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Authors: John Dickson Carr
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she had really committed a crime.
"I'm awfully sorry. But please don't offer me money. Please."
"Sure now, me dear, and 'twas only. . . ."
"Oh, stop it!" Joyce cried uncontrollably.
"Stop what?"
"Stop using that fake Irish accent. It's no more natural to you than Cockney or Lancashire. You didn't dare use it in court."
"Nolle prosequi. So-and-so you/" screamed the parrot, and sharpened its beak on the bars of the cage. Patrick Butler felt the blood rise in his head. Casually, temptingly, he slid the money inside the crumpled newspaper near her hand.
"I watched you in court," said Joyce. "Sometimes I thought you believed me, and then ... I didn't know. You're a wonderful lawyer, I know that. But you're really a romantic actor. You were acting and acting and acting."
Now the blood of anger buzzed in his ears.
"Isn't that rather ungrateful of you?" he asked.
"Yes, it is," admitted Joyce, with tears in her eyes. "But, when we first met at Holloway, you said you believed me."
"Naturally!"
"Afterwards you said ... if we wanted to preserve real truth, we often had to tell lies about small things. Then, later, there was that question of the door banging in the middle of the night."
"I never heard that story," he retorted truthfully, "until Alice Griffiths told it in the witness-box."
"But, Mr. Butler, there wasn't any door banging in the middle of the night! It was one of the big shutters upstairs; I went up and fastened it. After the first day of the trial, you told me to corroborate it in the witness-box."
Here Joyce's eyes, frantic with bewilderment, searched her companion's face in vain.
"Alice and Bill Griffiths," she insisted, "are honest people. Why did they tell that lie?"
"You ought to be glad they did. Miss Ellis. It saved your pretty neck."
"Then 5'ou don't believe I'm innocent? You never did?"
"I'll tell you," returned Butler, with brutal directness, "exactly what
I told Charlie Denham. You're as guilty as hell. Why don't you be reasonable and admit it?"
It was as though he had struck her in the face. There was a long silence.
"I see," Joyce murmured, and moistened dry lips.
Slowly, because her knees were shaking, she slid along the bench and stood up outside the booth. Without looking at Butler, she buttoned up the oilskin waterproof. Now she felt the trembling through her whole body. Joyce took two steps away, and suddenly turned.
"I worshipped you," she said. "I still do. I always will. But one day, maybe before very long, you're going to come to me and tell me you were wrong." Her voice rose piercingly. "And for God's sake don't say you're never wrong!"
Then she ran for the door.
The glass-panelled door banged. The parrot screamed again. As a draught swirled through the dingy coffee-room, the discarded newspaper flapped up and sank down on the seat opposite Butler. The closely wadded banknotes slid along into coflfee-stains. For a moment Butler did not touch them.
Curse and blast all women who made emotional scenes! Butler, though he felt an inexplicable twinge of conscience, could not understand Joyce. He sipped his tea, lukewarm as well as vile, and set down the cup. Angrily he snatched up the despised banknotes. Then he looked up, to find Charles Denham standing beside the booth.
"For the love of Mike," Butler burst out, "don't you start!"
"Start what?"
"How should I know? Anything!"
"Congratulations," murmured Denham, sliding into the seat opposite, "on the verdict."
"There's no call to congratulate me. I told you it would happen."
Despite Denham's calm tone, his dark eyes were glittering as they had glittered in the courtroom, and his nostrils were distended.
"What I began to tell you in court," he went on, "is that there's new evidence. Last night, while Joyce was still on trial, something else happened."
"Oh? WTiat happened?"
"You told me you didn't know Lucia Renshaw, who was in court yesterday. Do you know her husband? Dick Renshaw?"
"Never heard of him. Should I
"I'm awfully sorry. But please don't offer me money. Please."
"Sure now, me dear, and 'twas only. . . ."
"Oh, stop it!" Joyce cried uncontrollably.
"Stop what?"
"Stop using that fake Irish accent. It's no more natural to you than Cockney or Lancashire. You didn't dare use it in court."
"Nolle prosequi. So-and-so you/" screamed the parrot, and sharpened its beak on the bars of the cage. Patrick Butler felt the blood rise in his head. Casually, temptingly, he slid the money inside the crumpled newspaper near her hand.
"I watched you in court," said Joyce. "Sometimes I thought you believed me, and then ... I didn't know. You're a wonderful lawyer, I know that. But you're really a romantic actor. You were acting and acting and acting."
Now the blood of anger buzzed in his ears.
"Isn't that rather ungrateful of you?" he asked.
"Yes, it is," admitted Joyce, with tears in her eyes. "But, when we first met at Holloway, you said you believed me."
"Naturally!"
"Afterwards you said ... if we wanted to preserve real truth, we often had to tell lies about small things. Then, later, there was that question of the door banging in the middle of the night."
"I never heard that story," he retorted truthfully, "until Alice Griffiths told it in the witness-box."
"But, Mr. Butler, there wasn't any door banging in the middle of the night! It was one of the big shutters upstairs; I went up and fastened it. After the first day of the trial, you told me to corroborate it in the witness-box."
Here Joyce's eyes, frantic with bewilderment, searched her companion's face in vain.
"Alice and Bill Griffiths," she insisted, "are honest people. Why did they tell that lie?"
"You ought to be glad they did. Miss Ellis. It saved your pretty neck."
"Then 5'ou don't believe I'm innocent? You never did?"
"I'll tell you," returned Butler, with brutal directness, "exactly what
I told Charlie Denham. You're as guilty as hell. Why don't you be reasonable and admit it?"
It was as though he had struck her in the face. There was a long silence.
"I see," Joyce murmured, and moistened dry lips.
Slowly, because her knees were shaking, she slid along the bench and stood up outside the booth. Without looking at Butler, she buttoned up the oilskin waterproof. Now she felt the trembling through her whole body. Joyce took two steps away, and suddenly turned.
"I worshipped you," she said. "I still do. I always will. But one day, maybe before very long, you're going to come to me and tell me you were wrong." Her voice rose piercingly. "And for God's sake don't say you're never wrong!"
Then she ran for the door.
The glass-panelled door banged. The parrot screamed again. As a draught swirled through the dingy coffee-room, the discarded newspaper flapped up and sank down on the seat opposite Butler. The closely wadded banknotes slid along into coflfee-stains. For a moment Butler did not touch them.
Curse and blast all women who made emotional scenes! Butler, though he felt an inexplicable twinge of conscience, could not understand Joyce. He sipped his tea, lukewarm as well as vile, and set down the cup. Angrily he snatched up the despised banknotes. Then he looked up, to find Charles Denham standing beside the booth.
"For the love of Mike," Butler burst out, "don't you start!"
"Start what?"
"How should I know? Anything!"
"Congratulations," murmured Denham, sliding into the seat opposite, "on the verdict."
"There's no call to congratulate me. I told you it would happen."
Despite Denham's calm tone, his dark eyes were glittering as they had glittered in the courtroom, and his nostrils were distended.
"What I began to tell you in court," he went on, "is that there's new evidence. Last night, while Joyce was still on trial, something else happened."
"Oh? WTiat happened?"
"You told me you didn't know Lucia Renshaw, who was in court yesterday. Do you know her husband? Dick Renshaw?"
"Never heard of him. Should I
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