trying to control herself. Her eyes were on his face--eyes that seemed
to be gimlets. There was no escaping them. He sought to pacify her,
beginning to tell once more the story he had told the previous night.
She waved it aside.
"I have come to ask questions."
Again that tone--strange, incisive, charged with meaning. He suddenly
felt the sharpness of it. It was the tone of a terrier; without snarl,
without growl; the tone of a terrier when it is about to worry.
Persistent and annoying.
"I told you yesterday I did not believe your story," she said in a
level tone. "I repeat that now. Gilbert Hoey is no defaulter."
"You were friendly with him, Miss Ada; but that does not alter facts."
"Why do you say 'were'? Why speak in the past tense?"
He saw the grimness with which she thrust the question at him; but he
smiled. He knew that she felt the situation keenly. She was fighting
for Hoey's reputation. He would be easy with her, since she was a
woman; a woman whom he wanted in his own time.
"I used the past tense because I hardly think you can remain friendly
with him after this. Your father would object, I fear."
"Leave my father out of it. I was yesterday more than friendly with Mr.
Hoey."
"Indeed. I did not know it had gone so far."
"That is why I am here."
Again the biting tone gave him the impression of a terrier. It was as
if a household pet had become an enemy. He saw a strain of her father
in her then; the strong, determined forcefulness of the parent was
coming out in the child. He admired her for it.
"Ask your questions," he said, leaning back in his chair.
She drummed her fingers on the desk for a moment, looking at him from
under her eyelashes.
"When Mr. Hoey came down to the office last evening, did he go into the
works?"
"No."
"Sure?"
"Positive."
"He told me you had invited him to look at the cauldron."
"I cannot help what he told you, Miss Mynes."
"We have proof that he did not leave this town last night."
"Who has proof?"
"The police. I have been with them all night. Mr. Hoey did not go by
train. We inquired at the booking office. He did not go by car. His own
is still in the garage. No car was hired. We have been to every car
owner, every hirer there is."
"If he did not leave the town he must be about somewhere. Let the
police find him."
There was a sneer in the taunt he flung at her--a sneer that had been
his natural retort.
"Was there any need for him to steal the money?"
"His bank balance was not large, I believe, Miss Mynes."
"You know that?"
"He made no secret of it."
She bit her lip. The terrier in her attitude had received a check; but
she tried another grip. Just like a terrier.
"Mr. Hoey told me yesterday that he was coming down to see how a
casting was going on. You say he did not look at any casting?"
"That is what I have told you."
"The furnaces were preparing a job of which he was in charge?"
"Yes."
"He was expecting to leave for the Continent in a few days to
superintend this job's delivery?"
"Yes."
"The money in his care was for payment of his men who were going with
him?"
"Yes."
"It was not a large amount?"
"It was over a thousand pounds. There were other expenses he was to
clear off--quite large enough to be a temptation when I had challenged
his books."
"You expected to get this job?"
"Your father preferred him."
"You were rivals in the factory?"
"Not rivals; co-workers."
"You told me once you were rivals."
"When?"
"The day you told me you were in love with me; the day I told you I did
not desire your affection."
"Oh, I may have said that in a moment of disappointment at finding you
liked Hoey."
"You asked my father for a partnership?"
"Yes, and he declined--for the present. What do you mean by raking up
these things?"
"I want to prove that you were rivals."
"And then?"
"I am seeking a motive."
The terrier was there openly, defiantly, frankly, facing the fox that
had covered his tracks. There was no use hiding the situation longer.
It was a duel between them. Her eyes told him more than her words. Had
she been a stranger, a detective, he would have shown her the door. But
she was the daughter of his employer. He became frigid.
"A motive for what?" he demanded.
"A motive for Gilbert Hoey's disappearance."
The sudden suspicion that had flamed in his mind died down. She was
floundering, he told himself; floundering in her use of words because
of her anxiety for Hoey. He felt that he could handle her. Was she not,
after all, only a woman? She would forget Hoey in time.
"I see," he said gently. "You are seeking a motive for his running
away."
"For his disappearance."
"It is the same thing."
"Perhaps."
"Do you mean to suggest any other explanation?"
