both men appeared to be on the best of terms. They went into the
drawing-room. Daniel Callow was perfectly cool. Not a flutter showed as
he offered a chair to his visitor.
"Sorry my wife is not at home just now, Mr. Morat. You find me
handicapped somewhat."
"It doesn't matter. I came to see _you_."
Morat sat down, smiling still as he looked kindly towards Callow. His
fat fingers fiddled with his hat, which he held on his knees. He looked
into the fire thoughtfully.
"Well?" asked Daniel quietly.
Morat asked him one or two questions--trivial questions about the
routine of work at the bank--and pondered the answers so long that
his silence became an irritant. The ticking of the clock on the
mantel-piece sounded very loud. The hissing of the gas fire became
like the noise of escaping steam from a locomotive. It took Daniel
Callow all the restraint of which he was capable to endure the menacing
silence between the slow questions. He felt like shouting at Morat to
get on with it; but he held himself in check. This was the wearing-down
process in action, he thought. All right, let Morat try it. And then,
suddenly, before he was aware, the detective's tactics changed. He
leaned forward and pointed a stubby forefinger straight at Callow.
"We are on the track of a suspect!"
"Who?" asked Daniel, without blinking.
"You!"
It was like the report of a pistol. But Daniel Callow met the
accusation with the coolness of a dueller.
"I know that. You searched my house to-night."
Detective Morat withdrew his finger and sank back in his chair.
"I had two men on that job," he said.
"I knew it the moment I entered."
"You've planted that money somewhere!"
"If you think so, find it."
"I'll find it."
They looked at each other curiously. The smile had gone off Morat's
face, but a smile had come on that of Daniel Callow. He knew where he
was now. The gage had been thrown down.
"You are a smart young man, Callow. You have worked well at the bank.
The manager upholds you. He wouldn't listen to my suggestions. Yes,
you're smart. But you'll make a mistake. I've met your kind before. And
I've beaten them."
"Is it part of a detective's job to insult people in their own homes?"
asked Callow quietly.
"It is a detective's job to get evidence."
"By these methods?"
"By the methods he thinks fit the occasion. Are you personally opposed
to my methods?"
"Intensely so."
"Then you know your remedy."
"What is it?"
"Start a law case against me, claiming damages for what I have said."
"I'll think about that."
"But you won't do it."
"How do you know?"
"You daren't."
"You think so?"
"Positively."
"Why?"
Detective Morat leaned forward again and looked into Daniel Callow's
face.
"I'll tell you. Because you are in a bad hole, Callow. You have been
spending money too freely at your midnight clubs--you and your wife.
You are in the hands of moneylenders. You are living above your income.
You are in debt all round."
"Has that anything to do with you?"
"It has."
"In what way?"
"In this way. You are in a hole for want of money. Your wife doesn't
even know your salary----"
"You leave her out of it! How do you know she doesn't know my income?"
"My men have asked her."
"What?"
"One of my men has seen her within the last twenty-four hours. He
presented a bill on behalf of a firm, and asked for payment. She told
him to give it to you. He asked her if she was sure it would be paid.
She said you always paid. She does not know that you have unpaid bills
in your pocket now, bills you cannot hope to pay on your income. I have
not told your employers this--yet."
Daniel Callow shrugged his shoulders, but he was uncomfortable.
He knew what would happen if his manager found out that he was so
overwhelmingly in debt.
"Will you pay this bill if I present it to you?" asked Morat
remorselessly, laying an envelope in Callow's lap.
"I can't."
"I knew that. And before you could start an action against me I could
have you declared bankrupt. You know what that means."
"It means I would lose my job, but your bills would not be paid. I
don't see that would be any gain to you."
"It might. It would give me a chance to complete the evidence I seek."
"If you are so sure I stole the money, why don't you arrest me, or
detain me?"
"Because I want to produce the money as evidence, and I want you to
tell me where you have deposited it. If I had you arrested or detained
you would close your mouth. I haven't anything solid enough to go to a
jury."
"It will take you a hundred years to prove I am the burglar."
"Not so long, I think."
"Well, I have had enough of your insults. I do not care to endure it
any longer. If you have finished, you can go. And don't forget, I'll
report this to the bank to-morrow morning and ask for protection from
your uncouth methods."
