charge led to the Old Bailey.
* * * * *
The Governor paused.
His visitor smiled and shrugged his shoulders.
"And the Old Bailey led to the tenth cell?" he said.
The Governor nodded, stroking his chin.
"Bill Hemsey didn't have much of a chance with the jury," he said
dreamily. "Not so much as even the police expected he would have.
Eckhardt, apparently, promised that he would pay for a defence. But he
didn't. Neither he nor Tommy Conn took much interest in Bill Hemsey."
"How was that?"
"In order to understand the full circumstances," replied the Governor,
"you ought to know the story of the next cell's occupant."
THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE ELEVENTH CELL
"At any rate," said the visitor to the Governor, "there can be no doubt
as to the category in which you will place Bill Hemsey. He does not
appear to have much hope of getting higher than the Illiterates."
"I agree with you. Hemsey belongs to the grade you have mentioned. His
place is fixed for the remainder of his term. His case--so far as his
trial is concerned--reminds me of the biblical injunction not to put
our trust in princes. Eckhardt was certainly one of the chiefs of the
profession he had chosen. He was known among the criminal fraternity as
the Prince of Receivers, though how he came to the title I have never
been able to find out exactly. It may have been because he was rich,
and appeared to be above the law."
The Governor cleared his throat and folded his arms on his chest as he
bent a thoughtful gaze on the carpet.
* * * * *
Among the acquaintances of Tommy Conn (he began) was one who was,
to some degree, a man who was his rival in crime. This man's name
was Billiter. The two were rivals, although they worked by different
methods. Conn was a burglar who lifted goods without opening safes;
Billiter was an expert at safe-opening. These different methods
originated in the early training of the men. Conn had never learned a
trade. Billiter had been an engineer and mechanic before he became a
burglar. Each believed his method the safest.
Let us take the case of Conn first, and see where it led him, and how
he came to forget, not only Bill Hemsey, but even Rene Toler, within a
week of Hemsey's arrest.
Tommy Conn was a burglar who possessed resource and was capable of
quick decision. He often said that the last lap on a job was the only
one that counted. Eckhardt, the receiver, had the knowledge of a
connoisseur. Combine these qualities, and you have the most dangerous
union at war with the law.
Conn entered a large house one night--a house in Park Lane--on what was
perhaps the biggest job in his career. He stood in the large gallery
listening for a sound that might betray his presence to the owners of
the valuables he had come to steal. All was quiet save for the distant
and indistinct movement that told him he had timed his visit well.
All was dark in the gallery, but a yellow line showed at the bottom of
the door. Conn stepped over on tiptoe and turned the key in the lock.
Thus he put a barricade between himself and anyone who might try to
enter.
He was not afraid. He was careful. In the cases lined under the massive
pictures on the walls were the valuables he had come to steal. He set
to work at once. The family who possessed the goods were at dinner.
Only once or twice did he use his flashlight, and then he used it to
make sure that he was taking what he had been instructed to take. From
under his coat he produced a small cotton sack half filled with down.
Into this sack he deposited the loot, one article at a time, gently and
with care.
It was easy to insert his jemmy under the lids of the cases and give a
slight upward wrench to the locks. While he did so he covered the locks
with a soft scarf, to deaden the sound of splintering wood. This was
child's play to Conn. Not a single lock gave more than a faint groan
when he gave the twist needed.
There were valuables of all kinds--jewels, gold, pearls, ivory and
onyx, diamonds and rubies. Most of them were set in exquisite form,
paired and graduated in small antiques. There were tiny statuettes,
treasures from the four corners of the world, all of which had been
gathered by past generations and had been handed down as heirlooms;
treasures that were too precious for public museums to buy.
Tommy Conn did not need his flashlight to direct his hand towards the
best of these valuables. The sparkle of the gems guided him. He went
through every case, taking the best; then he stepped towards the door
again, unlocked it, and tiptoed to the window.
He was on the first floor of the house, not a great distance from the
garden. He went out as he had entered, took care to close the window
after him as he hung on to the gutter-pipe that was within easy reach,
and slid down to the ground. He landed on the gravel path and stepped
on the lawn. Across this he sped, and leaped for the top of the wall
that separated the grounds from a side-street. He had to wait a few
moments before the road was clear; a policeman was strolling down
towards the main thoroughfare. When the policeman was gone, Tommy Conn
clambered over without making a noise. He walked round the corner into
the main road and approached a small two-seater car that was drawn up
by the gutter.
