of his desk with his forefinger.
"So you see that Jimmy Sockem was not drowned. He was buried in the
East End, and I don't doubt that you have seen his grave. As he had no
relatives, the police paid for his funeral, after an inquest had been
held very quietly. The verdict was 'accidental death.' And Ben Foss
went back to his job. He has never again been tempted, or bullied,
back to lawless ways. As for Mackintosh, the agent for Eckhardt, the
receiver of stolen goods, I think I have already informed you that he
is just now occupying the ninth cell below us."
The visitor remained silent for some time, thinking over what he had
heard.
"I suppose I ought to be thankful to you," he remarked, "for telling me
the real nature of the famous 'cat's' end. The story current in certain
circles is that he was drowned in his bunk during the flood. But there
is one point which your narrative leaves undetermined."
"What is it?"
"Why was it that Bill Hemsey did not come to the house-boat when he was
expected?"
"Ah," smiled the Governor, "that is still to be explained, and in
order to elucidate that matter I now propose to give you the story of
the occupant of the tenth cell, who is none other than Bill Hemsey
himself."
THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE TENTH CELL
I am living in hopes (said the Governor) that one day--though I may
not see it (at this the visitor slightly inclined his head and laid
his hand on his revolver)--criminals will realise that crime does not
pay. For the time being, however, the difficulty is that whenever one
man is taken and sent to prison another seems to step into his place.
Thus crime appears to be continuous, though it could be proved by
analytical discussion that it is not so. However that may be, it was
evident to those whose duty it is to observe such things that Eckhardt,
the receiver of stolen property, must find a crook to take the place of
Mackintosh.
Up to this point, mark you, Eckhardt was merely under suspicion. The
law could not lay its hands on him for lack of evidence--that is,
evidence that would produce a conviction in a court of law. There was
plenty of suspicion against Eckhardt, all the same, but suspicion is
not evidence. But it was noticed that Eckhardt did find somebody else
to do odd jobs for him, jobs that never brought him into conflict with
the police, but were again suspicious.
This man was a young member of an East End company of loafers and
hangers-on. His name was Tommy Conn. He openly boasted of being
a burglar, but he took care that boasting was all that could be
said about it. After he became friendly with Eckhardt he ceased to
boast--itself a circumstance worth noting.
Conn will interest us after we have dealt with Bill Hemsey, for Conn
occupied, in some ways, the same position in relation to Eckhardt as
Bill Hemsey did in regard to Jimmy Sockem. That is to say, both were
minor crooks who worked under the directions and suggestions of their
leaders.
It was Jimmy Sockem who had put Hemsey up to the idea of taking the
rent money of old Luke Kohl, the Jew who owned property in the lower
reaches of the Thames. And so, on the evening that he was expected to
reach the house-boat, we find Bill Hemsey on his business of annexing
these rents.
Bill was not high up in the scale of criminal cunning, but he was high
enough to know that he could lift the money belonging to Kohl if he
worked properly. As a matter of fact, he found the actual theft easier
than he had imagined it would be. He went to Kohl's house prepared for
some sort of opposition, and he found none.
I think you will remember that Jimmy Sockem, during his talk with Ben
Foss on the house-boat, grumbled because Bill Hemsey had said he was
going to see his girl that same evening. The truth was that Bill needed
his girl's help to get away with the swag, but she did not know it;
or, rather, one ought to say that Bill needed the help of his girl's
father, but neither did the father know it. They were not the sort of
people who would have aided him had they known.
All these things come out at trials, and the trial of Hemsey resulted
in him losing more than his liberty, much as he prized that.
Here, then, we have Bill in possession of the bag of money, and
standing in the small back shop of Kohl, listening intently for sounds
from above. No sounds came. Bill had entered the shop by the back door
when Kohl was upstairs at tea. He had found the bag on the top of the
safe. He opened it to make sure that the money was there. It was all
there in notes and silver. Bill sighed with delight.
He snapped the catch and was on the point of leaving the shop when he
thought he heard a step on the stairs. He braced himself, prepared for
a struggle. But it was a false alarm. Nobody came downstairs. Hemsey
did not wait. He took a firm grip on the handle and walked out by the
door which he had forced in order to enter.
