that had been made around the tower of the old church; deep holes had
been dug for the shoring timbers, and much of the foundations of the
building had been exposed. Into one of these excavations Sarlon threw
the warder. He intended to bury the man, and he had already started
with hands and feet to push earth into the trench when once more he
heard the baying of the hound. He dared not finish his ghoulish work.
The other warders were on his trail and were coming fast. Sarlon leaped
to his feet, and ran towards the church tower.
He had to go right round the tower before he found an entrance, and
he gave a queer little laugh as he looked above the Gothic stone that
frowned over the porch. It reminded him of the entrance to the prison
he had just left; the stone was the same grey colour, the heavy doorway
was the same design, the builders having evidently erected both from
similar plans. It seemed funny to Sarlon that a church and a prison
should be of the same construction--the one a sanctuary, the other a
tomb to his hopes.
He found himself in a wide, open space beyond the doorway, and knew
that he was at the base of the tower. It took him some time to find the
ladder leading aloft, and when he climbed up to the top he was aware
that he was on the first scaffold. He walked carefully round the narrow
platform on the outside of the square tower and came upon another
ladder. It was the way to the second scaffold higher up. He climbed
slowly and carefully, found the third scaffolding and mounted it also,
to find a fourth. This brought him to the opening into the belfry. He
crawled through the window and lay on the beams that were laid under
the huge bell. Keeping his head out of the window he looked below,
watching and listening.
The indistinct, muffled voices of men came up to him. The fog was too
thick for him to see anything. He lay still, listening, wondering if
his pursuers would mount the scaffolding. Half an hour passed. The
voices were no longer heard. His enemies had gone.
Lying up there, Harry Sarlon began to take stock of his position and
prospects. He guessed that it was now late in the evening. The workmen
who were engaged on the tower had ceased work with the coming of
the fog, so that he would be safe from their interference until the
morning. But he did not intend to wait until the morning, for the fog
might then be cleared off and that would make his escape all the more
difficult. He must get away as soon as possible. The money he had taken
from Tully's pockets supplied the means if only he could get to the
railway station.
"It's got to be done soon," he muttered. "If I stay here the town will
be raised against me. They may have offered a reward by now for my
capture, but I'll beat 'em with a little bluff."
He descended slowly to the ground and walked out into the roadway. The
fog was still very thick, so that it was almost impossible to see more
than a yard or two, but while this was a benefit to Sarlon it was
also a drawback. He did not know the town very well, and he realised
the danger of losing his way. Adjusting his cap and dusting down his
clothes he marched forward.
People passed him like ghosts, silent and mysterious. He walked on
until he observed the glimmering lights of shops. The smell of a
cookshop's wares made him pause. He was hungry. He opened the door and
stepped into the shop.
It was a small place, such a one as is used by workmen; a few customers
were seated at tables beyond the counter, and a stout man, in soiled
apron and shirt-sleeves, was frying potatoes on a coke fire.
Sarlon would have enjoyed nothing so much as to sit at a table and
order a meal, but he dared not risk this, even if he was dressed in
warder's uniform. He contented himself with buying several sandwiches,
and the stout man leaned over the counter confidentially as he wrapped
the food up.
"Say, mate, is it true one of your fellows has got away in the fog? A
policeman tipped me off not long ago, but no sane convict would ever
come in here, now, would he, not if he was starvin', poor devil?"
Sarlon was counting out the money for the sandwiches, and paid no
attention to the man's talk; but the latter went on.
"Of course, I know it's against the rules to talk, but the escape ain't
official yet, or the town would know it. They haven't sent out the
signal, because some of you warders are still looking for him. He ain't
a desperate character, him that's got away, is he?"
"How much for the sandwiches?" asked Sarlon quietly.
"One and six, boss. Rotten night, ain't it? Rather you were doin' a
search than me in this fog. Of course, I know it ain't official about
that escaped convict, or they'd hev sent out the signal----"
Sarlon picked up the parcel of food and swung out of the shop, glad
to escape into the gloom of the street. He had felt the eyes of every
customer on him while he stood at the counter. He trudged on, eating
the sandwiches ravenously.
