The Verdict of You All. Illustrated, page 13
“I’ve come to ask for some information, sir,” he said, “regarding the murder of a financier. Sir John Smethurst, who is believed to have been negotiating a big concession with the Brazilian Government. We are anxious to obtain details of this transaction, as——”
“Ah, excuse,” murmured the attaché. “Our commercial secretary will no doubt be able to help you. I will fetch him.”
A few minutes later, a slightly older but no less exquisite hero appeared. He bowed to the inspector.
“Will you trouble yourself to step to my office?” he said. “I have there papers.” When they were in the small and rather untidy room that made but a poor setting for this human jewel, the latter continued: “We have news of this affair. Our Ministry of Interior—that deals with it—is anxious. It was an important concession, dealing with the electrification of two of the main State railways. The concession had actually just been granted to Sir John Smethurst, largely on our advice—we know he was, what you say, ‘a straight one.’ Now our Ministry ask what happen.”
“Yes, sir, and that’s just what I want to know. What happens next? Now that Sir John is dead, who gets the concession?”
“Mr Macor—Macordale—I cannot pronounce—was the highest bidder. The Ministry cable to ask more about him—he will probably obtain. But we did not recommend him in the first place.”
“Ah, that’s just what I wanted. McCorquodale—that’s the name, eh?—he will come in for the goods now. Or, rather, thinks he will,” the inspector added under his breath.
Taking leave of his obliging informant, the inspector, encouraged by this early success, decided rather daringly to take a leaf straight out of the superintendent’s book. He took a bus to the Albany, and entering it by the door in Piccadilly—on the previous day his dealings had been with the porter at the Burlington Gardens entrance—he made his way to the rooms occupied by Mr Samuel McCorquodale. His ring was answered by a sharp-looking valet.
“Mr McCorquodale in?” he asked.
“No, sir,” replied the man. “Mr McCorquodale is at his office—in the City, sir.”
“But he told me to meet him here!” The inspector’s voice suggested pained surprise. “Eleven-thirty sharp, he said—and it’s now twenty-five to twelve.”
“I think not, sir,” said the valet. “It’s only just the quarter by this hall clock, sir, and I set that every night by wireless.”
“Well, by Jove! what’s come to my watch?” ejaculated the guileful inspector. “Well, that accounts for it. I’ll just have to wait for him.”
The valet led him through a tiny hall and opened the door of a large sitting-room, handsomely furnished in the style of Albert the Good.
“What name shall I tell Mr McCorquodale when he comes in, sir?” he inquired.
“Wollop,” replied the detective, who was not of an inventive turn of mind. “Sir Herbert Wollop,” he added, with a dash of imagination.
Having indicated to his titled visitor the cigars and an unlocked “tantalus,” the valet withdrew. The detective cast a rapid glance round the room. The first object to catch his eyes—probably owing to its incongruity in the early Victorian setting—was a large photograph of Mr Samuel McCorquodale himself, disguised as an officer of the Royal Naval Air Service. Inspector Dobson snorted.
“Nice sort of chap, hanging his own picture up,” he said. “I bet his ‘bit’ was driving admirals about in a Rolls-Royce.”
He was about to investigate further, when he was startled to hear the sound of a voice in the hall. Could McCorquodale really have returned? The detective tiptoed to the door and listened. At once his face cleared—he realized that the voice was only that of the valet telephoning. Then some words caught his ear, and a look of consternation came into his face. He had just time to jump away from the door and turn towards the window, when the former opened and the valet came in.
“Mr McCorquodale’s compliments, sir,” he said politely, “and will Inspector Dobson kindly leave his rooms at his earliest convenience?”
The inspector walked past the smirking valet and out of the flat with a disconcerted look on his face. But in his pocket there reposed an excellent likeness of Mr Samuel McCorquodale.
“That may come in useful for identification,” he said to himself, by way of consolation.
He might, of course, have got a search warrant that would have given him free access to McCorquodale’s rooms, but, before applying such drastic measures, the inspector thought he would try and persuade McCorquodale to give him the permission that he wanted. He took a bus to the Mansion House, and was soon at the door of the big Cornhill building which housed, among many others, Mr Samuel McCorquodale and his schemes. As he walked up the steps, a young man emerged from the building whose face was vaguely familiar to him. The detective stopped for a minute and watched the young man disappear in the crowd, trying to recall where he had seen him before. The memory, however, escaped him, and it was not till he was ringing the bell of McCorquodale’s office on the second floor that it flashed across him that it was the Smethursts’ footman, James Riley, that he had seen. No doubt the absence of livery had hindered his recognition.