He went over the yard wall, and turned towards the main thoroughfare
feeling that he wanted to laugh. It had been so simple that he could
hardly believe it. Yet there was the money in the black handbag, the
small canister of pepper which he had intended to shoot towards Kohl's
eyes was in his pocket, unused, and not a soul had observed his way
of entry. He had left no finger-prints on the door or anywhere about.
He still wore the leather gloves he had drawn on his hands before he
committed the crime. And he was nearly two hundred pounds richer than
he had been a few minutes previously.
It all proved, he told himself, how easy things could be done if one
took the trouble to lay the scheme beforehand. In this case he had
certainly been very careful. With care comes success, in crime as in
respectability. Honesty and lawlessness both require consideration.
Bill Hemsey had known about how old Kohl collected his rents for some
time, though Bill did not belong to the district. There had been more
than one attempt by the roughs of the riverside streets to waylay
old Kohl and grab his money-bag, but these attempts had always been
frustrated because old Kohl, if he was feeble and rich, was also
decidedly suspicious. He knew that the bad men of the Thames wharves
were anxious to purloin his money in the dark corners through which he
had to pass when he collected the rents; but those who had tried to
snatch his bag found it was fastened by a light, strong, steel chain to
his waist. Thus a thief who wanted the bag and its contents must take
Luke Kohl also; and no thief wanted his screaming accuser to accompany
the loot.
Besides the chain, Luke Kohl had another means of protection. This was
a police whistle, and on the occasions when he had been molested he
had sounded his whistle while the would-be robbers tugged at the bag.
They had been captured before they had run the length of a street, for
the police were generally in the vicinity, thanks to Kohl's anxious
requests for their services.
These were difficulties which Bill Hemsey had to overcome before he
could possess the rent money of Luke Kohl, but Bill had found a way to
beat the opposition. If Kohl was crafty, Bill was more crafty. He found
the weak link in Kohl's armour. That link was Rachel, the old man's
daughter.
Rachel lived with her parents in rooms above their small bric-à-brac
shop. She was neither beautiful nor the reverse. She was "homely,"
getting on in years for a maiden. She met Bill Hemsey at a local
dance-hall. It was not an accidental meeting so far as Bill was
concerned, for he had come to the hall with the distinct intention of
becoming acquainted with Rachel. He met her several times afterwards,
he spent money taking her to the cinemas, to local music-halls, to
various places where cheap amusement was to be found up West. He walked
out with her two evenings a week for a month, and by that time he
had wormed his way into her affections and knew the whole routine of
her father's business, even down to where he placed his bag with the
rent money when he brought it home. The bag was placed on the top of
the safe in the back shop while Kohl locked the front door and went
upstairs to tea; after tea the bag was put, with the till, into the
safe.
The taking of the bag was Bill's supreme crime. It was to be his final
one. Working with Sockem, his business was to lift the ready money,
take it up the river, and in return he was to get a share of Sockem's
loot. This trading of stolen goods is done quite often, helping to
baffle the police and making the real source of a robbery difficult to
trace.
As for Rachel, she was not the girl to whom Sockem referred. Rachel
was merely a pawn in Bill's game. Indeed, her friendship with Bill had
been a little troublesome to him. She presumed more than he intended,
and she had asked him on more than one occasion to come home and meet
her parents. These invitations had always been side-tracked by Bill,
who had no desire to step into what might be a trap for himself; he did
not want to meet Luke Kohl, who might then be able to identify him at
a crucial moment--for instance, when the pepper was being thrown into
his eyes. So that Rachel might be well out of the way, Bill had written
to her asking her to meet him at a point up West, and he had seen her
start for the rendezvous. Exit Rachel from Bill's life.
As he walked along, Bill felt confident, and had not any anxiety.
Nobody had seen him take the bag, nobody could accuse him of entering
by the back door, not a soul knew that he was a petty thief and
had been one for years. Between his "jobs" in crime he conducted a
perfunctory street-corner business of bookmaking, a cloak for his
other activities and a means of getting the information to enable
him to carry them out. It was as a book-maker that his friends knew
him; even Rene Toler, his real girl, whom he intended to marry almost
immediately, regarded him as a sporting person. It was to her rooms
that Bill Hemsey was now making his way.
