suddenly became tense. The bell had ceased to ring, but another noise
came to his ears. It was from the ground floor. At first the sound was
a confused jumble, then what seemed to be the smashing of glass and the
rumbling of men's voices. Clausen's heart beat quickly. The burglars
had arrived. His theories had worked out after all. Was this not proof
of his ability to gauge men and their actions accurately? A glow of
triumph swept over him.
And then, out of the stillness that followed the noise, there came
other sounds. He heard feet on the corridor pass his door. He lay down
and drew the bedclothes up to his chin. Voices were talking. Someone
was knocking at a door. More voices added to the confused sounds. He
heard the sound of feet on the corridor again--more feet, heavy feet.
Someone knocked at his door. He lay still and did not answer.
The knock was repeated. A voice called his name. He did not answer. The
handle of the door turned. A light flashed. He lay still, breathing
regularly, feigning sleep.
Fingers touched his shoulders and shook him. He opened his eyes,
pretending to be startled, and called out in well-acted alarm:
"What's that? Who are you?"
"It's all right, sir," said a policeman who was standing at his
bedside. "You've had a visit from burglars. We came in through the
study window after them, and the maid told me this was your room.
You're Mr. Holson's secretary, aren't you?"
"Yes! Burglars! In here! Where are they? What's to be done?"
He was sitting up now, rubbing his eyes, running his fingers through
his hair, apparently dazed.
"It's all right, sir, don't be alarmed. The burglars didn't come this
length----"
"Burglars! The scoundrels! It's the money they're after--the money in
the box--two thousand pounds--the society's money to be paid out this
morning. This is terrible."
"Better get dressed quickly, sir. I've awakened young Mr. Holson and
told him to waken his father. You must all sleep soundly in this house
not to have heard us. Will you please come downstairs quickly? We want
your information."
"I'll come now."
Clausen leaped out of bed, intending to snatch up his gown; but as he
put his hand out he hesitated. Snuggled on the top of the gown as it
lay on the chair was the lazy black cat, the household pet, curled up
on the soft cloth which formed for it an ideal resting-place.
The black cat for luck! Clausen's mind was quick to take advantage of
the cat's choice of a bed. The dawn was beginning to struggle through
the curtains, giving a strange coldness to the room. He shivered and
turned to the policeman.
"I might as well dress. A secretary's work is never done, and I may as
well get up for the day. Will you give me a few minutes?"
"Oh, I'll wait, sir. My mate is downstairs on guard. We'll want Mr.
Holson and you to go over the study with us. Come down when you are
ready."
The constable moved into the corridor, leaving the door ajar. Clausen
heard his employer's son calling to his father, who answered drowsily.
The house was awaking jerkily. Clausen began to dress, smiling towards
the black cat asleep on his gown. What could have been better? The
animal must have slipped into his room when he was washing the soot
from his hands. He stroked its neck as he passed. His gown was safe
under that cat.
As Clausen dressed hurriedly, he heard Mr. Holson and his son stumble
along the corridor on their way downstairs. The policeman was with
them. Mr. Holson was talking in half-awake, grumbling accents, coughing
and groaning as he moved. Clausen did not wash himself, nor shave. He
hurried down at their heels, pulling his jacket on as he went.
All the lights in the house were lit by this time. The servants were
in the hall. Clausen joined the investigators. He found his employer at
the foot of the stairs, on the brink of a collapse, supported by his
son and the policeman.
"Mr. Holson," cried Clausen, "this is terribly unfortunate, sir! How
can we face the club members? Don't you worry, sir. We may be able to
arrange a loan from the bank----"
Mr. Holson waved his hand feebly and groaned.
"Mr. Holson is a bit seedy," explained the constable. "I think he had
better get back to bed--or, wait, there he goes--better lay him down
here and fetch some water. He's going to faint."
Clausen ran to get water, and when he returned they were carrying his
employer back to bed. They did not take him into his own bedroom,
however, but into Clausen's, which was the nearest at the top of the
stairs. They laid him on Clausen's bed, and Clausen bathed his brow and
hands.
Holson's son sank into a chair and stared vacantly around. Clausen was
the only person besides the policeman who kept his head.