The lights of this car streamed down the road. The general traffic was
streaming past it. The policeman who had come down the side-street was
standing not far off. Tommy Conn walked up to the car from the rear,
lifted the luggage grid and deposited his bag of loot in the space
underneath, tipped the loafer who had been watching it for him, and
took his seat.
It was not a new car, but it was a swift one, powerful and capable of
tremendous energy. As he was about to start he saw the policeman's eye
on the car, taking in its proportions. Tommy signalled to the policeman.
"I was told there was a garage up that street," he said, "but I can't
find one. Can you tell me where I may get a supply of petrol? I must
get to Oxford to-night."
"There's a garage at the top of that street, sir," answered the
policeman, "but it's a long way up. A nearer one is straight ahead, ten
minutes' walk from here."
"Thanks, I'll go that way. Good night."
"Good night, sir."
Tommy operated the self-starter, and the car slid forward. He felt the
policeman's eyes on his number-plate at the back of the car. That did
not worry him. The number-plate had been changed before he started on
his job, and the number he showed would take a great deal of tracing.
He forged his way among the moving vehicles and put on a little speed.
The garage to which he had been directed flared at him as he passed it.
He swept up the first turning beyond it, dodged into Oxford Street,
came down through Piccadilly Circus, and headed south. He was bound for
Southampton.
Why did Tommy speak to the policeman? He did it because he had learned
by bitter experience that to take the bull by the horns is safer,
if bolder, than to let the bull take you. The burglary he had just
committed had been done as many of his burglaries had been done--on
commission. He regarded himself as an efficient burglar, just as
a man might regard himself as an efficient plumber, or tailor, or
stockbroker. He worked for clients. In Conn's case, the client for whom
he worked most was Eckhardt. He was working for Eckhardt now, driving
Eckhardt's car, going to the rendezvous on which they had agreed. When
he reached the place he would receive his fee, hand over the car to
another of Eckhardt's servants, have the number-plate changed, and
depart. All clues had been covered, all suspicion could be met, all
inquiries answered.
It was one of the biggest hauls he had ever made. The idea had been
Eckhardt's, the planning of the theft had been Eckhardt's, the loot
would be Eckhardt's--Tommy Conn's percentage was his fee. In this Conn
was cunning. He did the work and let Eckhardt dispose of the proceeds.
Eckhardt was able to do this because he was a dealer in valuable
antiques, with a reputation in America and Europe. It is true that
his reputation was shady, but he was always careful in his deals, and
he knew that in antiques there are always collectors whose love of
possession overtops every other consideration. Watch a salesroom during
an auction of famous treasures and the truth of this will become very
apparent.
At first Tommy Conn had protested to Eckhardt that the risk of breaking
into Lord Calcott's private gallery was too great. It was known in
burglarious circles that a policeman was constantly near the house, day
and night. The mansion had become a kind of point duty, because Lord
Calcott had great influence in political quarters and it was expected
that at his death he would leave many of his valuables to the nation.
To all Conn's objections Eckhardt had a reply. The greatest risk was
in getting away with the loot. Late at night, when the occupants of
the house were asleep, burglar alarms would be working. The obvious
thing to do was to get the goods when the alarms were not fixed up for
the night. The best time to attack the house was when the family were
elsewhere. Dinner! That was the time.
How to get away swiftly? Eckhardt had a car. He offered to lend it to
Conn. The latter had been in the car often enough, and he knew how
to handle it. A burglar in a car was sufficiently uncommon to escape
remark. A burglar who had a car such as Eckhardt's might laugh at any
pursuing taxicab. To disguise the car the number only need be changed,
for it was of a popular make, seen daily in the West End.
For the job Conn was to receive three thousand pounds in notes. These
were to be handed over to him at Southampton, on board a small petrol
yacht-fishing-boat which Eckhardt had hired for the purpose of escape.
