THE FIFTEEN CELLS
BY STUART MARTIN
HARPER & BROTHERS _Publishers_
New York _and_ London
1928
PRINTED IN THE U. S. A.
E-C
CONTENTS
THE VISITOR
THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE FIRST CELL
THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE SECOND CELL
THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE THIRD CELL
THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE FOURTH CELL
THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE FIFTH CELL
THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE SIXTH CELL
THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE SEVENTH CELL
THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE EIGHTH CELL
THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE NINTH CELL
THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE TENTH CELL
THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE ELEVENTH CELL
THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE TWELFTH CELL
THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE THIRTEENTH CELL
THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE FOURTEENTH CELL
THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE FIFTEENTH CELL
THE FIFTEEN CELLS
THE VISITOR
It was all a matter of routine.
Precisely at nine o'clock in the morning the Governor entered the
prison, just as he had entered for years.
The warder who met him at the gates saluted smartly and said, "All
correct, sir," just as he had said it for years.
Every warder who was stationed between the gates and the Governor's
office saluted and said, "All correct, sir," just as they had said it
for years.
The Deputy-Governor rose from his chair as the Governor entered the
office, and said, "All correct, sir. Good morning, sir."
The correspondence was looked over. The Governor dictated a few replies
to his clerk; routine replies. The stewards received their portion of
the mail dealing with the accounts and the cookhouse, laundry, etc.
The chief warder reported that the adjudication room was ready. The
Governor and the Deputy-Governor went in to adjudicate.
The newcomers to the prison were attended to first. They had been
brought in the previous day, had been bathed, medically examined, and
given prison clothes. There were fourteen arrivals. Next came those
who were due to return to the world shortly. Their papers were put in
order.
The Governor went to his lunch.
In the afternoon he attended to his less important correspondence.
He adjudicated on the applications for petitions, wherein prisoners
desired to tell the Home Secretary that their sentences were too long
or complained of other matters. Every prisoner has a right to petition.
Very few have their petitions granted.
The Governor went to tea.
His work was not ended. He returned to his office and signed a request
to the local coroner to be good enough to hold an inquest the following
day on the body of a man who was at that moment perfectly healthy; but
he was in the condemned cell.
The Governor then took a walk round the grounds. It was a dull, heavy
evening. Fog had been coming up all day. In a corner of the prison
precincts two warders had almost finished digging a grave. The Governor
wondered how the condemned man would face his execution; and came to
the conclusion that he would probably do as practically all condemned
men did--take his ounce or so of brandy, toss it off, and wipe his lips
with his cuff. The executioner would be at the door and would enter
the cell, while the chaplain, the assistants, the officials, would
look on. The executioner would pretend to be cheerful. Most of them
affect this frightful cordiality. He would say persuasively: "Hullo,
old man. Put your hands behind your back, if you don't mind. That's
the idea." By the time the executioner ceased to speak the condemned
man would be pinioned. The chaplain would lead the procession, reading
aloud the Burial Service (a kindness granted to ordinary people when
they can no longer hear it). The shed, ten yards off, would be reached.
A belt would be strapped round the prisoner's ankles, the executioner
would put a white cap over the man's head and adjust the noose; then,
stepping back quickly from the platform, he would pull the lever. The
trap-door would open, its sides thudding against the sides of the
pit with a crash that would be heard throughout the prison. The law
would be satisfied; at any rate, it would be fulfilled. Everything was
routine.
The Governor had still one call to make. He had to go to the condemned
cell.
He passed into the prison, walked along the corridors, which were
steam-heated and scrupulously clean. He stopped before the condemned
cell at the door of which a warder was on guard.
"All correct, sir," said the warder, saluting.
The Governor looked into the cell through the trap in the door. The
prisoner was enjoying a smoke. The Governor closed the trap.
"Gives you no trouble?" he asked in a low tone.
"None at all, sir."
"Chaplain been here?"
"Yes, sir."
"There is a visitor coming to see him to-night. Report him to my
deputy. Don't bother me."
The warder saluted. The Governor went back to his room. His rounds
were finished. He would not be disturbed. The friends of condemned men
always wanted to see the Governor just before the executions--as if he
could do anything! The Governor drew a chair close to the fire, lit a
cigar, and picked up a newspaper.
His room was a large apartment. There were no curtains on the
windows, but the glass was of the frosted, corrugated kind so that
nobody could see inside, even if the position of the room had made it
possible otherwise; which it did not. The Governor had attended many
executions in his prison and had seen men die on the scaffold. These
ceremonies did not affect him, never made him turn a hair. Like many
other Governors he had been an Army officer before he became a prison
official. He had no interest in the present case. The crime had been
cold-blooded. The Governor had asked his deputy to represent him at the
final scene. Everything was in readiness to launch the criminal out of
this world.
The Governor went to dinner.
The clock on the mantel-piece of his private room was just striking
eight when he returned. He was going to write some private letters,
and he had just lit another cigar when a knock sounded on the door. A
warder appeared.
"That visitor is here, sir."
"Has he been to the condemned cell?"
"Yes, sir."
"Has he seen my deputy?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then why trouble me? I left instructions----"
"Yes, sir. But he insists on seeing you."