Now was his time, he thought, to bully her into reason! They were
alone. He would frighten her, as she had almost frightened him. He knew
he was safe. The cauldron of molten metal would tell no tales. The fox
is seldom afraid of one dog. But he runs from a pack. This girl was
hysterical, he told himself; she needed to go home and rest.
"I am very busy this morning, Miss Mynes. If you don't mind I would
suggest that you take things easy and do not worry. Hoey may not have
been worthy of your thoughts. And really you ought not to come here and
question me. It is most unusual----"
"Many things are unusual. But they are sometimes necessary."
"What do you mean?"
"You will learn in time. I have a few more questions to ask."
"Very well. Ask them. But I shall tell your father I have been
interrupted----"
"Has the metal which was in the cauldron last night been poured off?"
"Yes, by the night gang."
"So that the machinery above would be oiled and cleaned to-day?"
"I gave orders for it to be done this morning. I expect it has been
attended to. We are very busy."
"It has _not_ been attended to."
"Why not?"
"The police decided that it was to be left as it was. No workmen have
been near it."
"Indeed?" cried Wilkins; and there was, for the first time, a hint of
alarm in his tone.
The girl leaned across the desk. Her mood was that of the terrier more
than ever; a terrier that has got a hold at last.
"If any sand or grit were in that cauldron with the metal it would be
skimmed off or the casting would be spoiled, would it not?"
"Yes, but what----"
The answer was a movement by the girl. She slammed a small package on
the desk and separated the blackened, ruined fragments as she raised
her finger. The terrier had the fox in a corner.
"See this? It is the remains of a meerschaum pipe in an asbestos case
which I gave to Gilbert Hoey yesterday evening before he came down
here. This was fished out of the cauldron."
Wilkins gave a stifled cry. He felt his feet slipping, but he was
crafty.
"He may have thrown it into the cauldron!" he cried.
"But you said he did not go to the works! You said he never left this
office!"
There was a silence. Wilkins knew then that he was faced by a girl who
was fighting to avenge her lover with all the subtlety of a woman's
nature. She was more than terrier then. But she had no proof. This was
his trump card. She had no proof. It was merely intuition that had
prompted her. He faced the terrier and steadied himself with an effort.
"He may have gone without my seeing him," he declared quickly.
For a moment the terrier lost her hold. But she came back to it.
"The police want your finger-prints!" she cried, jumping to her feet.
"What for?" he countered.
"Do you not see on this asbestos case are Gilbert Hoey's initials in
platinum? I gave him the case. It takes a greater heat than that of
molten iron to melt platinum! He would not throw it away. He came
down to look at the casting. He stood on the platform above the
crucible. There is a sliding bar there, held by a pin. On that pin are
finger-prints. They are his or yours. No one else has been there. The
police have taken a print of these fingers, to compare with the prints
on the typewritten message."
"You can prove nothing!" he cried. "He fell in! It was an accident! It
was an accident!"
The fox was at his last ditch; a safe one, he was sure. But the terrier
pursued him, knowing she was near victory.
She ran to the door and threw it open. There, in the next room, stood
her father, the police inspector, and another man who was busy with a
note-book.
"Our talk has been taken down in shorthand," she cried. "The defence
you put up could not have been torn down by ordinary methods, so I came
alone to you. I accuse you of murder!"
The fox had still his last defence.
"It was an accident!" he cried. "You cannot prove anything!"
"You were seen!"
Harvey Wilkins stared at his accuser, then at the inspector; at the man
who was busy with his pencil, at his employer. He dropped into a chair.
"In that case," he muttered, "it is useless to deny it. I confess. I
pulled the pin and let him fall into the cauldron."
A cry from the girl startled him. She had played her trump card. It had
broken down his defence. The inspector stepped forward. Wilkins raised
his head.
"Who saw me?" he asked hoarsely. "Bring your witness. Was it you?"
"No," she answered. "God!"
The fox had been tricked.
THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE FIFTH CELL
"Women are certainly the deuce," commented the visitor as the Governor
dramatically ended his story of the fourth prisoner. "So far you have
proved that my contention is right. A man ought not to have anything to
do with them."