The inspector was puzzled to know what could have brought Riley here—presumably to see McCorquodale—in plain clothes, and at this hour of the day. A possible explanation crossed his mind.
“I wonder,” he said to himself. “Can it be blackmail? Did he see McCorquodale that night? It’s quite on the cards.”
It was too late to follow Riley now, but there would be no difficulty about getting a word with him at St Margaret’s Lodge.
The inspector was greeted with a variation of the usual formula. Mr McCorquodale was engaged but would see him in five minutes. He waited patiently, and at the end of ten minutes asked the clerk to let Mr McCorquodale know that his business was urgent and that he would like an immediate interview. The clerk came back at once and announced that, much to his surprise, Mr McCorquodale’s room was empty. He must have forgotten or else have received some urgent summons, and gone out by his private door which opened directly on to the landing. The detective cursed his own stupidity.
“The cunning fox,” he said to himself. “He didn’t want to face another talk. I shan’t find him now. I shall have to get that search warrant.”
Before going back to the Yard, however, the inspector thought it would be well worth his while to pay a visit to St Margaret’s Lodge, and try to find out what connection Mr James Riley had with Mr Samuel McCorquodale. He took the Inner Circle to Baker Street and decided to complete the journey on foot, in order to time the walk from Clarence Gate, where McCorquodale said he had picked up a cab, to St Margaret’s Lodge. Strolling at an easy pace, the inspector found that it took him twelve minutes.
At St Margaret’s Lodge, however, he drew blank. A strange footman opened the door, and Mr Jackson, on being summoned, told him that Riley had left three days ago at a few hours’ notice.
“Said his sister was ill,” said the butler with a sniff. “I always thought that chap was a wrong ’un—but, still, honest soit qui mal y pense, I suppose.”
The news troubled Inspector Dobson. He felt that he had not given this young man the attention that he deserved. On his return to Scotland Yard, however, the matter was driven entirely out of his head by the news that a taxi-driver had just come in who thought that he was the man for whom inquiries were being made. The inspector found the man, one Albert Chucher, in the yard with his cab. He was young and intelligent-looking, and the detective was very hopeful of getting some valuable information.
“Yes, sir,” he said; “I think the fare I drove from Clarence Gate last Monday night must be the one you mean. But I didn’t drive him to the Albany, though. That’s why I didn’t catch on at first that he was the one I’d driven; but then when I began to think about it, it wasn’t so likely that there’d be many gentlemen in evening clothes in Park Road at midnight on the same night. So I came along. It wasn’t to the Albany I drove him, but to Black’s Club, in St James’ Street. He was a bit odd—that’s what made me remember him. When I picked him up he was walking in the roadway—not on the pavement—and though he was looking in front of him he didn’t seem to see where he was going. I believe he’d have walked right into me if I hadn’t blown my horn. That seemed to wake him up, and he looked round, as if to see where he was, and then hailed me, just as I was driving on.”
“What time was this, Chucher?” asked the detective.
“It was a little after twelve, sir. Five or ten past, I should say.”
“After twelve? Are you sure of that?”
“Quite sure, sir. Midnight’s a time you notice in London. It’s fairly quiet by then, and all the clocks striking together make a pretty good noise. Oh yes, it was after twelve.”
The detective turned up his notes. He found that Miss Smethurst had put the time of McCorquodale’s leaving the house at “about half-past eleven.” He had unfortunately not got McCorquodale’s own statement on that point, but Miss Smethurst had been fairly definite. If, then, McCorquodale had left the house at approximately half-past eleven, according to the inspector’s calculation, made that afternoon, of the time it would take to walk to Clarence Gate, he should have been there long before twelve—probably at a quarter to. On the other hand, if, as the inspector believed, McCorquodale had gone back into the house and killed Smethurst at 11.45—the time suggested by the telephone call—there would have been just time for him to have arranged the body and the room as they had been found, and to have got to Clarence Gate by about ten minutes past twelve. The point was of great importance, and pointed strongly to the guilt of McCorquodale. The fact that Chucher’s fare had been apparently so perturbed as to walk in the roadway without looking where he was going, pointed in the same direction.
