The Case Against Paul Raeburn Read Online Free PDF Page A

girl were put into the box, and testified that Eve Franklin had been with them on the night in question until nearly one o’clock, but Melville still wasn’t finished.
    “Your Worship,” he said, after the last witness had left the box, “I would venture now to make a statement which I hope you will agree is timely. It is evident that the accident was quite unavoidable. There remains, however, the charge that my client was drunk and incapable at the wheel of his car. I do not think that was the case. I intend to bring witnesses who will testify to his sobriety not only on that night, but at all times. He himself will tell you that he thought he had avoided the man who ran across the road, and –
    Melville poured ridicule on Dr Anstruther Breem’s evidence, and even shook the assurance of the mobile police who had found Raeburn near Roehampton.
    An hour later, Raeburn was almost mobbed by sycophantic admirers when he left the court.
     
    Roger opened the front door of the Bell Street house, stepped inside, and closed it quietly behind him. He stood still, listening. No sound came from the kitchen. Janet was probably out, and the boys not yet home, although it was nearly six.
    He had come straight from Scotland Yard, after a gloomy post mortem with Turnbull and Chatworth. He decided to change into slacks, and turned to the stairs. As he put his foot on the bottom stair, the kitchen door opened, and Janet stepped out.
    “Oh! Oh, darling, you scared me.”
    “Sorry, sweet. Boys not back?”
    “They’ve gone swimming.” Janet’s quick smile faded when she saw his expression. “He didn’t get off?”
    “He’s as free as the air,” said Roger, bitterly. “I’m sick and tired of the whole damned business. The man’s so rotten that he stinks. I feel that if I even hear his name mentioned again, I’ll throw a fit.”
    They stood staring at each other, until suddenly he grinned. “Sorry, sweet! No more hysterics. Any hope of an early supper? I didn’t get more than a sandwich at lunch.”
    “I’ll have it ready by the time you’ve changed,” promised Janet. “Why don’t you have a drink first?”
    A whisky-and-soda, sausages, eggs and chips, and a boisterous half hour with the two boys when they came in, damp-haired, bright-eyed, and ravenous, drove gloom away.
    At nine o’clock Martin, called ‘Scoopy’, a massive fourteen, and Richard, called Richard, an average thirteen, came away from television, rubbing their eyes.
    Janet said: “Bed now, boys, and don’t take all day to get ready.”
    “No, Mum. I just want to ask Dad something.” Scoopy eyed his father, while Richard watched from the door; this was obviously a put-up job, probably schemed to win ten or fifteen minutes’ respite from bedtime. “I was reading about that man, Raeburn, who got off, Dad. Didn’t you think you’d got him?”
    “I did,” answered Roger.
    “What happened?”
    “Either I’m a bad detective, or a witness lied.”
    “You mean that Eve Franklin?”
    “The pretty woman,” Richard put in.
    “We were reading about it in the evening paper,” Scoopy explained. “Do you really think she lied?”
    “Between these four walls, yes,” Roger said, “but if you breathe a word outside, I’ll never confide in you again. Now, off to bed!”
    “I jolly well know one thing,” declared Richard, his blue eyes looking enormous, “you’re not a bad detective.”
    “Come on, Fish, no need to say the obvious,” Scoopy said, and dragged his brother off.
    Roger slept soundly, woke in a more cheerful mood, and was even prepared for a few knocks in the morning newspapers. Scoopy, five feet ten and absurdly powerful, bounded up the stairs with them, announcing: “You’re starred again in the Cry, Pop!”
    A good photograph of himself stared up at Roger from the morning paper which Raeburn owned, but Roger was interested only in the caption:
     
    CHIEF INSPECTOR WEST, THE YOUNGEST CI AT THE YARD, WHO WAS IN CHARGE OF THE