Morat rose and left.
When he had gone, Daniel Callow smiled grimly to himself. He had met
the famous detective, and he had beaten him in the battle of wits.
Instead of Morat wearing him down, he had worn Morat down. Had the
detective had anything like a clue, he would have arrested him, or
detained him. His admissions proved that he was acting on nothing more
than suspicion. Suspicion didn't get men arrested; and, if it did, it
didn't get them convicted.
What had brought Morat to the house at all? It was clear. He had come
to make Callow commit himself by a stray word. He had come to test
him by a deliberate accusation. This was the thing to guard against.
Detectives often got their victims by a swift surprise. An unexpected
slip, an unguarded remark, had sent many a man to prison. To refuse to
be surprised into admission was the cue. So long as he remained cool,
never being flurried or agitated, Daniel Callow believed he was safe.
He saw his way, too, to cut the feet from Morat in the matter of the
bill. He would go to a money-lender and borrow. The day would come,
after the burglary had passed into the limbo of unsolved thefts, when
he could pay back the money. If he was able to show that the bill had
been paid, he need not fear Morat.
He got the money and paid the bill next day, and he interviewed the
manager, asking protection from Morat. In this he was successful. The
manager promised that Morat's crude methods would be stopped. He was
indignant that his smartest man should be so insulted. Daniel Callow
came out of the manager's office feeling that he had scored again.
There was only one item of the burglary that Callow had retained in
his possession that would have given him away. He got rid of it that
evening as he went home. This was the new key he had had made for the
front door of the bank. He flung it into the Thames.
Detective Morat came no longer to the bank. A week passed. Nobody was
arrested. Nothing happened. The staff grew easier in their minds.
Daniel Callow's wife returned from her holiday. They went to the
night-club together, as of yore. They had their fun. They mixed with
the members, old and new, all belonging to the set. Life resumed its
care-free jollity.
Daniel was proud of Irene. She was the life of the club. She was gay,
irresponsible, beautiful. She went the pace more than ever. Men envied
Daniel his wife. They did not know what she cost him.
The one drawback to his new plunge into life was the number of
bills and the call for money it occasioned. Daniel found that the
moneylenders declined to let him have another advance. He had not
mentioned to Irene that there had been a robbery at the bank. If she
found this out he was always able to defend his lack of confidence
by the fact that the staff had been sworn to keep the matter from
the public. Nor did he tell her that the loot was buried under the
rose-bush. He was waiting a favourable opportunity to lift the bag.
He intended to circulate the notes in a way whereby they would not be
traced to him. He could do this over on the Continent. A week-end trip
was enough for this.
He chose an evening for the job of lifting the bag--an evening when
he would be alone. The maid was to be out. Irene, unable to be absent
from the club, was going there alone, and he was to call for her
later. He did not need to find excuses for not accompanying her. She
asked for no reason so long as she was allowed to go the pace with the
set.
Darkness had just fallen when Daniel pulled on his garden boots. He was
on his way to the back door when the bell of the front rang. He opened
it, and faced Detective Morat.
With Morat were two other men. Morat was smiling kindly, as usual, his
hand smoothing his stout jaw.
"I want a word with you, Mr. Callow."
"Come inside. What do you want now?"
Morat closed the door behind him and faced Daniel.
"You are a good bluffer, Daniel Callow, but I see no reason to change
my suspicions."
"You mean about the bank robbery?"
"That is what I mean."
"Well? Have you come to insult me again? The manager promised----"
"It's out of the manager's hands now, Callow. I have made a lot of
inquiries, and I have gone over every yard of the case. I have come to
the conclusion that the stolen money is here."
"Find it!" scoffed Daniel Callow.
They were bluffing each other. At least, that is what Daniel Callow
thought; and his regard for this famous detective was very small. Had
he not beaten him once?
"I have a warrant authorising me to search the house. You raise no
objection?"
Daniel Callow's self-command was excellent.
"I'm going out to attend to my rose-trees," he said with a smile. "Call
me when you've finished. I'm getting tired of this inquisition, and the
daylight is fading fast."