He heard the tramcars moving slowly along the street. Flares were
lit at the corners. At a crossing he stood to think matters out. He
wanted to get to a railway station. The plan he had formed was a bold
one. Originally he had hoped to make his way to one of his pals, but
now that he had money he decided on a better plan. He knew the police
would search his usual haunts for him. He saw that he would be safer
at his home, where his relatives would hide him. He was not a Londoner
by birth. If only he could get on board an express he would be safe.
His warder's dress would carry him past the ticket-collector at the
barrier; especially since the news of his escape was not yet officially
broadcast he would be free from suspicion.
He stopped a pedestrian and asked the way to the station. He was
directed to follow the trams, then take certain turnings. The station
was within an hour's walk at ordinary times.
Sarlon strode along exultantly. His disguise had carried him through
so far, and he had little fear for the next steps. He experienced a
strange uplift as he walked. People shuffled past him, coughing and
peering about them. Buses and traffic moved very slowly in the middle
of the road, crawling furtively, with glaring headlights that came and
went in ghostly procession. The lighted windows of the shops glimmered
in the yellow fog.
He had walked for well over an hour when he heard the shriek of a
railway locomotive, followed by the bang of a fog signal. He knew he
was near the railway station at last.
He approached it cautiously and found the entrance, a dully lit tunnel
in which people were moving about like gnomes of the night. He made
his way towards the booking office and was almost at it when someone
touched his arm. He turned to find a policeman at his elbow. The sight
almost unnerved him.
"What's the news, mate?"
"The news?" stammered Sarlon; then, getting a grip on himself, he
answered steadily enough: "There ain't any news."
The policeman shrugged his shoulders.
"I expect you had an idea that your man would come this way, but I
give you my word he hasn't showed up, nor anybody like him. I've been
on duty here for over an hour, keeping an eye on everybody. Some of
our plain-clothes men are on the platform too, and we're watching the
siding so that he won't get aboard a train."
"Is that so?" said Sarlon.
"You bet. The prison people telephoned to our station and we were sent
out at once. By the way, do you know that you men are being called in?"
"No, is that so?"
"We have been told to notify any of you we meet to return to the
prison. The Governor wants to interrogate every warder before he sends
out an official call."
The policeman rubbed his hands together and stamped his feet.
"That runaway will get it in the neck when he is nabbed," he went on.
"After what he did to one of your men."
"What did he do?"
"Haven't you heard? He nearly killed a warder named Tully--expect you
know him----"
"I know him."
"I heard at the station just before I left. They found this warder
in a trench over by the church. He had been battered badly. The dogs
found him, led by the smell of paint. Tully must have found the escaped
convict and been attacked. I don't know the particulars, but they say
that the convict has crossed the canal. We've notified every barge
owner and expect he'll come this way before the fog lifts."
"Oh, I see."
"So that's why the job is out of your hands now, mate. It's a police
job, beyond your jurisdiction. The dogs have been called off and it's
up to us."
Sarlon passed his hand over his face thoughtfully. He was very cool,
yet he was very alert.
"What's you people's idea of his likely way of escape?"
"Well, they've put us to watch the railway and sidings. He won't stay
about this district if he can get away, and he can't get away by
walking the streets. The inspector believes he'll get out of town,
maybe make for a port. He could change his clothes somewhere----"
"Well, I suppose it isn't any use me hanging about if we are called
in," said Sarlon. "They'll think I'm lost if I don't report. So long."
He turned on his heel and walked out into the fog once more. Once
outside, he strode swiftly along the street, his brain active and
searching for a way out. His disguise as a warder had saved him, or
perhaps it was his nerve, but he had had a narrow shave. Had the
policeman not spoken to him he would have bought a ticket and then he
would have had to explain. He ground his teeth at the thought of having
been balked; but he was thankful for the policeman's talk all the same.
What was his position now? He dared not go back to the railway station.
He dared not risk walking about, lest he meet other policemen. But he
had to get away. He considered anxiously.
"There is a workmen's train in the early hours that will take me to
some station beyond the city," he muttered. "I'll go back to the church
steeple and wait until it's about time to catch the workmen's train.
There won't be any police at the station then. Anyway, I'll have a rest
in the church steeple and think it out."
With the thought of returning to this excellent hiding-place came
another. How was he to get back? He had been walking in the fog so much
that he had lost sense of direction. He stood still wondering which way
to turn.