"Very well. Bring him up and then leave us. Do not trouble me again. I
will show him out."
The warder departed, but was back in less than a minute. At his heels
was the visitor who had come to see the condemned man. The warder
closed the door on them and clumped along the corridor for good. The
Governor raised his eyes from his desk where he had pretended to be
busy.
"You wish to see me?"
"I do."
"I can't give you much time. The prison is already officially closed
for the night----"
"That doesn't matter."
"You have already interviewed my deputy?"
"It's you I want to speak to."
"What can I do for you?"
Up to this point the routine had been strictly followed. At this point
routine suddenly received a jolt that destroyed it and blew it to
smithereens.
"You can just sit where you are, Governor. And don't attempt to move."
The Governor obeyed--he who was in the habit of being obeyed. He was
facing the barrel of a small revolver which the visitor had thrust
forward and was holding in his gloved hand. For a moment neither of
the two men spoke. Neither of them was afraid. It was a meeting of two
persons well drilled in the art of controlling emotions. The Governor
examined his visitor. The visitor examined the Governor.
The Governor saw a man of medium height, dressed shabbily, but with a
certain air of superiority. His face was furrowed, two lines running
down, one on either side of his cheeks, from the nose past the corners
of the mouth, to the chin. It was a prominent chin, and hiding under it
was a duplicate one. The man's brow was broad and wide, his eyebrows
shaggy and heavy. At the corners of his eyes were wrinkles telling of
concentration and meditation. The eyes themselves were small, piercing,
alert, with no trace of nervousness about them. They were a trifle too
close together, however, and this gave them a touch of cunning. The
general impression was that the face might have belonged to a student,
a professor. On the other hand, it might have belonged to a criminal.
Prison often moulds such faces. It was a face at once interesting
and common; pleasing and yet unattractive; arresting and still
unremarkable. But the Governor knew that only an uncommon personality
would have come into his room with a revolver levelled at him.
The stranger, on his part, studied the Governor minutely. He saw a tall
man, nearly six feet high, head going bald on the top, military face,
lean flanks, broad shoulders. In contrast to the intruder's face the
Governor's had no superfluous flesh. His eyelids were heavy, especially
at the corners where they almost over-lapped the eyes. The hands,
which were spread out on the edge of the desk, were well shaped. They
were hands that could hit hard. The wrists, which appeared under the
cuffs, were well developed and strong. The fact that the Governor had
gripped the desk as he swung round, and still gripped it when he saw
the revolver, proved that he had disciplined himself to crises. A less
disciplined man would have leaped to his feet; and would have been dead
next moment. The visitor's revolver was equipped with a silencer.
"You can take your hands off the desk now, Governor," said the visitor.
"Swing round so that you can sit at your ease. I don't want to kill
you--yet."
The Governor swung round as directed, but out of the corner of his eye
he saw the visitor step backwards to the door and turn the key in the
lock. He put the key into his pocket and advanced until he was on the
opposite side of the desk. He laid the revolver down.
Why did the Governor not leap up and over-power this visitor who
menaced him? Because the Governor knew men. He knew from the way this
individual handled his weapon that he was a master and that before he
could raise his arm to sweep it from the desk the bullet would be
fired. The Governor could read men. It was his business to read them.
He was aware that he faced a man capable of extraordinary things,
and of ordinary things too; but for the moment the extraordinary
predominated.
The Governor took up the cigar he had laid on the ash-tray beside his
chair and lit it leisurely.
"Will you kindly come to business?" he asked. "What is it that you
want?"
"You have a man in the condemned cell?"
"I have."
"He is due to be hanged to-morrow morning?"
"At eight o'clock exactly."
"He must not be hanged."
"It is the law, and I am afraid that he will be."
"If he is hanged you will die quickly."
"I don't see how I can prevent it."
"You can sign this paper."
The stranger pulled a blue sheet of foolscap from his pocket and tossed
it across the desk. The Governor glanced at it.
"You have procured this at the Home Office."
"I brought it from the Home Office specially for you."
"That means you stole it. Burglary of State documents."
"What does it matter? I mean you to sign it. It will constitute the
completion of an official reprieve. You will notice that the Home
Secretary's signature is there."
"Forgery."
"You may put it that way. I obtained his signature and traced it by
using a piece of carbon paper. Over that tracing I used ink. You will
be able to plead that the document has all the signs of genuineness."
"You mean that I have to act on this as an official reprieve?"
"That is what I am about to compel you to do."
The Governor stared at his visitor. The whole thing was preposterous;
but it was possible. One point was obscure and presented a difficulty.
"Supposing the condemned man is freed on this paper, there are
formalities to be gone through. The trick would be found out in the
morning----"
"By that time he would be safe."
"I don't quite follow."
"It is simplicity itself. I suggest that you, in your official
capacity, send for the prisoner to be brought to this room. Your
warders would bring him."
"Well?"
"This would be quite in the usual course of procedure. When he arrives
you would acquaint your officers with the arrival of the official
reprieve. I should be here. It would not be untrue to say that I have
come direct from the Home Office with it."
"And if I refused to do this?"
"Well, sir, you would die. I shoot straight. Do you care to see proof
of my shooting?"