He turned and went out to the garden, leaving Morat stroking his smooth
jaw thoughtfully.
Ten minutes later, when Daniel was loosening the earth round his
bushes, Morat appeared. He looked at the rose-trees and at Callow. The
latter was laughing to himself. He stepped off the rose-bed and struck
the mud from his boots.
"Found that money yet?" he asked sarcastically.
Morat stroked his smooth jaw softly.
"Daniel Callow, what would you give to keep your wife out of this?"
The question struck Daniel in the weakest link of his armour.
"You keep her name out of this!" he cried. "You've mentioned her
before----"
Morat plunged his hand into his pocket and thrust a five-pound note
into Daniel Callow's face.
"And I'll mention her again," he retorted. "What if your wife tendered
this at the club you frequent? Don't you know that all the numbers of
the missing notes are known? Do you want her charged with being in
possession of stolen money?"
Daniel Callow's jaw dropped. He staggered back, his legs weakened
under him, and his face went white as paper.
"Where did your wife get this note?" thundered Morat.
"It's impossible!" cried Daniel. "She didn't know where I hid the
money!"
As soon as the words were out, torn from him unexpectedly, he realised
what he had said. But it was too late. Detective Morat turned to the
two men who came out of the doorway at his signal.
"He'll confess now," he said quietly. "Take him indoors."
And Daniel Callow did confess; but it was not until afterwards that he
discovered that Morat had bluffed him to the end. The five-pound note
had never been in Irene's hands. Morat had brought it with him to aid
his test.
THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE SEVENTH CELL
The visitor had taken a great interest in the story of Daniel Callow,
and when the Governor finished he spoke quietly.
"I would not advise you to put Daniel Callow among your Intellectuals."
"Thank you. I think you are right in your judgment. He shall stay
among the Intelligents. I have given you proof that certain men give
themselves away under certain circumstances. I will now give you a case
where Nature intervened and sent Robert Lyons to the seventh cell."
* * * * *
But for a caprice of Nature (continued the Governor), Robert Lyons
would now be facing the scaffold. As it is, he has been for some time
in hospital, and it is extremely unlikely that he will ever go outside
these walls, or, rather, the confines of the prison, so long as he
lives. Such is the sentence for his evildoing that a judge and jury
have passed on him.
Lyons was a gamekeeper and odd-job man, and one day, when he was out in
the woods, he rested his rifle in the fork of a tree and took careful
aim at a piece of granite formed in the shape of a chair that stood out
of the scrub five hundred yards across the valley. There was murder
in his heart, but it was not the wild, irresponsible desire to slay,
which is often associated with the taking of human life, that swayed
him. The murder he contemplated was deliberate, cold, implacable.
In studying Lyons we are studying a man who is in many ways different
from most men. His design to kill was clever, original, worthy of an
Intellectual. As a matter of fact, I have thought that if Lyons had
been in another sphere of life he would have made his mark, for he
possessed many of the traits of almost genius. After all, brains are no
monopoly of wealth or high birth.
Lyons pressed the trigger of his rifle, eased the weapon from his
shoulder as soon as he had fired, took a pair of binoculars from his
pocket, and focused them.
Above the irregular top of the granite block that took the form of a
natural chair--in the locality it was known as the "Wishing Chair,"
owing to some legend--he had fastened a target of wood shaped to
represent a man's head. With the aid of his binoculars he observed that
his .303 bullet had passed through this head. The observation convinced
him that the way to final accomplishment of his intention was clear.
His intention was to put a bullet from his gun through the head of his
employer, Professor Roche; and he was going to do it without his hand
or finger being nearer the trigger than the width of the valley.
You will perhaps agree (said the Governor, in parenthesis) that within
recent years a change has taken place in the methods of criminals
quite as much as in their motives. A generation ago murder was usually
committed because of some grudge, some grievance, some desire for
revenge, or hope of gain. The murdered persons were almost always aware
of their enemy, or enemies, and of the cause of the antagonism. In
these days the victim is less often aware of having an enemy. Within
the last few years the victims have been the friends, the benefactors
sometimes, of their slayers in more than fifty per cent. of the murders
committed. Does this indicate that humanity is retrograding instead
of progressing? No one can answer definitely. Some have said that
war revives in man the savage impulse to slay. The question is more
complicated than appears on the surface. Why did Robert Lyons wish to
slay his employer?