Just then, as he pondered, there came a sound that sent a reassuring
thrill through him. His luck was holding after all. A bell was booming
out above and through the fog.
"Evensong!" he exclaimed. "The church bell!"
He could find his way to the church by the clanging of the parish
bell. It was the only bell that rang during every day of the week, and
he blessed the fog and the bell and the church as he plodded towards
the sound, a voice calling to him to come and be hidden, ringing its
message, its invitation to sanctuary indeed.
As he walked, he thought out his plan. He would not go into the church
while the people were there. He would slip round to the back and climb
to the tower as soon as the congregation had settled to worship. Once
there he could think out his next step without the harassing need to
avoid people at every step.
Gradually the sound of the bell drew nearer. He was walking down the
side street towards the church now. He pictured the scene as it was
on fogless days; but his reckoning sometimes was out, because he was
not too well acquainted with the streets; but he was happy--grimly
triumphant.
The bell's notes began to dwindle. Its clang softened, its call faded.
Harry Sarlon saw the dim outline of the stone porch silhouetted in the
fog by a light beyond the Gothic structure.
He waited some distance from the door until the bell was stilled. Then
he walked forward, pushed the iron gate open, and passed into the porch
and so through--as he thought--the square tower.
But at that moment a lantern was swung behind him, its light flashed
into his face.
A man's voice, gruff and menacing, challenged him.
"Hullo, there! We were told all you men had returned. I was just
locking up the gate. What's this? Oh, I say----!"
A hand pulled off Sarlon's cap and a pair of strong arms pinned his
arms to his sides while the man shouted an alarm.
"Help! Quick! I've got Sarlon!"
Harry Sarlon did not struggle in the grasp that held him, nor did he
make any attempt to escape. He felt suddenly sick at the trick the bell
had played him.
He was not in the porch of a parish church. What he had heard was the
prison bell signalling officially to the wide world that a convict had
escaped; and he had walked back to prison, guided there by the alarm.
THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE NINTH CELL
"I think," said the visitor, when the Governor had completed the
eighth story, "that this man Sarlon made his mistake because he was
unacquainted with the district near his prison."
"Precisely--up to a point," admitted the Governor, who was about to add
something else, when he was interrupted.
"It is not a mistake _I_ shall make," remarked the visitor grimly. "And
I frankly tell you that I am aware one of the Big Five of Scotland Yard
has been interesting himself in my movements of late."
"It is no secret that your capture has been much desired," returned the
Governor. "It may not be fog that will lead to your undoing at last.
It may not be a mistake on your part; but something, somewhere, will
happen, I assure you, and you will be caught."
"If it pleases you to think so, please continue in your error,"
responded the visitor. "In the meantime, now that I have listened to
your stories, may I press the question that I came here to put to you?
Are you willing to act in either of the two ways I have suggested
regarding the condemned man?"
The Governor seemed lost in thought for a moment; but presently he
lifted his head and smiled at the man who sat opposite.
"We have still plenty of time to come to a decision on that matter, and
your mention of the Big Five has interested me. Most people--that is,
most people in the general public--are under the impression that the
final details relating to the capture of criminals are in the hands
of a Big Four whose headquarters are at Scotland Yard. Now, since you
mention a Big Five, I take it that you are including that able officer,
Detective Seed?"
"I am. But----"
"Ah, how curious! You know, our thoughts evidently run parallel
on quite a number of lines. The fact is that Detective Seed was
responsible for the occupant of my ninth cell being in my prison
to-night. I do not know if you ever met, or heard of, a most notorious
burglar named Sockem?"
"You are not going to tell me that Sockem is in your prison!" sneered
the visitor suddenly. "He is dead. I have seen his grave. He was
drowned up the Thames."
"That is where you are wrong, I assure you. He was not drowned at all.
But he is dead all the same, and it is of the manner of his death that
I would like to tell you. The man who occupies the ninth cell was a
mere cipher in the story of Sockem's end, but he was an agent for a
receiver of stolen property named Eckhardt, of whom I shall have a
word or two to say very soon. Mackintosh is the name of this man in
the ninth cell--a cautious man who came from Aberdeen, an elder of a
Scottish church, an ex-soldier. Ah, well, he is insignificant, but he
is in the ninth cell to-night, and to tell you how he came to be there
I must tell you the truth of Sockem's final flutter in crime. There are
points that will interest you, believe me."