This vessel was of the type often let out to amateur yachtsmen at
south coast resorts. In reality, they are converted fishing-craft, but
they have the appearance of stodgy private yachts of heavy beam, and
look worth twice their actual value. Eckhardt was taking one of these
vessels over the Channel to a French port; from there he could get a
ship to America.
The United States was Eckhardt's ultimate destination, because he could
get a big price for his loot in that country. He intended to get a big
price. He had tapped his market already. He had secured an offer for
most of the stolen pieces. Receivers of stolen property have their own
markets.
The master stroke of all Eckhardt's arrangements was that by which
he was able to give Tommy Conn minute instructions and descriptions
of the articles he was to extract. Eckhardt had paid a visit to Lord
Calcott, pretending to act on behalf of a "client" who was prepared to
offer a large sum for a certain medallion. Lord Calcott had politely
declined to sell, valuing his collection as he valued the names of his
ancestors who had brought it under one roof; but, seeing that Eckhardt
knew his business, he permitted him to view the collection for a few
moments. Eckhardt peered into every case, complimented the peer on his
possessions, and left. He had seen enough. A month later he called on
Tommy Conn, and the crime was discussed.
As he drove the small, powerful car through South London on his way to
Southampton, Tommy Conn was under no misapprehension as to the value
of the jewels hidden under the luggage grid behind him. He was able to
appraise and judge such things. He estimated that he was carrying loot
worth at least a hundred thousand pounds.
A lesser man might have been tempted to make the error of keeping
the whole for himself, considering that he was being paid but a
small fraction of the value of his burglary. Conn knew better than
be tempted. For a lone burglar to sell the jewels would be suicidal.
Burglars cannot approach principals in such deals. On the other hand,
to have taken the gems from their settings, to have dug them out of the
gold, and to have melted down the glittering statuettes and ornaments,
would have been to reduce the value to vanishing-point. The truth was
that only one receiver in London was able to take the risk, or had
the facilities to make it worth while assuming the responsibility, of
disposing of them. That receiver was Eckhardt, the dealer in antiques,
who knew every avenue by which treasures could be sold, as he knew the
worth of every piece he saw. After all, thought Tommy Conn, the main
risk was on the shoulders of Eckhardt. When Eckhardt had paid him his
three thousand, the deal was closed so far as he was concerned. He was
safe, too, for Eckhardt dared not give him away. Their partnership
covered too many transactions for one of them to point the finger of
accusation at the other.
Conn kept the car at an easy pace, taking a circuitous route--the
one which had been mapped out by him when he had detailed his plans
to Eckhardt. He went through Bromley, swerved into Croydon, speeded
through Sutton, and passed Epsom at twenty miles an hour. It was just
nine o'clock when he swung up Dorking main street and headed for the
ridge known as the Hog's Back. As far as possible he had avoided the
towns, and had not put on headlights when he was in the country. He
reckoned that, by putting on speed, he would be in Southampton shortly
after midnight.
He was over the Hog's Back and well on his way when he saw, glimmering
faintly in the distance, the lights of an inn. He knew the inn. It
was one used by those discriminating motorists who prefer quiet and
good cooking rather than bustle and feeble imitation of West End
restaurants. He was beginning to feel hungry, and wondered if he might
stop at the inn for a meal. The matter was decided for him as he was
sliding down a slope with his foot on the brake. From immediately
behind him a loud report filled his ears, and almost deafened him for
an instant.
Tommy Conn's nerves were strong, but for an infinitesimal period of
time fear shook him. Presently he smiled. It was not a gun he had
heard. He was not being held up. The report had been one of his tyres
bursting. He jammed the brakes on, and came to a standstill.
When he dismounted, and looked at the rear tyre which had exploded, he
bit his lip. This was no ordinary puncture. The tyre had been cut by a
piece of broken bottle and was embedded in the cover. He pulled it out
and looked at it curiously.
Taking a lamp, he walked back, flashing his light on the ground. Forty
yards from his car he saw a broad band of jagged pieces of glass.
Someone had deliberately laid down broken bottle-glass in the path of
motorists.
Luckily, the inn was not far off. He decided to go there and see if he
could get someone to fix on his spare wheel while he had some supper.
He mounted his seat, and rode to the inn on three tyres and a rim,
taking the car into a wide yard behind the square building.
