Read Online Below Suspicion by John Dickson Carr - Free Book Online
Authors: John Dickson Carr
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that it's terribly important to me. You said, if I testified exactly as you told me to testify, you'd answer me one question at the end of the trial. Please don't go away!"
"Well . . . come down to my car and be comfortable, then."
"No!" Her eyes and mouth implored him. "I mean, Mr. Denham's there. He's been wonderful, but—I don't want him to hear. Couldn't we go somewhere and talk for five minutes?"
A^ain inwardly, Butler raved with exasperation. But good nature won.
"Come with me," he suggested.
Just across the street was an institution which called itself a coffeehouse. Once, before the war, its stalls of polished oak—divided into booths for the tables along one side—competed with eighteenth-century prints of old Newgate Prison to exude a Dickensian cosiness.
Now, as Butler pushed open a creaky door, he saw that the place was dirty and unkempt. A solitary electric light burned far at the rear. At the rear there had been a parrot, which was said to resemble an eminent judge and to which the legal gentleman taught Latin tags mixed with profanity; the parrot was still there, old and half blind, and it screamed.
Breathing a mustiness of dried coffee-stains and damp chill, Butler installed his companion in a booth facing him across the table. Some recent customer had discarded a newspaper, crumpled over an empty and fly-blown sugar-bowl. One small headline leaped out at Butler.
WAVE OF POISON CASES SAYS SUPT. HADLEY
The parrot screamed again. From the rear of the shop, silhouetted against dim electric light, a collarless proprietor shambled forward and looked at them with distaste.
"Two coffees, please."
"No coffee," snapped the proprietor, with a gleam of pleasure in his eves.
"Got any tea, then?"
The proprietor reluctantly admitted that he might have tea, and shambled away. Patrick Butler looked at Joyce.
"Well, me dear?" he asked as heartily as he could.
Joyce tried to speak, and couldn't.
Butler, studying her furtively, admitted to himself that she had stood the strain of the trial very well. He could remember one client, another woman, whose face had fallen in and whose hands—quite literally-had become a livid greenish-white.
Joyce, though under such intense nervous reaction that she could not keep her own hands still, had not aged or grov^oi ugly. Her eyes haunted him, the large grey eyes with the black lashes. Melting sleet-drops glistened against the tumbled black hair cut in the short bob. Her mouth, to Patrick Butler, was a sensual allure about which he as a sensible man must not think.
Then Joyce spoke quietly.
"You don't really believe I'm innocent, do you?"
Butler looked shocked.
"Come, now!" he urged her in a reproachful tone. "Don't you put your trust in British justice?"
"The jury acquitted you, acushla. They believed what you said. You're a free woman, free as air. What more do you want?"
"Is it ungrateful to want something more? Is it? I only. . . ."
The tea had arrived, momentarily checking conversation. Two thick white mugs, slopping a beverage like mud-coloured dishwater, were planked down on the table. Meanwhile, Butler had surreptitiously taken out his notecase under the table, fished out its contents of fifty or sixty pounds, and crushed the money into the palm of his hand.
"Now tell me, me dear," he soothed. "What are your future plans?"
"I don't know. I hadn't thought as far ahead."
"We-ell! But you must have money, you know. Of course, there's the legacy from Mrs. Taylor. . . ."
"I can't touch that, I'm afraid. I should see her face every time I spent any of it."
"A sentiment," Butler continued soothingly, "that does you credit. So if you'll just accept this," his clenched hand slid across the table, "from a well-meaning friend who. . . ."
Suddenly Joyce lost all control of her reflexes. There was a crash as her elbow knocked over the white cup, which cascaded its mud-coloured tea down beside the table. Joyce, catching herself up, regarded it with horror as though
"Well . . . come down to my car and be comfortable, then."
"No!" Her eyes and mouth implored him. "I mean, Mr. Denham's there. He's been wonderful, but—I don't want him to hear. Couldn't we go somewhere and talk for five minutes?"
A^ain inwardly, Butler raved with exasperation. But good nature won.
"Come with me," he suggested.
Just across the street was an institution which called itself a coffeehouse. Once, before the war, its stalls of polished oak—divided into booths for the tables along one side—competed with eighteenth-century prints of old Newgate Prison to exude a Dickensian cosiness.
Now, as Butler pushed open a creaky door, he saw that the place was dirty and unkempt. A solitary electric light burned far at the rear. At the rear there had been a parrot, which was said to resemble an eminent judge and to which the legal gentleman taught Latin tags mixed with profanity; the parrot was still there, old and half blind, and it screamed.
Breathing a mustiness of dried coffee-stains and damp chill, Butler installed his companion in a booth facing him across the table. Some recent customer had discarded a newspaper, crumpled over an empty and fly-blown sugar-bowl. One small headline leaped out at Butler.
WAVE OF POISON CASES SAYS SUPT. HADLEY
The parrot screamed again. From the rear of the shop, silhouetted against dim electric light, a collarless proprietor shambled forward and looked at them with distaste.
"Two coffees, please."
"No coffee," snapped the proprietor, with a gleam of pleasure in his eves.
"Got any tea, then?"
The proprietor reluctantly admitted that he might have tea, and shambled away. Patrick Butler looked at Joyce.
"Well, me dear?" he asked as heartily as he could.
Joyce tried to speak, and couldn't.
Butler, studying her furtively, admitted to himself that she had stood the strain of the trial very well. He could remember one client, another woman, whose face had fallen in and whose hands—quite literally-had become a livid greenish-white.
Joyce, though under such intense nervous reaction that she could not keep her own hands still, had not aged or grov^oi ugly. Her eyes haunted him, the large grey eyes with the black lashes. Melting sleet-drops glistened against the tumbled black hair cut in the short bob. Her mouth, to Patrick Butler, was a sensual allure about which he as a sensible man must not think.
Then Joyce spoke quietly.
"You don't really believe I'm innocent, do you?"
Butler looked shocked.
"Come, now!" he urged her in a reproachful tone. "Don't you put your trust in British justice?"
"The jury acquitted you, acushla. They believed what you said. You're a free woman, free as air. What more do you want?"
"Is it ungrateful to want something more? Is it? I only. . . ."
The tea had arrived, momentarily checking conversation. Two thick white mugs, slopping a beverage like mud-coloured dishwater, were planked down on the table. Meanwhile, Butler had surreptitiously taken out his notecase under the table, fished out its contents of fifty or sixty pounds, and crushed the money into the palm of his hand.
"Now tell me, me dear," he soothed. "What are your future plans?"
"I don't know. I hadn't thought as far ahead."
"We-ell! But you must have money, you know. Of course, there's the legacy from Mrs. Taylor. . . ."
"I can't touch that, I'm afraid. I should see her face every time I spent any of it."
"A sentiment," Butler continued soothingly, "that does you credit. So if you'll just accept this," his clenched hand slid across the table, "from a well-meaning friend who. . . ."
Suddenly Joyce lost all control of her reflexes. There was a crash as her elbow knocked over the white cup, which cascaded its mud-coloured tea down beside the table. Joyce, catching herself up, regarded it with horror as though
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