"It would be interesting to have such proof, but----"
"Please hold your cigar up above your head."
The Governor did so. The visitor raised his revolver with the swiftness
of a flash of light, a sharp "ping" sounded, followed by a second
similar sound. The ash of the cigar fell in a cloud on the Governor's
knees.
"You see?" said the visitor quietly.
"Where did the bullet go?"
"Ah, you expected to hear the crash of it against the furniture, a
sound that might have brought one of your warders--is it not so? If you
will note the angle at which I fired you will see that the bullet went
through the bottom right-hand corner of the window about six inches
from the sash."
The Governor turned his head and saw that such was the case. A small,
perfectly drilled hole had been cut in the glass.
"It was well gauged," said the Governor. "You can shoot. But still I
insist that the shooting of myself would not help you personally, nor
your friend the prisoner. My warders would fall on you. Ultimately you
would be hanged."
"You are wrong. You would send two warders only for the prisoner. That
is the usual number. There are still five rounds in this gun."
"It is usual for a Governor to acquaint a prisoner with his reprieve in
the cell."
"We must depart from routine on this occasion."
The Governor considered while he gazed at the carpet. Presently he
lifted his head.
"And if I accepted this as a genuine, official document?"
"The rest would be easy. The warders would be dismissed while you
acquainted the prisoner with the lifting of the death sentence. I would
do the few necessary acts that are required for the plan I have formed.
The prisoner would be dressed in another suit of clothes----"
"Where would he get them?"
"I am wearing two suits now. He could have one. He and I are the same
height."
"Oh, I see."
"We would go out by your window, after switching off the light. I have
a length of stout cord around my waist. We would not be seen."
The visitor walked over to the window and pointed towards the glass.
"A heavy fog is coming up. It is fairly thick now. The weather prophets
state in the evening papers that it is likely to last for some time.
You, of course, would have to be considered. I assure you there would
be no damage to your reputation."
"How so?"
"I have in my pocket a small phial of dope. A few drops in a glass of
water, or in a whisky and soda, would put you to sleep for many hours.
If you objected to that there is another way."
"What is it?"
"We could bind you to your chair and gag you. In either case you would
be found helpless."
"That would be awkward."
"It would be better than being dead."
The Governor threw the stub of his cigar into the fire and pondered the
situation for a little while.
"There is one point which you have overlooked," he said quietly,
"though I hardly dare hope that it will appeal to you."
"What is it?"
"It is a simple one also. The prisoner who is to be executed to-morrow
morning----"
"You mean who is sentenced to be executed to-morrow morning."
"If you put it that way you can do so. My point is that he does not
deserve a reprieve. Do you understand the nature of his crime? It was a
most repulsive one----"
"You mean that therefore you, as Governor of this prison, would
naturally suspect that a reprieve would never be granted, and so would
take all precautions, such as calling up the Home Secretary on the
telephone?"
"Well, you must give me credit for taking measures to make sure----"
"I see. Then there is still another way out whereby you could not be
accused of laxity."
"I shall be interested to hear it."
"It is this. You could send for him as I suggest, for the purpose
of having a last talk with him. He has never repented of his act,
according to the newspapers. Would not a Governor be acting within
his province in giving a prisoner a chance of a final opportunity of
repentance?"
"The chaplain has charge of prisoners' consciences."
"I was merely offering an alternative suggestion to save your
reputation."
While this conversation had been taking place the Governor had been
busy looking for an opening to defeat the plan of his visitor. He had
not been discussing the most unusual situation merely to pass the time.
He recognised that the man in front of him was no ordinary person, and
that he was one who was determined as well as daring. All the time
they had been speaking, the eyes of the visitor had been fixed on the
Governor with the intentness of a cat watching a mouse. One false move,
one attempt to reach the bell-push on the wall, and the revolver would
have spoken. The Governor did not want to die. But he knew he would die
if he met the proposal of his visitor with a blank refusal. Besides,
it was not a Governor's place, nor his duty, to die. It was his duty
to hold a criminal once he had him. He recognised in his visitor a man
who ought to be inside the prison. Already this man had committed acts
sufficient to give him a long sentence.
There was no doubt that, up to a point, the visitor held the winning
cards. His scheme had been planned with a thoroughness that defied
criticism. But how was it that a visiting permit had been obtained
by him, and how was it that he had dared the cast-iron rules of the
gaol and had walked through them? These things puzzled the Governor.
Discipline was part of the Governor's nature. His whole life had been
lived under discipline, his entire nature was bound up in it. He also
held strong views in regard to crime and criminals, views which were
well known to his superiors and to the Commissioners. Yet he realised
that this was a case which discipline and routine failed to handle.
Something else had to be brought into play.
"Supposing," he said, as he crossed his legs and put his clasped hands
behind his head, "that we take a little time to discuss this matter? I
give you my word that I shall make no attempt to test the accuracy of
your shooting abilities. I have observed that you know how to handle a
gun. But the situation is unusual and is worth analysis. We have plenty
of time to spare."
The visitor glanced at the clock on the mantel-piece.
"It is now 9:45," he said with a nod. "We have ten and a quarter hours."
