Public Enemy Number Two Read Online Free PDF Page A

carbuncle flashed through the air. At the same time I threw myself to one side.
    The carbuncle disappeared down the lion’s throat.
    I rolled over and looked around. The lion had missed me by about half a yard. It was lying on its back and for a crazy moment I was reminded of Sington in the bus with the chewing gum. The carbuncle had lodged itself in the creature’s windpipe. It was kicking its legs feebly in the air, choking and whimpering like a stray cat. Weakly, I got to my feet.
    I just had time to see another three lions come strolling over the hill to find out what was happening when the Jeep arrived. A warden was standing up in the passenger seat, aiming a rifle with an anesthetic dart. He fired and missed. There was a sharp pain in my thigh and the world began to spin.
    I blacked out. But before I went, I realized that the warden hadn’t missed after all. He’d been aiming at me all the time! He must have decided that I was more dangerous than the lion.

TRIAL AND ERROR
    In the end I was accused of theft, assault, trespassing, criminal damage, and cruelty to animals. The lion survived, by the way. It was on the operating table for six hours to remove the carbuncle. The bad news for the surgeon was that it woke up after five.
    I was sent to the Old Bailey to be tried—number three court. I still remember it. It was far smaller than I’d imagined it would be, walled in with wooden panels but with clear glass windows in the roof. It was like standing in a cross between a chapel and a squash court. The jury sat along one side—twelve men just and true. They may have been true but half the time they were only just awake. And in the middle there was a whole cluster of barristers and court officials in their black robes and white bows, looking like the sort of gift-wrapped packages you might take to a funeral.
    I was in the dock, of course, with two burly policemen close behind me. Counsel for the prosecution couldn’t even glance at me without grinding his teeth. The judge was too old to have any teeth but looked like he’d have been glad to grind someone else’s. As for my counsel for the defense, he kept on sighing and mopping his face with a handkerchief. He knew a hopeless case when he saw one.
    To be honest, I found the whole thing a bit of a trial. Which is to say it was about as interesting as a double period of algebra on a wet afternoon. These legal people seemed to take an hour to say what you and I could manage in a minute. They couldn’t even say good morning without written evidence from the weather office.
    Things livened up, though, when the witnesses arrived. First on was the old lady from Woburn Abbey—now in tweed neck brace and matching splints. She described how I’d attacked her and thrown her along the dinner table only somehow she forgot to mention that she’d been the one with the knitting needles.
    “What happened after you hit the table?” counsel for the defense asked.
    “An old master fell on me.”
    “Are you referring to the Marquess of Tavistock?”
    “No,” she sniffed. “It was a painting.”
    That brought a titter of laughter from the public gallery. The judge banged his gavel and not for the first time I was tempted to shout out, Sold to the lady with the neck brace and knitting needles. But I kept my mouth shut.
    “No further questions,” defense muttered miserably.
    The prosecution called two more security guards and the ranger from the safari park. They all told much the same story. I’d been caught red-handed with the carbuncle. I’d fought my way out. I’d half killed a lion. I’d finally been arrested. I was just grateful they didn’t call the lion.
    Then it was the turn of the defense.
    My counsel was a thin, gray-haired man called Wilson. We’d met before the trial and I’d asked him how he was going to get me off the hook. He’d laughed at that. He didn’t laugh often. You almost expected to see cobwebs at the corners of his mouth.
    “Get you