There was no mechanic on the staff capable of fitting his spare wheel,
so he had to tackle the job himself. To save time, he ordered a meal to
be ready for him in the dining-room. He was jacking up his car when the
landlord came out, carrying a lantern.
"This will help you, sir," he said, putting the lantern down so that
the light fell on the number-plate, which he scanned. "I dassay you'll
be surprised if I said a friend expects to get you here."
Tommy Conn gripped the jack tightly, but kept his head down and his
back to the landlord.
"Expects me? Someone expects me?"
"That's so, sir. I suppose he'll be back for you by the time you've
finished supper."
There was geniality in the man's tone, but Conn was in no mood to
appreciate geniality. He turned with a snarl.
"I suppose it was you that laid a trap of broken beer-bottles on the
hill?" he cried. "I'd have passed your beastly inn but for my tyre
going phut!"
"Beer-bottles, sir? Why, that would be the gentleman who came to look
for you. He was anxious to find you, he was. I'll send a lad up to
clear the glass off the road at once. That's dangerous, sir, that is."
He bustled into the house, and Conn heard him giving directions. Tommy
Conn was no coward, but the landlord's words set his heart leaping. Who
had laid the line of broken beer-bottles on the road? It had been done
with a definite intention. Through his mind there flashed the thought
of the policeman who had stood near his car just after the burglary.
The policeman had seen the number beside the rear lamp. There was time
for them to find out about the burglary and wire outlying stations. Was
it possible----?
His thoughts were disturbed by the return of the landlord. The man was
frowning.
"Who was this gentleman who was looking for me?" demanded Tommy Conn.
"What was he like?"
"Why, I couldn't tell you that, sir, seeing as he kept inside his car
while he spoke to me. He druv up and asked if you had called here."
"How do you know it was me he wanted?"
"Why, sir, he told me the number of your car!"
"What was his name?"
"He didn't give one, sir. Just said it was urgent for him to see you;
and then he asked for half a dozen bottles of beer. He said he'd make
sure of gettin' you, if you hadn't come this length by that time."
"What time was that?"
"Barely half an hour ago. He said you would be on the road somewhere.
He asked me to keep you if he patrolled the road towards Winchester."
"Asked you to keep me, did he?"
"That he did."
"And you intend to do it?"
"Well, sir, he said he'd come back to see if you'd arrived. I fancy
he laid them broken beer-bottles up there to puncture your tyres. He
laughed funny when he bought the beer-bottles, sayin' as how they would
make sure you called here. His joke, maybe; but if other motorists find
it out I'll get into trouble, sure as fate. You can't blame me for the
burst tyre, sir, can you?"
"Oh, no. Is my supper ready?"
The landlord bustled off to inquire. Tommy Conn crouched beside the
wheel, thinking hard. There was only one explanation. The policeman
in London had noted the number of his car. The burglary had been
discovered. The telephone wires had been working. It was the police,
beyond a doubt, who were after him. Who but a policeman would use the
word "patrolled"? It was a local detective who had been sent out to
intercept him. The landlord had been asked to "keep" him. That was a
localism for "detain." And the broken beer-bottles on the road--that
was a mean trick to stop him, a dodge to block his path.
"They haven't got me yet," muttered Conn between his teeth.
He worked feverishly, unscrewing the nuts and bolts. He had the spare
wheel almost fitted when the landlord came back again.
"Your supper's ready, sir. Just come upstairs for a wash first.
Bathroom is first to the right on the landing."
"All right."
"Can I give you a hand?"
"No. Leave me alone. I can manage."
The landlord went indoors--hesitatingly, as it seemed to Tommy Conn.
The latter had made up his mind. He would give them the slip yet. His
car was a fast one. He knew the main roads. The route had been well
planned.
When the wheel was fixed he pushed the car out to the front of the inn,
mounted the seat, and started. He did not look back, though he heard
the landlord calling something after him. The answer Tommy Conn gave to
the shout was to give the car more speed. He whirled out to the main
road and let her go. Speed limits had no terrors for him now.
He had not covered a mile when he was aware that another car was
rushing towards him. There were no headlights on his approaching car,
but the lamps gleamed brightly--too brightly. Conn glanced at his
speedometer. He was going at thirty miles per hour. He opened up, and
saw the indicator move to thirty-five, then forty, then fifty. More
than that he dared not venture on the dark road, which was not wide.