"It is not surprising that Mr. Holson, poor man, takes it like this,"
he said sympathetically. "Two thousand pounds gone! I hope you have got
the burglars, constable. Have you found a clue? How many burglars were
there? It is a wonder they did not kill us in our sleep. It must have
been men who knew we took the money from the bank yesterday----"
"Oh, that's all right, Mr. Clausen," said the policeman. "We've got the
best of clues. We've got the burglars--two of them."
"Is that so? Ah, that is smart! Caught in the act, I hope. And the
money--did they have time to dispose of it, or have you recovered it
too?"
The policeman was paying attention to Mr. Holson, so that he did not
answer then. The philanthropist was showing signs of recovery and had
opened his eyes, then tried to sit up.
"Be careful, sir," cautioned Clausen. "Take it easy. Everything is all
right. The constable says the burglars have been caught. Did you say
you had recovered the money, constable?"
"That's a bit that puzzles my mate and me," replied the policeman
thoughtfully as he wiped the inside of his helmet with his
handkerchief. "We've got the burglars all right. The money wasn't taken
by them, sir, because me and my mate got them before they opened the
escritoire. And yet, when Mr. Holson took the box out just now, most of
the money was gone----"
"They must have hid it before you came on the scene," cried Clausen.
"We were on the scene practically all night," said the constable.
"You didn't know, Mr. Clausen, that Mr. Holson informed our station
yesterday about the money being here. He asked us to keep watch during
the night. There are bad characters around the district, and me and my
mate were on special duty. With Mr. Holson's consent we fixed a trap
last night. You didn't know about it, because you were out until late
in the evening----"
"A trap!" cried Clausen. "What was the trap?"
"We laid down an alarm bell that rang in Mr. Holson's bedroom the
moment the burglars stepped over the window-sill of the study. In this
way he was to know if, and when, any burglars came. In the meantime
we were to keep watch from outside--you know, patrolling about in our
rubbered boots. The idea was that the bell would bring Mr. Holson down
with his son, and we would have the thief, or thieves, back and front.
Well, the bell rang, but nobody came down. Did you hear the bell, Mr.
Clausen?"
"No," replied Clausen, lying coolly. "I did not hear any bell."
"That's funny, for Mr. Holson and his son say the same thing, yet me
and my mate heard it from the lane at the back of the house. And the
housekeeper says she did not hear it either. We had a lot of trouble to
get Mr. Holson and his son awake, and the housekeeper too. They've all
got headaches and--it's funny."
He put his helmet on carefully, looking from one to the other.
Frederick Clausen stood motionless, the dripping sponge in his ice-cold
hand.
The policeman's eye wandered round the room, resting finally on the
fat, black cat sleeping on the dressing-gown on the chair.
"Everybody seems to sleep well in this house," he grinned. "Even the
cat. And a cat is generally scared of us when we enter a house. This
one is unconcerned----"
He stepped to the chair and laid his hand on the animal, stroking it
gently.
"Look here," he said. "This cat has its nose stuck into the pocket of
the gown----"
His laugh ceased suddenly. With a jerk he lifted the cat from its soft
bed. It hung dangling in his grip, limp and unconscious. A faint, not
unpleasant odour drifted through the room.
Next moment the policeman dropped the cat and plunged his hand into
the pocket of the gown, bringing forth the handkerchief and the small
phial, the cork of which stuck awry from the neck.
He turned his eyes on Frederick Clausen; and Frederick Clausen knew
that, in spite of all his precautions, in spite of legends to the
contrary, the black cat had brought, not luck, but evidence against him
which was at once undeniable and convicting.
It was a matter of detail from the suspicion to the search of the room,
the finding of the stolen money, and then the charge. After that, the
cell.
THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE SIXTH CELL
"And _now_," said the Governor as he took a sip of the whisky and
soda that was near his elbow, "we will continue our examination of
criminals, and their personal strengths and weaknesses, by going on to
the next story, if you will permit."
"Go on," said the visitor.
"Before I do so," said the Governor, "might I invite you to make
yourself more at ease? You have your overcoat on, and these gloves you
are wearing----"
"The overcoat may be discarded, but not the gloves," smiled the
visitor, who pulled off his coat with a quick movement that surprised
the Governor by its rapidity. "I can shoot quite as well with my gloves
as with bare hands. And I notice that your desk is of highly polished
mahogany."
