Below Suspicion Read Online Free
Author: John Dickson Carr
"
"Excellent!" breathed her counsel, with a keen compliment in his glance. "My second and last question—"
"But that's only an impression!" protested Joyce. "Anyway, what difference does it make? I can't think...."
"Stop!" said Butler. "Don't try to think. Let me do the thinking. Now my second and last question, I repeat, is about the back door and the key to the back door."
"I remember all about that, anyway!"
"Ah? That's splendid, my dear! You told me, I think, that the last thing you did before going to your room that night was to lock the back door?"
"Yes!"
"There's no bolt on the back door, as we both know. Only the key. Now tell me: is this the key to the back door?"
Fumbling inside his overcoat, he reached into his side pocket and produced a key. It was an old key, middle-sized, with a touch of rust-stain, common to the back doors of mid-Victorian houses.
"Is this the key?" he repeated.
"Where on earth did you get—?" Joyce checked herself, swallowing. "That's the key," she replied. "I mean: it JooJcs like the key."
"Better and better" beamed her counsel, returning the key to his pocket. "You further stated"—something of the Old Bailey manner touched his voice—"that you unlocked the back door for Alice GrifEths next morning?"
"Yes! At eight o'clock."
"Exactly. Now I feel sure," said Butler urbanely, "you've forgotten something that will be of great help to you."
"Forgotten something?"
"Just as you said yourself: when people are very upset, they forget things and have to be reminded." Then he looked her straight in the
eyes. "I feel sure that, when you went out to unlock the door, the key wasn't in the lock at all."
"Wasn't in the lock?" Joyce echoed stupidly.
"No. I feel sure," his glance was meaning, "that you found the key lying on the floor of the passage just inside the door. And you had to pick it up, and fit it into the lock, before you could admit Alice."
For perhaps ten seconds there was an intense silence. Butler could hear his wrist-watch ticking in this tomb. So as not to embarrass her, he let his gaze wander incuriously over the white-washed walls, himself a figure of blandness and innocence, whistling between his teeth.
"But that isn't true/" Joyce blurted.
Patrick Butler, K.C., could not have been more startled if the roof had been shattered as the quiet was shattered.
"Not true?"
"No! The key was in the lock."
Again silence; and she flinched as Butler studied her. His astonishment was mingled with a rising wrath, which tinged his cheeks. What the devil, now, did this girl think she was playing at? She was intelligent; she must see the value to her defence if she said that key was not in the lock. Well, then, what the flaming hell? Unless. ...
Stop! He'd got it. And, as he thought he understood the reason, all Butler's wrath dissolved in a kind of intellectual admiration. It would be a little more awkward if Joyce Ellis still persisted in play-acting; but he understood. He even saluted her for it. She was a woman after his own heart.
"Mr. Butler! I—"
Butler rose to his feet, picking up hat and gloves.
"You understand, of course," he told her cheerfully, "that this is only a preliminary talk. I shall see you again in a day or two. By that time, I feel sure, you'll have remembered."
Panic was in her voice. "Mr. Butler, listen!"
"After all, you know you've been very lucky."
"Lucky! Oh. You mean in having you to defend me? Believe me, I know that! But—"
"Tut, now!" said Butler. If the matron had not been watching, he would have chucked her under the chin. "I told you before: you overrate me. No. I mean lucky in the course of events. Poor Mrs. Taylor died on the night of February 22nd. You were arrested ... when?"
"Just a week later. Why?"
"Well! Your case, as it happens, has been crowded into the present term at the Central Criminal Court; that'll be in a little over a fortnight. You'll have been suspected, arrested, tried—and acquitted—in just less than a month.
"Excellent!" breathed her counsel, with a keen compliment in his glance. "My second and last question—"
"But that's only an impression!" protested Joyce. "Anyway, what difference does it make? I can't think...."
"Stop!" said Butler. "Don't try to think. Let me do the thinking. Now my second and last question, I repeat, is about the back door and the key to the back door."
"I remember all about that, anyway!"
"Ah? That's splendid, my dear! You told me, I think, that the last thing you did before going to your room that night was to lock the back door?"
"Yes!"
"There's no bolt on the back door, as we both know. Only the key. Now tell me: is this the key to the back door?"
Fumbling inside his overcoat, he reached into his side pocket and produced a key. It was an old key, middle-sized, with a touch of rust-stain, common to the back doors of mid-Victorian houses.
"Is this the key?" he repeated.
"Where on earth did you get—?" Joyce checked herself, swallowing. "That's the key," she replied. "I mean: it JooJcs like the key."
"Better and better" beamed her counsel, returning the key to his pocket. "You further stated"—something of the Old Bailey manner touched his voice—"that you unlocked the back door for Alice GrifEths next morning?"
"Yes! At eight o'clock."
"Exactly. Now I feel sure," said Butler urbanely, "you've forgotten something that will be of great help to you."
"Forgotten something?"
"Just as you said yourself: when people are very upset, they forget things and have to be reminded." Then he looked her straight in the
eyes. "I feel sure that, when you went out to unlock the door, the key wasn't in the lock at all."
"Wasn't in the lock?" Joyce echoed stupidly.
"No. I feel sure," his glance was meaning, "that you found the key lying on the floor of the passage just inside the door. And you had to pick it up, and fit it into the lock, before you could admit Alice."
For perhaps ten seconds there was an intense silence. Butler could hear his wrist-watch ticking in this tomb. So as not to embarrass her, he let his gaze wander incuriously over the white-washed walls, himself a figure of blandness and innocence, whistling between his teeth.
"But that isn't true/" Joyce blurted.
Patrick Butler, K.C., could not have been more startled if the roof had been shattered as the quiet was shattered.
"Not true?"
"No! The key was in the lock."
Again silence; and she flinched as Butler studied her. His astonishment was mingled with a rising wrath, which tinged his cheeks. What the devil, now, did this girl think she was playing at? She was intelligent; she must see the value to her defence if she said that key was not in the lock. Well, then, what the flaming hell? Unless. ...
Stop! He'd got it. And, as he thought he understood the reason, all Butler's wrath dissolved in a kind of intellectual admiration. It would be a little more awkward if Joyce Ellis still persisted in play-acting; but he understood. He even saluted her for it. She was a woman after his own heart.
"Mr. Butler! I—"
Butler rose to his feet, picking up hat and gloves.
"You understand, of course," he told her cheerfully, "that this is only a preliminary talk. I shall see you again in a day or two. By that time, I feel sure, you'll have remembered."
Panic was in her voice. "Mr. Butler, listen!"
"After all, you know you've been very lucky."
"Lucky! Oh. You mean in having you to defend me? Believe me, I know that! But—"
"Tut, now!" said Butler. If the matron had not been watching, he would have chucked her under the chin. "I told you before: you overrate me. No. I mean lucky in the course of events. Poor Mrs. Taylor died on the night of February 22nd. You were arrested ... when?"
"Just a week later. Why?"
"Well! Your case, as it happens, has been crowded into the present term at the Central Criminal Court; that'll be in a little over a fortnight. You'll have been suspected, arrested, tried—and acquitted—in just less than a month.
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