Robert L. Fish
A Gross Carriage of Justice
This book is affectionately dedicated to the memory
of
Alice-Mary Schnirring
The-Mouse-That-Roared
Chapter 1
When Clarence Wellington Alexander was a youngster in grade school back in his native village of Wapakeneta, Ohio, his home-room teacher told Mr. and Mrs. Alexander that their son would go far. What the teacher failed to add, out of consideration for the hard-working parents, was that she only wished Clarence would do it as soon as possible. For Clarence had been endowed, among other attributes, with a streak of larceny that would have done justice to a much older person — Caligula, possibly. In his formative years he had spent only as much time on his books as had been required; the rest of his efforts went toward developing what he himself recognized early could be cultivated into quite a lucrative talent.
It was not that Clarence did not have other talents. His ability at mimicry might have eventually led him into a career in show business, except that by the time Clarence had reached the eighth grade, he knew that not only was show business too slow a road to success, it was also honest, and there was something about honesty that rubbed Clarence the wrong way. He much preferred to use his ability to imitate voices to gather dirt from unsuspecting schoolmates on the telephone, and then use the information for blackmail. This, together with a few other dishonest ploys, enabled Clarence to live in a style not normally enjoyed by a twelve-year-old given ten cents a week allowance.
Growing maturity did not dim his wit, nor age wither his skill; nor, for that matter, did it improve his morals. By the time he had reached the eleventh grade his ability to imitate the voices of several teachers (male) in clandestine conversations with other teachers (female) added to his gross, so that when at last Clarence took his departure from Wapakeneta just prior to graduation, he left at night and driving a car which even his aging parents in their naïveté would scarcely have imagined had been gained from a newspaper route.
Of medium height and slender build, with heart-warming brown eyes and hair the color of burnt umber, and with a smile of innocence that would steal your heart or anything else lying about loose, Clarence marched through life. There were no absolutes in the philosophy of C. W. Alexander. In the manner of his namesake, in Clarence’s grasp for the world anything was fair game, from the raffle fund for new high-school band uniforms which he had promoted just prior to his departure from his birthplace, to the gilt-edged securities which later were to provide many a widow with guaranteed pauperhood. To Clarence, if it moved it was game. William Shakespeare, stuck for a sharp bit of dialogue toward the end of Julius Caesar, has Brutus remark to Cassius, “There is a tide in the affairs of men which taken at the flood leads on to fortune.” Clarence W. Alexander would have put it more succinctly: “When Opportunity knocks, open your ears!” One is forced to wonder just how far William Shakespeare might have gone had he possessed Clarence’s command of the language.
All in all, Clarence had small reason to distrust his philosophy. By keeping his ears open to Opportunity’s knock — and even at times leading Opportunity to his door with a twisted arm and helping it raise the knocker — Clarence had managed to reach the ripe age of thirty-seven without ever having suffered either hunger or the stigma of honest labor. True, there had been an occasional hiatus in his march upward and onward when some fractious judge had removed him from circulation for a time, but those occasions were rare. It was also true at times that Clarence had been forced to abandon his native strand for safer shores until certain memories weakened, and the time of which we speak was one of those. At the moment Clarence was residing in the old Avery farmhouse on the outskirts of the small village of Crumley-under-Chum in the shire of Sussex, in England.
The cause of this unfortunate exile still struck Clarence as being eminently unfair. It struck him that if some foreigner could sell a United States citizen the London Bridge with impunity — and in pieces, yet — that it was extremely inequitable to frown upon his simple reciprocity with the Golden Gate Bridge, especially since the Golden Gate was not only intact but earning money.
But frowned upon it had been, and so we find Clarence in England. He had chosen the small village of Crumley-under-Chum because he preferred small towns rather than large cities with large police forces. He also knew from his experience growing up in Wapakeneta, that the vaunted curiosity of the rural villager was grossly exaggerated. In general he knew the normal rural villager was far too busy trying to maintain his own privacy to spend much time worrying about violating the privacy of others.
His companion in exile was one Harold Nishbagel, a massive character in his early forties who was built along the lines of an earth-mover, with hands the size of football helmets, with spiky black hair, eyes like jaw-breakers, and a brow so low he looked as if he were perpetually peering under a picket fence. The two had met in prison, where Harold had managed to convince the most recalcitrant that there was nothing comical about the name “Harold,” while the name “Nishbagel” had a positively royal ring to it. Since Clarence W. Alexander avoided violence as something he knew he was ill-equipped to cope with, and since Harold Nishbagel avoided thinking for much the same reason, the partnership seemed a natural one.
At the moment Clarence and Harold were seated on a bench running the length of the interior of the Deer’s Head Pub on the main street of Crumley-under-Chum. Harold was carefully reading the Sunday supplement — in color — of a London journal he had found abandoned on the bench, his mug of ale forgotten beside him, his lips moving laboriously as his thick forefinger led him from word to word, much as a seeing-eye dog might lead a hesitant master over unfamiliar terrain. The newspaper was not current, but that was of small moment to Harold; on those rare occasions when he read, he did so strictly for entertainment.
At his side, Clarence stared balefully at the stuffed deer’s head on one wall which had undoubtedly led some inspired publican in the past to the brilliant selection of the pub’s name. The deer, in Clarence’s considered opinion, had not died from shaft or shell, but most probably from drinking the premises’ beer. There was a murmur from Harold as the gist of the story he was perusing finally worked its way through the intervening bone and reached the gray cells. He shook his head in sympathetic admiration.
“Chee!” he said in his gravel voice. “Ain’t that nice!”
He nodded his Cro-Magnon-type head a few times in confirmation of his conclusion, and went back to deciphering the rest of the story. It would have been easier, he felt, if the British knew how to spell, but even with this added handicap he was proud to know he had overcome the worst of the communication problem and had the general sense of the article pretty well pinned to the mat.
Clarence looked over at Harold, a frown on his face. It was not that his consideration of the stuffed deer’s head — which seemed to be considering him in return with equal or superior distaste — had led to any conclusions that were very profound, or even potentially profitable. It was simply that Clarence disliked having his thoughts disrupted, particularly by a flannel-brain like Harold. He glared at his companion.
“What?”
“It’s these three old guys, see?” Harold said, his normally rough voice softening as memory of what he had just struggled through came back to him. “They got their picture here in the paper, see? In color.”
He pointed; Clarence yawned. Harold went back to his story, his sausagelike finger keeping pace obediently.