"He's not on the 'phone, and I'd hesitate to use it, anyway. You never
know who's tapping the line. We'll keep that for emergency, Kitty.
Hughes has got to deliver the loot at once; then you may have a last
outing with him--but don't tell him it's the last!"
"You want me to go out with him to-night?"
"I do; after he has delivered the goods he can join you at the
dance-club. He'll work swiftly to get there, and, as he'll be paid by
the fence, he'll have money to burn. I'll pack up while you are away.
Hughes will report progress to you, and you to me on your return."
He noticed an anxious look in her eyes as he went off to his work. This
was his last day at the shop.
Ted Hughes was at the flat when Dennison returned in the evening. Kitty
was dressing, and kept to her room while the two men talked, and, as
soon as everything was arranged, she and Hughes departed. Dennison
began to pack.
He reckoned that by the following midday he and Kitty would be aboard
the liner. Hughes would not know they had gone from the furnished flat
until he called one day to find it empty of tenants. Swift action was
the keynote of Dennison's plans. Hit and run! Sell and vanish! No trail
was ever left behind.
He finished packing, and sat down to wait for his wife's return.
Reviewing the situation, he decided that he had managed it rather well.
Kitty would be able to tell him when she came back how Hughes had
succeeded. He had parted from the manager of the shop on very friendly
terms. His excuse for leaving was that he was going to America.
There had been no hint or mention of the robbery, which had become
history--unexplained, if not forgotten, history.
There was only one point on which he was not quite satisfied. He
wondered why Kitty had mentioned to him that Hughes had fallen in
love with her. He considered this carefully. The fact that Hughes was
infatuated with her did not disturb him. Other men had been infatuated.
But the fact that she had allowed him to fall seriously in love
with her was unusual, for she had hitherto played her part with the
joyous daring of irresponsibility. Was it possible that she had become
attached to Hughes because he was "nice and sociable"? Thinking all
this out in cold blood, John Dennison, for the first time in his life,
experienced a pang of jealousy.
He became restless as the hours passed. Midnight came and went. One
o'clock struck. Two. Three. Four. Daylight broke. The city began to
awaken to life. John Dennison watched the clock steal hour after hour
from him. He gnashed his teeth and beat his hands together. But still
his wife did not come.
He was at his wits' end by breakfast-time. He was sleepless, haggard,
red-eyed. Yet he was helpless until Kitty arrived. For want of
something to do, he made himself a cup of coffee on the gas stove in
the kitchen. He was drinking the coffee when the door knocker thudded.
He knew this was not his wife, for she had a latchkey. He went to the
door, opening it cautiously. Facing him was the tall, thin detective
who had represented the insurance company.
"Can I have a word with you, Mr. Dennison?"
Before Dennison could answer, the man strode into the hall.
"I saw your light on early in the morning. I suppose you are waiting
for your wife?"
"What is that to you?"
"Well, I don't expect you'll see her again. I am a private detective,
Mr. Dennison. I was engaged on the robbery at the shop, and in the
course of my duties I had to keep an eye on you and your wife. Are
you aware that she has been friendly with, and is now running off
with, a man named Hughes? I considered it my duty to tell you. I have
discovered they are leaving the country as Mr. and Mrs. Hughes----"
John Dennison saw red in that moment.
"How do you know?" he demanded hoarsely.
"I have watched your wife's movements."
Dennison blazed.
"They've turned on me!" he cried in wrath. "She's gone off with him
because he was nice and sociable! They've taken the swag!"
He threw his hands above his head savagely.
"I'll give you no trouble. I confess everything! But I'm confessing so
that you may beat Hughes and her! They mustn't get away with it! It was
I who took the diamonds. Hughes was the carrier. I'll tell the whole
story if you catch them. We are all in it--the three of us----What are
you staring at? You're losing time instead of getting after them!"
The telephone bell tinkled in the hall. He leaped for it, the detective
at his heels, but he waved the man back. The receiver was already at
his ear. Someone was calling him. It was his wife's voice.
