shipped in absolutely free of duty, while our
friend here unloads it, supplies the raw material to one or two firms in
town, trading under the name of Jonathan Brent (you see I've got the
whole facts, Brellier), and uses some himself for this factory, which is
the 'blind' for his other trading ideas. Very clever, isn't it?"
The judge nodded.
"I thought you would agree so, my Lord. Even crime can have its clever
side, and more often than not the criminal brain is the cleverest which
the world produces.
"Where was I? Ah, yes! The shipping of the stuff to Belgium. You see,
Brellier's clever there. He knows that the sudden appearance of all
this gold at his own bank would arouse suspicions, especially as the
robberies have been so frequent, so he determines that it is safer out of
the country, and as the exchange of British gold is high, he makes money
that way. Turns his hand to everything, in fact." He laughed. "But now
we're turning our hands to _him_, and the Law will have its toll, penny
for penny, life for life. You've come to the end of _your_ resources,
Brellier, when you engaged those two strange workmen. Or, better still,
your accomplice did it for you. You didn't know they were Cleek and his
man, did you? You didn't know that on that second night after we'd worked
there at the factory for you, we investigated that secret passage in the
field outside Saltfleet Road? You didn't know that while you walked down
that passage in the darkness with your man Jim Dobbs--or 'Dirty Jim,' to
give him the sobriquet by which he is known among your employees--that
we were hidden against the wall opposite to that first little niche
where the bags of sovereigns stood, and that--though I hadn't seen
you--something in your voice struck a note of familiarity in my memory?
You didn't know that, then? Well, perhaps it's just as well, because I
might not be here now to tell this story, and to hand you over to
justice."