"Have you a watch?" asked the Governor.
"No. But you have a clock."
The Governor smiled.
"That is so; and I was just about to wind it up for the night when you
entered. Permit me to do so now."
The visitor did not object, and the Governor rose and wound up the
clock, explaining as he did so that he wound it every night. They were
beginning to understand each other. Each knew that he could trust the
other's word.
The Governor sat down again in his chair, and the visitor took the
chair on the opposite side of the desk. He placed his revolver within
easy reach of his hand, then unbuttoned his overcoat.
"Would you care for a cigar, or a cigarette?" asked the Governor
amiably. "And perhaps a whisky and soda?"
"A cigarette will do. I never touch spirits."
"Ah, then perhaps a plain soda?"
"Thank you."
The Governor opened a cupboard and provided a box of choice cigarettes
and a siphon. These he placed on the desk, while the visitor's hand
closed over his weapon. But there was no need for the movement. The
Governor smiled. They resumed their former positions.
"The man who is in the condemned cell at this moment," began the
Governor, "was caught after he had committed a callous crime of murder,
the object of which was burglary. I need not go into details, since
you doubtless know them. The newspapers were full of the case, which
was tried at the Old Bailey before a wise judge and an intelligent
jury. There was practically no defence. The prisoner, whose name is
Floxton, was proved to be the culprit. He had been a music-hall artist
before he became a criminal. He and another man, named Steve Jenkins,
toured the halls as knock-about comedians. Jenkins always took the part
of the gentleman in their turns. It is believed that the murderer was
the less intelligent of the two and that his actions have for some time
been dominated by Jenkins, a cleverer criminal, and an intellectual.
The two took to fraud when they fell on bad times. They went to Chicago
and became gunmen. Floxton had served more than one sentence. Jenkins
was too clever to be caught. I would be glad to think that he was in
prison with his companion. I have said he was an intellectual----"
"You see him before you," interrupted the visitor. "I appreciate your
testimonial."
"Ah, as I suspected. The two suits of clothes you mentioned gave me the
clue. Of course, these heavy eyebrows are not your own?"
"They are not."
"The make-up is clever. The permit to visit the prisoner--how did you
obtain it?"
"It was made out on the application of a third party. That is all you
need know."
"Impersonation? Really, my friend, you have broken the law in a great
number of ways to carry out your scheme. I admit its bravery. But I see
also another side to it. What will it profit you or your companion even
if you save him from the gallows? You know I have firm theories on the
question of crime. You would be hunted, every avenue of escape would
be closed to you. This island would be merely a large prison. England
would be your gaol."
"It would be big enough."
"But in the end it would be too small. You would make a mistake one day
and your liberty, perhaps your life, would be forfeit."
"You think that a mistake is inevitable?"
"Decidedly so."
"I do not agree with you."
"I never expected that you would. But the fact remains. Every man
in prison to-day is there because he made a mistake in tactics, in
judgment, in action. Consider what you criminals are up against! To
escape the law you must never make a mistake! Is that humanly possible?"
"I do not claim infallibility. Since every man in every walk of life
must make mistakes, we may do so. But it is possible to recover. You
have proof that I can defy your rules and regulations. I am here."
"It is true you are here. But is that any guarantee that you will not
make a mistake?"
"I have made none so far. You are my prisoner."
"That is also true; and yet I am Governor of a prison full of men who
have made mistakes. Indeed, so sure am I that all criminals must make
a mistake somewhere, somehow, some time--the fatal mistake that places
them in the cells--that I have arranged the floors of this prison in a
sort of series of degrees. In the main block I have placed those whose
mistakes are the mistakes of ignorant, brutal men. They are by far the
great majority of criminals. Their mistakes are blunt, coarse ones; I
call them the Errors of the Illiterate. The ordinary police have run
these men to earth."
"I have heard of your theories," said the visitor grimly. "You are a
crank."
"In the right wing," went on the Governor, "are the men who have
a higher intelligence. They are the blackmailers, the cruder kind
of forgers, the confidence men. I call their tactical mistakes the
Errors of the Intelligent. They were arrested by the detectives of the
Criminal Investigation Department."
"I remember reading your evidence before a Select Committee," smiled
the visitor. "You rather let yourself go on your theories. If I mistake
not, your idea was that by keeping your prisoners in grades they kept
to their own lines of crime?"
"Exactly, that was my theory. I have special accommodation for each
grade. My third and highest in the scale are housed in the left
wing. They are all men of highly developed mentality. But they
all made their mistakes when they became criminals, and they were
all caught. I call them the Intellectuals. The condemned cells are
placed in a separate portion of the building, apart from these graded
prisoners, because into the condemned cells go men of all these
grades--illiterate, intelligent, intellectual. Murder, you see, is
mostly an impulse. Spasmodic acts are not controlled by intelligence or
intellect."
"That is your theory, but there are exceptions. What about premeditated
murder--such as I contemplate if you refuse to do as I say?"
"You have entered the region of pathology now," replied the Governor.
"Murder is degeneracy, and men who commit murder are always
degenerates. For the moment they revert to the primitive. That
reversion may be the result of a deliberate plan or the work of a
moment."
"It does not matter much, does it?"