It has become an axiom that to find the culprit of any breakage of
the law it is necessary to find the motive. The old Frenchman was not
infallible when he said, "Find the woman." The police first seek for
a motive, and then trace the person involved. It is all a matter of
team-work, all a business of routine. It is a process of elimination.
So much for the police and their methods. Let us get back to Lyons
and his intention. Motive played a part, as usual, fear another,
greed another, and at base these were, singly, small enough, but when
combined they were everything.
Professor Roche was one of the savants who are to be found in the
backwaters of English life. London is the home of active men. The
provinces are as often the home of thinking men. Professor Roche was
one of the most retiring, yet one of the most learned, men in this
country. He had travelled widely in pursuit of his science. He was
an archæologist, naturalist, conchologist. It was he who presented
to our best museums the collections that are most prized. He had
been all over Europe and America at the invitation of private and
public organisations, aiding them in appraising and displaying their
treasures. And yet this man, who could have had many honours given him,
desired none. He was content to live away from the hub of things, and
his pleasure was in his work. His collections were envied by curators
of museums, who often begged them on loan. These collections had been
gathered from the four corners of the world. Time after time he had
been approached, indeed tempted, to sell some of his collections, but
he had always refused. It was because Robert Lyons had overheard such a
conversation between the professor and the representative of a museum
that he became aware of the chance of making something for himself
without much effort.
Lyons acted as gamekeeper and handyman on the small estate. His duty
was, among other things, to keep poachers away, and allow the wild life
of the land to live to its natural fullness, so that the professor
might study the habits of the creatures living above, on, deep in the
earth. He accompanied Professor Roche on many tours, for he knew the
ways of hares, squirrels, field animals, as well as he knew the ways
of birds. He knew them from the woodsman's point of view, while the
professor knew them from the scientific angle. Squirrels came to feed
out of his hand, rabbits did not budge when he passed, rooks looked
down on him from their nests unafraid. It was to be expected that such
a sanctuary for wild life would attract poachers bent on killing where
killing was profitable as well as easy.
One step leads to another. Lyons was the man who made the cases in
which the professor's specimens were kept. It was he who, under the
professor's directions, arranged the preserved butterflies of many
countries, the humming-birds of the Amazon, the rare shells of the
tropics, the eggs of a thousand wonderful species.
At first the value of the exhibits loomed only faintly behind their
beauty. The conversation he had overheard turned his thoughts from the
beauty to the value. He lacked the scientific enthusiasm which is above
the consideration of money, and gradually he began to compare himself,
a humble gamekeeper, with the wealth which he handled. He ended by
coveting.
He took another step. The professor did not miss the humming-bird Lyons
put into his pocket and sold in London on one of his occasional trips
to town. He found it comparatively easy to sell when he had satisfied
the dealer that Professor Roche had commissioned him to dispose of the
rare curio. He named a price and stuck to it. The dealer saw this man
knew values, and paid the price.
Other specimens went the same way, to other dealers. It was easy to say
that the professor was getting rid of a few specimens quietly in order
to obtain ready money, but this could not go on indefinitely. Lyons was
perfectly aware of this, but he was already involved and could not turn
back.
There was one shell in the professor's collection which had attracted
the attention of Lyons more than anything else. It nestled in a bed of
plush, and was about six inches long, pale ivory in colour, overlaid
with wonderful mosaic markings, and had a slender, tapering spire. Its
label gave its name as "Glory of Coram--very rare." Lyons took the
trouble, when in London, to find out that there were not half a dozen
such shells in the world's museums. It was valued at many hundreds of
pounds. Might he not take this as a final toll? He took it.
Crime is like a steep incline. The criminal starts slowly, gathering
speed and daring as he descends. This speed and daring are largely
generated by the momentum of descent. At a given distance down the
slope, stoppage is impossible without danger of a crash. Robert Lyons
had reached this distance.
