Honourable Intentions Read Online Free PDF

hearing?”
    “No,
M’sieu
.”
    Ranklin was not tempted to whisper to those beside him that here Quinton was paving the way to claim that this was a political crime and his client was
not
an anarchist. But he didn’t mind them noticing his knowing nod and smile. Then he remembered he was here on duty and trying to be anonymous, and shamefacedly went back to thinking about the case.
    Probably Lacoste would have pointed out that in a scruffy, dangerous little café in the nineteenth
arrondissement
an anarchist clientele wouldn’t have tolerated for a moment a waiter who didn’t share their views. But Quinton had given him no chance to say so, and presumably magistrates weren’t allowed to think such things for themselves.
    Once Lacoste had stepped from the witness box, the court returned to murmuring over documents. In front of him, Langhorn moved nervously from foot to foot, never quite standing straight. An Englishman might have stood to attention or he might have leant on the dock rail; he wouldn’t have stood in that loose, rangy way. Perhaps it was something to do with Americans walking with their hips thrust forward – Corinna had once demonstrated that for him, stark naked. It had been most instructive but not a suitable memory for a police court—
    From what Ranklin could hear, the depositions from the café proprietor and patrons had Langhorn asking to go off duty at ten that evening and not reappearing until about one o’clock. Obviously it was not a café which relied on early-to-bed working citizens for its customers.
    Several times Quinton bobbed up asking for clarification of some point, in a manner that looked to Ranklin like time-wasting. It apparently struck the magistrate the same way, because the last time he gave Quinton a sour look, weighed the yet-to-be-accepted depositions in his hand and said: “It looks as if we’re going to have to postpone hearing the next witness until after lunch. Perhaps that won’t inconvenience you too greatly, Mr Quinton?”
    Quinton fawned decorously, and once they had polished off the depositions, they broke up.

    Standing like a rock amid the hurrying crowd spilling out from the court was a man in dark-blue chauffeur’s kit asking people if they were Captain Ranklin. It was a distinct shock to Ranklin to hear his name used so publicly when he was working – itreminded him again of how far he had come in eighteen months – and he hurried to hush the man up.
    “Mr Quinton’s just having a word with his client, sir, so he said would you care to wait in his motor?” He led the way to a spacious black Lanchester parked at the kerb, ushered Ranklin into the back seat, and opened a small built-in cabinet behind the driver’s partition. “Whisky, sherry or beer, sir?”
    Quinton arrived nearly ten minutes later. But instead of driving off, the chauffeur handed in an attache case and spread a napkin over Quinton’s lap. From the case, Quinton took a china plate, then unwrapped a game pie and several small dishes of salad and pickle. His movements were quick and precise. The last item was an opened but recorked pint of claret. During this, he said: “Could you hear anything in court? What do you think so far? You talk while I eat.”
    Privately, Ranklin thought that having your lunch in a parked car was a bit showy when you could just as well have been driven back to your office or a chop-house. Perhaps it was another form of advertisement, or perhaps it just came of being born poor.
    “It seems,” he began slowly, “to be mostly what I think you call ‘circumstantial’ evidence – though unless you’ve got someone who saw Langhorn strike a match, I imagine that’s what you’d expect. So far, all we’ve got is that he bought the petrol—”
    “He bought
some
petrol.”
    “Sorry, some – and was off duty at the relevant time. I imagine this afternoon’s witness will implicate him more deeply . . . Is he the one you want to tear apart in