He left the main thoroughfare and took to side streets, past one of
the blocks of flats which Luke Kohl owned, the flats the rents of
which were in the bag he carried. Tall dismal buildings, these were
situated near the riverside, and let out in mean dwellings of single,
double, and triple rooms. They were peopled by the casual workers of
the docks, labourers of the river, the families who hung on to life by
short spells of work sandwiched between periods of unemployment. It was
because of this unreliability of income that Kohl collected his rents
regularly, never allowing arrears to accumulate.
From the streets behind the river were many dark, narrow passages,
sombre and badly lit by scattered street lamps. In front of the houses
was the river front, a narrow flagged pathway. No railing or fence was
erected by the river's edge, and here and there lonely barges from
Gravesend and Tilbury squatted on the sticky mud that was squelchy as a
quagmire when the tide was out. This ooze, three feet deep, was covered
at full tide with sufficient water to float the barges and the boats of
the water-men up to the wall of the river front.
During the daytime the "esplanade," as it was called by courtesy,
was the rendezvous of loiterers and bargemen. By night the place was
deserted save for an occasional boat that crossed the river as an
unofficial ferry, since the nearest bridge was a considerable distance
away. It was Rene's father who worked this spasmodic ferry.
Rene did not stay with her father. She worked in a laundry on the same
side of the river as Bill had rooms, and she had given Bill proof of
being able to look after his wants in the future by doing his washing
and pressing his suits in her spare time. Pretty, hard-working, and
capable, she was as straight as a fiddle-string, and Bill knew that she
would make an ideal wife. She had no silly ideas of romance about her.
Her one strong point was her profound common sense. It was because he
was fond of her that Bill had made the raid on Luke Kohl's money; this,
he told himself, was to be his last excursion into crime.
As she opened the door in answer to his knock, he was met by a rush of
hot atmosphere from the apartment.
"Hullo," said Rene. "You're early."
"Better early than late," replied Bill, grinning. "What you busy at?
Same old stuff, hey?"
He sat down on a chair and looked at the heap of washed clothes on
the table at which she had been ironing. His reception had not been
as cordial as he had hoped, but Rene was never demonstrative. Bill
chuckled to think that he had now enough money to set the two of them
up comfortably.
"Give us a kiss, Rene," he said.
He rose and advanced towards her, but she waved him aside and returned
to her ironing table.
"What's the matter, Rene?"
She turned on him quickly.
"There isn't anything the matter with _me_," she flashed.
Her tone startled him for a moment, but he quickly dismissed his fears.
She could not possibly know that he had money in the bag and that he
had stolen it.
"Well, don't be funny," he grumbled, watching her all the time. "I told
you I was coming over home with you to-night. I want to talk things
over with your dad. Ain't you glad to see me? I've got an appointment,
but I'll be back late."
"What things are you going to talk over?"
"About you and me. I was thinking we might get married soon."
"You said that a while ago."
"I know I did. But I hadn't the money."
"Have you got it now?"
He smiled. This was his great secret, the winning card he held up his
sleeve.
"More'n you think, Rene. I'll show you what I've got all in good time.
And your dad too. Did you ask him to bring his boat over for us, same
as I said to you?"
"I told him."
"Well, stop working and let's go."
"There's plenty of time yet. Besides, I've got these things to iron,
and the suit you left me has to be pressed. I promised I'd do it by
to-night."
He gazed at her cunningly.
"How long will it take you?"
"I'll be finished in an hour."
"Mind if I stay here to watch you?"
"Please yourself."
"What's the matter with you, Rene? I come here to give you a pleasant
surprise and you're hardly civil."
"If you found that I'd been flirting with other men you'd be mad too."
"Oh!"
He began to see the reason for her coldness. But before he could say
anything she glanced at him from the hot iron her eye was following.
"You needn't deny it. You were seen."
"Who saw me?"
"I did."
"You're jealous, Rene, and there's nothing to worry about; honest,
there ain't. I give you my word."
She was ironing determinedly, her lips straight and tight.
"It was only a business affair," he began.
"Business?" she scoffed.
"I'm telling you, Rene. It was business. A man has to be friendly with
them that bring money to him."
"Has he to take them to the theatres?"
"It's good for business----"
"Or to dances?"
"It's good for----"
"Or buy them chocolates?"
"Aw, you needn't be jealous. There was nothing in it."