"In a way it does not--to the victim. But in a way it does--to the
students of crime. If we can grade law-breakers we can see the
operations of their minds, and so classify them. We can almost
anticipate their acts. For these reasons I never allow my illiterate
prisoners to mix with my intelligent ones, nor my intelligent ones to
mix with my intellectual ones. At least I contrive to separate them as
much as possible. A prison, you must be aware, has three functions to
perform."
"What are they?"
"The first is punitive. The criminal must be chastised."
"And the second?"
"The second is deterrent. The punishment must be a warning to others,
as well as to the criminal himself."
"And the third?"
"The third is educational. We strive to cure evil propensities."
"How do these functions apply to hanging?"
"The first function automatically wipes out the second and the third
so far as the defaulter is concerned; but it is held the others still
operate with potential defaulters."
The visitor shrugged his shoulders, and a grim smile played round his
lips.
"My presence here proves that you are wrong," he said. "If I wished to
kill a man I would kill him. The satisfaction of having done so would
out-weigh all other considerations. It is up to you. Have you decided
whether you will hand over your prisoner--or die?"
"You mistake my meaning," said the Governor. "You may be the exception
that proves the rule. Or you may not. I am not talking in the hope
of help arriving. We shall not be disturbed. I dismissed the officer
who brought you here, and the night staff are now in charge. They
do not know you are with me. I often sleep on that settee in the
corner.... Allow me to elaborate my meaning on the question of the
miscalculations of criminals. I maintain that they all, ultimately,
make a fatal error; and that error brings them to the cells. Some get
short sentences, some get long ones, some walk to the scaffold. Did you
notice, as you came along to this room, that you passed, in the middle
block, a corridor which is barred off from the remainder of the prison?"
"I noticed it."
"There are fifteen cells in that corridor. Into these fifteen cells
go fifteen of the new prisoners when they are admitted here. They are
the men whose cases interest me most. I study them before classifying
them into the three grades. This morning I had only fourteen prisoners
to put in that corridor. It would be a great favour to me if you would
consent to hear why these fourteen men came to be in my charge."
"You imagine it would influence me? You are surely a crank."
"I love to test my theories. You know, of course, that the Central
Criminal Court is in session. The fourteen prisoners who joined my
company this morning received their sentences there. I am convinced
that you will be interested to hear how these fourteen men made their
mistakes, and came to the cells they now occupy. Their stories are
intensely fascinating, I assure you. Will you not allow me to give
you the benefit of their errors? If I bore you, then you may tell me
to stop, but we have still plenty of time at our disposal, and your
friend in the condemned cell can be brought out at very short notice."
"You are a curious person to be a Governor," said the visitor with a
smile, "but then you are a crank. Why should I not humour you? But
first let me make absolutely sure that we will not be interrupted."
He took a small pair of pliers from his pocket and snipped the
telephone cord. Then he walked over to the bell-push in the wall,
unscrewed the wooden top, and pulled out the small piece of metal that
acted as a contact. He put the wooden top on again. His revolver had
been in his right hand all the time and his eye had flirted constantly
towards the Governor. The latter had not moved in the slightest. He was
well aware that he was in considerable danger.
The visitor returned to his chair and laid the small piece of metal
from the bell on the desk.
"When you ring for your warders," he said, "this may still be used.
I see by the clock that we have now precisely ten hours before the
proposed execution time. Allow half an hour for getting my friend out
of the cell. That gives you nine and a half hours to live if you go the
full length; provided, of course, I don't tire of your recital before
then."
"Thank you," said the Governor. "The reason I am anxious that you hear
the stories of these fourteen newcomers to my prison is that I desire,
even if it is the last thing I do in life, to demonstrate the accuracy
of my theory that all criminals make one fatal error some time. You
have called me a crank. I am conscious that others have thought so,
even if they have not been frank enough to say it. It is a crank's
weakness to be whimsical even at the risk of his existence. So, if you
will please make yourself comfortable, I shall do my best to play the
part of the amiable Scheherazade, while you assume the attitude of the
excellent Sultan Schahriah, holding the gift of Life and the sentence
of Death in your hands."
THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE FIRST CELL
There is at least one disadvantage under which I labour (said the
Governor) in taking upon myself the mantle of the wise and delightful
Sultana Scheherazade. While she knew that she would be allowed to live
so long as she amused and engaged the attention of the Sultan of the
Indies, I am restricted to barely ten hours; and though I believe that
I also could entertain you for one thousand and one nights, I will
do my best, in the single unit at my disposal, to prove to you the
theories I hold so strongly. Without, therefore, entering into any of
the side issues which would otherwise give rise to much profitable
speculation, permit me to relate to you the story of the occupant of
the first of the fourteen cells to which I have directed your attention.
David Fleming and his wife lived in a little cottage about twenty miles
from London. They never went up to town except occasionally, and then
only on business, and their business was not lawful. In the intervals
between their "jobs" they posed as respectable citizens.
On the night of which I speak they were in the sitting-room of their
small house, which was situated several miles from the nearest village.
