The Library Paradox (34 page)

‘But you were unable to find him.’

‘He had, seemingly, vanished into thin air. Or rather, not into the air, but back into that part of town where Jews come cheaper by the doz—where there are a great many foreign Jews and many people do not speak English, and even when they do they are most reluctant to aid the police
in any way. The search began to appear hopeless, and I came to the decision that the possibility of the witness being a liar must be confronted. That was when we proceeded to an arrest. At that point, the Ralston family lawyer came to see me with a threatening letter directed against the murdered man, and I was able to discover almost immediately that the author of the threats was closely related to the man I had arrested.’

This information caused a stir in the public gallery, and a terrific stir in myself. So the police knew about Jonathan’s relationship to the Gad family! Yes, of course they must. It was easy enough to establish a relationship once one had the idea that it might exist. I remembered my own search in the birth records for Rebecca Gad. I had started searching in her parents’ marriage year of 1874. But if I had been more thorough – if I had taken the time to search for every child born to the married couples in my entire list of Gad spouses, I would soon have found Amy and Jonathan, born just a few years earlier, and realised the connection myself much sooner than I did. Of course, I had acted logically enough, but I had lacked the thoroughness that the police automatically bring to their research. It was a bad thing for Jonathan. They could easily construe a motive out of it. More distraught than ever, I looked around for the rabbi.

Ignoring the rustle of interest in his statement, Mr Andrews proceeded to call the next witnesses, who were successively Mr Mason, Mr Chapman, and the college caretaker who
had accompanied them to the gate on the evening of the murder. All three told the same story; it was simple and straightforward and matched what we already knew in every particular. Before turning over Mr Mason for cross-examination, Mr Andrews said that there was one point which he greatly wished to elucidate.

‘As you came running around the house and reached and turned the front corner, you saw the accused and called out to him?’

‘Yes,’ replied Mr Mason soberly.

‘What did you say?’

‘I said, “Someone’s been shot!” and ran on inside.’

‘Did you pay attention to whether the person you saw on the path came running after you?’

‘Not at all. I didn’t look back. However, I certainly assumed that he was following us, and he came rushing in barely a few moments later.’

‘Now, Mr Mason, I wish you to answer the following question very carefully. When you saw the accused, what exactly was he doing?’

‘Walking up the path,’ said Mr Mason in surprise.

‘You are sure of that?’

‘Quite.’

‘He could not, for example, have been walking
down
the path, away from the house, and have just turned around?’

Now he hesitated a little.

‘I don’t know. My impression was very certainly that he was walking up the path when I saw him. It never occurred to me that he might have been doing anything else.’

‘How long would you say you actually had him in your vision?’

‘That’s hard to say. A very short time. A second, perhaps.’

‘So it is impossible for you to say what he was doing, one or two seconds before you appeared around the corner of the house. In assuming that he was walking towards the house, you are projecting the image of what you saw, namely a man facing you, into the previous few seconds.’

‘I suppose so,’ said Mr Mason, confused.

Sir Morris Hirsch began his cross-examination by asking about this same detail. He made Mr Mason visualise the scene in his memory and describe exactly what he remembered. He made a great deal of the fact that Mr Mason believed he had seen Jonathan actually taking a step, and that his shoulders were not twisted, as they would have been if he had been turning, but full-face forwards. Sir Morris experimented by taking a few steps, turning on his heel rapidly and walking in the other direction, while the magistrate counted seconds.

‘That is conclusive,’ said Sir Morris Hirsch smugly. The result did not appear to me to be so convincing, nor so great a victory. He tried a similar tack with Mr Chapman, but Mr Chapman said only that his view was obstructed by Mr Mason as they ran, and he was only barely conscious in his haste and worry that someone else was present and Mr Mason had called out to him. He described in detail the manner in which he and Jonathan had both rushed out of the house and turned around it in different directions, meeting at the back a few moments after, and how he had then left
Jonathan and gone for the police, locating and bringing back a constable on the beat just around the corner, who had then had other officers summoned. He asserted firmly that there was not a soul in view, front, back or side of the house, and that in a perfectly flat square garden containing not even a shrub, it would have been impossible for anyone to hide.