“Did you notice anything else about him?” asked the inspector eagerly. “Was he dishevelled at all—look as if he had been having a rough-and-tumble?”
“No, sir. I can’t say he did that. But this might interest you—I found it in my cab next morning.”
Chucher drew from his pocket a small paper parcel and handed it to the detective. The latter opened it and disclosed a white handkerchief. It was of good linen, unmarked, and was practically clean, except for one thick smear of blood.
“By God, that settles it!” cried the detective, moved beyond his wont. “Look here, Chucher, would you know the chap if you saw him?”
“I think so, sir,” replied the young taxi-driver.
The inspector suddenly remembered the photograph in his pocket. He drew it out and thrust it into the other’s hand.
“Is that anything like him?”
Chucher examined the photograph carefully.
“Well, of course, he wasn’t dressed quite so much the hero,” he said, “but I should say that that was him.”
Two minutes later, having disposed of Chucher, Inspector Dobson marched triumphantly into Superintendent Fraser’s office and slapped the photograph and handkerchief down on the latter’s table.
“Well, sir,” he said. “I think I’ve got him.” The superintendent stared at him.
“Got whom?” he said.
“That chap—McCorquodale.”
The superintendent continued to stare, then leaned back in his chair and laughed.
“You’re a thought late, Dobson,” he said. “I’ve just arrested Hastings.”
Chapter 22 The Old Bailey
The case of Rex v Hastings came up for trial at the Central Criminal Court—the new “Old Bailey” early in December. The adjourned inquest and the hearing before the magistrate had revealed the broad outline of the case for the prosecution, but the line of defence had been revealed on neither of these occasions, so that the coming trial was awaited with more than ordinary interest by the general public, and this was further heightened by the unusual character of the dramatis personae—the wealth and position of the victim, the popularity of the accused man, and the youth and charm of the girl who formed such a tragic link between them. It had leaked out, too, by now, that another well-known financier had been strongly suspected of the crime, and was, in fact, to be represented by counsel during the trial.
The case was to be heard by Mr Justice Ballence, a judge of high reputation at the Bar, by reason of his knowledge, wisdom, and human understanding, but, in that he eschewed print and confined his public activities to his work, almost unknown to the general public.
The Crown case was in the hands of the Attorney-General, Sir Horace Stille, supported by Mr Deeping Waters, and Mr Suckling, whilst Sir Edward Floodgate, KC, Mr Voyce, and Mr Larner appeared for the defence. Sir Isaac Sharpe, KC, held a watching brief for Mr Samuel McCorquodale.
The Court was crowded to overflowing when his Lordship took his seat. Until the appearance of the prisoner, the interest of the general public centred upon the pale girl, dressed in black, who sat near the solicitors’ table and gazed with anxious eyes at the empty dock. Though pale and anxious, however, Emily Smethurst showed no sign of shrinking from the ordeal before her—indeed, she appeared far less overwrought than did Rosamund Barretta, who sat beside her, and whose uneven breathing and restless hands revealed the depths of her sympathy for her two friends in the terrible trouble into which they had both been plunged. It was not long, however, before the general interest was switched to the dock itself, into which the accused man was ushered by two warders. Geoffrey Hastings also was pale, but there was a look of quiet confidence on his face and he exchanged a smile of greeting with Emily before turning to bow to the Judge. The jury—ten men and two women—were soon sworn, without any objection from the defence, and, in the absence of the Attorney-General, who was detained by a ministerial embarrassment, Mr Deeping Waters rose to open the case for the Crown.