"Hullo, John! It's me--Kitty! I didn't come home last night because a
detective was on my heels. I've seen him hanging about before, but I
gave him the slip and came to this hotel. I didn't dare telephone you,
in case he was tapping the line, but this morning I slipped out the
back way. Hughes found the loot and delivered it safely. We've just
time to catch the boat-train. I'll meet you at the station. You'll find
the passage tickets in my dressing-case. I had them made out in the
name of Mr. and Mrs. Hughes----"
John Dennison dropped the receiver and sagged into a chair.
The detective, who represented the insurance company, was watching him;
and the look on the man's face told John Dennison that he had beaten
himself. His unfounded jealousy had made him say too much, and the
passage tickets were not any use to him, nor to the wife who was above
suspicion.
It had proved disastrous to him _not_ to trust a woman.
THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE THIRD CELL
"I admit," said the visitor, who seemed to have thoroughly enjoyed the
stories he had just heard, "I admit that a generalisation does not
always work in regard to women any more than in regard to anything
else. In both the instances you have given, however, the flaw was that
the people concerned (whom you would call the criminals) did not get
away quick enough. They delayed their exit."
"Pardon me," said the Governor, "if I suggest that there have been
cases where swift flight has been on the side of the culprit and yet,
through some unknown, some subtle, misgiving, some unexplainable
cause, it has availed him nothing in the end. And this has happened
not because the pursuers have known where to find their man. It is one
of the strange things of crime that always, somewhere, at the most
unexpected moments, the flaw appears and the whole fabric of defence
and escape falls to dust. I hold that in case after case the criminal
defeats himself."
"Not if he knows his objective and goes straight for it," retorted the
visitor. "Now, I know my objective----"
"So did Samuel Vining," interrupted the Governor. "And yet Samuel
Vining is at the present moment the occupant of the third cell in the
corridor beneath us. He is one of those who will pay with his life for
his error. Since his is a very remarkable case, I propose to relate his
experience in support of what I say."
The visitor settled himself in his chair and helped himself to another
cigarette, while the Governor took a sip of whisky and soda and cleared
his throat.
* * * * *
There was nothing subtle (began the Governor) about the murder
committed by Samuel Vining. He struck down a man in the bar of a small
public-house during a heated argument--buried a seaman's knife to
the hilt in the man's side. There the victim lay, his glazing eyes
turned towards the ceiling. It had been the deed of a moment. When the
bystanders realised that the man was dead, Vining had disappeared.
He had not more than half an hour's start of the police, but half
an hour is a long time when a man is speeding from justice. Vining
had the world to roam, the whole earth in which to hide. His impulse
was to flee. He boarded a bus going westward and took a ticket to
the terminus, not knowing where the route would lead him. His main
object was to get away, to get away, to get away! The desire to escape
from humanity surged through his brain. Did he repent of his crime?
Repentance was nothing. Punishment was the avenging force he had to
escape from. Repentance was an inward thing. Punishment was not
anything _he_ could decide. _That_ was in the hands of those who were
pursuing him at that very moment.
When the bus reached its journey's end he continued along the country
road. He had no idea where it would lead. He did not, for the moment,
care. Sometimes he ran, but he found running consumed his energy too
quickly, so he walked mainly. The night was dark, but the stars were
out. The road was lonely except for an occasional motor-car going
towards, or coming from, London. He drew into the hedge when the cars
passed, hiding from them. The stars told him he was walking south. In
the south was the sea. This thought gave him some comfort.
By dawn he was so weary that he was almost dropping from exhaustion;
but he stumbled on, blindly getting away! He was passing through
undulating country by this time. In the meadows he saw occasional
houses. Workers were stirring. A labourer could be seen in the paths
now and then. Dogs awoke and barked. The barks sent a shiver through
Vining's frame. They were like warnings, challenges to him. They were
the voices of civilisation telling him that he was observed. This made
him hurry once more. He reflected that the police were on his trail,
searching for him everywhere. Their net would be cast in the city,
the telephones would be bearing messages, the telegraph would be
issuing calls for his arrest. How could he defeat these means? Not by
swiftness, but by cunning.
At a bend in the road he came upon a road-mender seated beside a
heap of stones. Beside the roadman was a can of tea, and in a red
handkerchief was his early morning meal. A newspaper was spread over
his knees. He looked up as Vining approached.
They stared at each other for a moment. The road-mender spoke.
"Bin on the road for a bit, I reckon. Goin' to the coast, hey?"