"And yet," replied the Governor, "men can make errors even when they
think they are most safe. My experience has shown me that very vividly.
And, since you may be pained at the part women have played in the tales
I have already related to you, I commend to your attention my next
story, which deals with the occupant of the fifth cell."
"I shall be happy to hear it," said the visitor.
* * * * *
I intend to introduce to your notice (said the Governor) a remarkable
young man in the person of Frederick Clausen. We will find him seated
in a cheap coffee-house in one of the northern districts of London.
His elbows were on the marble-topped table at the moment I have in
mind, and he was looking up into the face of the not too immaculate
proprietor of the cheap restaurant.
"Yes," he said loudly, "the money was taken from the bank to-day and is
safe in a black japanned box in the boss's escritoire. I myself put it
in his study. There are two thousand pounds in notes alone, and----"
"Not so loud, Mr. Clausen," hastily interrupted the restaurant-keeper
in a whisper, as he glanced over his shoulder. "Not so loud."
But Frederick Clausen took no heed of the warning. He laughed and threw
back his head, then took a sip of coffee as his eyes travelled round
the small, dingy room.
"It would be an easy haul for any robbers," he continued, "but there's
nothing to fear on that score. We start paying out to-morrow at nine
o'clock. I thought I'd let you know, so that you could tell anybody who
hasn't been notified. Two thousand pounds, mark you! Fancy all that
money lying in a little japanned box in the study!"
His eyes looked over the rim of his cup. Two men sitting at a table
within two yards of him were busy looking at the moving traffic in the
street. They were typical of the residents in the district--at least, a
certain proportion of the residents--drifters, nondescripts. The peaks
of their caps were drawn over their brows, their clothes hung loosely
on them; yet their hands were soft and white. At other tables sat other
people of similar type. There were derelicts there, and workers too,
some furtive-eyed, some weary, some crooked-mouthed.
Frederick Clausen put down his cup and rose to his feet.
"I'll be going back home," he said. "To-morrow means a hard day's
work--paying out all that money."
As he moved towards the door the restaurant-keeper came with him and
laid a hand on his arm as they stood on the front step.
"You're getting on well, Fred," he said in a low tone, "and I'm glad
to see one of the boys of the district making good. It isn't often
you look in here; but you oughtn't to speak so loud about that money.
You're forgetting what you ought to remember--that there's always
someone sitting about. You know what I mean!"
"Oh, was I speaking too openly? I'm sorry."
"I'm saying nothing, Fred, except this. If I was you I'd shift that box
of money from the study when you get back. I can't stop people coming
into my shop for a cup of coffee so long as they behave themselves; but
I'm giving you a hint. See? So-long."
He turned and went back to his frowsy counter. Frederick Clausen
shrugged his shoulders and walked smartly along the grim street, his
lips set in an equally grim smile.
"The old fool!" he muttered. "As if I didn't speak loud on purpose!
Does he think I didn't know those two crooks were drinking in every
word? Well, I'll bet it comes off all right."
He felt like laughing out loud, so pleased was he with himself. It was
late in the evening, but he had spent the time to advantage. Was he
not, in the eyes of his employer, above suspicion?
Turning into a quiet street, he mounted the steps of a tall, narrow
house and let himself in with his latchkey. He shot the bolts of the
front door with considerable force, spoke a cheery word to a maid who
was finishing her dreary duties in the kitchen, saw that she had a
candle to light her way to her bedroom, then put out the hall light and
went to his own apartment. He undressed and jumped into bed at once.
But if Frederick Clausen went to bed he did not go to sleep. He did
not want to sleep. In a few minutes he heard the scullery-maid mount
to her room. A deep silence pervaded the house. Clausen lay still for
nearly two hours, smoking an occasional cigarette to pass the time. It
was long past midnight before he decided to move. He got up, put on
a dressing-gown, took a small phial from his coat pocket and, with a
handkerchief in his hand, opened the bedroom door. All was still.
He crept along the corridor to a door at the end of the passage and
tried the handle. It turned easily. He shook some drops of the contents
of the phial into his handkerchief and slipped into the room.