They had a visitor, a dealer in precious stones, who had come down in
haste from London to treat with them for some jewels which he had heard
were for sale. The jewels were part of a tiara which David Fleming's
wife had risked much to obtain--her liberty and her reputation as a
thief. Having no honour, in the matter of honesty she did not count
honour. She, like her husband, was a social bandit.
She stood in the shadow of the badly lit room while her husband sat
at the table with the prospective buyer of the stones. The tiara had
been melted down, and the gold had been disposed of elsewhere. Only the
gems remained. Loose gems can always be sold at any of the subterranean
markets in London, but these were better than the average thus disposed
of, and to get a purchaser who could pay the extra price had been
somewhat difficult. But the visitor they wanted had come at last, one
who was in a position to bargain.
"You want one thousand pounds for these?" asked the dealer, shrugging
his shoulders. "I will give you eight hundred, their utmost value. Say
the word and it is a deal."
Fleming raised his huge head and looked towards his wife who stood in
the shadow beyond the table. She was motionless, a small woman with a
keen, sharp face like the face of a weasel.
"Shall we take it?" asked Fleming.
His wife retreated a step so that the dim light of the lamp on her face
became dimmer. She was like a ghost in the gloom. Presently she spoke,
though her features could not be distinguished.
"Has he brought the money?"
"No; but he says he will write out a cheque."
The dealer lifted his head, but did not look round as he addressed the
woman, nor did he look at the man whose eyes were fixed on his face.
"I have written out a cheque," he said.
"For a thousand?" came the query from the dim outline of the woman.
"For eight hundred."
There was a silence. The dealer was one of those business men who do
not speak much. He picked up one or two of the stones and began to lay
them out on the table under the shaded lamp. David Fleming watched him
curiously, unemotionally. His wife watched also, holding her breath.
The dealer seemed to be absorbed in handling the stones. His fingers
lifted one after another and held each before his eyes and against
the light of the lamp for a moment before he placed them on the white
table-cloth. On the window the rain was beating furiously. When the
dealer had placed all the stones, large and small, rubies and topazes,
cat's-eyes and peridots, diamonds and sapphires, in the position he
desired, he cast a glance at Fleming and breathed deeply.
An exclamation from the back of the room brought Fleming's eyes from
the table. He peered over the dealer's shoulder towards his wife.
"Did you speak? Shall I close the deal?"
Her weasel face emerged from the shadow and her finger pointed to the
stones arranged on the table.
"Why did he put them in that fashion?"
The dealer answered, still looking at Fleming, to whom the question had
been directed.
"These stones are, I think, from a tiara that disappeared from a
dressing-room of a London ballroom a few months ago. This is the
arrangement they formed in the tiara. One stone is missing."
"Well?"
The woman took a step nearer. Her husband glanced at the dealer, then
at his wife.
"I am wondering," said the dealer, "where the little stone is. Perhaps
it was lost when you broke up the tiara?"
"You are wrong. The stone fell out when I grabbed it and ran off. What
of it? We take the risk. All you have to do is to buy what you see."
There was a challenge and a sneer in her tone, to which the dealer
merely replied:
"What you say is true. It is your risk. Come, I must get back to town.
My car is out there in all the rain. Is it a deal?"
"Why didn't you bring cash?"
"I came down after the banks closed. Besides, it is easier to carry a
cheque--and safer."
"But I wanted the money."
"You can apply at the bank in London to-morrow morning. I have given
you a card with my address, and I have shown you a bank-book with a
balance that will easily meet the cheque."
"I must think it over."
It was noticeable that she said, "I," not "we." Her husband had not
uttered a word during the latter part of the conversation. He sat with
his eyes fixed on the stones arranged in the form of the tiara. The
woman crossed the room and went out. The two men heard her go along the
passage leading to the back door. They heard her open it and go outside.
She returned to the room in a few minutes and approached the table.
Rain had damped her shoulders and glistened on her dress.
"It is a wild night," she said. "I went to get some coal from the
cellar in the yard. We need fires in this weather."
Her husband lifted his eyes towards her and now spoke.
"What have you decided?"
The question revealed the relationship between them vividly. It was she
who was the master--he the servant. Beside her, Fleming was a giant in
stature. In brain he was a pigmy.
They were a couple who had been attracted--if one can use the word--to
each other by the law of contrasts. In their relationship as a married
pair everything about them seemed inconsistent. In the normal run
of things they ought to have been mutually antagonistic. Even in
appearance this was so.
Fleming was a mountain of a man. She was a mouse of a woman. Her
very features suggested the sharpness of a rat. Her teeth stuck out
in front, yet she was not bad-looking. She appeared to be a woman of
fifty, yet she was her husband's age exactly--thirty. She looked ill
and she was perfectly well. This physical deception had been of use to
her more than once when she had been arrested for stealing jewellery.
The hotels were her hunting ground, ballrooms her gold mines. Her game
was the rich people who frequented social events. Sometimes she went as
a servant, sometimes as a guest. She never returned empty-handed. When
she was caught, as had happened once or twice, her captors pitied her
seeming frailty. Judges had been misled by her physical fraudulence and
had been lenient where they might have been severe. She was a living
imposture.
Her audacity was out of all proportion to her appearance. It was she
who planned the part her husband played in their lawlessness. It was
she who had taken the tiara from a dressing-room in front of a watching
maid, and had given it to Fleming, who was hiding by the side entrance.