‘Unless he was pressed against the wall on Mr Sachs’ side of the house, and they were accomplices,’ he said. It seemed unkind, but I think he said it more out of thoroughness than out of malice, particularly as he immediately added, ‘But if that were the case, the person would have had to leave the premises by the front gate, and he did not, because Mason said he was standing looking out of the front door while I ran for the police. When I returned with the officer, we told him the murderer might still be on the premises, and made a complete search once again. There was no one.’

The caretaker’s testimony proved beyond any shadow of a doubt that Mr Mason and Mr Chapman themselves could not have been personally involved with the shooting.

‘Before calling my next witness,’ said Mr Andrews, ‘I would like to remark that according to the testimonies we have already heard, the accused stands in the dock as a consequence of the purest logic. According to the circumstances we have heard described, no other solution is possible. And pure logical reasoning is sufficient to prove our case. However, I am as firm a believer in the importance of establishing a motive and comprehending the origin of the crime as any member of the legal profession. And that is
the purpose of my next witness. I would like to call Mr Abel Burton to the stand.’

I recognised the man at once. It was no other than the prison guard who had sat in the centre section of the visiting cage at Dartmoor, listening to my interview with Baruch Gad.

After asking for his name, age and profession, Mr Andrews proceeded to the point.

‘You have heard conversations between the accused and a prisoner at your institution?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

‘How many such conversations have you heard?’

‘The prisoner came every visiting day, that is, once every three months, for the last several years.’

‘How many years?’

‘I do not remember precisely, but certainly at least five if not somewhat more.’

‘The prisoner has, in fact, been visiting the inmate at Dartmoor regularly for six years,’ Mr Andrews informed the magistrate, ‘from the time he reached the age of sixteen.’ Then, turning back to the guard, he asked, ‘What is the relation between the accused and the inmate of Dartmoor?’

‘I was informed by the governor that the inmate, Baruch Gad, is uncle to the accused,’ replied this gentleman, ‘his mother’s brother, to be precise, and that this relationship was the basis of his visiting rights.’

‘I object,’ said Jonathan’s solicitor, rising suddenly. ‘This is not direct evidence.’

‘It can be directly confirmed,’ said Mr Andrews quickly.

‘Let it stand, subject to confirmation,’ said the magistrate.

‘What were the main subjects of conversation between the prisoner Gad and the accused?’ asked Mr Andrews.

‘They talked about the family; the accused told his uncle about his parents, his sister, his studies and his friends. And they talked frequently about a black dog.’

‘A black dog?’ the magistrate observed in surprise. ‘What dog was that?’

‘What did they say about the black dog?’ asked Mr Andrews.

‘The prisoner Gad used to ask his nephew where the black dog was; this dog was apparently lost or had disappeared and he wanted him to find him. That went on during the first few years. Then one day, one or two years ago, the nephew came and told his uncle he had found the black dog.’

‘And what was the reaction of the prisoner Gad to this information?’ said Mr Andrews.

‘He was very excited. I never saw him react so strongly during the entire ten years I have known him. The prisoner is habitually a very quiet man, but that day he was beside himself.’

‘And during the following visits, the accused gave his uncle regular news of the black dog?’

‘Yes. He also spoke sometimes of the black dog’s owner.’

‘What did he say of the dog’s owner?’

‘As far as I can remember, in answer to his uncle’s pressing questions, he told him the owner was a university professor teaching history in London.’

Mr Andrews suddenly changed his demeanour. Leaning forward, he lowered his voice and adopted a tone of meaningful significance.

‘Did it ever occur to you that the black dog was not a dog, but a person?’

‘I object!’ said Sir Morris Hirsch, bounding to his feet. ‘This is a leading question.’

‘It is,’ admitted the magistrate. ‘Strike out the question and pose another.’

‘Did you ever wonder why the prisoner cared so much about a black dog?’ said Mr Andrews.