“Members of the jury,” he said, “the story which I am about to unfold to you, and of the truth, or otherwise, of which you are the sole arbiters, will, I think, fill you first with amazement and then with horror to a degree which could never be aroused by deeds of far greater violence and bestiality committed by members of the criminal classes who more commonly appear within this court of justice. The young man who stands before you”—Mr Waters pointed a dramatic finger at the dock—“charged with the terrible crime of murder, has enjoyed every advantage which money and the care of loving and thoughtful parents could provide—good education at the best schools and University, good health, warm friends, freedom from care, and a sufficiency of money to remove all possibility of hardship and temptation. Up to the time of the war there was no need, from a financial point of view, for this young man to enter the struggle for existence into which his less fortunate fellows are plunged at the moment of leaving their parents’ roof. It is to his credit—and I say it willingly and unhesitatingly—that he did choose from the first to be a worker, rather than an idler—and so avoided the temptations, which, we are told, Satan provides for idle hands. The war came, and Geoffrey Hastings, at that time secretary to a prominent politician, at once threw up his billet and joined one of the most famous regiments in His Majesty’s Army, served throughout the war with great distinction, was twice wounded, and gained the Military Cross. At the end of the war, after a short time of relaxation and travel, he was appointed secretary to one of the wealthiest and most influential men in the world of finance—Sir John Smethurst. Within a few years Hastings had won the entire confidence of his chief, and was entrusted with all the secrets of his great financial operations. Finally, no longer than a few months ago, he attained to the greatest treasure of all—the hand of his employer’s only daughter and heiress. Could any young man’s lot have fallen upon fairer ground? Could anyone have enjoyed more fully the advantages of that wonderful civilization which has brought us now to so great a distance from the brute creation, from which, if we are to believe the teachings of modern science, we are sprung. And yet now Sir John Smethurst lies in his grave, the victim of a brutal and treacherous attack, and his trusted secretary and chosen son-in-law stands in that dock accused of being the perpetrator of this loathsome crime.”
Mr Deeping Waters paused to observe the effect of his eloquent opening. The gratification which he gathered from the awed silence of the general public and the respectful attention of the jury was tempered by his observation of a slight frown upon the brow of his leader, who had come into court within the last few minutes, He resumed with slightly less gusto.
“I shall not comment now upon the horror of this tragic situation. I shall simply relate to you, in as few words as possible, the story of the last few months so far as it affects the case which you are here to try—merely reminding you that every word of this story can, and will, be attested by the evidence of unimpeachable witnesses.
“Sir John Smethurst was, as I have told you, one of the leading financiers of this country. Among many other activities, one of his principal lines of operation was to obtain a concession from some under-industrialized country for the sole right to carry out some big industrial undertaking, and then, having previously bought a controlling share in some genuine but not very flourishing business engaged in that particular industry, to employ it in the carrying out of the undertaking. Naturally, if the undertaking were a profitable one—and a man of Sir John’s experience and ‘flair’ would seldom be mistaken on that point—there would be considerable profits from that undertaking, and also—and this is a point to which I would draw your particular attention—the shares in that business—that company—bought by Sir John at a low figure owing to its not very flourishing condition, would soar up by reason of this successful undertaking to a high price at which they could be sold by Sir John, should he so decide, at a considerable profit.
“Coming from the general to the particular, about six months ago Sir John Smethurst entered into negotiations with the Brazilian Government for the sole right to electrify the State railways between Rio, the capital, and various important towns in the interior, intending, if successful, to employ on the carrying out thereof the West Lancashire Jubilee Engineering Company, a large firm of general and electrical engineers which, bearing a sound reputation before the war, had, owing to lack of enterprise in its control, since fallen rather into a back-water in the engineering world, its shares having fallen—its ordinary shares, that is to say—to the modest figure of 8s. 6d. At this figure Sir John had bought up two-thirds of the shares, which at the time were scarcely marketable and paying no dividend, so that the holders were delighted to be rid of them, and obtained thereby definite control of the business. He quietly brought about changes in the management and organization of the business so that it should be, when the time came, fully able to cope with the great undertaking he was purchasing for it. Now as to this undertaking, Sir John knew that there were rival suitors for the concessions in the field, and notably among them Mr Samuel McCorquodale, of whom you will hear more, but he believed that his great reputation would obtain him the prize, even though others might bid higher for it. And, in fact, on Monday, October 27th last, there arrived in London—at Sir John’s office in the City, in fact—by the late afternoon post, a communication from the Brazilian Government, informing Sir John that the concession had been granted to him. That letter was placed, as was the custom of the office with letters marked as confidential, in the basket of the secretary, Geoffrey Hastings, who, in the ordinary course, would look through them before taking them to his employer.