"How do you know I've been on the road for a bit?" demanded Vining
challengingly.
"Humph! By the dust on your clothes. Makin' for the coast?"
"Yes."
"It's a tidy way. Well over a score of miles. Hastings lies over the
hill yonder."
"Does it?"
"Nearer a score and a half of miles. I've seen a few walkers to the
coast in my time. They generally walk durin' the night. Cooler, I
dassay. You're fagged out."
"Give me something to eat."
It was more a demand than a request, and the road-mender lifted his
eyes from the newspaper suddenly, then dropped them again to the
printed page.
"Take what you want," he said, his tone changing. "There's tea, an'
bread, an' cheese, an' a scrap of meat."
Vining slumped down on the roadside and started to eat ravenously.
He finished the man's allowance and drank the tea. The food gave him
strength, and the tea washed the dust from his parched throat. The
road-mender was watching him, his right hand holding his long, thin
hammer close to his side. Suddenly he rose to his feet, moving off
backward.
"Where are you going?" demanded Vining quickly.
"For help."
"Help? What for?"
"I know you. Think you can escape, do you? It's in the newspapers about
you. At first I didn't think--but I bin watchin' you. The dust of you
gave you away."
"The dust?" echoed Vining dully.
"It told me you'd bin walkin', an' then I looked at the paper. It says
that a man named Sam Vining, a seaman, killed another man in a pub in
the East End last night. You're him--Vining."
"How do you know?"
"The dust told me you'd bin walkin', then I read your description.
It's there--in print. Medium-sized, broad, dressed in shabby navy
suit, tattoo marks on the back of right hand, brown eyes, mole on left
temple, black-and-white check cap. That's you. They have a photo,
too--not very like you, but near enough; must have bin taken a while
ago. You killed this man because of a woman. She gave the police a lot
of information. Her name is there."
"Sarah," muttered Vining hoarsely.
"That's it--Sarah. Sarah something. It's you, isn't it?"
"It is me. What about it?"
"Your number's up."
The road-mender was moving farther off, still walking backwards.
"Where are you going?" asked Vining.
The roadman pointed to a hollow beyond the road, from which a thin
trickle of smoke issued among the trees.
"Down there is a village. A policeman lives there. I'm going to tell
him. Better come with me quietly. Give yourself up. Come on. I've got
you."
He stood erect, swinging his long, thin hammer by his side. Vining made
a movement as if he was about to rise.
"Don't try to escape," warned the road-mender. "I can throw this hammer
straight as a die!"
Vining put his hand on the stones to raise himself. Next moment he
fired one--a jagged rock that took the road-mender on the cheek. Vining
was used to slinging pins and tools aboard ship. The road-mender went
down, blood spurting from his cheek. Vining was gone by the time he
gathered himself up.
Down the road, then through a gap in the hedge into the meadows, went
the fugitive, bending almost double as he dodged along ditches and
under cover of hedges. From a nook he saw the policeman, some time
later, go along the road on a bicycle at a great speed. He watched the
officer's helmet disappear round a bend; then he struck deeper into the
meadows.
The one thing that stuck in his mind was that he was within possible
distance of the coast. He knew the general position of Hastings. It was
south of Dungeness point; and Dungeness was almost opposite Cape Gris
Nez. If only he could take a boat at Hastings he could row to Gris Nez.
His tiredness seemed to lift as the plan came to him.
But before he stole a boat he had to get to the coast; and before he
got to the coast he had to travel unseen during a long day. He decided
to sleep for a few hours. He slept in a dry ditch in a small wood.
When he awoke, the sun's position told him it was late afternoon. He
was hungry. He had a few shillings in his pocket; but what was money if
he dared not show his face to human beings? He searched for a brook,
found one, and bathed his hands and face in the muddy water. It was
cooling at any rate. He even drank some of it. As he dried himself with
his handkerchief he pondered the situation.
"They are all against me," he muttered, "but I'll win through.
At Gris Nez I'll ship off--anywhere! They always want firemen--on
coasters--anything!"
He recollected suddenly that to get a job he must show discharge papers
from his previous ships. For an instant the thought staggered him; but
only for an instant.
"I'll knock somebody down and take his papers. Then I'll pretend I'm
dumb. I only want to get to Gris Nez."