"I was thinking of your personal comfort, I assure you," returned the
Governor. "As for any finger-prints, a man of your courage would not
allow a small matter like that to stop him----"
"Your diagnosis is right in that instance. If I thought it worth
while to take off my gloves I would do so. I don't. Come, the night
is passing and you seem to want to talk for some time. Why mention my
gloves?"
"The sight of kid gloves reminds me of the case of Daniel Callow,
whose story I am about to give you."
The Governor slipped a throat tablet into his mouth.
* * * * *
The case of Daniel Callow (he said) leaves me in a quandary. Ought he
to go into the Intellectual section or into the Intelligent grade?
Perhaps you will aid me to determine.
Consider Daniel Callow just in the act of closing the heavy door of
the bank safe and switching out his electric torch. He put the torch
into his pocket. After listening for a moment, he lifted the handbag in
which he had packed the loot he had just stolen and stepped towards the
door. He was wearing kid gloves. On his feet were goloshes drawn over
his shoes. He opened the door and looked out. There was no one about.
He closed the door behind him softly. Next moment he was walking away
with his loot.
It had been easy. It had been simple. It had been without a hitch. He
boarded a bus and went home.
As he entered the semi-detached, bijou, suburban residence of which he
was tenant, the dining-room clock struck eight. Daniel Callow smiled to
himself. He was home on the stroke of the hour, as he had been for a
week. He heard the maid setting his supper in the dining-room. She came
out as he closed the hall wardrobe in which he had put his bag and
overcoat.
"Did you clean the aerial, Annie?" he asked.
"Yes, sir. I've got it as bright as a new wire, but I didn't have time
to wind it up."
"I'll do that after supper. Have the rose-trees come?"
"Yes, sir. I laid 'em out on the plot where you dug the holes for 'em."
"That was right. I think you can go now, Annie. I won't require you any
more to-night."
He heard her go out by the back door while he was at supper. When he
had finished eating his meal he rose and pulled on a pair of heavy
boots. He went out to the garden and wound up his aerial. He took out
the bag of notes and silver, extracted a handful or so of the latter
currency, and deposited the bag in one of the holes in the rose-plot.
On the top of the bag he planted a rose, stamping the bush well down.
He planted others also. This work had to be done before darkness, but
it did not occupy him more than ten minutes. After this he returned to
the house, took off his garden boots, pulled on a pair of slippers, and
lifted his head-phones. The time signal was just being broadcast.
Now, of the three types of criminals, we may take it that the lowest
are those who become law-breakers because it is their instinct. The
next above them are those who, while not making a habit of crime,
side-step once or so. Then there are those who are among the
Intellectuals, the professionals. In this class are those who have
never been caught. Daniel Callow was trying to graduate from the second
to the top class in one step.
When a man belongs to a fast set, and spends his money as if his annual
income was a month's salary, he is heading for one of two places--the
Bankruptcy Court or the debtors' prison. A bank clerk cannot live like
a landed proprietor with immense wealth; but it was "the thing" in the
set to which Daniel Callow and his wife belonged that responsibility
should come after pleasure.
Callow had married his wife, Irene, because she belonged to the set.
She never knew what salary he received at the bank. She never asked.
The night-club life was what brought them together. It held them
together. During the day Daniel was at his counter at the bank. During
the night he and Irene were generally at banker with a count. In their
club, counts were common and honourables were not even remarked on.
Debts were usual; but there was this difference. The debts of the
counts and the honourables were paid when pressure was applied. They
had means. Daniel Callow had none.
It was because he saw the Bankruptcy Court or the debtors' prison in
front of him that Daniel Callow had thought out his scheme. For him it
was simple. To an ordinary burglar it would have been daring.
There was no man in the bank whose efficiency was greater. He had
also earned a reputation for punctuality that was a criterion of the
establishment. Every morning he was at his place before the other
clerks, even before the manager. The keys of the safe were deposited
every evening by the manager at the local police station. Daniel
called for them every morning, and had the books and ledgers out on
the desks by the stroke of the hour. What was easier than to take a
wax impression of the keys as he handled them? There was only one that
mattered, and it Daniel had left in the safe door. This was part of his
plan.
Sitting with his head-phones on, by his fire, Daniel Callow smiled as
he thought of the reputation he had earned. How was the manager to know
that he had earned it with a purpose in view? He had been early every
morning so that his great idea might come to fruition.
