Don Gutteridge - Desperate Acts

***

While Wilfrid Sturges listened and Gussie Frenchtook notes in his private shorthand, Brodie told his story. Hebegan with the extortion note he had received the previousWednesday evening, providing all the details except the specificnature of the blackmailer’s secret knowledge.

“It was a vague and obviously wild threatagainst Miss Ramsay,” he said, fearing of course that more damningparticulars could be revealed if the fellow was apprehended. “But Ifelt her honour was at stake.”

“So you planned to confront the fellow andbring him to us?” Sturges said, trying to be helpful and stillmystified as to why this upstanding young man was insisting onconfessing to a common assault when it was likely that the victimhad already come to and scarpered – happy to have escaped with abruised cheek.

“Yes. I prepared a parcel of fakebanknotes.”

“Did you keep the extortion note?”

“No. I destroyed it.”

“Ah. It might have been useful. Still . . .”

Brodie then recounted, move by move, what hehad done after leaving the club, up to the moment when he hadcornered the culprit and had begun to thrash him.

“I meant to bring him here, sir. I reallydid. But he said something repugnant about Miss Ramsay and – ”

“And you gave him what he deserved?”

“I assaulted him. Viciously. He collapsed,unconscious.”

“But he was breathin’?”

“Yes. I made sure of that – before I . . .ran.”

“An’ you only give ‘im the one knock on thecheek?”

“Yes. That was enough. I don’t know why but Ipanicked and – ”

“No need to take on so, lad. Even if thischap makes a complaint – an’ there’s less chance of that thanGussie misspellin’ a word – it’s only a common assault charge, amisdemeanour.”

“Even so, I’d like Mr. French to write up astatement for me to sign. The law is the law: I was raised tobelieve that.”

True enough, Sturges thought with a sigh. Buthe had seen many a barrister – including Brodie’s guardian andidol, Richard Dougherty – give it a few twists and turns in acourtroom. “Well, son, if you insist. But why not wait to see ifCobb brings the bugger in here, an’ we can sort this all out infive minutes or less?”

“I’d like to get my account on the recordfirst,” Brodie said.

“As you wish. Gussie, poise yer pen!”

***

Twenty minutes later Gussie finished writing up aone-page statement. At the table in the main room, Brodie read itthrough and signed it. He had just handed it to Sturges to add hissignature as witness when the front door opened and Cobb camein.

He was alone.

Looking relieved, Sturges said to him, “Sothe villain buggered off, did he?”

“No, Sarge. I found him in the alley behindThe Sailor’s Arms, just like Brodie said.” He glanced across atBrodie, seated beside Gussie.

“Then where is he now?” Sturges said,catching the alarm in Cobb’s face.

“Right where I found him.”

“Out cold?”

“No, sir. Dead as a doornail.”

Brodie’s head shot up. “But I only hit himonce on the cheek!”

“That ain’t what killed him. His skull wascrushed in. Somebody bashed him good an’ proper – with this .”

From behind his right leg Cobb held up asilver-tipped walking-stick with a wolf’s-head knob. “It’s got hisblood an’ brains all over it.”

“But . . . but that’s mine ,” Brodiegasped. “I must’ve left it in the alley.”

***

Gussie had been sent home to the tender mercies ofhis hen-pecking wife. Cobb, Sturges and Brodie were sitting in theChief’s office, lit only by a single, flickering candle.

“I didn’t kill him,” Brodie said for thefifth time.

“We’ll get to that in a minute, son,” Sturgessaid. “First, I need to know all the other facts. Cobb, did youfind out who this fellow was?”

“I did. I didn’t know him myself, though I’msure I’ve seen him here and there in the taverns about town. Hisface wasn’t crushed, only the back of his skull. I saw the mark onhis cheek where Brodie says he hit him.”

“Someone in The Sailor’s Arms would know him,then?”

“Right. That’s what I figured. Itucked the shillelagh under his coat – I didn’t want anybodyslippin’ away with it – an’ went around to the taproom.”

“The Shakespeare gents had all cleared out?”Sturges said, recalling the comic events of Wednesday last in thatupper chamber.

“No lights up there anyway.”

“You found Budge, the chap who runs theplace?”

“Yeah, but the bugger said he was too busytryin’ to keep his booze flowin’ to come out with me. I was aboutto read him the riot act when the missus says she’ll come out an’have a gander. She give Budge a dirty look – I figure she gives himplenty of those – an’ followed me out. When we get back there inthe alley – nothin’s been disturbed – I see that Nestor Peck’s beenbringin’ up our rear.”

“Nestor?”

“Seems he was workin’ at the taproom tonight.The girl Etta was sick.”

“Some help he’d be.”

“Turned out he was more’n a help. He knewright off who the dead bugger was.”

Brodie leaned forward. “Who was it?”

“Chap named Albert Duggan, his so-calledcousin from Montreal. They been livin’ together at the far end oftown in the old Mulligan cottage beside the hatchery.”

Sturges looked at Brodie.

“I’ve never heard of him.”

“Gillian Budge told me she’d seen Duggan inthe taproom once or twice before,” Cobb said. “Last week he made apass or somethin’ at young Etta Hogg, an’ Budge threw him out.”

“Sounds like a fine fellow all ‘round,”Sturges said.

“We found a paper parcel, half-opened, nearthe body.”

“Did you send fer Dr. Withers?”

“I sent Nestor off to fetch him. He seemedterribly shook up by what he saw. But he did manage to find thecoroner. Didn’t come back with him, though! As soon as Angus come,I showed him the walkin’-stick. By then somebody had lassoed PhilRossiter from his patrol, and I left him there to guard the areatill the body can be taken to the surgery. Then I come straighthere.”

“There’s no doubt Duggan’s death was due toblows from Brodie’s cane?”

“None, I’m afraid. Angus looked at the bloodyknob, an’ told me to bring it here as evidence. He said the fella’dbeen hit at least twice on the back of the skull.”

“I only struck him once, on the cheek,”Brodie said.

Sturges sighed. He needed a smoke badly, buthis pipe was in the other room and he had to think now, quickly.“Cobb an’ me know you, Brodie. We’re inclined to believe you. Thequestion of the moment, though, is what Magistrate Thorpe willbelieve. On the face of it, it looks bad. You’ve admitted, inwriting, that you an’ Duggan had a rendezvous in that alley, an’you rigged up a trap fer him, an’ bearded him, punched himunconscious, an’ took off, leavin’ yer cane behind. You also had agood reason to want the fella dealt with – one way or another.”

“But I confessed to the crime I did commit,” Brodie protested, “not murder.”

“Thorpe may see that as a clever ploy on yourpart. You’re a very clever young man.”

“But I didn’t kill him! I abhorviolence.”

“Why don’t we think about who else might’vedone it?” Cobb said, moving easily into the role ofinvestigator.

“Good idea.”

“Let’s say that Brodie did exactly what this awful-davit says he did,” Cobb said, holding up the signedstatement he had given a quick read. “He leaves the club before theothers to deposit the fake money in the ashcan. The other gents inthe club are still upstairs. I was up there myself last week – aseverybody now knows – and I spotted a window in the coatroom at theback. It overlooks the alley.”