‘No,’ said the prison guard bluntly, with a slight shrug. ‘The answer to the other question would have been no as well. I thought that the prisoner may have been deeply attached to this dog before going to prison, and still cling to his memory. Prisoners often do. I did wonder why the dog had no name.’

‘And you never asked the prisoner about the black dog?’

‘No. We listeners are discreet. We are obliged to overhear conversations to counteract any plot to escape or other criminal actions. But we try to keep our presence unnoticed. Those are the rules. The purpose is not merely politeness. In theory, if we are sufficiently discreet, the prisoner and his visitor may come to forget our presence, and we may pick up something important.’

‘So,’ said Mr Andrews, highly disappointed by this answer, and turning to the tactic of sarcasm, ‘we are to understand that you never, for one moment, realised the obvious fact that the prisoner and the accused were fooling
you, and using a simple, basic code to communicate fundamental information about an impending murder.’

‘I object!’ interjected Sir Morris Hirsch loudly, at the same time as the witness said, ‘No, I never thought that.’

‘But I claim it is the case,’ said Mr Andrews firmly. ‘I claim that the black dog referred to no other than Professor Gerard Ralston, the victim of murder. I claim that the prisoner Baruch Gad, whose nephew stands in the dock in front of us, planned the murder of Professor Gerard Ralston and had it executed by his nephew, the whole of the planning having taken place by the use of a simple code: referring to the professor as a black dog and a few other key words. In order to justify my statements, I will ask this witness to stand down and call Mr Charles Upp to the stand.’

Mr Upp appeared. His brow was shiny; the role he was about to be compelled to play obviously went against the grain.

Mr Andrews began by asking questions to establish the fact that Mr Upp had received, from the judge at the trial of Baruch Gad, a letter addressed to him by the condemned man. The letter, the same one I had seen and written down from memory in my notebook, was brought out and read. A gasp ran around the assembled personages. Mr Andrews then proceeded to elicit from Mr Upp the story of his decision to take the letter to the police. I was at first surprised to learn that he had done it after all, but soon understood that he had been impelled to this action by the news of Jonathan’s arrest, which had made it impossible for
him to continue to doubt that the letter was relevant. He was then asked to explain the reference to the anonymous witness, and to identify him. His description of the Gad trial caused rustling and whispering in the court.

‘So Mr Jonathan Sachs became aware, a year or two ago, that the anonymous witness his uncle wished him to locate and identify, the very man who had testified against both of his uncles during their trial and had been instrumental in causing a conviction, was none other than the deceased Professor Ralston. Does it not seem clear that his uncle, in his bitterness and frustration at his own inability to act due to his incarceration, proceeded to push the young man to accomplish the second part of his vengeful project: murder, as he had already accomplished the first: identification?’ concluded the prosecutor triumphantly.

It certainly did not constitute a proof, but then, no proof was needed; in order to send Jonathan to trial, it was only necessary to establish sufficient evidence. Even motive is but a cherry on the cake. The magistrate’s face was serious. He enquired courteously but doubtfully if Sir Morris Hirsch wished to call any witnesses for the defence.

It seemed to me to be out of the question for Sir Morris Hirsch to call any witness; not Jonathan himself, nor any member of his family, nor any colleague of Professor Ralston. For under Mr Andrews’ cross-examination, it would be impossible to avoid bringing forth the facts of Professor Ralston’s raging anti-Semitism, and confirming Jonathan’s close attachment to his uncle, its victim, and his discovery of Ralston’s identity as the famous witness. All
of this, it seemed to me, could only worsen the case against him. The situation appeared desperate. For the fiftieth time, I strained my attention towards the entrance to the courtroom, imagining that I heard some sound, some sign of the rabbi’s sudden arrival. Yet I jumped in surprise when the door behind the magistrate’s seat opened from without, and a note was delivered to him. Emily seized my hand.

‘Did you see that? What do you think it means? Has he come?’

‘It could be anything,’ I said. ‘It might not even have anything to do with the case. But it could be the rabbi – it could be that he has arrived and wishes to present evidence. Emily, if only it were so!’