This became his passion, the objective to which his mind clung. Gris
Nez! Gris Nez! He rose and stumbled on.
Towards night he was near the hill which the road-mender had pointed
out. But he was again exhausted. Not used to marching, the fatigue
was telling on him; on mind as on body. He sat down by the edge of a
cornfield and closed his eyes.
Suddenly he heard voices. He dived into the corn, flattening the grain
as he floundered along. The voices grew louder. He lay down. A man was
calling.
"Dick, where'd you put the rake?"
Another voice answered unintelligibly. The sound of someone thrusting
his way along the edge of the field came nearer. An exclamation burst
out, and the first voice called harshly:
"Someone's gone and trampled the corn down. If I only got hold of
him----"
Another step brought the man almost on top of Vining. The latter did
not wait for the alarm to be raised. He jumped to his feet and attacked.
It was all done so suddenly that the farm worker had no chance to
defend himself. He went down before the onslaught, kicking and
struggling, but Vining was desperate. He pounded the man into
unconsciousness and left him. Rising to his feet he ran--straight
through the cornfield.
He heard voices as he ran, but he took no heed. He did not stop until
he reached the opposite end of the field. As he forced his way through
the hedge he looked back. Two men were pursuing, smashing their way
through the corn in his wake. Vining gritted his teeth. He had laid a
trail of flattened grain which was impossible to mistake. The harvest
of the fields was aiding his enemies.
He broke through the hedge and ran. Fear gave fleetness to his feet,
but he did not know the ground. There were rabbit-holes which hurt his
ankles when he stepped into them. There were hidden hillocks, mounds,
rushes, tufts of grass, that seemed to try to impede him. He crashed
on, labouring like a wounded animal. He ran for nearly an hour. When he
stopped there was no sign nor sound of his pursuers.
"They'll come after me," he muttered. "They know the country, and I
don't. They'll come after me. I'll keep to the hill----What was that?"
From somewhere behind he heard the bark of a dog, the baying of a
hound. His heart stood still. They were pursuing him by scent! Their
dogs could come where a vehicle could not follow. What was to be done?
His right ankle suddenly bent under him. He fell as a sharp pain shot
up his leg. He had put his foot into a rabbit-hole.
The shooting pain made him, for the moment, forget his pursuers. He
could hardly rise, but he got on his feet by strength of will and
hobbled on. As he toiled along he cast his eyes about. What was he
looking for? He found it soon enough in that natural backyard. A thick
branch of a tree lay on the ground. He tore it up and sat down to wait.
The baying came nearer. It was almost dark now. If only he could get
one good blow at the dog, that was all he asked. One blow would be
enough. Samuel Vining knew how to strike.
He sat motionless, waiting. Suddenly something that seemed to be a part
of the gloom swept past him. He caught a glimpse of a brown, furry
animal which leaped aside as he stirred, and vanished suddenly.
"A hare," he thought. "The dog has disturbed it."
He had no time to think more, for just then there broke on his ears a
deep bay, and a white dog plunged into view. Vining gripped his club
and waited, tense for the stroke.
The dog was running to a scent. He had his nose to the ground. Vining
drew back to make sure his arms had the swing he wanted. He held the
branch aloft. The dog came straight towards him. Vining struck.
It was a terrible blow, with all the force of a pair of powerful
shoulders behind it. The rough branch caught the dog on the head just
above the eyes. Such a blow would have killed a man.
The club was shattered, the dog's breath came in a strange gasp, its
body crumpled up and rolled over. Vining scrambled to his feet as he
heard other dogs in the distance.
"They've sent a pack after me," he cried. "That one will stop them."
He staggered into the gathering gloom, making his direction towards
a small wood that clung to the hill-side. He heard no more from his
pursuers, but when he lay down he was surprised to see that his hands
trembled. A peculiar throbbing was in his breast, the blood was
pounding in his ears, his teeth were chattering. He was not cold.
He was perspiring. Through his body the trembling continued; he was
shaking as if he had ague. It was his nerve that had deserted him.
Samuel Vining did not know the psychology of his case. He had never
heard of psychology. All he knew was that he was feeling "done in."
His vision was becoming blurred. His mind had become rusty, almost
incapable of acting. He started at the least sigh of the wind, the
slightest rustle of the trees.