"Funny way of doing a betting business," she answered bitingly.
"Rene," he began, but stopped; for to make her understand he was bound
to tell everything, and he dared not tell everything. The crime was his
one secret which he must keep to himself, even if it was to be his last.
"It ain't the first time," she added. "You've been with her lots of
times."
"I won't again, Rene."
"How do I know you're speaking the truth?"
"I give my oath on it. It was only business."
"What would you say if I started gadding about with men?"
He had not seen it this way, and the idea struck him forcibly, for he
was fond of Rene in his way.
"What would you do?" she demanded.
"You wouldn't do that, Rene?"
"What if I did? Ain't I got the right to go to the cinema with a boy,
if you go with a girl?"
He did not answer, but the look in his face was dour and ominous. She
suddenly became afraid of him.
"It was only business," he muttered. "Just business."
He was standing at her elbow as she laid out his suit for the ironing
process. There was something menacing in his attitude. Man-like, he did
not understand her mental injury nor appreciate her point of view; his
environment had never taught him that women had any right to question,
yet he longed in a dull way to probe the suspicion her words had
raised. She seemed to sense this, for she spoke quietly without looking
at him.
"I didn't do it," she said simply. He breathed deeply, as if relieved.
"How long will you be at this job?"
"A bit yet."
"What about a drink of something?"
"I can't leave this. There's time enough before dad comes. You can go
out for a drink. Come back in half an hour."
She glanced at the clock as she spoke.
"All right," he said, as he picked up his cap and kicked the leather
bag under his chair. "I'll bring a bottle back for your dad. He can
take it home with him."
"Didn't you say he was to meet us by the esplanade? He won't come up
here----"
"Well, I'll give it him in the boat."
He clumped downstairs with something of his usual complacency gone
from him. He had never been suspicious of Rene before. He was angry
that she should want to know the reason he had been friendly with
Rachel Kohl; and he dared not tell that. Even if he was forced to tell
something of the truth, he had to hide his crime, for then Rene would
tell her father, and her father would deny him the use of the boat.
Bill Hemsey needed the boat that night. He could not chance taking a
bus, or be seen walking in the streets with the bag. Kohl would have
discovered the theft by this time and would have told the police. The
police would be on the watch, and the only way to evade them was to
get down to the dark esplanade and cross the river by boat. He would
destroy the bag when he got to his rooms.
In fifteen minutes he returned to Rene's room, hugging three bottles
of stout. He pushed the door open with his foot and entered. He heard
voices. A young man about his own age was in the room.
"All right," he was saying, "I don't need to see you home if that's the
case."
Bill Hemsey blundered in and placed the bottles on the tables. The
stranger said he would be going. He went out, and Rene lifted from the
table the coat she had been pressing. Bill wheeled as the door closed.
"Who was that?" he demanded.
"Jim Harlek. He lives next door to dad----"
"So that's why you asked me to go out and fetch a drink? You expected
him here and thought I was better out of the way. He slunk off when he
saw me. He came here to see you home----"
He shouted his accusations at her, giving her no chance to answer him.
For the moment he was seeing red. All his suspicions were returned,
flaming high. He saw it all. He had been duped, misled, deceived. He
seized her shoulder in a fierce grip.
"So it's Jim Harlek! He came to see you home. Don't deny it. Up here in
your room. That's why you said I was early. You expected him. You sent
me out so's you could warn him I was here. Tit for tat, hey? That's
because you were jealous. Thought you'd pay me out----"
"Bill, you're hurting me!"
"Hurting you! I'll hurt you more. Mine was business. You can't say that
about Jim Harlek. And you said you hadn't done anything like that----"
"Let go!" she cried, wriggling from him; but he pursued her, anger
raging and flushing his face.
"I'll teach you," he cried. "Playing that trick on me."
"What about the trick you played on me? What about Rachel Kohl? What
about the theatres and the dances and the letters you wrote her?"
"That was business, I tell you."
"I don't believe it."
"Maybe you'll say that Jim Harlek came here on business? I'll find out
about you and him. I'll teach you----"
"Let go! Let go!"
She struggled to free herself from his grasp, and the more she
struggled the more he raged at her. The very resistance she made seemed
to his inflamed brain to be proof that she was guilty of deception.