The main part of the plan, however, was that which dealt with covering
his trail. He had advised Irene to pay a visit to some friends of their
circle who had rented a house at the coast. Irene never asked anything
about money so long as Daniel provided it. She did not bother about
finance. You can find her type easily enough. The midnight set don't
trouble about the next morning. They have no next mornings. So, from
the whirl of the West End dance-club, Irene went off to another kind of
whirl at the seaside. Daniel stayed at home and went to the bank as
usual.
During Irene's absence he came home every night just in time for
supper. He dined at the club about six. He reached home about eight.
The maid then went off duty--the plan on which he and Irene had agreed.
Every morning Daniel went to the bank at his usual hour, or, if
anything, slightly earlier. He had that wax impression of the key to
get. He got it. After that the remainder of his idea was simple.
He was under no disillusionment as to what would happen when the
burglary was discovered. He knew that detectives would be called in.
He knew that there would be an inquiry. There might even be a search.
Callow was no professional thief. He did not attempt to run off with
the swag. He had nowhere to run to, for that matter. He knew no "fence"
who would hide it. He wanted no accomplice. Alone in the house, he had
thought of the rose-bed in the garden. Even if detectives came to his
house? He would sit tight and watch his roses grow. Ah, there was a
brain for you!
Theoretically he was right. The first desire of the ordinary criminal
is to escape, to flee from the scene of his crime, and to hide his
proceeds in a place some distance from where he himself lurks.
Daniel Callow reversed both these ordinary rules, which are so well
known to the police. He not only kept his loot in his garden, he went a
step farther. He discovered the burglary for the benefit of the staff
next morning.
When the manager arrived, he was told how the keys of the safe were
found in the door, how the safe had been rifled, how several thousands
of pounds had been taken, how Daniel Callow had sent for the police at
once. The manager complimented Daniel, whose story was backed by the
cleaners.
The police took down statements, examined the safe door, the keys,
the door knobs, the floor, the windows. They did not find a clue. The
deficiency in cash was made up by hurried loans from other branches of
the bank, so that the public might never guess a theft had taken place.
The staff was sworn to secrecy.
In the afternoon, every member of the staff was called in turn into the
manager's room. When Daniel Callow was sent for, he entered without
fear.
Next to the manager sat an elderly man, who was introduced as Detective
Morat. Daniel told himself that he had never seen anyone more unlike
a detective. Here was no rat-faced, keen sleuth. Morat had a big
reputation, but he confessed, after hearing Daniel's story, that the
whole thing was a mystery. Daniel had expected to be put through a
cross-examination. Morat did not bother with any cross-examination. He
merely sat smiling, his big face beaming with kindliness.
When he left the bank that night, Daniel Callow did not go straight
home, but called at the night-club. He had a hand or two at cards,
listened to the latest stories of the set, indulged in a few dances,
and then went his way. The maid was waiting for him, though it was long
past his usual time of arrival.
"A gentleman has been here for you twice," she announced.
"What was his name?"
"He wouldn't give any."
"What was he like?"
"Looked like a policeman to me. He asked when you came home last night,
and when you usually came."
"You told him, didn't you?"
"Yes, sir."
"That's right. Sorry I'm late, Annie. You may go."
When the maid was gone, Daniel Callow sat down and began to think. Was
this part of a game the police were playing? Did they suspect him?
This was the beginning of the period he had anticipated, the period
of suspicion and investigation. Probably every other member of the
staff was undergoing the same thing. He went over his acts, and came
to the confident conclusion that he had nothing to fear. If the police
suspected him, why did they not come and search his house? Even if they
did----? He could wait his time. The money was safe enough under his
rose-tree.
The following morning, as he stood behind the counter of the bank,
he saw the thick form of Detective Morat enter and go through to the
manager's office. In a little while Daniel was summoned to the inner
office. He went without a tremor.
"Mr. Callow," said the manager, "we want you to tell us again just how
you came to discover that a burglary had been committed. Detective
Morat is not quite sure of one or two points. He is correcting the
statements of the staff which were made yesterday."
Daniel told them once more, word for word. He had his evidence all
ready for them. The cleaners could back him up. Detective Morat sat
smiling as he listened.