As the two cars came near each other Tommy Conn saw a head pushed out
of the window behind the driver. He smiled to himself. It was a hired
car of the taxicab type--just the kind of car the police used. He had a
glimpse of a white face and waving arms thrust out from the window. A
voice roared something at him. He did not heed. In a flash and a roar
he was past and away.
He sat grimly at the wheel for several miles. He whirled past cottages
by the roadside. He saw a policeman's lamp in the middle of the road
ahead. This was one of the famous spots where the police had a trap. He
took no notice of the warning winking of the policeman's flashlamp. He
hurled his car at the darkness. The policeman leaped aside just in time.
Through more than one village he swept, reducing his speed only
at corners. When he was on the stretch he let the car go at her
utmost--faster than an express train. Once he was compelled to stop
altogether. He had reached a level crossing, and the gates were against
him. He sat in the panting car grinding his teeth. Minute after minute
passed. He rose and looked back. A car was coming on his heels. He
recognised the lamps as those of the car he had already passed. The
driver had turned and was chasing him.
The desperate resolve to charge the gates of the level crossing was
in Conn's mind when he heard the rumble of a train. It came sweeping
round the bend and roared between the gates. Conn glanced behind once
more. The pursuing car was within a hundred yards of him. He pressed
his hand on his hooter, to stir the signalman in the box above him. The
signalman looked out, saw him, waved his hand, and nodded. A moment
later the level-crossing gates began to move. Conn's car was moving as
soon as the gates.
He had bumped over the railroad track and was gathering speed when he
heard a voice shouting to him. The cry came indistinctly above the
running of his engine:
"Stop! Conn! Stop!"
Tommy did not even turn his head. Was it likely that he would allow
himself to be arrested when there was still a chance of escape?
The two-seater bounded forward into the night. Only once did Tommy
Conn glance behind. He saw the car still pursuing him, but he was
gaining ground slowly. He had underestimated the going power of the
taxicab behind. It hung on to his trail doggedly, its hooter constantly
sounding a call to him to stop.
Tommy Conn realised that he must do more than run away from his
pursuer. The lights of Winchester were in the distance, but he dared
not fly through the town. For all he knew there might be other cars
there ready to block his path, or to take up the chase. He resolved to
skirt the city, keeping to the open roads. His task now became one not
only of straight running flight. He had to employ cunning as well as
fleetness.
First he put on as much speed as the car was capable of. This had to
be done carefully, for the night was dark. He was constantly switching
his lights on and off. He turned up side-roads which were strange to
him. He took chances that no ordinary driver would have taken. He had
to take them. There was no alternative save the arrest that was on his
heels.
In one of these side-roads he was almost shaken out of his seat. The
car bumped over large rocks, over mounds of earth. A flash of his
headlights told him that he had run into a new road; about him were
heaps of stones, barrels containing tar, and mounds of gravel. He
glanced over his shoulder--cautiously this time. The car was still
pursuing, but it was some distance away. Now was the time for a final
act. Tommy Conn drew his car into the hedge, switched out the lights,
and dismounted.
He went round and put out the tail-light. He stopped his engine. The
darkness around him was intense. His car was almost hidden by a high
line of bushes. He gritted his teeth and ran towards a pile of stones
and rubble.
There was murder in Tommy Conn's brain at that moment. It was his only
chance of getting a fresh start. He had but one thought, and that was
to escape arrest. If only he could gain Eckhardt's yacht at Southampton
he would be free. Eckhardt and he were going over to France together.
The idea had been that Conn would return to London as soon as he
received his fee; now he saw that he must do something which would keep
him away from London. He did not mind that. With three thousand pounds
he could get along in a foreign country.
Besides, it was either his freedom or--this arrest, this pursuing fate
that was driving him to desperation. The police had always been his
foes. He did not hesitate.
He rolled a barrel of tar into the centre of the roadway. He lifted
large blocks of stones, intended to line the edge of the footpath, and
dragged them over also. He threw boulders beside them. Already he had
piled a heap beside the barrel when he heard the hum of the car. It was
turning into the new roadway.