"It interests me to hear that Sockem was not drowned," remarked the
visitor. "He was no ordinary man. Pray proceed, but don't make it too
long."
"I shall be as short as possible in my recital, but one must do justice
to facts as well as to dead men, and I am a stickler for etiquette.
Besides, I happen to know more about Sockem than most people, even
his friends. To begin with, Sockem was not his name at all. But I am
anticipating. Let us first set the stage for the drama."
The Governor leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, as if to
recall the story he was about to relate. Only the ticking of the clock
sounded in the room.
* * * * *
One must admit [so the Governor began, after a short space] that Jimmy
Sockem had pluck. But a burglar cannot always work alone, and when Ben
Foss, who had for a long time acted as his "scout," turned to honest
ways, Jimmy had either to find another scout or work by himself. He
tried to find a helper, and did not succeed. None that he employed on
his raids on society was so pliable as Ben Foss. Then he tried working
alone. That did not do either, for a second man is useful. You will
admit the truth of this.
So, then, one night Jimmy Sockem might have been seen (or, rather,
might not have been seen) climbing a water-spout in the West End of
London. There were two objects in his mind as he climbed. The first was
to get certain jewellery in a flat. The second was to compel Ben Foss
to give up honesty and return to lawlessness.
So far as Ben Foss was concerned, there is no doubt that he wanted to
be free of Sockem; but, not having the strength of will to defy Jimmy,
he shrank from heroic measures. In a word, he was afraid of Sockem.
With his finger-tips on the edge of the window-sill and his left hand
grasping the drain-pipe, Jimmy paused for the final effort. He had
climbed more than forty feet from the back garden of the block of
flats. Someone was down below him. He could hear feet crunching the
gravel path with hesitating steps; but the thin fog that rose from
the earth was his protection, as ground mist has so often been the
protection of London burglars ever since there was London, or fogs.
From the street beyond the building he heard the rumble of the traffic,
the roar of the buses, the hooting of motor-horns. He listened
attentively, hanging, spread-eagled, against the wall like a gigantic
beetle. The movements beneath him became blurred and indistinct, then
gradually faded away. He was safe.
From his pocket Jimmy Sockem took his favourite and only tool, and dug
it into the mortar between the bricks. It was an extra-long horseshoe
nail, made of steel, bright and polished, pointed and sharpened like
a rapier. On this nail he rested his knee, then his right foot, and
finally raised himself and swung over to the sill, on which he knelt.
He withdrew the nail from the mortar and slid it up between the frame
of the window and the catch. A sudden twist was all that was required.
The window opened. Jimmy put his leg over the sill and stepped into the
dark room, drawing the heavy curtains behind him.
He crouched low as his quick ear detected a footstep outside the
door. He heard the door open, a light was snapped on, and he saw a
silver-haired, elderly man standing on the threshold. He faced Jimmy
before the latter had time to hide behind the furniture.
"The cat burglar! Put your hands up!"
Jimmy did not answer the accusation. His eyes were glancing about the
room. The elderly man was pointing a revolver towards him.
"You disturbed an alarm when you opened the window," he said quietly.
"Put your hands above your head. My man will tie you until----"
It was then that Jimmy attacked. His gloved hands rose as if in
obedience to the order, but as his right came up it caught, in its
swing, a heavy bronze statuette from a small table and launched the
missile with the accuracy of a practised thrower. The crack of the
revolver and the crash of the bronze on the elderly man's head were
simultaneous.
Both men dropped to the floor; the attacker, because it was his usual
stratagem, the other for quite a different reason.
Then, swiftly, one leaped upright. It was Sockem. The man who had fired
the revolver was down and out. A great, bleeding wound on his head
showed where he had been struck.
Jimmy crept over to where his victim lay and peered at him grimly.
"Serve him right!" he muttered. He was under the impression that he had
killed his man, but it did not trouble him--much.
A sound behind him caused him to wheel. He found himself face to face
with another man, but this individual did not, to him, constitute an
enemy. It was Ben Foss.
"That you, Ben? I done your boss in."
"You've killed him, Jimmy! Why did you come?"
"Anybody else around?"
"No, there was just him and me. An' he was a decent sort."
