The Collected Short Stories Read online

  Sir Humphrey’s next witness was Mrs. Rita Johnson, the lady who claimed she had seen everything.

  “Mrs. Johnson, on the evening of April 7, did you see a man leave the apartment house where Miss Moorland lived?” Sir Humphrey asked.

  “Yes, I did.”

  “At about what time was that?”

  “A few minutes after six.”

  “Please tell the court what happened next.”

  “He walked across the road, removed a parking ticket, got into his car, and drove away.”

  “Do you see that man in the court today?”

  “Yes,” she said firmly, pointing to Menzies, who at this suggestion shook his head vigorously.

  “No more questions.”

  Mr. Scott rose slowly again.

  “What did you say was the make of the car the man got into?”

  “I can’t be sure,” Mrs. Johnson said, “but I think it was a BMW.”

  “Not a Rover, as you first told the police the following morning?”

  The witness did not reply.

  “And did you actually see the man in question remove a parking ticket from the car windshield?” Mr. Scott asked.

  “I think so, sir, but it all happened so quickly.”

  “I’m sure it did,” said Mr. Scott. “In fact, I suggest to you that it happened so quickly that you’ve got the wrong man and the wrong car.”

  “No, sir,” she replied, but without the same conviction with which she had delivered her earlier replies.

  Sir Humphrey did not reexamine Mrs. Johnson. I realized that he wanted her evidence to be forgotten by the jury as quickly as possible. As it was, when she left the witness box she also left everyone in court in considerable doubt.

  Carla’s daily cleaning woman, Maria Lucia, was far more convincing. She stated unequivocally that she had seen Menzies in the living room of the apartment that afternoon when she arrived a little before five. However, she had, she admitted, never seen him before that day.

  “But isn’t it true,” asked Sir Humphrey, “that you usually only work in the mornings?”

  “Yes,” she replied. “Although Miss Moorland was in the habit of bringing work home on a Thursday afternoon, so it was convenient for me to come in and collect my wages.”

  “And how was Miss Moorland dressed that afternoon?” asked Sir Humphrey.

  “In her blue robe,” replied the cleaning woman.

  “Is this how she usually dressed on a Thursday afternoon?”

  “No, sir, but I assumed she was going to have a bath before going out that evening.”

  “But when you left the apartment was she still with Mr. Menzies?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you remember anything else she was wearing that day?”

  “Yes, sir. Underneath the morning coat she wore a red negligee.”

  My negligee was duly produced, and Maria Lucia identified it. At this point I stared directly at the witness, but she showed not a flicker of recognition. I thanked all the gods in the pantheon that I had never once been to visit Carla in the morning.

  “Please wait there,” were Sir Humphrey’s final words to Miss Lucia.

  Mr. Scott rose to cross-examine.

  “Miss Lucia, you have told the court that the purpose of the visit was to collect your wages. How long were you at the apartment on this occasion?”

  “I did a little cleaning up in the kitchen and ironed a blouse, perhaps twenty minutes.”

  “Did you see Miss Moorland during this time?”

  “Yes, I went into the living room to ask if she would like some more coffee, but she said no.”

  “Was Mr. Menzies with her at the time?”

  “Yes, he was.”

  “Were you at any time aware of a quarrel between the two of them or even raised voices?”

  “No, sir.”

  “When you saw them together did Miss Moorland show any signs of distress or need of help?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “Miss Moorland joined me in the kitchen a few minutes later and gave me my wages, and I let myself out.”

  “When you were alone in the kitchen with Miss Moorland, did she give any sign of being afraid of her guest?”

  “No, sir.”

  “No more questions, My Lord.”

  Sir Humphrey did not reexamine Maria Lucia and informed the judge that he had completed the case for the prosecution. Mr. Justice Buchanan nodded and said he felt that was enough for the day; but I wasn’t convinced it was enough to convict Menzies.

  When I got home that night Elizabeth did not ask me where I had been, and I did not volunteer any information. I spent the evening pretending to go over job applications.

  The following morning I had a late breakfast and read the papers before returning to my place at the end of a row in Court No. 4, only a few moments before the judge made his entrance.

  Mr. Justice Buchanan, having sat down, adjusted his wig before calling on Mr. Scott to open the case for the defense. Mr. Scott, QC, was once again slow to rise—a man paid by the hour, I thought uncharitably. He started by promising the court that his opening address would be brief, and he then remained on his feet for the next two and a half hours.

  He began the case for the defense by going over in detail the relevant parts, as he saw them, of Menzies’s past. He assured us all that those who wished to dissect it later would only find an unblemished record. Paul Menzies was a happily married man who lived in Sutton with his wife and three children—Polly, aged twenty-one; Michael, nineteen; and Sally, sixteen. Two of the children were now in college and the youngest had just graduated from high school. Doctors had advised Mrs. Menzies not to attend the trial, following her recent release from the hospital. I noticed two of the women on the jury smile sympathetically.

  Mr. Menzies, Mr. Scott continued, had been with the same firm of insurance brokers in the City of London for the past six years and, although he had not been promoted, he was a much respected member of the staff. He was a pillar of his local community, having served with the Territorial Army, and on the committee of the local camera club. He had once even run for the Sutton council. He could hardly be described as a serious candidate as a murderer.

  Mr. Scott then went on to the actual day of the killing and confirmed that Mr. Menzies had had an appointment with Miss Moorland on the afternoon in question, but in a strictly professional capacity with the sole purpose of helping her with a personal insurance plan. There could have been no other reason to visit Miss Moorland during office hours. He did not have sexual intercourse with her, and he certainly did not murder her.

  The defendant had left his client a few minutes after six. He understood she had intended to change before going out to dinner with her sister in Fulham. He had arranged to see her the following Wednesday at his office for the purpose of drawing up the completed policy. The defense, Mr. Scott went on, would later produce a diary entry that would establish the truth of this statement.

  The charge against the accused was, he submitted, based almost completely on circumstantial evidence. He felt confident that, when the trial reached its conclusion, the jury would be left with no choice but to release his client back into the bosom of his loving family. “You must end this nightmare,” Mr. Scott concluded. “It has gone on far too long for an innocent man.”

  At this point the judge suggested a break for lunch. During the meal I was unable to concentrate or even take in what was being said around me. The majority of those who had an opinion to give now seemed convinced that Menzies was innocent.

  As soon as we returned, at ten past two, Mr. Scott called his first witness: the defendant himself.

  Paul Menzies left the dock and walked slowly over to the witness box. He took a copy of the New Testament in his right hand and haltingly read the words of the oath, from a card he held in his left.

  Every eye was fixed on him while Mr. Scott began to guide his client carefully through th