It was she who had flung pepper into the maid's eyes, and had then
stalked confidently among the guests raising the alarm. She had gone
out by the front door as the police came in. The maid had been blinded
permanently. In the agony of her torture she could not give a detailed
account of the incident.
To this monstrous paradox her husband had surrendered his personality,
unconsciously but finally. He was himself a paradox, which explains the
curiosity. In spite of his bulk David Fleming was merely a pickpocket.
His courage never went beyond taking a wallet, or a watch, from a
stranger's dress. He looked a burglar capable of murder. In reality he
was afraid of a single policeman. He had not the courage to take risks.
His whole life had been spent among the sneaks of the street corners.
He had married this needle of a woman because she willed it, knowing
that he would be of use to her. He did not know whether to admire her
or fear her. She ruled him because her rodent mind gnawed constantly at
his bovine one. It was in the nature of both of them to steal, but she
had been the cleverer of the two--she had stolen his personality from
him. It was the case of the mosquito moving the elephant.
All this, of course, did not enter into the docketed information which
the police possessed of them. Scotland Yard, having their finger-prints
and their photographs, swept aside subtleties. It classified them both
as rogues.
"What have you decided?"
For the second time Fleming asked the question, blinking his big
eyes towards her as she stood beyond the circle of light. She rubbed
her thin hands together, making a smooth noise like the rubbing of
sandpaper on a polished surface.
"I have not decided anything--yet."
The dealer turned in his chair and looked at her.
"The cheque is here," he said, tapping his breast. "I wrote it out,
knowing that eight hundred was the limit I could go to. Have you had
these stones here since you stole the tiara?"
The woman did not move a muscle of her face as she replied.
"We melted the piece down and sold the gold. We kept the stones because
there are not many who can give the cash they are worth. How did you
get to know they were for sale?"
"News travels, you know. I had the word from a mutual friend. I gave
you his name when I wrote to you saying I was coming to-night. But I
could not get off before the bank closed. It will be difficult for you
to dispose of these stones if you don't sell them to me."
"Well?"
"Isn't that all the more reason why you should take my offer?"
"Perhaps."
"Look here. I can't waste my time. Take it or leave it. I must get back
to London to-night, rain or shine. It is not as if there was a hotel
here. You have fairly buried yourselves in this neck-of-the-woods."
"Will you stay the night if we provide a bed for you?"
"What would be the use? You don't need all night to make up your mind?
No, I'll get back home."
He rose to his feet and began to button up his coat.
"Eight hundred is my offer. Take it or leave it. I will give you ten
minutes to decide. I am going out to crank up my car, and when I come
in you must say what it is to be. Eight hundred is better than nothing."
"Eight hundred is less than we ought to get."
"You can't tell me of another diamond merchant who is willing to give
you eight hundred and ask no questions. Just think of the trouble you'd
have to get rid of the loot."
With that the dealer strode to the door. As soon as he was gone from
the room the woman approached her husband, who was still seated at the
table.
"He must not go back to-night," she said in a low tone, banging her
clenched fist on the table.
"Why? If you'd take his price----"
"You fool! Don't you see? He is no dealer. That man is a detective. He
is one of the Flying Squad."
The words sent a shock like electricity through Fleming. He sat up
suddenly, his large face white and scared.
"How do you know?" he stammered.
"It is easy. Had he been a dealer he would have paid in cash. A cheque
would be evidence against him if anything came out later. And he used
the word 'stole.' No dealer uses that word. He gave a name in his
letter--the name of the man who he says told him we had the goods to
sell. I don't believe it. I tell you that man is a detective from the
Yard. I was watching him. I know now."
"Are you sure?"
"Sure? Of course I'm sure. I tell you he is one of the Flying Squad who
came to investigate after the tiara was lifted. I have been watching
his face. I can place him. That is why I kept to the background. He is
setting a trap for us."
"If he is a detective, why doesn't he arrest us?"
"Don't you see? He heard about the stones somehow, but hadn't time to
get a warrant made out for us. It was late when he left London. He came
to make sure we were here--to make sure we had his letter----"
"But his cheque? His offer to buy?"
"A snare! A ruse! Had he brought the warrants and arrested us, did that
give him the diamonds? He had to come to see them for himself--as a
dealer. He needed evidence. Did you not see him working out his case
as he arranged the stones on the table? Detectives don't carry big
money--so he offered us a cheque."
"Well?"
"Ass! A dealer would have had the money, as I tell you. Think, fool! If
we accepted a cheque from this so-called dealer we would have to go to
London to cash it. It would be made out on a London office. And they
would be waiting for us at the bank door, or at the counter when we
presented the paper--so!"
She made a movement with her hands to imitate the clasping of handcuffs
over her wrists. Fleming shivered.
"It will go hard with you, wife. There is the blind maid. It means
penal servitude--almost life for you----"
"It will be as much for you as for me, unless we do something. We can
get out of it yet. We must."
"How can it be prevented?" he demanded dully.
"By countering plot by plot. He has set a snare for us and we have
walked into it. Let us set one for him. Do as I say. Here he comes."
The door of the room was thrown open and the dealer entered hurriedly.