"Gris Nez!" he muttered constantly. "Gris Nez! Hastings, then Gris Nez!"
When he tried to sleep he found it impossible. He could not even rest.
The ground was hard, the surface uneven. His body was pained, his limbs
ached. Hunger did not trouble him, but thirst did. He felt terribly
thirsty. It is a peculiar fact that nervousness brings thirst; dry,
cracked thirst which cannot be relieved.
"Hastings," he cried suddenly. "I must get to Hastings! Then Gris Nez!
Before morning!"
But, though he cried aloud his necessity, he lay where he was, unable
for the time being to rise and make the effort to march. Was this
conscience? Conscience did not trouble Samuel Vining. It was merely
exhaustion of mind and body that was lashing at him, wearing him down
with a grinding pressure that was irresistible. He went over the events
of the murder and his subsequent actions slowly and methodically,
dwelling on every point with a mind that was strung up to high tension.
He could not stop thinking of the past twenty-four hours. He could not
sleep. The fear of the dogs was upon him. He could not rest. A strange
paradox was present within him, one part of him declaring for repose,
the other clamouring for action. He was hardly able to keep still.
At last he rose, bound his handkerchief about his injured ankle, and
stumbled on. He broke off a stick from a tree to aid him as he marched.
Things were becoming vague, but his mind was clear, strange as the
seeming contradiction may be. He was constantly remembering the
incidents of his flight and his escapes. His brain was fumbling at the
problem, searching for a way out. It ought to be comparatively easy for
him to make his escape. Why had he not done so? Why had these people
come upon his trail? Like a flash he saw, and he uttered an exclamation
as the reason struck him like a blow.
Man was his enemy. From man he need expect no aid. He had run from the
face of man. In the wide fields he ought to have found the solitude
he sought; but he had found the woods and meadows willing to give him
up. The dust of the main road had betrayed him to the road-mender.
The cornfield had betrayed him to the farm hands. The scent of his
clothes had betrayed him to the hounds. Where could he escape from this
accusing Nature? The answer came as swiftly as the question was uttered.
"Hastings! Then Gris Nez!"
The sea would hide him as she hid untold secrets. That was it. Let him
get back to the sea, his natural element, and he would put his pursuers
to confusion! He was at home where the sea was. This land, where roads
were unsheltered and meadows were cultivated, was his enemy also. He
toiled on, filled with a new hope and trembling resolve.
He did not know how many hours he walked, but he kept his position by
the big hill. He understood that this hill was part of the white cliffs
he had seen so often from the Channel. He reached the shoulder of the
hill when the night was still dark. He stopped, raised his head, and
sniffed. A new tang came to him. It was the tang of the sea.
He pushed his way round the shoulder and saw the Channel at his feet.
The lights of a town twinkled away to his right, the long promenade
showing up like an uneven line of burning matches.
"That is Hastings," he told himself. "There are caves among the cliffs."
He had heard, like many others, of the caves which were at one time
used by the smugglers of the coast. He determined to find one of
these caves and stay there for the next day. From the cave he could
mark a boat, and go for it as soon as the following night covered his
movements. He was jubilant, for in the darkness he felt that many boats
were lying there.
He crawled down the hill facing the sea, moving slowly because his
strained ankle pained him, and because he was on dangerous ground. The
dawn broke grey and sullen while he searched for a cave. By its light
he found what he wanted, a hole in the shoulder of the cliff into which
he could crawl. It was reached by a narrow, scarcely visible track, and
was in a part of the cliff which visitors were not likely to roam.
Vining drew himself into the hole and lay down his full length, gazing
out to sea.
The wash of the waves on the shingle sounded eerily, but above the wash
and rattle of the shingle came a cry that thrilled his bones and caused
him to sit up in swift alarm.
"_Get away! Get away!_"
The command came unexpectedly, high pitched, with the muffled blur of a
voice shouting in a strong wind. To Vining the words were a cataclysmic
disturbance. He had been seen! He leaned far out of the cave, his hair
on end, his nerves tingling.
A bird flew past the opening of the cave--a white gull with grey wings
and open beak.
"You can't see me!" he called in wild derision, a swift defiance in his
tone.
He waited in suspense for a reply, expecting to hear a challenge, an
order to surrender. None came.