"What time did you get home that night?" he asked.
"Eight o'clock exactly."
"Did you stay in all evening? Didn't you go up to your club?"
"I stayed in. I was listening to the broadcast."
Morat smiled again and rose to his feet.
"I've an idea the cleaners must know the man who did the job," he
said. "By the way, Mr. Callow, that was a fine programme we had on the
wireless that night. I've got a one-valve set at home, and I heard Lord
Halford's speech from the London studio as clear as a bell. Scientific
stuff. Good, wasn't it?"
"You must be mistaken," replied Daniel Callow coldly. "There was no
such speech the evening you refer to."
Detective Morat looked disappointed.
"Maybe it was the previous night," he murmured. "All right, Mr. Callow.
We won't trouble you again."
Daniel went back to his counter, and his eyes glimmered as he took his
stand.
"The fool!" he muttered. "Calls himself a detective, and tries such
a clumsy one! He wanted to see if I was really listening-in. Oh, and
that's what they call a first-class detective!"
He went home later than usual that evening, for it was the maid's night
off and he would have found no meal ready for him. He dined and supped
in the West End.
When he arrived home, a strange sense of uneasiness swept over him.
This sense struck him as soon as he switched on the hall light. He was
suddenly seized with the suspicion that the house had been entered.
He went into the dining-room. All was in order. He went through every
room in the house. Nothing appeared to have been disturbed, yet he
knew someone had been there. He could have sworn this, though he could
not have proved it. He examined every cupboard, looked at the carpets,
watched for the slightest disarrangement of the beds. He saw no sign of
strange hands, yet every cupboard, every carpet, every bed shrieked a
warning at him.
Was this needless fear? Was it super-nervousness? Daniel Callow was
too blasé to be afraid, too confident to be nervous. He experienced no
pricks of conscience. He had planned the theft too carefully to leave a
clue, but his home had been searched. Who had done this? There was only
one answer. Morat!
He hurried out to the garden. The rose-plot was undisturbed, the tall
rose-bush which he had planted over the loot was there as he had placed
it in the centre of the flower-bed. It was surrounded by the other
roses.
The light from his small drawing-room flooded this limited area
and threw his shadow across the tiny dark lawn. He was in the act
of stretching out his hand towards the rose-bush when he drew back
quickly. Did he hear a sound from the fence at the bottom of the garden?
He stood still, watching. The sound was not repeated. He lit a
cigarette, and walked slowly up towards the pole he had erected for his
aerial, pretending to tinker with the pulley by which he could lower
the wire. In reality he was watching the fence. All was quiet. He went
indoors.
He lit the gas fire of the drawing-room, and sat down with his
head-phones on his knee. He did not draw the curtains. If anyone was
watching him from the garden fence, that person would have a full
view. Daniel did not wish to hinder the spy. He would give him plenty
of rope, but nothing to report.
All the same, as he put the head-phones on he was not listening to
the musical programme. He was thinking hard. Were the police after
him? Morat had shown his suspicions when he made the clumsy remark
about the speech. Morat was behind the search that had been made of
the house: for that they had waited until the maid was out. Well, he
was proof against their lumbering methods. The maid could prove that
the rose-trees were on order several days before they arrived. The
maid could prove that she had been instructed to clean the aerial. He
himself had proved that he spent the evening listening-in. There was
not a clue left at the bank pointing in his direction. The manager had
placed entire reliance on him in every way.
It had become a game of patience. Daniel knew that the police often
adopted a wearing-down method of tactics when they were suspicious and
longed for evidence. He was proof against that also. He would attend to
his roses and wear down all suspicion. It was a game at which two could
play. All he had to do was to be more upright in his actions than ever,
more diligent in business than he had ever been. There was plenty of
time. His roses would grow.
The wireless programme had just concluded when a knock sounded on the
front door, and the bell rang sharply. Daniel Callow did not hesitate,
though his instinct told him who was on the other side of the door. He
opened it without a fear. A man stood facing him.
"I think you know me, Mr. Daniel Callow?"
"Oh, you are Detective Morat, aren't you?"
"Yes."
The two eyed each other steadily. Morat smiled and stroked his smooth,
plump jaw.
"May I have a word with you, Mr. Callow--about the burglary?"
"Certainly. Come inside."