In a short time he came out again and went to another bedroom. This
time he listened at the door some time before he entered. Then he
slipped in, and came out again noiselessly.
He crept up a short flight of stairs and soaked his handkerchief from
the phial before entering a third bedroom half way to the next floor.
When he returned to the semi-darkness of the corridor he stood still,
his face expressing satisfaction, his nerves jumping just the slightest.
He stood in the corridor and breathed deeply, but smiling to himself.
In his hand he held the small phial and the handkerchief. In his head
he held the scheme he had evolved and was now executing step by step.
What he had just done was the second stage of his plan, and both had
been remarkably easy--easier than he had anticipated. He had entered
the bedroom of his employer and had laid the handkerchief, soaked with
chloroform, on his face. He had done the same with his employer's
wife, with their son--a young man about his own age--and with the
housekeeper. The servant who slept at the top of the house was far
enough removed from the scene of operations to be dispensed with as a
danger.
Clausen had gone to this trouble because he wanted to eliminate risk
in carrying out his intention of robbing his employer, an intention he
had harboured for some time. Robbery as an idea was old, of course;
but robbery by his method was sufficiently original, he calculated, to
place its author beyond suspicion. He had used chloroform merely to
intensify the sleep of those who might disturb his work.
There still remained the third and final stage of his plan. He put
the phial, in which were only a few remaining drops of the drug, into
the pocket of his dressing-gown beside his handkerchief, and went
downstairs towards the study on the ground floor back. The curtains of
the room were open, and the fading moon gave him all the illumination
he needed. He knelt beside the escritoire, opened it with a key, and
extracted a black japanned box. He opened the box and gazed on the
money.
It did not take him long to extract the major portion of the notes,
which were done up in handy bundles. Some silver was in paper bags.
He took most of it also; but he did not touch several cheques and
postal orders which lay in a drawer beside the notes. Cheques and
postal orders are traceable. Treasury notes, unless the owner knows the
numbers, are not; and Clausen was well aware that his employer did not
know the number of a single note.
He was gathering up the money when something soft brushed against his
hand. He started, but next instant smiled at his alarm.
"Hullo, puss," he whispered, as he stroked the large black cat that was
rubbing its head against his leg. "A black cat for luck!"
He tickled the cat's ears, then pushed the family pet away and
completed his theft. He closed the japanned box and put it back in the
escritoire, then wiped the metal with his handkerchief. He removed his
finger-prints from the escritoire in the same way, and went back to his
room. The cat came with him, purring and pleased as it rubbed itself
against his ankles.
It wanted to follow him into his bedroom, but he pushed it out into the
corridor and closed the door. His next act was to conceal the money.
This part of his scheme was also well prepared. From the fireplace he
removed a brick, which he had loosened by degrees during his leisure
hours, and in a cavity behind the loose brick he placed the notes and
silver. As he replaced the brick a small fall of soot dropped on his
hands. He shook most of it off into the fireplace, but, as some grime
remained, he went to the bathroom and washed the smuts off. He was not
taking any chances. Everything had been flawless in his plan so far,
and he intended to be sure that the high efficiency continued to the
end. Frederick Clausen was very thorough.
When he had cleaned his hands he returned to his bedroom, closed the
door, threw his dressing-gown on a chair beside his bed, and turned in.
He had finished the work he had set himself. The phial of chloroform
and the handkerchief he had used could not be got rid of until the
morning. For the present they were safe in his gown pocket.
Clausen was quite at ease regarding his theft. He was not an habitual
criminal by any means. He was private secretary to Mr. James Holson,
and he therefore knew all about Mr. Holson's affairs. The latter was
what was known as a welfare worker, who gave his spare time to help
those who desired to help themselves.
James Holson was well known in the charitable world, or, rather, the
world of charities. He was founder and treasurer of one of the largest
welfare societies in England--a society of the club type, which
accepted contributions from its members and disbursed the funds on
certain days of the year to the investors. Mr. Holson made no profit
for himself out of his club-society. He was content to preach the duty
and virtue of thrift. He handed out the savings from his office on the
ground floor of his house in Euston district with the same smiling
cheerfulness as he accepted the contributions.