"I wrote you that I was comin', didn't I? You didn't have the window
open. I had to bust the catch."
"I didn't want you to come, Jimmy! I wrote back askin' you not to. I'm
on the level now. He fixed the alarm a while ago----"
"And I fixed him, see? Serve him right! You thought your letter would
keep me away? What are you standing there shakin' like a jelly for?
Let's take the jewellery and get off quick."
"_We?_ You said _us_?"
"Of course. You're comin' with me. We were pals before we went to
Parkhurst, weren't we? We'll be partners again."
"Jimmy, I was tryin' to run straight. I was his servant."
"Huh! Birds like us can't turn over a new leaf. An' don't you try to
double-cross me either. You know my name, see?"
Unthinkingly Ben stooped and picked up the bronze, but a shout of
derision from Jimmy made him drop it.
"You've done it now, Ben! You've got to come!"
"What do you mean?"
He shrank back with a shudder as the other flung out a gloved hand and
pointed to the bronze figure.
"You've put your finger-prints on it! If you stay, the cops will arrest
you!"
Ben started at the words, and stretched out his hand for support.
His fingers gripped the edge of a table, and a laugh burst from the
mocking lips of the burglar.
"An' now you've planted your whole hand on a polished surface! With
bloodstains! Oh, Ben, ain't you giving them evidence to hang you?"
"Stop that, Jimmy! I didn't do it!"
"There's the evidence, Ben!"
The two men presented a striking contrast in every particular. Jimmy
Sockem was thin, small, dark-skinned, black-haired. The other was above
medium height, stoutish, ruddy, bald. Jimmy was cool, alert, waspish.
Ben was flurried, confused, lumbering.
"They couldn't say it was me," he rumbled, staring from his hands to
the table. "It wasn't me. I've run on the level since I came out of
Parkhurst."
"You've been there, and that's against you, Ben!"
"It was you as did it."
"I'm wearin' gloves. Them finger-prints say it was you!"
"He was a decent boss. I wouldn't 'ave harmed him."
"He's dead, Ben, and can't talk!"
"It was Detective Seed as got me the job."
"I've got a better one for you!"
"I don't want to be your partner again."
"But I came for you! I need a scout!"
"I told Seed I'd run on the level. He said honesty was the best
policy."
"It don't pay! As my partner you'd be rich now!"
"Seed knows I'm tryin' to run straight."
"Seed couldn't stop your arrest!"
"I could tell 'em it wasn't me as did this."
"They wouldn't believe you! Your record's bad!"
"But it's the truth that I didn't do it!"
"You daren't say it was me!"
"Why?"
"Because I'd kill you if you did! See?"
Ben groaned. He knew that this little, dark-skinned man would carry out
his threat. He was in a cleft stick, but he fought feebly at his last
ditch, his heavy mind clinging to the central fact that was his only
hope.
"I didn't do it! I didn't do it! Supposin' you went away, I'd not
mention your name!"
"Then they'd hang you! Come on, get the swag and we'll be off."
"No, no. They wouldn't hang me! I don't want to be your partner again!"
"I need you. I'll make you come!"
"You can't."
"All right. Listen!"
Footsteps were coming along the corridor outside the front door of the
flat. The bell tinkled. Someone was seeking admittance.
"That's settled it, Ben," whispered Jimmy in a hoarse voice. "That's a
cop. I heard one down in the garden. He's come up here to get me. They
know I usually go out by the front door."
"Well?"
"He's tryin' this door first. Then he'll go up to the flat above,
maybe. All I have got to do is open that door and invite him in. I can
say you killed your boss to collar the swag for yourself. My word's as
good as yours. Your finger-prints! You'd swing, sure! They couldn't
hang me, see?"
"Jimmy!"
"Get the stuff together quick and we can hop off. I'll wipe out the
prints while you collect. Hurry! Or else----"
"I'm beat!" groaned Ben. "I'll come, you fox!"
Thus this smaller man of the two, the greater criminal, constituted
himself the leader, the counsel, the judge of both. He triumphed in
that he was able to make his very crimes of use to him. In other men
their misdeeds would have been an anchor, a drag on their brains,
clogging their thoughts and chaining them with unseen manacles. In him
these considerations were absent. He was most dangerous when he was
cornered.