And because he was then incapable of reason he kept up a torrent of
accusation, a cataract of threats and insinuations, the words pouring
from him as he shook her. He beat down the opposition she had at first
shown. He silenced her by the ferocity of his wrath; and then he flung
her into a chair.
"From now on," he cried, wagging a finger at her, "you ain't going out
of my sight. You get your things on and come home. We'll see what your
dad has to say when I tell him. You women all need to be broken in.
I'll break you in. Come on, get on your hat."
She sat white and trembling, but there was a gleam in her eyes that he
had never seen before.
"Get on your hat," he thundered.
She obeyed him, biting her lip. A change had come over her. She no
longer tried to answer him. She put on her hat and coat while he packed
the suit she had pressed. They went downstairs, he carrying his bag and
his suit in a parcel. He was still muttering to himself.
At the street corner she was about to walk towards the main
thoroughfare, but he growled at her:
"Not that way. You're going down to the river."
"But----"
"Shut up and don't answer. I know your game. You'll do as I say, or
I'll make you. Think I don't know what I'm doing? I don't want any
talk. It's me that's seeing you home, not Jim."
"If you let me explain----"
"I don't want explanations. Not yet, I don't. That's enough. Not
another word."
He saw what she was after, did Bill. Once out on the main street, where
the traffic was, he would not be able to handle her. He knew that he
must keep the mastery.
"If you cross me again I'll give you worse than I gave you up in your
room," he growled grimly. "I ain't finished with you yet, Rene. You've
got to know that I'm boss. See?"
She gave a queer little laugh at that; a laugh that stung Bill more
than any accusations or defiance. It spoke to him of contempt, it was a
sneer, a ridicule that cut him to the quick. He dropped his parcel and
struck her, sending her staggering against the wall.
"That'll learn you," he said, glowering at her. "I'll break you in, I
will. Come on, or I'll give you more."
She stood leaning against the wall, panting and holding her cheek. In
her eyes there was a swift gleam that died as he looked at her. She
was at his mercy, and she knew it as well as he.
"Come on," he ordered.
She obeyed without a word of protest.
He kept beside her as they turned down a side street, glancing at her
now and then from under his brows, knowing by her silence that he had
conquered.
Down through dark, narrow passages he marched towards the river bank.
There were few lamps now and the mist from the river thickened the
gloom. Bill welcomed the mist and the darkness. It hid them from
prying eyes and thus made his escape with the stolen loot easier. Rain
came--heavy rain.
Once the shadowy form of a policeman appeared across the street, and
Bill feared that Rene would seek his protection; but she marched on
without taking notice of the policeman if she saw him.
Soon they were in the black regions of the river. The cold damp from
the water came to them in a murky breath. All was silent and black, and
wet. The rain was steaming now.
Bill's eyes tried to pierce the thick atmosphere. He was looking for
the boat and the light that would be fixed at her stern. He moved
across the flagged front of the esplanade, peering intently. And just
then he felt a pair of hands on his back. He was pushed forward. He
could not help himself. He uttered a loud shout--and then stepped into
space.
His bag and parcel flew from his hands as he fell, crashing against
the stones and following him downward. He dropped straight into the
three feet deep ooze that held him as he floundered. He felt himself
sinking as he struggled. The more he struggled the more he sank. The
sticky mud hindered his movements; and as he at last found bottom there
came to his ears the voice of Rene Toler tauntingly:
"If you'd let me explain, Bill Hemsey, you'd have known that Jim Harlek
came with a message from dad to say he couldn't come in the boat
because the tide ain't full yet. I've had enough of you and your lies!
You and your business meetings with Rachel Kohl! You forgot to take her
love-letter out of your pocket when you gave me your suit to press, so
you can go back to your Rachel Kohl, and don't ever come near me or
I'll give you in charge."
And then, as she moved away, a little compassion perhaps stirred her.
She called again.
"But I'll send a cop down to get you out of your mess in the mud. And
if you want to know, I was out with somebody. It was Tommy Conn."
That was the last Bill Hemsey heard of Rene that night; but she kept
her word. Five minutes later a policeman strolled down to see if it was
really true a man had fallen over the "esplanade" into the mud.
He flashed his lantern on Bill Hemsey, still fighting his way ashore;
and the blaze of the lantern showed a burst bag and numerous notes
lying about the quagmire.