Frederick Clausen was one of his "finds"--a young man of the lower
working-class community who had aspirations, and ambition. He too was
a member of the society, and he had become Holson's secretary because
he was a young man who had shown a desire to "get on." Through his
hands passed most of the details of the organisation. He lived in his
employer's house, capable and trusted.
It was Clausen's desire to succeed in life, and this very ambition led
to his present crime, strange though that may seem. His salary was
small--too small, he believed, for his abilities. He had often asked
for an increase, but had as often been told that an increase was not
possible for the time being. To Clausen this was a grievance. He did
not care that charitable societies such as his were incapable of paying
large salaries to their staffs. He did not argue that the organisation
was limited in funds by its very objects. But he did care that money
in a lump sum was a very valuable possession, and he argued that to
possess money enough to fill his dreams was worth a small risk. In him
his ancestry warred with his lately acquired respectability. He felt
his opportunities limited. He was not perhaps morally strong enough
to step outside the limitations and go farther afield. His quarrel
was that his limitations were limitations. Thus his alleged grievance
gradually became a vague sense of injustice. There are many similar
cases. Temptation fed on mistaken ideas grows strong. Thus the sapling
became an oak.
So long as there is temptation there will be crime. So long as there
is crime there will be law. So long as there is law there will be
law-breakers. Rectitude and guiltiness are not separated by a straight
line, as is commonly supposed. They are segments of a circle. Frederick
Clausen had passed the first two segments, and now, having taken the
money from the japanned box, had completed the last arc of the circuit.
He had approached his act as do practically all who, for the first
time, set out to beat the law. That is to say, he approached it with
acumen and knowledge born of considerable study. The average burglar
who has adopted theft as a trade goes straight to his objective, and
retreats swiftly from it after accomplishment. The amateur criminal is
much more elaborate. He believes that he has the wit to do what others
have failed to do.
Clausen was not content to steal and wipe out all traces of his trail.
That, to his acute mind, was but to leave the structure of his plan
half finished. He had gone much farther than that. He had seen to it
that a burglary would be provided to send the authorities on a false
scent.
His knowledge of the district guided him towards the keystone of
his crime and supplied him with an alibi that seemed proof against
suspicion. He had called at the dingy coffee-house deliberately to give
information to ears that were always open to receive and act on stray
news. To this mean eating-house came characters he had known in his
unregenerate days--men who trod the shady paths of life, youths who
lived by lawlessness. Clausen himself was of the locality. He knew the
suspects who frequented the side-streets and roamed the dim by-ways,
seeking like wolves, the opportunity to plunder.
He had timed his visit to the restaurant with care, and had sat at a
table reading his newspaper and exchanging a spasmodic conversation
with the proprietor, knowing that the visitors would come who could
make use of his words. He was perfectly aware that the two men who sat
at the next table were thieves, convicted and hardened in roguery. He
had spoken for their benefit. The chances were a thousand to one that
they had inwardly smiled at his seeming innocence as they listened to
his information. Simple people are the carriers of news. What burglar
could turn his back on a proposition where the details were handed to
him so guilelessly?
So Frederick Clausen argued, knowing the district and the men. Their
minds were less subtle than his. They would act true to type. He
had left something in the japanned box for them, a reward for their
trouble. They would take the postal orders, even if they did not take
the cheques, and thus they would be convicted.
As he lay in bed, Clausen went over every point. He had made things
easy for the burglars. He had undone the catch of the study window, he
had left the japanned box unlocked. Even if they did not come, he was
still safe. The chloroform he had used on the occupants of the house
would work off before morning. They would have heard nothing, and the
released window-catch would tell that a burglary had been committed
from the outside.
He estimated that the burglars would come within three hours after he
had taken the money, if they came at all. The time passed slowly, and
he was conscious of a tinge of anxiety. He heard the public clocks
strike the hours. Dawn was not far off when his slumbering senses were
jerked into action. Somewhere in the house a bell was ringing.
He sat up in bed. What was the bell? With an exclamation of irritation
he lay down again.
"It's the scullery-maid's alarm clock," he muttered. "I'd forgotten she
uses one to awaken her. I wonder what is the time."