Rain was running from his coat. His shoulders glistened like black
mirrors.
"Here is a fine thing!" he cried angrily. "My car is standing on her
rims. Somebody has slashed my tyres. Who could have done it?"
"Who indeed?" echoed the woman. David Fleming jumped to his feet,
glancing from his wife to the dealer.
"Your tyres?" he said. "Your tyres cut!"
"Oh, we have had some trouble with tramps in these parts lately," said
his wife quickly. "They hate cars and motorists. They say that at night
they are sometimes nearly run down by cars. One of them has played a
bad trick on you, mister."
"It is a trick I'd make him pay for if I could find him," said the
dealer in wrath. "I cannot go to London on three rims. I have only one
spare tyre. The nearest garage----"
He looked helplessly from one to the other, while the rain dripped
from his coat and formed pools on the floor. The woman looked at the
sitting-room clock.
"It is miles off," she said. "It is closed long ago, anyway. Don't you
see it is nearly midnight?"
"What can be done?"
"What I said before you went outside. We'll give you a bed until
morning. Switch off your lights and put the car in our shed. If you
stay it will serve a double purpose. I may make up my mind about the
stones and let you have them at your price, and you may take us both up
to London in the morning so that we can cash the cheque."
"That means that you are willing to accept eight hundred?"
The dealer took the slip of paper from his pocket-book and signed it,
receiving in return the stones in a small canvas bag. He put the bag
into his inside pocket.
"It is kind of you to put me up," he said, "but all the same there
must be a way to get back. The village is not more than three or four
miles off."
"It is merely a place of one short street."
"But I may be able to telephone----"
"The telephone is in the post office. It closed early in the evening."
"Is there no train?"
"None before dawn. And that is a slow milk train."
"Well, London is twenty miles away. It is a nuisance. But surely there
is a garage where I may hire a car?"
"There is a garage, but they have no cars to let for hiring. They just
do repairs and sell petrol."
A slash of rain hit the window. The dealer could think of no more
suggestions.
"I may as well stay in that case," he said. "I'll go up by train in the
morning and tell the garage people to call for it after I've gone. I
can come down in a few days for it."
"That is the best plan," said the woman. "And in the meantime you two
men had better push the car into the shed and I'll prepare your room."
As she went upstairs she struck her hands together repeatedly,
muttering to herself.
"He does not want to drive us up to town. He wants to go alone with his
evidence. I know! I know! We'll see who can set snares best!"
She was still up in the bedroom when the men returned to the
sitting-room. The dealer walked through the room straight to the
kitchen and bent down in front of the dwindling fire, spreading his
hands out. Fleming followed him. The dealer glanced round the kitchen.
He lifted the lid of the coal-scuttle in order to put some fuel on the
dying fire, but there was no coal in the scuttle. When Fleming offered
to get some the dealer shook his head.
"I'll go up to bed soon. I came in here because there isn't a fire in
the sitting-room. It doesn't matter. These tyres will cost me a bit to
repair."
At that moment the woman entered.
"Would you like a bite of supper?" she asked.
"No, thanks. I'm going to bed."
"Then let me show you the way to your room."
The dealer nodded to Fleming and followed her. She lit a candle and
took him to his room. The room was small and mean. The bed was ready,
the blind drawn. He thanked her once more and flung himself into a
chair, yawning. She bade him good-night and went downstairs.
When she descended to the kitchen her husband was standing gazing at
the embers in the grate. He looked up as she entered.
"Well?"
"The snare is set," she answered, primping at her straight hair. "We
have only an hour or so to wait."
"What do you intend to do?"
There was a tremble in his tone and a startled look spread over his
face. Her features were more than ever like those of a rat just then.
"You shall see. It is him or us. He knows all. And he is the only one
who knows."
"What then?"
"There is an old mine shaft less than a mile off. What could be a
better hiding-place for his car?"
"A mine shaft?" repeated Fleming, and his face became livid.
"It is better than the river," she said calmly. "It would never be
found in the mine shaft."
She went to the cupboard and drew out a long carving knife, running her
finger along the edge. Her husband trembled at her coolness. She saw
his agitation and smiled, her front teeth showing.
"All you have to do," she said, "is to obey. I have his cheque. If we
get someone to cash it we shall have ready money. We need not go to the
bank. Let someone else go. We shall find a 'fence' who will cash it.
For the present, consider that the stones are in his inside pocket--his
coat pocket. We shall have them also. There is no lock on his bedroom
door. If you are afraid, you may go to bed."
"What are you going to do?" asked Fleming in a shaking voice.
She replied quite coolly.
"Close the jaws of the trap. While he lives he has evidence. It is his
existence or ours."
There was a cold ferocity about her that even Fleming had never
previously seen, and the new knowledge of her character stupefied him
with horror. Into his dull brain there crept a vague knowledge of a
terrible truth. This was the climax of evildoing. First a small theft,
then a larger one, then a still greater, then a crime that chilled
his bones and branded them both for ever. The progress of crime, of
violation of the law, had worked to its consummation.
"Woman!" he cried suddenly, in desperate revolt. "Woman, I have married
you!"
She answered his outburst swiftly and with venom.