The dealer in London to whom he took the shell examined it for a long
time. He asked questions. Had Lyons been more business-like he would
have known that rare shells are not sold over counters without the
buyer's protecting himself by negotiation and written statements. He
listened to the dealer telling him that he must have a note from the
professor authorising the sale.
"Give me a note and I'll get his signature," he said. The dealer gave
him a typewritten note--such a one as is generally kept for reference
when curios change hands. Robert Lyons left the shop, and returned to
his home that evening realising that he had thrown a net about his own
feet.
His position was now one of peril. He had stepped beyond the bounds
of petty theft. He spent a considerable part of that night in his
little cottage trying to forge the professor's signature. His hand was
clumsy, and could not form the letters well. He knew his forgery would
be detected at once. As he sat pondering the situation the great idea
came to him. He would get the signature, and make it impossible for the
professor ever to say that he had been forced to sign.
Curiously enough, he never thought of returning the Glory of Coram to
its case. In this he was like the majority of criminals, whose brains
do not harbour a thought of retreat. They must go on, driven by some
force of their own making against which they cannot strive. If he
retreated, there would be inquiries, and his other thefts would come
to light. The dealer would probably write to Professor Roche, for
the Glory of Coram was a treasure not often put into the market. All
this meant prison, humiliation, the brand of the broad arrow. By the
unusually cunning plan that had come to him Robert Lyons saw that the
only other way was to blot out the life of Professor Roche.
This alternative may seem to rational people to be an enormity. Is it
any more so than the decision of the murderer to kill the girl who
expected to marry him, so that he might marry another? Or more heinous
than the poisoning of an old woman to gain the few hundreds of pounds
for which her life was insured? Lyons, like other criminals, did not
balance his proposed crime by the material gain it would bring him. He
balanced it by his own safety.
After he had satisfied himself that his rifle was capable of carrying
out his plan he threw it over his shoulder, crossed the valley, and
took down the target, all bullet-marked, and trudged back to his
cottage. He put his rifle in a cupboard and took out an older weapon,
which he stacked in the porch. This was part of his plan also. He had
bought the newer rifle in London some days previously, and had brought
it home after dark. It was of different bore from his old piece, which
everybody in the neighbourhood knew he possessed.
He brought out some pieces of wood, and a saw and hammer and nails. He
measured the pieces carefully, and was busy at the work of carpentry
when he heard a footfall approaching. He looked up. Professor Roche was
coming up the gravel path to his cottage.
"I heard your gun go off over by the valley, Lyons," said the
professor. "Shooting at anything?"
"It's them poachers, sir," replied Lyons, with an upward glance from
under his shaggy brows. "It wasn't my gun that went off. Here it is
here, loaded up, but I never see the poachers or I'd fire."
"Not at them, I hope, Lyons."
"No, sir, above their heads, just to give 'em a fright. They've been
poaching over by the Wishing Chair."
"What are they after this time, birds or hares?"
"Anything they can get, sir."
"I'd have got the police to help you, Lyons, if you weren't against
it----"
"Never mind the police, sir. I can manage. When are we goin' over to
continue the excavations?"
"I was hoping to go to-day."
"Make it to-morrow, sir. I'll spend the day clearin' out the poachers,
and we won't be disturbed to-morrow."
"All right, Lyons."
The professor was looking dreamily at the pieces of wood which Lyons
was fitting together carefully into a curious shape.
"What's that you are making, Lyons?"
"A cradle, sir."
"A cradle?"
"Yes, for my gun. The fore-end has warped through being laid on the
damp ground, and that affects the barrel. I'm making a cradle so I can
keep it off the ground when I'm resting, while I watch for poachers."
The professor nodded and walked away slowly, his head bent and his
hands behind his back. Lyons was well aware that his explanation
had not been followed, for the professor was always thinking of his
specimens and had little interest in anything else.
When he had gone, Lyons bent over his task and worked fast. The cradle
was finished by midday, and he went indoors to prepare his dinner. When
dinner was ready he laid it on the table and piled a handful of nuts on
a plate beside it. Then he stepped into his inner room and brought out
a box two feet long by one foot high. He laid the box on the floor and
shut his front door. When he sat down at the table he flicked open the
lid of the box. A squirrel jumped out.