Honourable Intentions Read Online Free PDF Page B

cross-examination?”
    Quinton, his mouth full, just nodded.
    “And, of course, he fled to London. I don’t know how much inference one can legally draw from that, but I don’t see how anyone can ignore it.”
    Quinton swallowed. “A fair enough summary. Any gaps or weaknesses?”
    “Simply as a story, I’d like to know who told the French police he’d gone to London and who told our police where to find him.”
    “You’ll see winged pigs first. That’s the police on both sides protecting informers.” He was about to take another mouthful when there was a scuffling sound outside and they looked up to see the chauffeur trying to hustle away a dumpy girl in a big hat and ankle-length coat the vague colour of an Army blanket. Quinton said: “Oh, damn it,” handed Ranklin his lunch and got out of the car.
    Ranklin watched through the open door and tried to listen, but in the busy street all he heard was that they were speaking French. Quinton had called off the chauffeur and seemed to be pacifying the girl. Her features weren’t exactly coarse, just not refined, except for an upper lip in an exaggerated medieval bow shape that gave her a natural pout. Right now, she was pouting fit to bust, her dark eyes adding sullenness. She also had an unnaturally upright stance, as if she were balancing her big hat rather than wearing it. A few untidy strands of brown hair dangled from under it.
    After a time, Quinton gave an exaggerated hands-and-shoulders gesture and turned away. She went on pouting but didn’t follow as he climbed back into the Lanchester.
    “That’s the girl-friend of the accused. Apparently spent her own money following him over here.” He shook his head. “Young love’s seldom any use in court.” He reclaimed his lunch and added: “She says she was in bed with him at the time the offence was committed.”
    At least this promised a more interesting afternoon in court, and Ranklin cheered up. “She’s going to say that?”
    “Of course she’s not.” Then, seeing Ranklin’s disappointment, he went on: “Captain, this world spends half its time denying it was fornicating when it was, and the other half claiming it was fornicating when it was doing something worse. Every magistrate’s heard it a thousand times. She’d only label herself a whore and thus unreliable as a witness.”
    Ranklin nodded, understanding, but a little regretful. The girl was standing back on the pavement, still unnaturally upright but now looking lost and somehow alien. A man raised his hat to her and made some inquiry. Ranklin couldn’t hearit or her terse reply, but the man recoiled and walked away quickly.
    “D’you know her name and address?” Ranklin asked.
    Quinton looked at him warily. Ranklin said firmly: “Government business.”
    “Her name’s Mademoiselle Berenice Collomb,” Quinton said, “and she doesn’t speak any English. I’ve no idea where she’s staying in London.”
    Ranklin wrote down the name, then asked: “And you said that Langhorn isn’t going to say what he was doing, either?”
    “His is not.”
    Ranklin thought this over for a moment, then: “May I ask: is he innocent?”
    There was no change in Quinton’s expression. Just the sense that he had withdrawn into himself and was thinking that just when Ranklin had been showing signs of intelligence, here came the usual naive old question.
    So Ranklin asked it again “You’re a man of experience: does your experience tell you he’s innocent or guilty?”
    Clearly, Quinton’s experience had been carefully trained to avoid such emotive thinking. “If you’re asking whether or not he’ll be extradited –”
    “I’m not. I’m asking—”
    “– on the face of it – and that’s what
prima facie
means – the case against him is good so far. I still think it may fall apart in a French court, but that’s not my concern. He wants me to save him from being extradited, so that’s what I’m trying to do. No evidence has been